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Chapter Text

Chapter One
The Monster in the Cellar
Seven days. That’s how long he’d been buried beneath the floorboards.
The Order called it “containment.” But Draco knew the truth, cage, prison, tomb, take your pick. The walls were damp with old magic. Wards whispered through the stone like ghosts. Silver-threaded chains anchored each corner of the room. A bed with no sheets. A bucket he refused to acknowledge. And the scent, blood, stone, sweat, rot.
There were rules. Stay in the cell. Drink only animal blood. Cooperate. Give them everything he knows. In return, Hermione Granger would look for a cure. That was the deal, a desperate agreement made under the midnight moon while Draco’s body had convulsed.

No promises. No end date. Just a thin hope that someone might see him as worth saving.
A metal tray teleported into his cell. Animal blood. Slightly warm this time. Still vile. Still not enough. He drank it anyway, with the silent grace of a man who’d learned the cost of resistance.
The hunger was always worst after feeding his body remembering what it wanted and screaming when it didn’t arrive. His fingers twitched sometimes. His jaw clenched until his teeth ached. He craved human blood, fantasized about it while he slept and woke up loathing himself all the more.
He hadn’t broken the rules. Not yet. And still, they didn’t trust him, probably wouldn’t trust him ever. Which was fine, they shouldn’t trust him. He hadn’t seen Potter. Sometimes Weasley, always watching, always scowling, fingers grazing his wand like a nervous tic. And Hermione. Always Hermione, with her blank stares and grim demeanor. Gone was the girl he bullied at school. Sometimes he tried to pull it out of her. He wanted her to scold him, put him in his place or even slap him again. This new dull version of herself made Draco physically ill. Gone was the Golden Girl, in her place was a beige lab assistant.
She entered now. The door groaned shut behind her like a mausoleum sealing. Clipboard in hand. Lips pressed tight. The same tired lines under her eyes she’d had all week. She didn’t flinch at the dark. But she hadn’t stopped flinching when she blinked either.
Draco remained seated, elbows on his knees, posture casual but coiled. His gaze tracked her boots as they crossed the bloodstained stone. The first time he had drank the sheep’s blood he had projectile vomited. His body had completely rejected it. Hermione realized it had to be fresh so from now on she cast a preservation charm on the blood.
When she stopped in front of him, he looked up just enough to see the strain behind her practiced indifference. “You’re late,” he said, voice scratchy but smug. “What happened? Overslept? Lost track of time in one of your books or were you playing doctor with the Weasel?”
“I was debating whether it was worth coming at all,” she replied, flipping open her clipboard. Her voice was crisp, her expression numb. But her fingers trembled slightly as she uncapped her quill. “Harsh. And here I thought we had something special.”

“Pulse steady. Energy stable. No visible tremors. Appetite?” “Raging,” he said with mock cheer. “Though the cuisine remains… rustic. The metallic undertones really bring out the existential dread.” She didn’t smile. Didn’t even blink. But he caught the flicker in her eyes recognition, maybe. Or exhaustion. “You’ve been compliant,” she said, jotting something down. “You’re holding up your end.” He tilted his head. “Well, you did promise to cure me. Can’t exactly sulk my way to salvation, can I?” “I said I’d try,” she muttered.
“And I said I’d be agreeable. Look at us! So good at following instructions. Maybe we’ll both get gold stars.” She exhaled slowly, lowering her clipboard. Draco held his breath, waiting for a biting remark or even a glare. Instead she just said blandly, “You’re not funny, Malfoy.”
He leaned back slightly, jaw tight. “Let’s not pretend this isn’t a deal, Granger. I sit here like a model prisoner, play lab rat while you poke and prod and in return, you comb through your precious books for a way to make me less monstrous.” “You’re not a monster,” she said, voice brittle with tired eyes.
He raised an eyebrow. “You sure? Everyone looked pretty convinced when I crawled through your wards half-dead.” Her silence hung heavy. He remembered that night. Every agonizing detail.

He’d been more instinct than man. One shoe missing. Wand gone. Eyes blown wide, glowing faintly gold from the transformation still settling into his blood. He collapsed at the wards and didn’t speak for hours. He didn’t dare; every time he opened his mouth his fangs erupted, looking for relief. They’d nearly killed him. Weasley had wanted to. Moody had tried to. But Hermione had stepped forward. “He’s not here to hurt us,” she’d said, kneeling beside him as everyone else backed away.
“Don’t be stupid, Hermione,” Ron had snapped. “He’s gone feral, one of Voldemort’s experiments or something.” “No,” she’d whispered. “He’s terrified.” She’d been right. He’d been starving. Shaking. Splitting apart inside his skin.
And still, she’d seen him, not what he was becoming, but what he’d once been. What he might still be. She’d said she wanted to study him. But there had been something in her voice something that sounded like understanding.

Because she had once been the one screaming. On the cold stone floor of his childhood home. He hadn’t touched her then, but he’d heard her cries. He’d stood in the shadows while she bled. Now, she stood before him. Stronger more rigid, but her armor didn’t hide the way her hand trembled when she thought no one was looking. He didn’t thank her. Even now he wanted to, he knew she saved his life. But he didn’t, felt like even his gratitude was tainted.
Instead, he said, “You still have nightmares too, don’t you?” That stopped her cold.
She looked at him, really looked this time not just the glazed over glance that he was used to. Not rage or hatred, just a resigned recognition. A long pause stretched between them.
Finally, she asked, “Why did you come here, Malfoy? Really.” He didn’t smirk this time. Didn’t look away. “Because I’d rather be your prisoner,” he said softly, “than his pet.”
The words landed between them like a dropped knife. And for the first time in a year, Hermione Granger felt something.

Chapter Text

The war room smelled like old tea and unwashed wool. No one ever sat in the same seat twice. Maybe it was superstition. Maybe they just couldn’t remember where they'd been the last time. Hermione didn’t care. She sat where her notes had landed. The safehouse war room buzzed with conversation, but Hermione barely registered any of it. Half the room wanted to get rid of Malfoy the other half thought he could be useful. Hermione wished they would just keep their voices down. Her quill scratched across parchment, steady and relentless. The ink was beginning to pool near the top of the page where she’d written and rewritten the same heading three times.

’Stabilization Protocol: Phase I.’

Behind her, someone Ron, probably raised his voice. Harry snapped in response. “…can’t keep him down there forever, it’s barbaric”
“Barbaric is what he was when he turned up.”
“Do you honestly think he’d be feeding us names if he had any other option?”
He wouldn’t, Hermione thought. That’s the point.
She uncapped her ink bottle. The scratch of her quill barely registered under the volume.
‘No sign of regression. Blood pressure returns to baseline after fresh feeding. Patient stable, but still restless.’
Ron’s voice pierced through it. It usually did.
“I don’t care what he’s saying now. You lot weren’t there. He was practically feral when he showed up. Looked like he’d crawled out of a grave.”
“Not for lack of trying,” Moody muttered. “I still say we should’ve incinerated him and been done with it.”
“Steady on, Alastor,” Arthur said gently.
He was seated near the window, fingers wrapped around a mug he hadn’t sipped from. He didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t need to. “The boy surrendered.”
“Because he was starving,” Ron snapped. “Because he had to.”
“Doesn’t mean it wasn’t still a choice,” Arthur replied. “And it’s more than some made.”
No one answered that.

The fire was too hot again. It made the room feel smaller than it was.
Hermione didn’t look up.

’Hunger baseline still erratic. Fresh animal blood stabilizes patient for up to three hours. Withdrawal symptoms increase at hour four. Side effects: restlessness, temperature drop, minor auditory hallucinations. No full loss of control yet.’
She turned the page and underlined a rune sequence twice.
‘Preservation charms effective on blood for up to six hours. Attempted enchantment layering with fortifying draught resulted in mild rejection. Needs refining. Possibly an incompatibility with binding spellwork or anti-parasitic enchantment residue?’

A sharp knock on the table jolted her. She blinked once, then resumed writing.
Ron again: “You’re all dancing around it. His bloody Dark Mark is gone.”
A pause. That one caught her attention not because of the tone, but because she’d already written a theory on it. Hermione didn’t look up, but she spoke clearly, almost absently.
“It’s not gone. It’s been overwritten.” The room quieted. Not out of respect, just confusion. She kept writing. “The mark was a curse. Anchored to the bloodstream, rooted in subdermal magic, intertwined with identity markers like wand resonance and magical intent. The transformation changed those.”
She tapped her quill on the parchment, thinking.
“Vampirism is more than blood. It’s a total magical overwrite. Old magic, probably even ancient. The kind that doesn’t coexist with other bindings. The curse couldn’t survive in the same system.”
“Wait,” someone said, Harry. “You’re saying the vampirism replaced it?”
Hermione finally looked up. “I’m saying the transformation erased it. Like too many runes etched into the same stone. One overrides the other. The body can't hold both.”
The room was silent. Then someone muttered, “Bloody hell.”

But she was already drifting again.

’Can side effects be curbed? Hunger is primary. Focus on suppression spells layered with natural inhibitors. Attempted infusions: belladonna, essence of thistle, monkshood distillate. Limited success. Side effects include nausea and hypersensitivity. Draco unhelpful during trials: vomiting, sarcastic remarks, twice faked death. Possibly for drama.’

She almost smirked at her last few lines, then added a note.

’Still won’t talk about the night he turned. Claims memory loss. Possible trauma-induced block? Magical repression? May need to see if he’ll submit to a memory retrieval.’ She chewed the inside of her cheek.

He always dodged the question, glassy-eyed, evasive. Said it was blurry. Said he remembers the pain. The cold and distant feeling that surrounded him. Waking up with his blood burning inside his skin like it wanted to escape but nothing before that. It annoyed her, not because she didn’t believe him, but because she needed to know.
That night could be the key to reversing the change, or at least understanding it. The way the magic took root might reveal how to unhook it, if not from his soul, then maybe from his instincts. If they could curb the hunger, stabilize him, maybe he could be an asset.

They were still talking. Arguing. One voice sharp with fury, another dulled by exhaustion. Somewhere in the haze, she caught the line:
“He’s only cooperating because it suits him. The moment it doesn’t, he’ll tear someone’s throat out.” She didn’t bother to look up. Didn’t care who said it.
‘Test sunlight resistance through filtered exposure. Monitor skin, emotional reaction, core feedback. Avoid full light. Start with glimmers.’

Maybe he would. But curiosity had always come easier to Hermione than fear.
And as her quill moved steadily across the parchment, she realized her tremors hadn’t interrupted her writing for the first time in a year.

Chapter Text

Chapter Three: The Bargain
Her door clicked softly shut behind her. She didn’t turn on the lamp.
She didn’t need to. The room was small and utilitarian, tucked into the back of the safehouse like an afterthought. A narrow bed. A desk with her runic lampstone. A single wardrobe that always smelled faintly of lavender and dust.
Hermione moved through it like a ritual. Left boot, then right. Robes folded, not hung.
Wand placed perfectly parallel to the edge of the nightstand. Notebook stacked precisely on top. Spine aligned with the bedframe. She stood for a moment, breathing. Not thinking.
Then she lay down, arms flat at her sides, blanket pulled tight to her collarbones, every line symmetrical, every movement purposeful. If her body stayed still, maybe her thoughts would too.
She was tired. Not just of the day. Of the noise. The arguing. The constant posturing.
Her mind drifted, uninvited, back to earlier, nearly midnight, when she'd finally knocked on Kingsley’s door.
The hallway outside the war room had been quiet then. No more debates. No more shouting. Just the echo of bootsteps fading into the dark and the scent of ash clinging to the curtains. Most of the others had gone to bed. She’d waited for that. She wanted the conversation alone.
Kingsley had opened the door, his tall frame silhouetted in the low lamplight inside. He didn’t look surprised to see her.
“Granger,” he said, voice deep and steady. “Couldn’t sleep?”
“No,” she admitted. “May I come in?”
He stepped aside without a word, and she entered.
The room was neat. Papers stacked in perfect piles. A steaming cup of tea beside a half-filled report. Order. The kind she appreciated. The kind she clung to when everything else was chaos.
“I need to ask you something,” she said, standing rigidly by the table, arms folded, not defensive. Just containing.
Kingsley gestured for her to sit, but she didn’t. She stayed standing.
“I’d like permission,” she began, “to take primary responsibility for Draco Malfoy.”
He raised a brow, but said nothing. “I’ve read every documented case of vampiric transformation in the magical world. Most are centuries old. But Malfoy… he was made into one. Recently. Through some kind of magic we’ve never seen. If I can study him, monitor symptoms, run magical and alchemical diagnostics, I might be able to lessen the effects. Maybe even reverse them, like he’s asking.” Kingsley folded his hands on the desk. “That’s dangerous work.”
“I know,” she said, evenly. “And emotionally complicated.”
Her jaw tightened. “I’m not naive.” “No,” he agreed. “You’re one of the most clear-eyed people in this war. That’s precisely why I’m listening.”
She exhaled slowly. Her voice softened. “He won’t talk unless he believes there’s hope. He came here to be cured, not interrogated. If I can offer him something, progress, trust, a reason to believe we’re on his side, he’ll give us what we need.”
Kingsley was quiet for a long moment. Studying her. Weighing the risk.
“You believe he’s sincere?”
“I believe,” she said carefully, “that he’s scared of what he’s becoming. And fear,” she added, “is more useful than loyalty.”
He leaned back. “And if he loses control?”
“I’ll be prepared.” Their eyes locked.
“Very well,” he said at last. “You have my permission. But I want daily reports. If there’s even a hint he’s manipulating you…”
“I won’t hesitate,” she said. Kingsley nodded once, and Hermione turned toward the door.
Just before she reached it, his voice stopped her. “Granger.”
She paused, looking back. “You’ve been through a lot,” he said gently. “Be careful, yeah? But don’t worry, I’ll have the others back off. Give you space to work.”
Her expression in the dim light was unreadable. She nodded once. “Thank you.” And then she was gone, her footsteps already echoing down the hallway.
Sighing to herself, hoping she made the right decision, she finally fell asleep.

Chapter Text

Chapter Four: Observation Begins
The staircase to the cellar groaned beneath Hermione’s careful steps.
Her wandlight hovered ahead of her, flickering faintly against the stone walls. No blood tonight, just her notebook, the recording crystal, and the lingering tightness in her chest that hadn’t eased since she’d taken over this assignment.
The door unlocked with a quiet hiss under her wand.
Inside, the cell was dim, cold, and still. Draco was exactly where she’d left him, seated against the far wall, eyes open, unmoving. His hands were laced behind his head, tracking her movements lazily, almost like he was bored.
“Malfoy,” she said briskly, dragging a stool into place just beyond the warded bars. She set her things down in practiced sequence: crystal, notebook, quill.
“No blood tonight.” He didn’t answer. “You had some this morning, but I noticed you left half.” she added, while looking at him seeing if he’d give an explanation. Still nothing. She glanced up. He blinked once, slow and dull. His expression gave her nothing. Hermione activated the crystal. It pulsed once, steady and faint, recording.
“I’ve been cleared to take over your case,” she said. “I’m now your assigned magical researcher. Observation begins today.” His silence didn’t feel like defiance. It felt like disinterest and lethargy.
She tapped her quill once against the page. “You’ll be monitored daily. We’ll log magical retention, hunger regulation, and any emergent physical changes. Eventually, we’ll attempt spellwork to ease certain symptoms, possibly reverse them. Even though your body seems to think any spell directed towards it is an attack…”
Nothing. She let the pause stretch. “Unless you’d prefer to rot quietly in the dark.”
He glanced at her then. Barely. Hermione flipped the page. “Week one will focus on physical stability. Hunger cycles. Figuring out if we can curb the worst of the symptoms, make it more bearable.”
Still silence. She looked up again. “You planning to speak at all?”
Nothing. Hermione frowned but didn’t press. “Fine,” she muttered. “Be moody. Wouldn’t be the first time.”
She scribbled in her notebook: Nonverbal. Withdrawn. Possibly conserving energy. Possibly sulking. Typical.
Rising to her feet, she began a routine scan of the wardlines, her wand sweeping in tight, practiced arcs. She tested the perimeter for cracks, reinforced several runes, then checked the silver chains anchoring him to the wall for signs of tampering.
“You’re under my observation now,” she said without looking at him. “What happens next depends entirely on me. So you might want to consider finding your words before sensory testing begins.”
He didn’t react. Not even a blink.
She turned back toward her things, then paused. Her eyes narrowed faintly.
“Unless this is you trying to be clever,” she said. “If you actually want to be cured, it would be smart to cooperate.”
Still nothing.
Hermione snapped the notebook shut.
“Tomorrow we start with light exposure. I suggest you drink all the blood the next time the tray arrives.”
She turned and left without another word, the door sealing shut behind her with a low, echoing click.
Draco didn’t move. But his eyes stayed open, fixed on the dark long after she was gone.

Chapter Text

Chapter Five: Fracture
They thought he couldn’t hear them. That was the first mistake.
Even two floors up, even with the wards humming and the walls thick with old stone, Draco could hear them. Every word. Every argument. Every too-loud whisper in the war room. Something about the transformation had turned up the volume of the world, and now it never shut off. They talked like he was already dead. Or worse, a monster, something to be watched, prodded, controlled. Parasite. Liability. Risk. They didn’t know he heard it all.

He hadn’t told them about the hearing. About the way every heartbeat in the house felt like a drum pressed against his skull. About how blood had even started to taste wrong. Thin. Metallic. Spoiled, no matter how fresh. He hadn’t told them that the metal cuffs around his wrists had begun to sear.
At first, it was just pressure. Then heat. Then a raw, pulsing ache that never went away. His skin had blistered. His magic, whatever was left of it, recoiled from the contact like it knew something was wrong. But he didn’t say a word.

Because what if they took it as proof? Proof he couldn’t be contained. Proof he was already slipping. Proof that the only humane thing left was to put him down before the bloodlust hit.
So he stayed still. Quiet. Watching. Even when Hermione came down, clipboard, crystal, tone flat as ever, he didn’t speak. Not because he didn’t want to. But because the words felt dangerous. And because it took everything he had not to throw up in front of her.

The blood they gave him that morning hadn’t stayed down. He’d retched it back up barely an hour later, curled around the bucket in the corner like an animal. He hid the bucket under his bed, embarrassed & ashamed. His hands had shaken. His skin had gone cold. The hunger clawed at him from the inside like it was chewing through his stomach walls.
But when the door opened, when her wandlight filled the room, he wiped his mouth, sat up, and didn’t say a word. He couldn’t. What would he even say?
Hello Granger, the metal’s killing me, making me sicker by the day. Can’t even seem to keep blood down now. Oh, and by the way, I can hear your friends upstairs debating whether to stake me through the heart or just starve me quietly?

No. Better to say nothing. Better to wait. The worst part was he wanted to tell her. Something about the way she didn’t flinch, didn’t raise her voice, didn’t look at him like he was already gone. It chipped at him. Made him want to speak, even as the words turned sour in his mouth. But admitting weakness?
He’d done that once. Crawled to their wards half-dead. Let them see the animal in him. That had been bad enough. Everyone recoiled, except her. But now it felt like one more confession might undo him completely. So he kept it in. The pain. The nausea. The fear that whatever magic had rewritten his bones and blood was still rewriting. Still unfinished. Still evolving. And if it got worse? If the silver couldn’t contain him would they kill him?

But the worst part, the thing he couldn’t shake, was the voice in the back of his head, the one that sounded too much like the boy he used to be, whispering: ‘You don’t deserve help. You deserve this.’ And maybe he did. e was on edge, hanging by a string. This was his last hope. He had contemplated ending it all. The first night he was turned he cut his wrists and laid down. When he woke he realized that he healed too fast. At that point he had lost his nerve. But now maybe the manacles would do what he couldn’t.

Chapter Text

Chapter Six — Burn
Hermione didn’t sleep. She told herself it was the usual, notes to revise, potions to double-check, but the truth buzzed louder than any justification. Something was wrong. So she went down before sunrise. No tray. No clipboard. Just her wand and the quiet certainty that something she’d overlooked was about to cost her everything.
The safehouse was silent. The stone bit at her skin as she moved through it, cold and ancient and disapproving. The wards around the cellar flared at her touch, flickering uncertainly before dimming. She opened the door. The scent hit first: blood, sweat, vomit, silver.
She raised her wand, light flaring and froze. Draco was collapsed in the corner. Slumped sideways, wrists still shackled, skin waxy and pale. His chest rose and fell in shallow bursts. His mouth was parted slightly, too slack, too still.
And his fangs were out. Hermione’s stomach twisted. She moved closer, boots scraping softly on the floor. He didn’t flinch. Didn’t move. His arms hung limply at his sides, manacled at just the wrong angle, the metal biting in too deep.
His eyes were closed. Sweat glinted on his forehead. He seemed to be murmuring something feverishly to himself. “Malfoy?”
No answer. She dropped into a crouch just outside the bars. Her wand trembled slightly in her grip.
“Malfoy,” she tried again, louder now.

Still nothing. The glow of her wand’s diagnostic swept across his arms and the burns on his wrists stopped her cold.
The skin beneath the silver was split open, blackened and raw. Cracks webbed outward like fire-damaged parchment. Magic pulsed weakly along the wounds, unable to knit itself shut. The cuffs were still glowing faintly, too hot. Severe magical suppression. Systemic burnout. Regeneration blocked at the source. The silver hadn’t just stalled his healing, it was poisoning him.
Hermione swallowed. “Merlin.”

She flicked her wand toward the perimeter runes disarming them. The shimmer around the bars dropped. The magic hummed, unstable. It wasn’t meant to be disengaged so quickly she had damaged some of the runes. Hermione, stepped inside. He didn’t stir.
His breathing was too shallow. Too slow. Her hands hovered over the cuffs.
“Stupid,” she whispered to herself. “This is against all safety protocols.”
The fangs were still visible. His head lolled sideways, and for a terrible second, she wondered if he was beyond saving.
He flinched. Barely. Just a twitch at the sound of her boots crossing the floor.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” she whispered. Surprisingly Draco’s eyes fluttered. His voice was barely audible. “Didn’t want to give you an excuse.” “An excuse for what?” She asked with some relief, pulling at the edges. “To put me down.” Draco said with a soft cough.
Her jaw tightened. She knelt beside him, examining the cuffs up close now. The skin beneath them blistered, magic leaking in tiny sparks along the edges of the burns. Her fingers hovered, just for a second. Then she moved. With one clean flick of her wand, the manacles released. They clattered to the floor like dead weight. Hermione braced herself in case this was all a ruse to get her to let her guard down. But Draco didn’t move.
His wrists, now free, curled instinctively toward his chest. She could already see the skin begin to heal, slow, but steady. The difference was immediate. Hermione stood. Her chest was tight, her mouth dry. Her fingers tightened around her wand.
She scanned him again, quick, efficient sweeps of diagnostic charms, looking for signs of deception. Magical instability. Hunger surges. Nothing. Just a boy, no, a creature now, curled in on himself, unconscious and barely breathing.

She reset the wards first, recalibrating them tighter. Stronger. Smarter. Stabilization runes snapped into place along the perimeter, humming faintly with fresh containment spells. Should be no need for the silver manacles now.
Once the cell was sealed again, she let herself breathe. The burns along his wrists were already healing, magic working sluggishly through the damage. His breathing evened out, shallow, but no longer jagged.

“You shouldn’t have bothered." She turned sharply. Draco hadn’t moved much, still slumped, still weak, but his eyes were open now. Bloodshot and gold rimmed. Tired. But watching her with a hollow sort of clarity. "They’re going to kill me eventually," he said, words slurring slightly. "Doesn’t matter what you patch up." Hermione crossed back to the bars, standing just outside the wardline.
"You’re not dying," she said, voice clipped. "Not if you cooperate." He gave a dry, broken laugh that scraped through the cold air. "I heard them, you know. Upstairs. Debating how best to finish me off."
Hermione’s fingers tightened around her wand instinctively.

‘Enhanced auditory range,’ she noted mentally. ‘Another confirmed symptom.’

She exhaled carefully. "Your hearing’s stronger than we thought." He smirked without humor. "Congratulations. Another fascinating data point for your notes."
He managed to get seated and then his head sagged back against the wall. For a long, brittle moment, neither of them spoke. Then Hermione said, evenly, "You're under my supervision now. Not theirs." He didn’t respond. "I make the calls on containment. Research. Protocol."
Still nothing. She took one small step closer, boots scuffing softly against the stone.

"As long as you cooperate," she said firmly, "you're safe." He didn’t look at her. Didn’t speak again. But the slight tremor in his shoulders eased by a fraction. Hermione stood there for another beat, staring down at him, the boy she used to hate, the boy she used to fear, and now, the boy who might still be salvageable. “I’ll send down another cup of sheep’s blood soon. Drink all of it if you can. You need to regain your strength.” “You’re not dying in this cellar,” she said without looking at him. “Not like this. Not while I’m in charge of you.” He didn’t respond, but the tension in his face began to ease. Slightly. Then she turned and left, sealing the door behind her with a final, humming thud.

No answer, but she didn’t need one. What she had noticed was even though Draco was starved and half unconscious he hadn’t lunged. Hadn’t snapped. Hadn’t moved at all. If anything, he had tried to stay as still as possible when she was in the cell with him. To keep her at ease. But he’d been dying and Hermione had missed it. She wasn’t going to let that happen again.

Chapter Text

A flash of green light.

Hands pinning him down. The snap of bone. Knives cutting his skin, potions being forced down his throat, searing cold, not heat, cold that froze the scream in his lungs.

A voice whispering spells he didn’t recognize, old and rotted, layered one atop another until he couldn’t tell where his magic ended and something else’s began.

The taste of blood, thick and choking, forced past his lips while he thrashed and failed to move.

They hadn’t asked. They hadn’t explained. They had made him.

He jerked to consciousness, back to the present with a low sound caught in his throat, shoving the memories down before they could root deeper.

The first thing he noticed was the absence of pain. Not gone, not by a long shot, but dulled. Manageable. A throbbing bruise instead of the deep, constant flare of agony he’d gotten used to. Draco opened his eyes slowly.

The ceiling was the same: low, damp stone veined with old magic. The air was still cold, still carrying that metallic scent he could never quite shake. But the weight and burning around his wrists was gone. He lifted one hand experimentally.

No chains. No manacles. No silver slicing into his skin. Just raw, healing flesh and the slow, unfamiliar ache of something stitching itself back together inside him.

There was a blood tray near the bars. Fresh, or fresh enough. His stomach turned at the smell ,animal blood was still barely tolerable, but hunger gnawed louder than his pride.

He drank it in slow, measured pulls, forcing himself not to gag. His body needed it. Even if his mind recoiled.

When he finished, he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and slumped back against the wall, breathing hard.

And in, broken flashes, he remembered.

Wandlight slicing through the dark. The sharp click of locks disengaging. The manacles falling away like dead weight. Instant relief coursing his body.

Hermione Granger, not shouting, not recoiling, just moving, quick and sure, like she’d decided something and that was the end of it.

He’d been too far gone to say much. Too weak to do anything but sag against the wall and try not to vomit. But he remembered the look on her face. Not pity nor disgust.

Just a sort of furious focus, the kind that didn’t waste time being afraid. He had thought to himself, ‘there she is, finally.’

When she’d said something, right before sealing the door behind her. His fever addled mind couldn’t remembered the exact words, but the weight of them stayed lodged somewhere deep in his chest.

He wasn’t going to die here, Granger wouldn’t allow it.

He flexed his fingers, feeling the skin tighten over fresh scarring. The burns were healing fast now, his magic stretching like a cat finally let out of a cage. She’d made a choice. A risk.

And he wasn’t daft enough not to notice it. Or not be impressed.

Granger wasn’t playing at being in charge. She was in charge. Not just because they’d given her authority, but because she’d taken it. Like she’d made a promise to herself and didn’t care who else approved.

Draco exhaled shakily, tilting his head back against the wall. He didn’t trust her, not really.

But somewhere in the haze of half-conscious memories and unspoken fear, a new thought whispered itself loose; if anyone could find a way to fix this… it would be her.

And if she couldn’t? Then he was already dead.

Either way, at least now he knew whose hand would be on the knife, and somehow, that made it easier to breathe.

Chapter Text

Chapter Eight — Reconstruction

The tray was empty when Hermione descended the cellar steps. A good sign.

Malfoy sat slouched against the far wall, arms loose around his knees. Still pale. Still gaunt. But there was a sharper focus in his eyes now, something that hadn’t been there before. The sickly sheen to his skin had started to lift. His posture was looser too, not collapsed anymore, but resting.

Her boots echoed on the stone as she crossed the room, stopping just outside the reinforced wardline. She had layered fresh soundproofing charms into his cell yesterday, thicker, smarter. The Order needed their privacy. Draco needed peace. Or at least the illusion of it.

He watched her approach without moving. Cautious. Measured. All the gold gone from his eyes now, leaving only that mercurial silver in its place.

Hermione set her notebook down on the stool but didn’t open it right away.

“We’re starting over,” she said simply.

No accusations or threats. Just a clean, clinical statement.

Draco blinked slowly. He didn’t answer.

She tied her hair up tightly, slid her wand through the knot like a pin, and sat down—spine straight, hands folded neatly.

“You’re not going to be hurt here,” she said. “Not if you cooperate. Not if you’re honest.”

He raised an eyebrow, faint but sharp. “That simple, is it?”

“No,” she said. “Nothing about this is simple. But it’s the only way this works.”

The air stretched heavy between them. Cold. Humming faintly with the wardlines.

Finally, she flipped open her notebook to a fresh page.

“I need to understand everything you remember about the transformation,” she said. “We’ll go slowly. No pressure. No tricks.”

He tilted his head back against the wall, a dry smirk tugging at his mouth.

“Afraid I’m not much of a narrator these days.”

“I’m not asking for a novel,” she said lightly. “Just facts.”

Another pregnant pause.

Then he shifted, stretching his legs out in front of him, moving with a slow, fluid grace Hermione hadn’t seen from him before. Less like a human, and more like something coiled and waiting.

“About six months ago,” he said. “Maybe seven. I stopped keeping track.”

Hermione’s quill hovered over the parchment, waiting.

“There was an assignment,” he said slowly. “The Dark Lord sent me to retrieve a relic. Romanian monastery. Yaxley and Pettigrew apparated me there. Left me to deal with the tomb defenses alone.”

He flexed his fingers absently, another tiny shift she caught.

“I should’ve known it was a trap,” he muttered. “But I didn’t. I found it anyway. A staff, sealed in a sarcophagus under the catacombs.”

Hermione stayed silent, letting him keep talking.

“They took it the second I came back up. Didn’t even let me hold it long enough to see what it was properly.”

He rubbed the heel of his palm into his forehead like he could scrape the memories out

“And then the ritual. Back at the Manor. That’s all blurry. They basically drowned me in potions. The incense burned my eyes. There was this vial of blood…”

Draco trailed off, overwhelmed.

Hermione made a careful note, her quill barely whispering across the page.

Decided that was enough about the ritual. Didn’t want him shutting down again.

“You remember anything else?” she asked gently. “The staff? Any markings?”

He hesitated, then looked at her from under lowered lashes, gauging her reaction, her motives.

“Symbols,” he said finally. “Old ones. Didn’t recognize them. Snakes. Wings. A circle with lines through it.”

She jotted everything down carefully. “And the Dark Mark?” she asked next, glancing up. “It’s gone.”

Draco’s lips twisted into something that wasn’t quite a smile.

“Yes. Curious, isn’t it?” Hermione blinked. “When?”

“The night it happened,” he said. “It burned off. From the inside.”

He pushed his sleeve up slightly without thinking.

Hermione’s eyes locked on his forearm. Pale and smooth.The skin unbroken, as if the Mark had never been there at all. Not just erased, unwritten.

She leaned forward slightly without realizing it, heart skipping a beat.

It wasn’t just cosmetic. There was no lingering dark magic signature. No scar tissue. No faint hum under the skin, like she’d seen in other former Death Eaters who bore the brand.

It was as if Voldemort’s mark had been surgically, ruthlessly cut out of him by something older. Something stronger.

She exhaled slowly.

“Transformation magic overrode it,” she muttered. “Or maybe… consumed it.”

Draco dropped his sleeve again, looking vaguely amused.

“He was upset when that happened. What’s the point of having a vampire pet if you can’t track or summon it?”

Hermione scribbled furiously, noting magical displacement, brand suppression, full tissue regeneration. Voldemort hadn’t fully understood the magic he tried to wield. He was fumbling, blindly trying to control something ancient.

Draco moved again, distracting her, rolling his shoulders under his thin shirt, pushing his sleeves up farther. The movement was smooth, almost mesmerizing.

Not just strength or grace. A predatory kind of elegance that drew the eye without effort.

Hermione caught herself staring and tapped her quill sharply against the page, annoyed.

“How have you changed physically?” she blurted out. It wasn’t what she meant to ask.

Something like curiosity, desperate, clinical, almost hungry, forced the words out.

Draco raised an eyebrow faintly. “Want me to demonstrate?”

She gave him a flat, warning look, daring him to try something reckless.

He snorted under his breath, but with surprising speed, plucked a pebble from the floor and flicked it across the cell. It struck the stone wall hard enough to burrow into it.

Hermione’s eyes narrowed, forcing herself not to show her admiration.

“Enhanced fine motor control confirmed,” she muttered, scribbling rapidly. “Strength and precision.”

Draco let his hand fall casually back to his knee, smirking like he knew exactly how much he’d startled her.

“Still think I’m not a monster?”

She didn’t look up. “I don’t judge people based on what’s been done to them.”

He snorted quietly, but said nothing more. Hermione closed her notebook with a sharp snap and tucked her wand back into her sleeve.

“We’ll begin sunlight exposure tomorrow,” she said, standing. “Incremental increases. Monitored carefully.”

He remained silent. At the door, she paused, glancing back once. “And Malfoy?” He tilted his head lazily toward her.

“You’re more than what they made you,” she said, voice low but certain.

Then she was gone, sealing the door behind her with a clean, final snap of magic.

Draco leaned his head back against the stone, staring at the ceiling. More than what they made him. Maybe, but not much more, not yet

Chapter Text

Chapter Nine — The Quiet Hours
Hermione sat at the long kitchen table, hunched over a fortress of parchment and battered books. A lone oil lamp burned beside her, guttering against the draft. Shadows stretched long across the stone floor.

Her quill scratched steadily, mechanical and relentless. Around her, the house stirred with quiet movement. Boots thudded across the flagstones. Low voices murmured along the hall. Seamus arguing cheerfully in the pantry about rations, trying to get Neville to share his crisps.

Hermione barely looked up when the back door creaked open. Ginny slipped inside, dripping rainwater from her cloak, a battered satchel thumping onto a nearby chair. “Got the monkshood you wanted,” she said, kicking the door shut behind her. “Nearly got hexed for it. Everyone’s on edge.” Hermione nodded distractedly. “Thank you.”
Ginny poured herself a mug of tea, moving around the clatter and bustle without comment.

“You’ve been at it all day,” Ginny said, leaning against the counter. “And last night, unless my memory’s faulty.”
“I’m making progress,” Hermione said crisply, flipping a page. In the background, Seamus’s voice rose again, cursing about moldy bread. A couple of Order members laughed, and an annoyed Seamus stalked out of the kitchen.

Ginny watched Hermione quietly, the noise washing harmlessly around them. “You know you don’t have to prove anything,” she said after a moment. “Not to us.” Hermione’s hand tightened slightly around her quill. “I’m not proving anything,” she said stiffly. “I’m doing something useful.”
Ginny exhaled, setting her mug down with a quiet clink. “We are all here for you,” she said gently. “Take all the time you need but, Hermione talking to a mind healer is not a sign of weakness.”
Hermione kept writing, jaw clenched.
“It’s okay to be vulnerable,” Ginny added, voice low.

The cacophony behind them continued, someone dragging crates in the hallway, the creak of a window being forced shut against the rain.
Inside the small circle of lamplight, Hermione tapped her quill sharply against the parchment.
“I’m not scared to talk to someone, I’m just dealing with it in my own way. ” she said hoping her eyes conveyed all that was unsaid.
“Focusing on Malfoy’s vampirism curse gives me a project I can throw myself into and I really do think this could turn the tide of the war.”
Ginny nodded. “Of course, I hadn’t thought of it that way. I just worry about you and Ron & Harry, well they need you.”
Another silence. Not cold, just heavy. Neither said anything, but unspoken pain and loss permeated the air around them.
Both not voicing the reason Hermione sometimes froze when someone grabbed her arm too quickly.
The reason she couldn’t tolerate certain smells: damp fur, unwashed skin, heavy leather.
The reason her magic sometimes stuttered under sudden pressure. Hermione stared hard at her notes.
Behind her, the clatter of boots and conversation blurred into a meaningless hum. “You’re not alone, anytime you need to talk I’m here for you.” Ginny said simply.
Hermione glanced up, and for a moment, the exhaustion was stark in her face raw and unhidden. “I know, I just need a little more time.” she said quietly.
Ginny gave her a small, crooked smile. “You’re the brightest witch of our age” she added, nudging a battered book toward Hermione, “ancient vampire curses shouldn’t take you more than a week to solve.”

A small, unexpected huff of laughter escaped Hermione before she could stop it.
She turned back to her notes, the tightness in her chest easing slightly. For now, research was safe.
Research didn’t ask questions she didn’t want to answer. Research didn’t look at her with pity. She flipped to a fresh page and began a new section.

Subject: Draco Malfoy — Magical Alterations, Phase Two.
Observations: accelerated healing confirmed. Predatory movement patterns emerging. Enhanced strength & auditory system.
Additional notes: memory retention fragile. Psychological stability uncertain. Need to run more tests. Hermione tapped the quill against the margin of her notebook.

Today she was going to see how much tolerance Malfoy had to the sunlight. The few books she had on vampirism had many conflicting data points on how much sun exposure was dangerous. She was thinking maybe in the future she could make a salve for him to protect his skin.
Behind her, Ron shouted something about bloody broomsticks, and the whole kitchen rumbled with tired laughter. Ginny walked over to him and good-naturedly flicked him in the ear. Ron gave an over-dramatic yelp while Hermione started collecting her notes.

Chapter Text

Chapter Ten — Controlled Exposure
Hermione noted as she descended that the cellar was colder than usual. A rune-inscribed amplifier crystal floated behind her shoulder, trailing a faint golden hum. Her wand light bobbed ahead in a steady rhythm. She carried her notes tucked tightly beneath one arm, and her steps were steady and precise. The creak of the old stairs and the soft pulse of wards greeted her.
Inside the cell, Draco was already awake. He sat upright on his cot, a book in hand. As she entered, he tracked her with practiced detachment and carefully closed the book. No witty comment yet, but Hermione knew it was coming.
She set her notes down just outside the rune line and adjusted the crystal’s levitation path to idle at her side. "Today we’re beginning UV tolerance trials," she said, flipping open her notebook without preamble. Her voice was crisp, her posture tight.
Draco blinked. "Should I be worried I wasn’t briefed by your assistant first?" There’s the snark, Hermione thought. "You’re being briefed now," she replied blandly, scanning her notes. He stretched slightly. "And here I thought consent was trendy in your circles." Hermione scoffed but didn’t glance up. "The exposure will be mild and brief."
"Charming," he muttered, leaning back on his elbows.
She snapped her notebook shut with a firm thwack, then opened it again on a clean page. Her quill hovered.
“The procedure,” she began, trying to calm herself, “is designed to identify thresholds. We’ll begin with low-intensity exposure and magical UV mimicry. Two-minute intervals to start.”
Draco squinted at the floating crystal. “You’re planning to burn me with that?”
“No,” she said, tone sharp and controlled. “I’m observing your skin’s reaction so I can hopefully find a way for you to go outside during the day again.” He raised a brow, at a loss for words for a moment. “Oh. Okay.” Hermione stopped writing and glanced up at Malfoy as he stared blankly at the floor. She worried her lip for a second.
“The moment it hurts, we stop the test, okay?” Malfoy subtly rolled his eyes. “I know you don’t plan on making me a pot roast. I just... gave up on ever going outside again during the day…” he trailed off, seemingly focused on an invisible piece of lint on his pant leg.
Hermione felt a slight ache in her chest. “If we chart a stable pattern across several days, I’ll test layered charms to mitigate irritation. Eventually, I think I can develop a salve tailored to your system, though that’s dependent on how much of your human biology is still responsive.” Draco watched her for a long beat. “If you smiled while saying all that, it might sound slightly less like you’re a mad scientist.”
Hermione just sighed and asked. “Are you ready to begin testing?” “You’ll need to sit for two minutes under low-grade UV, no shielding, no glamours, no resistance.”
“Audaces fortuna iuvat,” he uttered in perfect Latin, then inclined his head, awaiting her response.
Absentmindedly, Hermione nodded and muttered, “Audacia caeca est; prudentia vincit.”
Draco couldn’t help the laugh that burst through his lips. “Touché. Should have known a swot like you would know Latin.” Hermione ignored his retort, prepping her notes on the side table and setting up specific wards to detail Malfoy’s body temperature and any pain once the experiment began.
She stepped toward the amplifier crystal, adjusting its arc and tuning the charm mesh with quick, precise flicks of her wand. “Shed your outer layer,” she said absently, still focused on calibrating.
Draco paused, his brow furrowing. “I’m a vampire, not a basilisk.”
Hermione glanced up, expression a bit flummoxed. “I need a clear sample of dermal response. Fabric interference would skew results.”
He peeled off his overshirt deliberately. “Next time you want to see me shirtless, Granger, just ask in English.”
“I don’t,” she replied flatly, but her ears flushed a fraction too pink.
He sat back on the cot in just his thin undershirt, then pulled that off too with an easy, careless grace that made her jaw clench, whether from irritation or distraction, she didn’t investigate.
She tried not to stare, but scientifically, it made sense to study how his body looked before the experiment, right? Her eyes lingered on his bared torso.
He was built athletically, with broad shoulders tapering into a narrow waist, his form all lean, efficient power. His chest was pale and sculpted, every line of muscle sharply defined beneath skin that looked almost translucent. There was a wiry elegance to him, the kind of strength carved for speed rather than brute force. The muscles along his abdomen flexed with a subtle tension, like a bow always half-drawn. His collarbones cast delicate shadows, and his entire frame had that eerie, statuesque stillness, like he’d been frozen mid-motion by something divine or terrible. His skin wasn’t just pale; it was the absence of sunlight made flesh, with the faintest blue undertone ghosting through the hollows, too perfect, too untouched by time. His ribs etched faint outlines beneath the surface, he was too thin. Hermione made a mental note to increase his blood rations.
Breaking the silence, Hermione waved her wand, projecting the amplifier’s light into a concentrated, pale golden beam. It shimmered like a blade of morning sun, hanging in midair between them. “Ready?” Draco nodded once, visibly bracing.
Hermione activated the spell. The UV beam passed over the barrier line and landed cleanly across Draco’s bare chest. For several seconds, nothing happened. He held still, jaw tight but calm, gaze fixed on the crystal rather than her.
Hermione scribbled notes rapidly.
No immediate aversion. No smoke. Temperature within acceptable range.
Draco let out a long exhale. “Feels like I’m standing too close to a fire,” he said under his breath. “But it’s... bearable.”
She kept recording. Thirty seconds passed, then forty-five.
A faint shimmer began along his clavicle. The skin there flushed red. Not blistered, not cracked, but clearly irritated. Draco flinched.
Hermione immediately stepped forward and dropped the spell. The beam vanished with a soft crackle.
He hissed between his teeth, one hand going instinctively to his ribs.
Hermione conjured a cool compress and passed it through the wardline. “Hold this,” she said briskly. Draco took it without comment, pressing it against the reddened skin. His muscles were tense now. His breathing shallow and quick
“Not blistered,” she said, more to herself. “But your skin was definitely becoming damaged. Resistance dropped past the one-minute mark.”
“Felt like acid,” Draco muttered, voice hoarse. Hermione made another note. Her hand was steady, but her eyes flicked to him again and lingered.
His shoulders were taut, and the tips of his canines had lengthened slightly. Just barely. Just enough to catch the light. Not threatening just instinct.
“Your fangs,” she said softly. Draco looked up sharply, then touched his mouth and swore. “Didn’t even feel that.” “It’s a reflexive response to stress,” Hermione murmured, already writing again. “Your body defaults to defense when overloaded. Interesting.”
Draco’s jaw flexed, and he leaned back against the stone wall, eyes closed.
She waited a beat, then asked gently, “Are you in pain?”  “No,” he said quickly. Then, quieter, “Not anymore.” Hermione nodded, returning to her notes. There was a long silence.
“Guess I won’t be watching sunrises anytime soon,” Draco muttered.
Hermione didn’t answer at first and then she said, simply, “Not yet.”
She didn’t offer reassurance. Just a fact. “That’s why we’re doing these tests, to understand more about your condition.” Draco opened one eye, studying her. For once, he didn’t say anything sarcastic.
Hermione peered up from her notes as Draco slumped down on his cot. His body language screamed frustration and vulnerability.
“You can put your shirt back on,” Hermione said, hoping he wouldn’t seem quite so exposed. It was hard to keep things clinical when he looked so young and defenseless
He didn’t say a word, just shrugged back into his shirts.  “Kingsley was planning to get some information from you tonight,” Hermione added. “Said it was time you contributed.”
Draco’s body coiled with tension. She saw the retort coming. So she interrupted.
“Why don’t you just tell me the information?” she suggested. “That way I can forward it to Kingsley. You’ve had enough for one day.”
Draco’s eyes darted to her. His expression shifted, softer, surprised. Lips twitching faintly.
Hermione, flustered, blurted, “Stress right now could alter my baselines. It makes sense. Scientifically.” Draco composed himself quickly. “Ah, of course. Always the scientist. Very commendable.”
They stared at each other for a few crawling seconds. The air between them thick with unspoken things. Draco knew she was giving him compassion and rationalizing it to herself. So he played along. “Yes, that works. I don’t have the most up-to-date intel, but I’ll give you what I can.”
Hermione looked relieved. She switched on her recording crystal and floated it between them. When everything was ready, she gave him a slight nod.
Draco spoke deliberately, each word weighed and measured. “There’s a safe house in the outskirts of an Edinburgh forest. To the best of my knowledge, it’s still used as a supply hub, nonperishables, stolen wands, potions ingredients, sometimes even contraband artifacts.” His eyes flicked up, assessing her reaction. “It’s heavily warded and buried beneath a hollowed ridge. You’d walk right past it if you didn’t know where to look.”
He grabbed a quill from the edge of the table and scribbled a set of coordinates onto a torn piece of parchment, the ink bleeding slightly into the fibers. “There are two openings. One’s through a thicket camouflaged with layered Disillusionment Charms. The other, harder to reach, is a tunnel that starts near a dry creek bed. But it won’t matter unless you time it right.”
He paused, tapping the parchment once with the tip of the quill. “Greyback and his wolves guard it nearly twenty-four-seven. Patrols, scent-marking, traps. They use it as a den, but during the full moon... they abandon it. The wolves scatter, lose themselves in the woods to hunt and fuck.” His mouth tightened. “They leave the place exposed for a single night, no guards or sentries. Just whatever curses and wards….”
He was mid-sentence when he noticed Hermione had gone very still. Her entire posture, replaced by something far more unsettling, stillness, the kind born not of calm but of collapse. The parchment slipped from her fingers and fluttered soundlessly to the floor.
Her arms, once tightly folded across her chest, now hung loose at her sides, trembling with a fine, uncontrollable shake. Her chest rose and fell in shallow, uneven breaths, and though her expression remained oddly blank, her eyes betrayed her. Wide and unfocused, they stared straight through him, glassy with the sheen of unshed panic. Silent tears traced clean paths down her cheeks, falling steadily, as if her body were weeping without permission.
Draco froze, the words dying on his tongue. It was like watching something snap inside her, quietly, invisibly, but catastrophically.
“Granger?”
Forgetting the wards, he shot to his feet, the scrape of the cot legs shrill against the stone floor as he lunged instinctively toward the bars. His palm collided with the invisible boundary just beyond them, an eruption of blue light sparking at the point of contact. The force knocked him back a full step, the sharp snap of magic crackling through the air like a live wire.
“Bloody hell!” Draco hissed, shaking out his hand as he staggered, the scent of scorched skin faint in the air. His chest heaved, more from panic than pain, eyes locked on her frozen form.
The sharp sound, the flash of light, it jolted Hermione back like a slap. Her spine straightened and she blinked rapidly, the daze receding as her awareness returned. She reached up with shaky hands, brushing her cheeks in confusion. Her fingers came away wet, and only then did she seem to realize she’d been crying at all. The tears hadn’t come with sobs, hadn’t even come with thought they had simply fallen, slipping past her defenses the way her nightmares did.
She swallowed hard and tried to breathe, her throat tight and aching.
“Sorry about that,” she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper, frayed and uneven like a wire about to snap. She didn't meet his eyes. Instead, she crouched to gather the scattered notes and equipment at her feet, movements brisk and methodical but not steady. Her fingers fumbled as she reached for the amplifier crystal, knocking it once before she managed to stabilize it in her palm. The tremor in her hands betrayed her, no matter how tightly she clenched her jaw or how quickly she worked to hide it.
“The crystal should have captured the intel we need,” she added, as if reciting from a script, her tone forced into something clinical. Professional and detached, but the hitch in her breath ruined the illusion.
He stepped forward again, the faint hum of the wards warning him not to get too close. “We’re not going to talk about you completely shutting down a moment ago?” he asked, voice low but insistent, laced with something that sounded suspiciously like concern.
Hermione was already halfway up the stairs, her boots echoing softly against the worn stone. At his words, she stopped mid-step. Her back remained to him, shoulders rigid beneath her coat, the muscles along her neck tense and unmoving. For a moment, she didn’t speak, as though weighing whether it was worth turning back, whether honesty would serve either of them in that room.
“This war has changed all of us,” she said at last, her voice quiet but steady, carrying just enough to reach him. “Your transformation is just… more visible.”
She didn’t wait for a response, didn’t even glance back The crystal’s hum followed her like a ghost as she ascended the last few steps and disappeared into the corridor above, leaving Draco staring at the empty stairwell.

Chapter Text

Hermione didn’t make it far. She rounded the bend near the ward checkpoint and sagged against the stone wall, the chill of it biting through her coat and into her spine. Her knees buckled under the weight of everything she hadn’t said, cried out, or screamed. The amplifier crystal in her palm dimmed, its glow flickering in time with the tremble in her fingers.
Breathe. Just breathe, but her lungs didn’t listen. Her chest felt fractured, like her ribs were digging into her lungs. The air around her thickened. The corridor tilted. Light spots bloomed at the edges of her vision. Then a voice, sharp and too close. “Hermione?”

She flinched, instinctively straightening like she’d been caught. Her shoulders snapped into place, her face rearranged itself, but it was too late. He’d seen. Ron had seen all of it.
“Are you hurt?” he pressed, already reaching out, his hand aiming for her arm like he could steady her with touch. She recoiled before he could make contact. Not violently, quick and instinctive, like a cornered animal flinching from a too-fast movement.

“Sorry,” she snapped, reflexively. Her voice caught halfway between apology and defense, brittle and frayed. Her eyes didn’t meet his. She stared just past him, like looking directly at someone might break her wide open and she wouldn’t be able to hold everything in.

Ron’s brow furrowed. He didn’t drop his arm right away, but his hand lowered slowly, fingers flexing uselessly at his side like he didn’t know what to do with them now. His eyes scanned her, narrowing. “You don’t look fine.” His voice hardened. “Did Malfoy say something? “He took a step forward again, fists tightening. “Did he do something?”
She shook her head, voice barely audible. “No, he…”

“I knew it,” Ron snapped, eyes flashing. “I’ve been saying this for weeks. He shouldn’t be alone with you, Hermione. It’s not safe. I told Kingsley, Harry, and even Neville agreed.”
Her stomach dropped like she’d been hexed. “You’ve been what?”

Ron hesitated. His eyes flicked away for a heartbeat, jaw tightening. The guilt was there, barely, but he didn’t walk it back. Ron, stepping closer, whispered. “I know who he is. He’s a snake. He’s always been a snake. And now you’re in there with him every day, letting him crawl inside your head, and you’re too close to notice.”
“You’re getting too close,” he said finally. “You asked them to modify his cell. Give him comforts. They installed a bathroom in there, Hermione. For a prisoner. Because you requested it.”
She blinked, once, then twice, like the words had struck something soft and unguarded. Her throat tightened, and something behind her ribs pulled taut a little too taut, and then it snapped. “A bathroom?” she repeated, voice hoarse. “That’s your evidence, I’ve lost perspective? That I asked for a bit of decency, for a person who came here for help?” Ron’s face was taut, like he didn’t know how to answer without doubling down.

“You don’t get to lecture me about boundaries,” she said, her voice rising, trembling. “You said you’d wait. That you’d be patient while I... put myself back together.”
Ron’s expression shifted, something akin to panic flashed across his face, but Hermione didn’t stop. “You said you understood. That you didn’t need anything from me except time.” Her chest was heaving now, breath unsteady. “But a month later, you were dating Parvati. And not quietly, either. Everyone knew, and I was just supposed to smile through it and act like I was healing on schedule.” Ron looked stunned, but she pressed on, her voice fraying at the edges. “You pitied me, but you didn’t stay. You couldn’t even look at me after what happened. You were relieved to hand me off to someone else. Kingsley, Harry or the healers. Anyone who wasn’t you.”
“Hermione,” Ron said quietly, but she shook her head.

“No. You don’t get to drag me back to the worst parts of myself and pretend it’s for my own good. You weren’t there in the Manor. You weren’t there after, and you sure as hell aren’t here now.” She wiped at her cheek quickly, angry at the sting in her eyes.

Ron swallowed, jaw clenched, his knuckles white. “And maybe he is a prisoner,” she added, voice low now, shaking. “But when I talk to him, I don’t feel like one.”
The silence that followed was suffocating. Hermione stepped back, blinking fast, her hands curled into fists at her sides. “I’m not saying you meant to hurt me, Ron. But you did.”
And then she walked away, her boots echoing like gunshots in the stone corridor, leaving Ron behind with nothing but the sound of everything they used to be collapsing into silence.

(Draco’s POV)
The stairwell still pulsed faintly with the remnants of her presence, like the air itself hadn’t caught up to her absence. Draco stared at the place she’d been, the parchment still lying where it had fallen, her outline scorched into the air like a memory that refused to fade.
What the hell had just happened? One moment she was composed, detached, scribbling in that bloody notebook like she was charting out a war plan, and then she’d just… stopped. Frozen. Like something deep inside her had misfired.
No warning or buildup. Just a blank stare, silent tears, and a collapse that made no sound but somehow shook the air around her. She’d reacted to something he said. Maybe the wolves or maybe just the word “den.” It didn’t matter. What mattered was that he’d missed the signs. Her silence had stretched too long. Her fingers had twitched right before the paper slipped from her grip. But he hadn’t been watching her. He’d been too focused on the intel. Too focused on being useful; on mattering for once.
And now he was… what? Worried? Draco scoffed, dragging a hand through his hair. He didn’t do worried. Not for anyone. Least of all Hermione bloody Granger.
And yet the knot in his chest refused to untie itself. She hadn’t looked afraid of him. That would’ve been easier. But no, what he saw in her eyes had nothing to do with him. It was inward, old, untouchable. The kind of thing that doesn’t scream, just lingers.
He didn’t dwell on it long. Whatever haunted her wasn’t his concern. Just like he wasn’t hers. She came in, took her notes, catalogued his blood, his reactions, his condition, and left. No fuss or warmth or questions that reached beyond the clinical. She kept her distance, always behind the rune line, always with her quill like a barrier between them.
He preferred it that way, or he was supposed to. He exhaled and sank down on the cot, elbows braced on his knees, fingers laced like a man halfway to prayer. His gaze locked on the stone floor, as if the answers might rise from the cracks if he just stared hard enough. He hated this feeling, that raw, too-familiar ache: vulnerable, helpless, out of control. He’d spent years building armor against it. Layer after layer of numbness, sarcasm, and silence. But here it was again, creeping in through the seams like damp rot, and he didn’t know how to keep it out, and worse, he didn’t understand it.
When the Order first took him in, he told them he’d followed whispers of a safe house tucked somewhere beyond the frost line. A hideout buried in snow and spellwork, where deserters and ghosts alike could disappear. It sounded plausible enough. Reasonable and just vague enough to be believed. After all, what else would a fugitive say? That he’d followed an invisible tether, and he’d stumbled onto a sanctuary by accident?

No, the lie was cleaner, leaving less room for questions. The truth was unbelievable.
Couldn’t explain it even if he’d wanted to. Somehow, he found this place with no map, no trail. He hadn’t had a plan; technically, he hadn’t even had a hope. He’d escaped half-mad, filthy, skeletal, bleeding out pieces of himself he couldn’t name.

He remembered frost crunching under his bare feet. The blur of trees and the sickly weight of the moon overhead. He remembered hiding more than resting, burrowing beneath leaves, beneath guilt, beneath himself. And still… something pulled him forward. Not a direction, or a voice. Just an urge, unseen and insistent.
He’d told them he came for refuge and possibly, a cure. Honestly, even he didn’t know what he was looking for, but when he found the safe house, nestled in the trees like it had grown from the stone, he knew that this was it. This was where he was supposed to stop, and the tugging in his chest lessened. Despite not understanding how he’d gotten there, one thing he was sure of was that ever since he arrived, something in him had shifted. The thirst was still there, ever-present, clawing, it didn’t consume him the way it used to. It didn’t scream, it almost stilled. He hadn’t mentioned that part either. What would he even say?

‘Hey, by the way, ever since I got here, the bloodlust hasn’t been trying to rip me apart from the inside out. Not sure why. Just thought you should know.’
No, best to keep that to himself, but the question gnawed at him. Why here? Why now?

Why had the fire inside him dulled the moment he stepped past the wards? He didn’t have the answer. Only the creeping suspicion that the truth, when it came, wouldn’t be easy to swallow. Eventually, he’d have to tell someone the truth about how he got here. About what guided him out of the Manor. But not while he was still figuring out whether this strange, fragile quiet inside him was real, or just another cruel trick of survival.

Chapter Text

Chapter Twelve– The Salve Test
The cellar remained silent, illuminated solely by Hermione’s wandlight. Dust motes danced in the beam, resembling ash suspended in amber. Draco sat on his cot, one knee drawn up, the other leg extended across the thin mattress. His forearms rested on the raised knee, hands loosely clasped, fingers long and pale. His head tilted forward, chin tucked in contemplation, yet his eyes immediately flicked toward her as the door creaked open.
What’s on today’s agenda?” Draco quipped as she crossed the threshold. “Garlic tests? Mirror checks? For the record, I do cast a reflection.

Hermione ignored the jibe, placing her satchel on the stool beyond the wardline. She retrieved a small glass jar containing a pale blue substance that shimmered like moonlight trapped in ointment.
“I’ve developed a salve,” she stated, tone clinical. “It’s a sun-shielding agent, experimental, but it may allow limited exposure without causing blistering.”
He raised an eyebrow, curiosity piqued. “You’ve concocted sunscreen for me?”
She held up the jar. “Photoprotective compound. Derived from ancient lunar magic, pearl dust, and select botanical extracts to enhance dermal resistance. Think of it as sunscreen, amplified a thousandfold.”
Draco leaned in, examining the jar. “Am I your inaugural test subject, or should I envy some fortunate vampire who received the prototype?”
Hermione rolled her eyes, passing the jar through the bars. “Apply it yourself.”

He accepted it silently, unscrewed the lid, sniffed, and wrinkled his nose. “Smells like mint mixed with something exhumed from beneath a chapel.”
“You’re welcome,” she replied flatly, arms crossed, observing as he scooped a modest amount and methodically applied it to his forearms and neck. No theatrics or complaints, just deliberate, practiced movements. Watching him, she realized he must be accustomed to tending himself. How many times had he done this alone? The thought unsettled her more than she cared to admit.

Draco applied the salve in slow, deliberate circles over his collarbone and upper chest, his fingers working with practiced ease. He tilted his head back, allowing the wandlight to highlight the salve's sheen and the defined lines of his lean musculature.
Draco dipped his fingers into the jar, methodically applying the salve to his forearm. “If this works,” he quipped, “do I get to lounge poolside, or is that still off-limits for cursed monsters?”

Hermione, eyes fixed on her notes, replied without looking up, “It’s technically waterproof, though prolonged submersion might dilute the…”
She halted mid-sentence, her head snapping up to find him watching her with a faint smirk, one brow raised as if he’d just baited a particularly satisfying trap “You were joking,” she said flatly, a flush creeping up her neck. He didn’t deny it, continuing to apply the salve with an offhand tone. “You get a little intense when you’re in research mode. Thought I’d check if you were still breathing.”

“I used to get like that with wand mechanics,” he said after a beat. “Not spellwork exactly, just diagrams. Hinges, cores, wand flex theory. I’d redraw them for hours until it made sense.”
Then, more abruptly, as if regretting the reveal, he added,
“My mother called it ‘endearing.’”
There was a pause.

“It’s not,” Hermione said, a little too quickly. Then added, more softly, “But only because I’m the same way.” Draco looked at her, something flickering behind his eyes. Then, slowly, he smiled, not sharp or smug. Just real.

Hermione blinked, caught off guard at her admission. She stared at him, and for a moment, neither of them spoke.
His smile, but its ghost lingered in the lines around his mouth, softening features that had been sharp for so long.
He glanced at her, amusement still dancing in his eyes.

They let the moment stretch into a companionable silence. Unsure of how to respond, Hermione turned to her notes, flipping open a page with a bit more force than necessary.
“The salve needs ten minutes to absorb before we test light exposure,” she said briskly. “In the meantime, I’d like to share what I’ve found.”

Draco shifted, reclining slightly on one elbow. “By all means. Read me a bedtime story.”
Hermione rolled her eyes, but her voice softened as she began.
“There are scattered references in Eastern European texts about vampire types, feral versus structured. The structured ones often result from rituals rather than infection or curses. Ritual-based transformations sometimes include... anchoring.” He raised an eyebrow. “Anchoring?”
“Something that stabilizes the structured vampire.” She paused. “I haven’t found much yet. Most of it has to be carefully translated and its taking me longer than I had hoped.”

Draco was quiet for a beat. Then, “I could help. I'm good at ancient languages.”
“I’ll think about it,” she said quietly. “I’ll think about it,” she said quietly. Draco leaned back, a satisfied look on his face. “You do that.”
The silence that followed wasn’t awkward. Just full of unspoken words and apprehension laced excitement. Like something had shifted between them not much, but enough.

He looked up at her, and for once, didn’t smirk. “Ready when you are, Granger.”
Hermione nodded tightly. “Light intensity: Level Two. Duration: incremental, starting at thirty seconds. Signal me the moment it burns.”
The amplifier crystal pulsed with soft light, its orbit slow and deliberate as it settled into position above Draco’s cot. Hermione stood just beyond the rune line, notes in one hand, wand in the other, her posture rigid.
Draco sat on the edge of the cot, shirtless and still, the salve on his skin giving him a faint shimmer. His silver-blond hair fell across his brow in disarray, and for once, he looked more like a recovering boy than a feral monster.
“Ready when you are, Granger,” he said. Not flippant, just focused.

Hermione nodded. “Light intensity: Level Two. Duration: incremental exposure in thirty-second intervals. Signal me the moment it hurts.”
He smirked faintly. “So formal. Anyone would think you’re not thrilled to see me burn.”
She ignored him, raising her wand. With a precise flick, the amplifier crystal responded, casting a warm golden beam over Draco’s chest and shoulders. Sunlight, or the closest approximation she could manage. For a few moments, nothing happened.
Draco inhaled through his nose, eyes narrowing. “Less warm than yesterday.”

“So, tolerable?” she asked, already scribbling notes.
“Like lying in a sunbeam,” he said. “Which is very strange for someone who hasn’t done that since…” He trailed off.
She glanced up at him, surprised by the softness in his tone but said nothing.

Two minutes passed. Still no blistering or smoking. No immediate signs of reaction. Hermione’s breath caught in her throat. The salve was working. It was working!
At three minutes, his breathing deepened, but he remained still. A faint red bloom began to creep along his shoulders, but the skin didn’t crack.

Four minutes.

Hermione’s pulse surged with giddy disbelief as she jotted revisions in the margins of her notes. Five minutes.
That’s when it happened.

Draco flinched only slightly but it was sharp, involuntary. A hiss escaped his teeth, his hand flying to his side. The light had begun to scorch him but just at the edges, like fire licking through thin parchment.

"Stop!" he gasped. Hermione extinguished the beam without hesitation.

The room plunged into shadow, illuminated only by her wand tip and the flickering rune-glow on the walls. Draco hunched forward, wincing, sweat beading at his temple. His skin was flushed and raw along one side of his chest, not blistered, but close.

She rushed forward, activating cooling charms, her hand trembling as she hovered it near the ward-line.
“I’m fine,” he muttered, though his jaw was clenched. “It’s nothing.”

“Nothing?” she snapped. “You nearly burned again. I should have stopped it at four minutes. I should’ve…”
She broke off, turning away, shoulders taut with barely contained emotion.

Draco blinked at her. “Hermione.” She didn’t look at him.
“You’re not mad at me,” he said slowly. “You’re mad at yourself.”
She turned, jaw clenched. "Of course I am. You trusted me, and I let it go too far. I got swept up in the experiment and let you get hurt."

“You didn’t let me do anything,” he said quietly. “I could’ve spoken up sooner.”
“That’s not the point.” Draco tilted his head. “Then what is?”
Hermione exhaled hard, pacing once, then stilling. “I’ve been fixated on your condition, and wanting to help you but what if I’m just doing more harm.”
Her voice cracked on the last word, and she bit it down fast, composing herself.

Draco studied her for a long moment. Then he said, softly, “You talk like I’ve never had that before.”
She paused while wiping barely-shed tears. He shifted slightly on the cot, eyes darkening. “You think this is the first time someone’s tested how long I can last before I scream?”

Hermione’s stomach dropped. Draco didn’t sound angry. He didn’t sound sad. He just sounded... resigned.
"Back at the Manor," he continued, "they tried a different kind of magic every week: blood charms, isolation wards, silver cuffs, pain triggers keyed to my voice. I was their prototype."
Hermione stepped closer, her breath catching. “You never told me that.”

He shrugged one shoulder, wincing. “Didn’t want to sound like I was playing the victim and trying to get sympathy. Thought you’d just see me as another Death Eater getting what he deserved.”
“I don’t,” she said, too fast. His gaze flicked to hers. “I don’t,” she repeated, voice softer now. “You’re not a test subject to me.”

“Could’ve fooled me,” he said, but it was gentle almost a joke. Hermione stepped up to the wardline, notebook forgotten. “You didn’t deserve this,” she murmured. “Even though you were and possibly still are an arsehole.”
Draco gave a small, incredulous smile. “You admit it, then.”

“Oh, I definitely despised you then,” she said, lips twitching. “You were insufferable.”
“And you were self-righteous,” he countered, sitting a little straighter now.
“You once hexed me in the corridor.”
“You corrected my Ancient Runes translation during that presentation.”
“It was wrong,” she retorted, crossing her arms in mock defense.

“Creative interpretation,” he chuckled. Then his smile faded slightly. “Gods, feels like a lifetime ago.” Hermione’s throat tightened. “You always excelled when you applied yourself, especially in languages and potions. You had... a lot of potential.”

His eyes met hers across the soft hum of the wards. “Had, exactly. Not anymore,” he said quietly.
She shook her head once. “No that’s not true. I didn’t mean it like that”
Draco was still watching her shirtless, sunburned at the edges, but somehow more at ease than she’d ever seen him. Less brittle and fragile.

She said slowly, “I’ve been reading these texts half of them are in archaic dialects or incomplete. It’s like trying to stitch together a tapestry blindfolded.”
“Sounds like a party,” he said, eyes lighting up. “You mentioned you wanted to help and that you were good at translating.”

“Better than good,” he replied, his tone light yet sincere. “By twelve, my mother had me translating infernal script. I used to stash rune dictionaries under my bed like contraband.” She arched an eyebrow. “That’s unexpected.”
“I had a repressed childhood,” he said with a mock sigh. “And a sad lack of extracurriculars.”
Hermione turned, stepping fully back toward the wardline. The glow shimmered between them.
“I don’t want you to feel like a test subject,” she said at last. “Not anymore.”

Draco blinked, something unreadable flickering in his expression. “I mean it,” she continued, voice steadier now. “I know I’ve been treating this like a project, charting you, documenting your reactions, keeping you at arm’s length so it wouldn’t feel like...”

“Caring?” he offered gently. Hermione flinched slightly, then nodded. “Yes, keeping things clinical was supposed to help me avoid emotional involvement.”
Draco remained silent for a moment. “Why change now?”
She met his gaze. “Because you’re not a project, Malfoy. You’re a person. And if we’re going to get through this, I think you should help.”

“As in, I bring the research down. I let you translate with me. We compare findings, I let you into the process.” He paused, as if weighing the sincerity of her offer. Then he leaned forward, elbows on his knees, and asked in a low voice, “You’d really let me do that?”

Hermione shrugged. “You’re not exactly unqualified.”
Draco tilted his head, his voice tentative for the first time since she’d met him. “That would mean a lot.” She blinked, surprised by his softness. “To be useful again,” he added. “Not just studied.”

Hermione’s throat tightened. “Then it’s settled.” He gave a cautious nod. “Alright, Granger, bring me your cursed scrolls.” She smiled, faint but real. “You’ll regret that when you see how many pages I’ve annotated.”

“I’ll regret nothing if it means I get to argue with you over syntax.” “Oh, we will argue,” she warned. His smile turned boyish. “Good.” Hermione turned again to the stairs. “I’ll bring the texts tonight.” Draco leaned back against the stone wall, a flicker of something light blooming across his expression. “Looking forward to it.” For once, when the door shut behind her, it didn’t sound like a cage.

Chapter Text

Chapter 13- Breakthrough
The old library had been transfigured into a makeshift war room months ago, but it still smelled like leather bindings and candle smoke. A rotating charm hovered above the table, projecting a hazy map of the countryside. Tiny, pulsing markers blinked across the terrain, each one marking a known Death Eater movement or worse, a disappearance.

Hermione sat at the edge of her seat, spine rigid, eyes locked on Kingsley Shacklebolt. He stood at the head of the table, arms crossed over his chest, face unreadable.
“We’ve had troubling whispers,” he began, skipping any formalities. “Started about three weeks ago. Scattered sightings. Incoherent reports. The Ministry’s calling them rogue magical beasts, but I don’t think that fits.”
Remus leaned forward slightly. “Where?”
“Remote areas. Highlands of Scotland, border woods near Wales. No real pattern, but the aftermath is… messy.”
Hermione’s stomach twisted. Around the room, mutters rippled like a current.

Moody’s magical eye spun once before fixing on Kingsley. “You think it’s them?”
Kingsley’s jaw clenched. “I think someone’s testing something. We’ve lost three scouts in the last two weeks. No traces of spellwork. One wand was found, covered in blood, snapped in half. Nothing else.”
The air turned heavy, the kind of silence that presses against the ribs.

“Whatever this is, Voldemort’s keeping it close,” Kingsley went on, voice lower now. “Our informant says even his inner circle isn’t getting near it. That’s unusual.”
Tonks frowned. “So we don’t even know what we’re looking for?”

“Not yet. But I don’t think it’s a spell. I think it’s alive.”
Someone swore under their breath.
Hermione kept her face neutral, but unease crawled beneath her skin. The secrecy, the loss of scouts and the vanishing trail. It wasn’t just dark magic. It felt like more deliberate. As if something had been designed, not summoned.

Across the table, Arthur Weasley rubbed a hand down his face. “Could be a twist on Inferi or some kind of cursed construct like the ones we saw back in the First War.”
Kingsley shook his head. “We checked, no reanimation or necromancy traces. Whatever this is, it’s new or old enough to be unrecognizable.”

“It’s Voldemort,” Moody muttered. “Cruelty’s the whole point. He doesn’t care what it does. Only that it works.”
The room buzzed with hushed voices and overlapping theories. Wild guesses and worry disguised as strategy.
Hermione’s eyes drifted toward the folder in front of her. It stayed closed, but she could see it clearly in her mind. The glyphs inked in rust-colored scrawl, the bloodline diagrams, the fragmented ritual notes she hadn’t dared to fully translate. Nothing in them directly matched what Kingsley described. But the timing gnawed at her. The silence surrounding it. It felt too precise to be coincidence.
Her chest tightened with the creeping sense that she was falling behind and needed to research faster.
Across the table, Ron’s voice broke through. “We’re still chasing leads. It’s slow going, but we think something’s up north.”

Hermione looked up. His tone was steady, casual, but focused. She knew that tone. She used to hear it while crouched beside him in forests, on cobbled streets, in shadowed ruins. It was the voice he used when they didn’t know what came next but went anyway.
Harry gave a short nod. “We’ll head out tomorrow. Quiet, low profile.”

Kingsley nodded in return. “Check in when you can. No names, no specifics.”
Hermione forced her face to remain still, but something tugged at her chest. Not jealousy. Not exactly, more like a dull ache, an old rhythm thrown off-beat.
She used to go with them.

Used to have her wand in one hand and a rucksack in the other, heart racing, mind spinning three moves ahead. Now she sat at a table, scribbling translations, watching from the sidelines while they carried the weight out in the field. And it wasn’t wrong. She had chosen this. She believed in this work and she was still a liability on the field. But it still stung how easily the next mission had moved on without her.

As the discussion shifted toward logistics and safehouse rotations, Hermione’s thoughts drifted. She kept staring at her notes, but her focus wasn’t on the parchment. She was already combing through half-translated margins, the parts she’d told herself could wait. They couldn’t wait now. Not if whatever Voldemort was making was already out there.

Kingsley’s gaze swept across the table, then stopped on her. “Granger. Any progress with the subject?”
Hermione blinked and straightened. Her thoughts snapped back to the present. A few heads turned her way.
She cleared her throat. “Some. I’ve been working through the older texts we recovered, fragments tied to vampiric theory. Most of it predates standardized magical language, so the translation’s been slow. The syntax shifts depending on the bloodline referenced, and some of the terminology is deliberately encrypted.”
Kingsley’s brow furrowed. “Anything useful yet?”
“A few patterns are starting to emerge,” she said carefully. “The material isn’t just theoretical,it references rituals tied to transformation, magical inheritance, and energy tethering. It’s subtle, but it’s there. I think I’m close to linking some of it back to the ritual effects we’ve seen.”
“And the subject?”

“He’s stable. Cooperative. I’m being cautious, but there haven’t been any new symptoms.”
Kingsley gave a short nod. “Good. Let me know if anything shifts or if you need additional support.”
“I will.” She didn’t mention that she’d already found support just not the kind they’d expect.
Kingsley moved on without fanfare, the conversation returning to the next round of supply drops and outpost checks.

But Hermione wasn’t listening anymore. Not really. Her mind was already racing ahead, past the meeting, past the war room, to her research and everything she hadn’t decoded yet.
She didn’t know what Voldemort was building. But she had the sick feeling that her work mattered more than anyone in this room realized. And she wasn’t going to let herself fall behind.

The meeting wrapped with the usual hum of shifting chairs and murmured follow-ups. Hermione gathered her notes quickly, offering only a nod as Kingsley dismissed the room. She kept her expression neutral, no different from any other briefing. But as she stepped out into the corridor, her thoughts were already elsewhere.
She adjusted the handle of the basket on her bed, double-checking that she hadn’t forgotten anything. She wasn’t sure why she felt nervous, it wasn’t as if he’d be grading her. But still, this was the first time she’d be handing over research materials to someone who might actually read them.

She added a slim volume with a cracked spine, its title in faded ink: Myths and Anatomies: A Study of Blood-Based Creatures. A bit sensationalist, maybe, but it offered useful context. She hesitated, then tucked in another book on magical afflictions that might help them identify symptoms of instability. Most of the Order barely skimmed the reports she prepared, Ron had once used her annotated margins to doodle a dragon in sunglasses. But Draco? He was at least capable of understanding the material.
She wasn’t doing this for him, of course. This was for the research. The progress. If someone could help her decipher the more obscure dialects and sort through the contradictory sources, she’d be a fool not to take the opportunity.

Her room, as always, was immaculate. The curtains hung even, her shoes lined in a neat row under the bed. Everything had its place. When the world outside felt out of control, order was her way of keeping the panic at bay. Even the basket was arranged by subject: physiology, behavioral studies, magical theory.
She glanced at the pile once more and let out a breath.
This wasn’t about trust. It wasn’t about softening. She was still keeping him in the cellar, still monitoring his feeding schedule, still noting every change in his behavior. This was simply the next logical step in her research.
Even so, her hands lingered on the rim of the basket. No one else wanted to hear her thoughts on vampiric subcategories or the ethical implications of soul-anchoring. No one else asked for footnotes or knew what a dialect shift from 13th-century Carpathian looked like. Maybe he wouldn’t care either.
She lifted the basket, squared her shoulders, and made her way to the stairs.
The soft knock came just as Hermione was tucking the last book into the basket.

She jumped slightly. “Just a minute…!”
Too late. Ginny was already halfway through the door. “Hey, do you have…oh, what’s that?”
Hermione straightened in front of the bed, subtly shifting to block the basket with her body. “Nothing. Just research.”
Ginny stepped closer, eyebrow raised. “Research in a basket? That’s new. Is it, wait are you bringing it somewhere?”
Hermione hesitated. “Sort of.”
Ginny peered around her and caught a glimpse of the spines: old, dense-looking tomes, several with titles referencing vampirism and magical afflictions. “Wait, are these for you, or… are you giving someone a very creepy gift?”

Hermione tried to laugh. “It’s just research material. That’s all.”
Ginny’s brow furrowed, and then something shifted behind her eyes. “Hold on. This isn’t about Cormac, is it?”
Hermione blinked. “What?”
Ginny smirked, folding her arms. “He’s been going around saying he’s interested in you. Thought maybe he cornered you again. He does love the sound of his own voice.”
“No,” Hermione said too quickly. “It’s not Cormac. It’s not anyone. It’s not like that.”
Ginny leaned in, teasing now. “Which means there is someone.”
Hermione sighed. “I said it’s not like that.”
Ginny glanced at the basket again, more intrigued than before. “Then who’s it for?”
Hermione hesitated a moment too long.
Ginny’s expression changed. “Wait.”
“No,” Hermione said, stepping between her and the basket.

Ginny blinked. “You’ve got to be kidding.”
“It’s research,” Hermione said stiffly.
“For Malfoy?”
Hermione said nothing.
Ginny threw her hands up. “Oh, for the love of… Hermione, he’s a prisoner in the bloody cellar.”
“And he’s also intelligent,” Hermione snapped, more defensively than she meant to. “He has a deep understanding of magical theory, he recognizes dialects most of us haven’t even seen before, and he offered to help.”
Ginny stared at her. “And you believed him?”
Hermione’s fingers tightened on the rim of the basket. “It’s not about belief. It’s about practicality. No one else cares about this. He does. Honestly, he’s more invested in figuring this out than half the Order.”
Ginny was silent for a beat. Then, quieter: “You’re really trusting him?”
Hermione looked away. “I’m not trusting him. I’m… engaging a resource.”
Ginny let out a breath, clearly trying to rein in her temper. “Just be careful, Hermione. This isn’t school anymore. You don’t get extra credit for group projects with vampires.”
Hermione’s mouth tightened. “Noted.”
Ginny lingered a moment longer, then gave a shrug that landed somewhere between disbelief and disappointment. “Whatever this is… just don’t forget what he really is.”
She turned toward the door, but Hermione spoke before she could reach it.

“Don’t tell anyone,” she said quietly. “Please. I don’t even know if it’ll last.”
Ginny paused. Her shoulders stiffened, but she didn’t turn around. After a beat, she nodded once and left, the door clicking softly shut behind her.
Hermione stood in the silence, her heart thudding hard against her ribs.
She looked down at the basket. Suddenly, it didn’t feel quite so light.
She dropped onto the bed, the mattress barely creaking beneath her. The basket slipped from her arm and landed sideways at her hip, its carefully arranged contents threatening to spill. She didn’t move to fix it.
A few minutes ago, she’d felt capable. Like she was doing something meaningful. Helping, but now?
Now all she could feel was that dull, gnawing weight in her chest.

What if she was wrong? What if he was manipulating her, slowly, patiently, waiting for the right moment to twist things?
She clenched the edge of the blanket. Her mind, normally so quick to cut through noise, felt murky. Blurred by doubt and Ginny’s voice echoing in her ears.
But sitting here wouldn’t change anything. Stewing in circles, doubting herself, that had never helped.
She exhaled slowly, pressing her hands into her knees.
No. If she wanted answers, she had to keep moving.
She reached for the basket and righted it, gently adjusting the topmost book before rising to her feet.
Let Ginny cast her doubts. Stillness had never soothed Hermione’s mind. She chased understanding the way others chased breath.

(Draco POV)
The cellar was quiet again, the kind of thick, settled silence that had once suffocated him. Now, though, it had become familiar.
Draco sat cross-legged on the thin mattress, his palms resting loosely on his knees. The wards around the cell buzzed faintly. The rune line glowed dimly, its pulse steady and constant. He closed his eyes.
Feel, not force. That’s what the old texts had said. And it was true, his magic wasn’t responding to pressure anymore. It was responding to will. He inhaled, then exhaled slowly.
Across the room, the battered tin cup on his desk gave a faint shudder. It tilted slightly, then righted itself. Barely enough to notice, but it was real.

Draco opened his eyes. The movement stopped at once, like the room had blinked and erased it.
He let out a breath, heart thudding faster.
This was the third time this week he’d managed it. Not a formal spell, wandless, wordless magic. It was possible, if you were skilled enough. Controlled enough, but most wizards couldn’t do it under ideal conditions. He was doing it in a cell with suppressing wards.
His magic was fighting containment. Not loudly, but steadily. Adapting and growing stronger. Despite the field dampening every surge. Despite the hunger. Despite everything.

It was exhilarating, but terrifying.
He dragged a hand down his face, jaw tightening. He hadn’t told Hermione. Not because he wanted to lie, but because he didn’t know how she’d take it.
He ran his thumb along his wrist, where his pulse beat fast and guilty.
He knew it was important. Scientifically, Hermione would want to know, but it was also a security issue.
And even he wasn’t sure how much of his silence was caution and how much was fear of losing what little trust he’d clawed back. So he decided to say nothing for now.
He leaned back against the cold stone wall, arms draped loosely over his knees, jaw working in silent rhythm. He hadn’t realized how much he’d been listening for the sound of her boots on the stairs until the absence stretched long enough to notice. Hermione was rarely late. Even when she was irritated, even when she looked exhausted, she was consistent. Predictable in that maddeningly meticulous way of hers.

He looked at the little corner of his cell where she usually sat on the other side of the wardline, legs crossed, notes spread out, quill always twitching. That spot was empty now, and it was beginning to needle him.
He wasn’t supposed to want her company. He knew that. But it had become... a reprieve. Something to break the silence. Something to remind him that the walls weren’t entirely closing in.

The first few weeks here, he’d needed the quiet. Needed the distance from the Manor, from the screaming, from the sickly sweet stench of blood and iron. He’d told himself the stillness was healing. That the monotony was peace. But now?

Now he was bored out of his godsdamned mind.
He had read and re-read the same three books she’d allowed him access to. He had memorized the crack in the far wall. He even counted the seconds between the ward pulses until the rhythm bored even him.
The thought of being useful again had cracked something open in him. The moment she’d said he could help, he’d felt it, something long-dormant stirring, not hunger, not anger, but purpose. And now it was hanging in the air, just out of reach.

What if she’d changed her mind? What if someone had talked her out of it? He tried to shrug it off, tried to summon the old indifference, but it didn’t come.
Because the truth was, he wanted the work. He wanted the distraction. He wanted, no, needed something to do other than sit here and slowly unravel.
He rubbed a hand down his face, teeth clenched.
“Brilliant,” he muttered to no one. “I’ve survived war, imprisonment, and torture… only to be undone by silence and a girl who alphabetizes her ink bottles.”
He glanced at the stairwell again, almost scowling now.
Still nothing.

Hermione pov
She reached the end of the corridor and wrapped her fingers around the cool iron handle. The cellar door creaked softly as she eased it open, just a crack. The air that rose from below was cool, laced with stone dust and something older. Familiar now. A scent that had once unsettled her but had become oddly grounding.
She adjusted the basket in her arms, fingers tightening around the worn handle. She told herself this was routine. Just another day. Just another step, but then…
“Granger!”
She flinched, shoulders snapping tight like a wire pulled tight.

Cormac McLaggen rounded the corner, his gait annoyingly casual, his expression a lazy smirk that said he thought he’d caught her doing something amusing. “There you are,” he said brightly, as if she should be pleased to see him. “Thought maybe you’d gone off to hide with your little pet.”
Hermione didn’t turn to face him. “I’m busy.”
“Busy,” he repeated with a chuckle, casting a pointed glance at the half-open door. “Right, must be exhausting, babysitting him all day. I mean, if you’re that hard up for attention, I could lock myself in a cupboard and scowl at you from the shadows.”
Her fingers clenched around the basket. Tighter until she felt the corners of the tomes dig into her hip, grounding her.

Cormac laughed at his own joke. “Come on, Hermione. I’m only saying what everyone else is thinking. You’ve got a soft spot for stray things. He just happens to be the one that bites.”
She still said nothing. Her eyes remained fixed on the crack in the door, on the sliver of shadow leading downward but her breath was coming faster.
Cormac took her silence as invitation. He stepped closer. She could feel him at her side, the way his presence always seemed to fill more space than it should.
“Seriously though,” he said, and his voice shifting into fake concern. “You’ve got a little something right there…” He reached toward her shoulder, his fingers brushing the edge of her collar. “Lint, maybe.”
The contact was light, nothing more than a touch, but it was jarring.

Her chest seized and chill swept through her skin, faster than thought. Her throat closed locking in her breath
Memory overtook her before she could stop it. Another corridor. Another hand. Uninvited closeness. The lack of choice. The feeling of being cornered. She jerked away like she’d been slapped. “Don’t touch me.”
Cormac blinked, taken aback. “Whoa, relax. I was just brushing off some dust. Merlin, you’re jumpy.”
“You were doing what you always do,” she snapped, voice tight and trembling. “Talking when no one asked you. Touching without permission.”
His smirk wavered, but he held onto it. “Hermione, I was just trying to help. You’ve looked strung out lately, I figured maybe you’d forgotten how to take care of yourself.”
Her eyes narrowed.

“You didn’t help,” she said coldly. “And if I ever need advice on how to function, it won’t be from someone who thinks condescension counts as charm.”
She turned sharply, the basket swinging hard against her hip as she shoved the cellar door open the rest of the way. The hinges groaned, louder than they had before, echoing off the stone like a warning. She didn’t look back.

Draco pov
He heard everything.
The door had cracked open moments before she arrived, careless, maybe. But it didn’t matter.
What mattered was that he could hear every word.
McLaggen’s voice slithered through the stairwell like smoke, oozing arrogance and cheap bravado. Draco didn’t have to see him to picture the expression, lazily smug, all teeth and shallow charm.

Pet. Babysitting. Soft spot. Lint.
The moment he heard Cormac say, “You’ve got a little something ,” he coiled like a spring.
It wasn’t just the words. It was the tone. The same smug, performative concern Cormac had used back at school, when he’d cornered younger students under the guise of “helping” them with their brooms or “correcting” their dueling stances, just close enough to humiliate, never close enough to get caught. Draco had watched him pull that same act on a first-year Ravenclaw once, seen the way the girl had flinched and forced a laugh because no one had stepped in.
He hadn’t stepped in either. But this time, this time was different.

Then came the sound he hadn’t expected.
A shift in breath. Quick, unsteady. Hermione’s voice, sharp and strained.
“Don’t touch me.”
Draco went completely still.
His jaw locked so tight it ached. Fangs pressed against his gums, not fully extended, but poised and ready.
The hunger wasn’t even for blood. It was something else entirely. He just wanted McLaggen gone.
The instinct to protect roared up inside him like fire in a vacuum. He gripped the edge of the cot, knuckles white, eyes trained on the crack of light beneath the door. His body thrummed with restrained magic. His fangs continued to elongate. With the sudden, irrational desire to rip something apart.
‘Don’t touch her.’

It wasn’t a plea. It wasn’t even a thought, really. It was instinct, deep and primal, shaped by whatever Voldemort’s ritual had twisted inside him and by something older than that.
He forced himself to breathe deep. One breath and then another.
His fangs didn’t fully breach but they wanted to.
He sat back down on the cot like it was his choice. Like he wasn’t seconds away from breaking his own ribs to keep himself still.
By the time the cellar door opened fully and her silhouette appeared at the top of the stairs, his posture was composed.
His jaw was tight, his fists clenched in his lap. He didn’t look at her, not yet, he wasn’t sure what he’d do if he did.
As he quickly tried to compose himself, not wanting Hermione to see how close he was to losing it.

Hermione pov
He didn’t look up when she stepped in. Just sat there on the cot, legs stretched out, one hand lazily draped over his knee. But she could feel the awareness in him, taut under stillness, sharp as ever.
Only when the door clicked softly shut did he speak.
“Everything okay?”
Her voice came out tight. “Yes, just gotbcaught in the meeting.”
There was a beat. Then, without lifting his head, he said, “Do all your meetings end with some arse grabbing your collar and breathing down your neck, or was today just a special occasion?”
Hermione stilled. So, he had heard.
She didn’t know why that surprised her. The door had been open, the stairwell echoed and he had supernatural hearing.

“It was nothing,” she muttered.
“Mm.” He tilted his head back, finally meeting her eyes. “Nothing sure made you flinch hard enough to rattle the wards.”
She didn’t reply. Just turned and began unpacking her scrolls with more force than necessary.
He let the silence stretch, then added, almost offhandedly, “Next time he tries something like that, hex him first. You can worry about the paperwork after.”
Hermione blinked and bit back a smile.
Then, even drier: “Or better yet, shove him down the stairs. If he’s still conscious, he can insult me to my face on the way down.”
She bit back the instinctive response, relief, maybe. Gratitude. Something too warm, too dangerous, to name. Her throat tightened unexpectedly, and for a breathless second, she almost smiled. Almost said thank you.
But she didn’t. She forced the feeling down, buried it beneath something cooler, steadier.
“I’ll keep that in mind,” she said, voice level, though it caught just slightly at the end.
She crossed slowly to the edge of the wardline. She hesitated, not out of fear, but calculation and then set the entire basket down on the small table just inside the perimeter, nudging it forward with the tips of her fingers.
“For you,” she said softly. “There’s a translated dialect chart in the side pocket, and a few texts I haven’t gotten to yet. One of them might help identify the blood-binding runes from the Selwyn draft.”
Draco looked at her, just long enough to make her stomach tighten, then reached forward and pulled the basket closer. His fingers moved with a casual precision, but there was something quieter in the way he handled it, more deliberate.

He didn’t say thank you. He didn’t need to. The way he handled the basket carefully like it was priceless, said more than words would’ve.
Draco had fallen quiet across the wardline again, though she could feel him watching her, briefly, before turning his attention to the texts. It wasn’t the way others watched: expectant, impatient, scrutinizing. It was steady and grounding. Like he was there, fully, but not asking anything of her.

The script in front of her was dense, archaic, angular, packed with etymological landmines. But it was also beautiful, in its own brutal sort of way. She’d copied half the glyphs before she noticed one repeated more often than chance would allow.
She frowned, set her quill down, and reached for one of the bloodline theory scrolls.
Across from her, Draco was muttering to himself in rhythm with the flick of parchment. “This one’s pre-Carpathian. That root’s inverted. They were probably using early migratory rune structure… no wonder half of this is illegible.”
“Try cross-referencing with the second dialect chart,” Hermione offered without looking up.
“I’m already on it,” he replied, not quite smug.
Their voices fell into an easy cadence, notes passed back and forth, symbols traced, arguments sparked and solved. Occasionally, one of them would pause to scribble a margin comment or curse at the inkblot that smeared something critical.

She blinked, leaning in. Vashtivar.
The symbol wasn’t quite a name. It was a title or a designation.
Hermione frowned, flipping through her notes, then one of the reference tomes she’d brought from the upstairs collection. Her finger skimmed a page of root translations, and there, faint and half-faded, was a possible match.
“Vashtivar” loosely: Chosen Bearer. Revered Vessel. The One Honored by Turning.

Her breath hitched. She read the line again, and again.
This wasn’t what she’d expected. Everything the Ministry taught, every modern magical text labeled vampirism as a degenerative curse, a violent affliction. But this scroll, from an old Romani dialect of vampiric culture, this wasn’t describing a curse. It was describing a rite.
Across the wardline, Draco shifted slightly. “You made a face,” he said. “A Granger face.”
“I did not,” she muttered. “You did. It’s the same one you made in third year when you found that library error about Mooncalf migration patterns.”
She looked up, startled by the reference and then annoyed that it made her smile.
“It’s nothing. Except…” She hesitated, then tapped the glyph with her quill. “I think I found something important.”
Draco straightened a little, interest sharpening his features.

“This passage describes the Turning not as punishment or infection but as… an honor. The texts say the Vashtivar was chosen. It was sacred and ritualistic. Their bloodline was preserved, not corrupted.”
She trailed off, brow furrowed. “This isn’t about monsters,” she said quietly. “This was about purpose. About becoming something more.”
Draco was silent for a long moment. Then, voice low and deliberate: “So what changed?”
Hermione swallowed. “I don’t know. But we’re getting closer. I can feel it.”
Time passed in a blur of parchment, ink, and overlapping voices.

Hermione had long since shed her outer jumper, sleeves rolled up as she pored over scrolls and references, cross-referencing symbols against dialect variants and obscure texts. Draco matched her pace from his side of the wardline, leaning forward on the cot, legs braced, papers strewn across the thin mattress.
They argued. Debated. Laughed, once, even at the same time.
For hours, it was just the two of them, separated by shimmering runes but fully immersed in something bigger than either of them.
“You’re mistranslating the prefix,” Hermione insisted, pushing her hair behind her ear with ink-stained fingers. “It’s not blood-born. it’s blood-bound.”
Draco scoffed. “You’re assuming it’s a modern usage. That dialect predates both Latin and Etruscan. It’s an older root, closer to 'bledhaen,' meaning fate-marked.”
Hermione’s eyebrows lifted. “Fate-marked?”
He nodded once. “Chosen by force or prophecy. Sometimes both.”

She paused, the word rolling uneasily in her mind. “So, not just honored. Claimed.”
Draco didn’t look up. “Claimed and tethered. It was never meant to exist on its own.”
Hermione blinked, caught off guard by the phrasing. “Tethered to what?”
He shrugged, too casually. “The texts don’t say. Just that the bond had to hold.”
They stared at each other for a beat too long.
Hermione’s fingers curled slightly around the edge of the parchment. The answer felt maddeningly close, like a word on the tip of her tongue, like a symbol she knew but couldn’t translate. As if something in her already understood, but her mind hadn’t caught up yet.

Draco Pov
Then Hermione glanced down at her notes, blinked fast, and stood to retrieve the next scroll. “Right, well. This next section loops back to lineage theory. Hand me that lexicon, would you?”
Draco reached for it without comment and passed it through the space where the wardline shimmered faintly. Their fingers didn’t touch, but they got close, closer than either of them realized until Hermione leaned in to offer him the next translation draft.
She handed it across the barrier, arm outstretched.
And the neck of her blouse shifted. Just slightly, but enough.
Draco caught the scent before he even saw her skin, warm, sharp, familiar. She always smelled like ink and parchment and that faint, inexplicable trace of maple.
But this was different. She was so close and the pulse fluttered just beneath the surface of her pale skin. A rhythmic, steady beat.

His eyes flashed gold. He turned his head away immediately, jaw clenched, but it was too late.
His fangs slid down without warning and Hermione froze.
The paper was still in her hand, halfway across the barrier. She saw his expression change and his lips parting, shoulders stiffening, the sudden shift in his breath.
Her fingers trembled and Draco didn’t speak, let alone move.
He just sat very still, eyes shut tight now, fangs barely visible behind his tensed mouth.
Hermione slowly pulled the paper back. Neither of them said a word.

Draco kept his eyes shut, breath shallow.
Bloody brilliant. He could feel the change in the air. The way her heartbeat shifted but not retreating. Not yet.
He waited for the scrape of her chair. For the clipped reprimand and disgust, but it didn’t come.
He cracked one eye open, just barely.
Hermione hadn’t moved away. Her hand, though no longer offering the parchment, was still hovering close. Her brows were drawn not in fear but in worry.
“Merlin,” she breathed. “You haven’t eaten.”
Draco blinked. That was not the reaction he’d prepared for. He opened his mouth to deny it, to say he was fine, to say he was in control, to say it didn’t matter, but his jaw locked and his fangs still hadn’t retracted.
Hermione's expression softened further. “Draco… I didn’t even think. We’ve been down here for hours.”
He flinched at the sound of his name on her lips, gentle, not scolding or angry.

“I’m sorry,” she said, quieter now. “I should’ve been keeping track of the time or at least asked.”
His throat burned.
“Don’t apologize,” he managed, voice thick. “It’s not your responsibility to babysit the Order’s monster.”
“You’re not a monster,” she said firmly. Too fast, almost like she’d been waiting to say it.
Draco looked away, fangs beginning to slide back with effort. His shoulders ached from tension he hadn’t even realized he was holding.

Hermione stepped back, giving him space. She reached into her satchel, fingers hovering for a moment before pulling out a small, stoppered vial of sheep’s blood. One of the rations she'd insisted on storing down here “just in case.”
She passed it gently through the wardline. “Here.”
Draco stared at the bottle. Then up at her. She wasn’t afraid. “Thank you,” he said quietly, taking it without another word.

As she turned back to her notes, pretending to read, Draco sat there with the bottle in his hands and a tightness in his chest that had nothing to do with hunger.
Draco held the vial in his hand, the blood sloshing gently against the glass with each breath he took. Warmth radiated faintly from it, Hermione had probably spelled it for freshness. Of course she had. She thought of everything.

And yet, he didn’t unstopper it.
He just sat there, fingers curled around the bottle, the weight of it suddenly immense. Across the wardline, Hermione had returned to her notes, or at least pretended to. Her posture was stiffer than usual, her quill unmoving above the parchment. Neither of them spoke.
Draco swallowed hard.
It wasn’t that he didn’t need it, he did. His stomach had been aching for over an hour, the hunger clawing dull and low behind his ribs. He had been so enthralled in the research he had been able to tune it out. But something about drinking it now, here, in front of her, made him feel, less.
He hadn't realized how easily he’d slipped into the rhythm with her, how the hours had passed with debate and scribbled notes, laughter and silence that didn’t feel empty. It had felt almost… normal. Like he wasn’t a prisoner or a vampire. Like he was still a boy with ink-stained fingers and too much pride.
But this, the vial, the blood, the fact that his fangs had betrayed him, shattered all that.
This was a reminder that he wasn’t normal and he never would be again.

He turned slightly, angling away from her. “I’ll drink it later.”
“You need it now,” Hermione said, gently but without pressure. “I said I’m fine.” He meant for it to sound sharp. It came out tired instead.
Silence stretched between them.
He could hear her hesitate, then shift the pages of a scroll with delicate purpose, like she’d decided not to press, but hadn’t stopped worrying either.
Draco clenched his jaw. Hated that she saw and really hated that she cared.
He tightened his grip on the vial and stared at the stone floor, as if it might offer something better than the truth in her eyes. Hermione didn’t say anything. She just busied herself with her notes, flipping pages and reshuffling scrolls with a kind of studied distraction. After a few moments, she stood up and crossed the room and settled at the far end of the cellar. Her quill scratched softly against parchment and she angled her body away from him.

Draco stared at the vial a moment longer. Hermione was giving him space to drink and he didn’t think he could wait much longer.
But he hated this part. Not the blood itself, he was long past being squeamish, but the reminder. The line it drew between who he used to be and what he was now.
He popped the cork and thescent hit instantly, metallic and familiar. His throat clenched. Not from hunger exactly, but from need. The kind that left a hollow ache in his chest even after the flask was empty.
He drank in three long pulls, not bothering to pace himself.
It was room temperature and faintly bitter, old sheep’s blood, spelled for preservation but stripped of anything close to warmth. He wiped his mouth on the inside of his wrist, jaw clenched.
When he was done, he didn’t speak.
Just closed the vial, set it aside, and leaned back against the wall.

Hermione didn’t comment. Didn’t ask if he was alright or glance over. Just gave him his privacy.
She just kept writing, eyes on her page, brows furrowed in concentration. And somehow, that simple, unspoken grace sat heavier on him than any act of pity could have.
She let him be human or close enough.
And when he was ready, he pushed off the wall and returned to the table, picking up where they’d left off as if nothing had happened.
The runes on the far wall had begun to dim, just slightly, the enchantments reacting to the hour as if the stones themselves were growing tired. Hermione blinked down at her notes for what must have been the fourth time in two minutes, the words starting to blur at the edges.
She adjusted her posture, straightened her back, and dipped her quill again, but the motion lacked its usual precision. Her fingers were cramping, her mind slipping between thoughts like fog over glass. A half-translated line floated in her periphery, but she couldn’t seem to summon the will to finish it. Her head dipped, just once
But when she jerked upright again, her cheeks were warm and her pulse was fluttering like she’d been caught doing something shameful.

Draco’s voice came from the cot, low and amused. “You’re listing, Granger.”
Hermione blinked hard. “I’m not.”
“You are,” he said, not unkindly.“Let me guess, you’re translating in your sleep now? Efficient.”
She stared down at her notes, scowled. “I’m fine. Just thinking.”
He hummed like he didn’t believe her. “You’ve been thinking with your eyes closed for ten minutes.”
She exhaled through her nose, more embarrassed than annoyed. “It’s been a long week.”
Then, surprisingly gentle: “Go sleep, then.”
Hermione hesitated. Her first instinct was to deflect, to insist on finishing the page, to pretend she hadn’t just nearly drooled on her margin notes. But truthfully? Her limbs were heavy. Her head ached. And she couldn’t remember the last time she’d fallen asleep without the thick, hollow calm of a sleepless draught dulling her to nothing.
She closed the book gently. “You’ll be alright without me?”
Draco lifted the scroll in his lap. “I don’t sleep much anymore.”
Hermione paused, halfway to standing. “Because of the vampirism?”
“Partially,” he said, eyes still on the parchment. And partially because when I sleep, it’s all teeth and blood and things I’d rather forget. This is better.”
She blinked at him. He didn’t look up.
“…Well. Don’t burn the place down.”
“Not without supervision,” he murmured.
Hermione managed a small smile, and turned toward the stairs. She felt like she was walking underwater, slow and thick with fatigue, but lighter somehow. Like something had shifted, even if she couldn’t name it.
Behind her, Draco resumed reading, the sound of parchment rustling behind the wardline as the cellar slowly returned to silence.
The door shut behind her with a soft click.
Draco didn’t move for a long moment, just sat with the scroll in his lap, eyes fixed on the faint glow of the rune lines humming at the floor’s edge. The stillness that followed her departure wasn’t as comforting as it used to be.
He could still smell her perfume, something faint and clean, like chamomile or maybe that enchanted ink she used that resisted smudging. The scent lingered longer than it had any right to.
He exhaled through his nose and leaned back against the wall, rolling his shoulders. The scroll crackled in his hands, and he turned it slightly toward the flickering rune-light.
His eyes tracked the symbols, but his focus had frayed.
She’d nearly fallen asleep right there at the table. That had surprised him more than anything. Granger didn’t relax. Granger didn’t let herself drop her guard. And yet tonight, she had slumped in her chair, lashes fluttering, so bone-tired it made his own chest ache to look at her.
He’d made a joke to cover it. Not even a particularly clever one, but she’d smiled.
Not the tight, wary one she used when humoring him. A real one. Brief, but real.
Draco’s jaw flexed. He didn’t like this. Not because he was uncomfortable, though he was, but because something about it felt fragile. Like he could ruin it by naming it.
She’d brought him research. Trusted him to handle it. Argued about glyphs. Bit her lip in thought and didn’t flinch when he moved too close to the edge of the wardline. That trust felt unearned.
And worse, it felt good.
He glanced down at his hand. Spread his fingers. Watched a faint shimmer pulse over his palm. Wandless magic again. More control, more response. Growing every day. He hadn’t told her. He should but he wouldn’t.
Draco lowered his hand and returned to the scroll. Forced himself to read, to concentrate.

If he focused on the language, the patterns, the logic, he could keep everything else out. The tremble in her voice when she said don’t touch me and the question he still hadn’t shaken.
And the question that wouldn’t let go: Why had he wanted to tear out McLaggen’s throat for something as small as a touch?
It hadn’t been violent, but it had sparked something raw and immediate. He couldn’t name it, couldn’t control it.
That scared him. Not just the feeling itself, but how close he’d come to acting on it. He clenched his jaw, forcing the thought back down.
She couldn’t know how near he’d come to losing control. And especially not that it had been because of her.

Chapter Text

Chapter 14 - Fire
(Hermione POV)
The dream didn’t start like a nightmare.
It started with warmth, sunlight streaming through dusty glass, parchment spread across a kitchen table, ink staining her fingers in familiar smudges.
And then, screaming, not hers. Not yet. Just the echo of it, raw, muffled, bone-deep.

She was there again. The drawing room, with cold floor pressing into her knees. The taste of blood in her mouth.
Bellatrix’s voice, shrill and serpentine, coiled through the air like smoke. “Tell me, Mudblood. Tell me how it feels.”
Hermione tried to scream, but in the dream, her mouth wouldn’t open. She was frozen, just as she had been. Magic burning through her like wildfire. Skin splitting apart in invisible seams, and then she saw him, standing by the wall. Draco Malfoy, fourteen feet away.

His face was pale, paler than she remembered. His arms hung limp at his sides, eyes blank and mouth pressed into a tight, unreadable line. He wasn’t laughing or smirking, but wasn’t moving either.
Her body arched in the air from the curse, her voice cracked in her throat and he just stood there. Watching completely frozen.

Then the scene shifted. As dreams do.
Her face was pressed into cold stone now. Her wrists ached. Her ribs felt fractured. She heard a voice again not Bellatrix’s this time.
A man’s, urgent filled with hate.
“Let me have some fun.”
Hands on her shoulders. Dragging her backward. The feel of coarse fabric under her palms. A door slamming. The sound of a wand clattering to the ground, and then darkness.

She woke with a gasp with sweat clinging to her collarbone. Her fingers were knotted into the blanket like she’d been bracing for impact. Her pulse was too fast, her mouth too dry.
It was still dark out. The hour where night and morning hadn’t yet decided which of them would stay.
Hermione sat up slowly, rubbing at her eyes. Her heart thudded not just from the dream but from the memories it resurfaced.
She swung her legs over the edge of the bed, feet finding the cool wood floor.
Her hand moved on instinct, pulling up the sleeve of her nightshirt, fingers trailing across the ridged skin at the inside of her forearm. Mudblood.
The letters were still there, faint but unmistakable. Time hadn’t erased them, neither had magic.
She’d tried, Merlin, she’d tried, but the scar wasn’t like others. It didn’t fade with salves or charms. It had been etched into her with purpose. With Bellatrix’s glee and her own screams pressed into every line and it still ached.

Not always, but sometimes it pulsed beneath the skin. A phantom heat, a reminder of what she’d survived and who had watched.
Her fingers tightened over the mark, thumb tracing the curve of the ‘b’ like she could smudge it into something else, but it never changed or faded.
With a sharp breath, she muttered the glamour. Her wand hand didn’t tremble, though her free one did. The letters vanished under illusion, but the memory didn’t.
She sat still for a long moment, the illusion freshly cast, her arm smooth and whole again in the moonlight.
Then she stood, reached for the cardigan at the end of her bed, and pulled it on like armor.
She didn’t have the luxury of nightmares. Not with him downstairs and not with the way he’d looked at her yesterday like maybe he regretted things he couldn’t say and that was the problem.

She didn’t know if he regretted watching or he regretted not stopping it. Either way, she was going back down there. Because he was the key to this cure and she was Hermione Granger and she finished what she started. She’d just fastened the cardigan when the knock came.
Three soft raps, measured and familiar. Hermione crossed the room and opened the door.
Harry stood there, rucksack slung over one shoulder, wand tucked into the strap. His hair was a mess, some things never changed but his eyes were sharper than they used to be.
“Hey,” he said, his voice low. “Didn’t wake you, did I?” “No,” she said. “I was up.”
He nodded, glancing down the hall behind him like he half-expected Ron to appear and interrupt. But she realized he was probably with Pavarti, saying his own goodbyes.
“We’re heading out. Just a short recon run, north of Hereford. A lead on one of the vaults. Nothing confirmed yet.”
Hermione didn’t ask which Horcrux. She didn’t need to, they were all horrible and she felt guilty not accompanying them.
Instead, she studied his face creased with tension and the kind of resolve she’d once worn like skin. He looked like a soldier. A quiet one, one who’d seen too much.
“So you’re going now?” she asked, voice softer than she meant it to be.
Harry gave a tired smile. “Didn’t want to leave without saying goodbye.” She stepped back so he could enter, but he shook his head.
“I can’t stay. Ron’s already grumbling. You know how he is when he’s nervous, turns into the world’s least patient human.”
Despite everything, a smile tugged at her lips. It didn’t quite reach her eyes. Harry’s expression shifted, he looked past her for a moment, then back. “You sure you’re okay with all the added responsibility.”
She knew what he meant. He didn’t say Malfoy, but the word hovered unsaid between them like a stone on a thread. “I’m managing,” she said.
Harry hesitated, then glanced down at her arm.
The cardigan sleeve had slipped slightly during the movement. Not enough to show the scar but maybe just enough to make him wonder. He didn’t ask, but his voice was gentle when he said, “You’d tell me if it got too much?”
Hermione’s throat tightened. “Yes,” she lied.
He nodded like he believed her. Or like he knew she was lying and didn’t want to call her on it.
He took a step back. “Don’t forget to eat something,” he said. “And sleep. That thing you pretend not to need.”
“I’ll try,” she murmured. He looked at her one more time, then pulled her into a quick, one-armed hug. Warm, but fleeting. “Be careful,” she whispered.
“Always am,” he said, already halfway down the corridor.

She watched until he turned the corner. Then she closed the door. Her fingers drifted again to the glamoured skin of her arm, but she didn’t press. Hermione stood for a moment in the hush, the echoes of Harry’s presence still lingering like warmth in the wood. Then she exhaled, long and slow, and turned back toward the small table by her bed. Her fingers moved on instinct, gathering parchment, quills, and the heavy, dog-eared folder that contained her notes on vampiric blood magic. The spine of a worn reference book thudded softly as she slid it into the crook of her arm. Her wand, always last, was tucked into her sleeve with a practiced flick. She paused just long enough to fasten her cardigan, the weight of it grounding her, before crossing to the cellar door. Work, that was the next step and she clung to it with quiet desperation.
Hermione had barely reached the cellar door when she heard hurried footsteps behind her.
“Hey wait.” She turned.
Ginny stood at the end of the corridor, hair slightly mussed, coat half-buttoned, wand tucked haphazardly into her belt. She looked like she’d meant to be somewhere else and had changed course at the last second.
Hermione blinked. “Aren’t you saying goodbye to Harry”
“I was about to,” Ginny said, stepping closer. Her voice wasn’t just tired, it was edged with something Hermione couldn’t name. “But I figured… you’d want to know.”
Hermione tilted her head. “It worked,” Ginny said. “The tip Malfoy gave the safehouse. Kingsley just confirmed it. They hit it early this morning and took out the whole location.”
Hermione felt her pulse spike. “And…?”

“Supplies, equipment, maps and a full cache. Huge success, apparently.”
Hermione waited, feeling the weight of the one word Ginny hadn’t said yet. Ginny hesitated just a moment too long. “He was there.”
Hermione’s chest tightened. “He got away,” Ginny added quickly, her voice softer now. “But no one was hurt. We burned the place down after we cleared it.”
A beat of silence passed. “I just thought you should know,” Ginny said, not quite meeting her eyes. “Figured hearing it now… might give you time to sit with it. Before you go down there.”
Hermione nodded slowly, the words catching in her throat.
Ginny lingered a moment longer, her expression more careful than usual. Almost… apologetic. “Alright. I’ll let you get back to it.” She turned and walked off without another word, boots soft on the stone.
Hermione didn’t move.
The cellar door waited at her side like a held breath, but she didn’t open it—not yet.
Instead, she turned. Walked past it. Down the corridor, around the corner. Into the tiny, unused pantry-turned-archive with its dust-covered shelves and stale lavender charm still clinging to the corners.
She shut the door behind her and leaned against it.
One breath. Two. The kind that didn’t quite fill her lungs.
The glamour on her arm hadn’t faltered, but the memory curled hot and wild just beneath it, a phantom echo of breath and hands and pain she couldn’t name out loud. Greyback.
She hadn’t said his name in months.
Had trained her mind to slide past it like ice on glass, to replace it with work, with logic, with neat stacks of scrolls and lists. But hearing Ginny say it, no, not say it. Imply it, was enough to strip all her coping mechanisms bare.
He’s still out there.

Her stomach turned. Not from fear exactly. From fury. From that old, awful sense of unfinished.
The world kept moving, and he was still walking through it. Breathing. Smiling. Maybe even sleeping soundly while she curled her fingers around her wand every night just to get any sleep at all.
Her hand trembled at her side. She clenched it and released.
This wasn’t productive.
She had work to do.
She focused on her breath again. Recentered.
It worked, she reminded herself. Draco’s intel saved lives. That has to count for something and he’d need to hear it. He deserved to know.
She pushed off the door, squared her shoulders, and forced the panic into a box somewhere behind her ribs. Not locked or gone by any means, but manageable.
Then she stepped back into the hall, walked the short distance to the cellar, and laid her hand on the door again.
The door opened with its usual groan, hinges reluctant from age or perhaps the weight of what always followed. Hermione stepped through without pausing, her eyes already adjusted to the dimness, her movements practiced and detached.
She didn’t announce herself—not really. “Morning,” she said softly, almost more to the room than to him. Her voice was thin around the edges, like parchment worn at the fold.
Draco looked up from the cot, book in hand, and stilled. He didn’t speak.
She moved to the far table, setting down a stack of scrolls and ink with mechanical care. Opened the nearest binder. Uncapped the ink and dipped the quill.
Every action was precise, familiar and most importantly, safe.
Only when she finally sat did she glance at him again, just once, as if confirming he was real, still there, still tethered to the work that kept her grounded. Then, without another word, she bent her head and began to write.

(Draco pov)
He tried to focus on the scroll in front of him, but the glyphs kept shifting, their sharp lines smudging into each other like spilled ink bleeding into old parchment. He blinked, sat up straighter on the cot, even adjusted the angle of the scroll, anything to give the illusion of focus.
It didn’t help. His mind kept circling the same thought like a predator pacing behind bars: Do not engage.
Yesterday had been easier. Before the scent of her pulse had tangled with the echo of McLaggen’s voice. Before she’d looked at him like he’d done something good, something right, and he’d felt that sick, traitorous ache stir low in his chest in response.
So today, he’d gone cold. Detached and controlled.
That was the plan. “You missed a curl in the binding cluster,” he said finally, his voice flat, devoid of teasing or bite. “Third line from the top.”
No answer but he didn’t look up. Told himself she was concentrating, or tired. A soft rustle broke the silence as she handed over a translation draft, delayed by just enough heartbeats to register. He took it carefully, their fingers not touching by design. That was part of it now too: no slip-ups. No proximity or blurring the lines.
But something was wrong. Not in the obvious way. She wasn’t pacing or snapping or lecturing him about precision. It was subtler than that. She was too quiet, too careful, and far too still. Her movements were precise but slow, dulled around the edges like a spell cast through fog. Her eyes didn’t scan as quickly. Her hands moved with intention, not energy. The way her quill hovered midair before touching down, the way she sat, not upright and alert but curled slightly inward, spoke louder than anything she could say.
She looked drained. He could picture it already: the Order dragging her into five different emergencies before dawn, layering on crisis after crisis without a thought to how thin she was already stretched. She was likely operating on tea and sheer willpower, the kind of exhaustion that sat bone-deep and whispered lies about failure.
She didn’t even argue with him about the rune.
That was when he knew. Not guessed…knew.

Because Hermione Granger not correcting him was like rain falling upward. Unnatural and never happened.
And though he kept his eyes on the scroll, he found himself listening, to the tightness in her breath, to the faint tremor in the paper when she passed it over, to the silence that pressed against the wardline like a held breath. She was here, but part of her was somewhere else entirely.
Draco straightened slightly, she didn’t flinch, but she didn’t look at him either.
Now that he was paying attention, he could see it clear as day: Hermione Granger was barely holding it together and he’d been too busy pretending not to care to notice.
He didn’t say anything at first. Just watched her over the rim of the scroll, letting the silence settle heavy between them. It wasn’t the charged kind anymore, not the sparring, not the tension-laced kind that had teeth beneath it
This was quieter and more fragile. Like something was waiting to crack.
He didn’t ask if she was alright. That felt too obvious and she wouldn’t answer honestly.
Draco could feel it though, tight in the air between them, humming just beneath the wardline. The kind of tension that didn’t come from annoyance or exhaustion. This was something else.
He didn’t press. Didn’t tease or ask and then, after several minutes of silence, Hermione said softly, without looking up from her parchment:
“The intel you gave… it led to a successful raid.” Draco’s eyes flicked up from the scroll in his lap. She still wasn’t looking at him.
“They hit the safe house at dawn. Cleared it clean. Supplies, documents, even a few prisoners. It was a major win.”
Her voice caught slightly. “One of the biggest we’ve had in weeks.” Draco watched her carefully. That silence again. She turned a page too fast and had to smooth it out.
“Just thought you should know.”
Draco didn’t respond right away. He leaned back slightly, fingers drumming once against the cot’s edge.
That wasn’t the voice of someone proud of a victory. It was the voice of someone who’d seen the aftermath.
“You don’t sound thrilled,” he said, tone deliberately mild. “Usually when I help save the world, people throw confetti or the very least offer a biscuit.”
Still, she said nothing. Just kept her head down, eyes on her parchment but her grip tightened again. Tighter than necessary. Like she was bracing for something.
Draco tilted his head, studied her in the flickering rune-light. “You’ve got that look again,” he said after a pause. “Like someone tore pages out of your favorite book.” Her hand froze completely.

Silence stretched long enough that he almost dropped it but then, without looking up, she said softly, “Because the person who tore the book is still out there.”
Draco stilled. She didn’t name him but didn’t have to. Something cold and low twisted behind Draco’s ribs.
He thought of the way she’d flinched when McLaggen touched her. The way her voice had cracked, not just in anger, but in memory. Greyback.
Draco looked at her again, really looked, and this time, he didn’t try to disguise the softness in his gaze. He didn’t speak or move. Her words hovered between them soft, raw, unfinished. But heavy enough to tilt the air. Because the person who tore the book is still out there.
Draco stared at the floor for a beat too long, jaw tight.
He’d heard the rumors, everyone had. Even in the Manor, where horror was routine and cruelty clinical, Greyback had always stood apart. Not for his violence but for the savoring of it. The way he prowled before the full moon. The way he looked at victims like they weren’t just prey they were possessions, basically toys.
The whispers had been worse about women, because they lingered and carried shame and silence.
Draco had never asked for the details. Never wanted to.
But now… Now he looked at Hermione’s still frame, shoulders drawn tight, spine held upright like a fence barely keeping something out, and he felt the weight of every rumor settle in his throat like ash.

He could picture her on that drawing room floor too easily. Could remember the blood and the screams. His own silence. Bellatrix and Greyback dragging her away.
And now this, it was different than guilt. It was colder and more precise. Not because he had done something.
But because someone else had, and she still carried it like a brand under her skin.
He looked at her hands. Ink-stained. Steady, except not quite.
One finger twitched slightly where it rested near her margin notes. He knew her handwriting well enough by now to tell, she hadn’t written anything coherent in at least a page.
He wanted to ask. Wanted to say his name out loud, to offer her something real, some kind of shared fury.
But instead, he just said: “He’s afraid of fire.”
Hermione’s head lifted slightly. Draco didn’t look at her when he said it.
“Greyback. I don’t know if it’s instinct or something that happened before he turned, but he always flinched around open flame. Even a candle would set him off.”
Silence stretched, but then.
“Good to know,” she murmured. She didn’t thank him or smile.
But she set her quill down gently, and for the first time since she’d walked into the cellar, her shoulders dropped a fraction.
Draco exhaled. Slowly and controlled.
So much for being cold and detached. That plan had lasted a whole ten minutes. Brilliant.
He resisted the urge to roll his eyes at himself. ‘No contact, no softness, no openings,’ he’d told himself this morning. But now here he was, offering facts salvaged from Hell, like some deranged welcome gift. Still… he didn’t regret it.
Not when her breathing had steadied. Not when she looked just a little less haunted than she had when she walked in.
Not heroic, not noble, just necessary. Like placing a brick back into a foundation that had started to crack, but for a moment, they weren’t cellmate and warden, weren’t past and future.

They were just two people who had survived monsters.

(Hermione pov)
She hadn’t expected him to say anything. Not really.
Not when her voice had barely made it past her throat. Not when she’d offered nothing but the outline of a shadow she couldn’t name, but he had.
‘He’s afraid of fire.’ It took her a moment to process the words. To feel the strange stillness that followed, not pity, not comfort. Just information offered plainly, with no strings.
She glanced at him, but he wasn’t looking at her. Of course he wasn’t.
He was staring at the floor again, jaw tense like he regretted saying anything at all but still he’d said it.
He’d remembered. Hadn’t dismissed it or changed the subject or recoiled from the weight of her half-confession. He’d listened, understood, and then offered the one thing she hadn’t realized she needed: something practical. Something she could use, that mattered.

She studied him carefully, the dim light catching the sharp lines of his face. He always looked tired like he carried the weight of too many sins and secrets but in this moment, something was different. He wasn’t bracing or closed off. He wasn’t trying to disappear.

He was just there, quiet and raw, not performing or shielding anything. Letting her see him.
She was used to people missing the point. Skimming over pain, mistaking silence for strength, but not Draco.
Somehow, he’d connected the pieces in seconds. The stillness. The wordless tension. Even the ghost behind her eyes and then he’d handed her a match.
She swallowed hard and looked down at her parchment, blinking fast.

He was clever. That much she’d always known, but this was something else.
This was attuned. And for the first time in a long time, she felt just a little less alone inside her own mind.

Chapter Text

Hermione pov

She woke to footsteps. Dozens of them, pounding the floor like a war drum.
Hermione jolted upright, breath caught in her throat. For one disoriented moment, she didn’t know where she was, the cramped quarters, the gray half-light, the sting in her shoulders from sleeping curled too tight.
Then it hit her like a blow, and just as quickly, her body locked up.
The rhythm around her, too many feet, too fast, slammed into her nervous system like a memory. Screams in dark corridors and doors ripped open. The scrape of metal. Her lungs tightened, and for a sick, suspended second, she couldn’t move.
She stared at the ceiling, willing her muscles to respond, even as another sound joined the fray: shouting. Not panic but something near it. Barked orders and clashing voices. The language of emergency.
Her heart thudded against her ribs. She was still frozen.
‘Move’, she told herself. ‘You’re safe here and you need to find out what’s going on.’
The rational part of her voice sounded miles away, but she clung to it, forced air into her lungs. One breath and another. Then her hand moved, and then the rest of her followed.
Once she made it out of her room, the corridor was chaos.
People moved in all directions, some with crates, others with bedrolls, medical supplies, makeshift stretchers. Someone had blood on their shirt. Someone else was crying quietly, pressed against the wall.
“Hermione,” came a voice, Luna Lovegood, her braid undone and face drawn. “Safehouse Delta was hit. No warning or distress signal. We’re bringing in the injured now.”

Hermione’s breath caught. “How many,”
“We don’t know yet.”
No one had to say ‘dead’ aloud, death was such a common occurrence now, it was almost implied.
Hermione rolled up her sleeves before she’d even reached the great hall.
It had been cleared in minutes benches shoved to the edges, transfigured blankets laid across the stone floor. The air buzzed with magic and the tinny taste of antiseptic spells, and she moved through it all like she’d done this a hundred times before. Because she had.
Because there was no one else who would at times.
“Put the stasis cases by the east wall,” she called to someone hauling supplies. “Healing salves and Skele-Gro in that corner. I want triage sorted by injury severity, not arrival time I don’t care if it’s not regulation, we don’t have time to be polite.”

She didn’t wait for agreement. She just kept moving.
A medic waved her over, younger, panicked, blood on his hands. “We’re out of burn paste already!”
“Use frostvine tincture. Five drops in salve, no more or you’ll burn through skin.”
“I thought that was experimental.”
“I invented it,” she snapped, and the boy blinked before hurrying off.

She hated the way her voice sounded. Clipped and brittle. She hadn’t slept well in nearly two days, and the world felt slightly tilted like the floor was dipping under her feet, just enough to throw off her balance.
But she didn’t stop or even sit. There were bodies still being carried in, moaning and unconscious, and every one of them lit a fresh fire in her veins.
How had the Death Eaters found Delta? Why had there been no warning?

The chaos had dulled to a low hum.
Most of the injured were stable now, either resting or heavily dosed. The great hall-turned-infirmary smelled of burn salve and charred fabric, tinged with the iron tang of blood that no cleansing spell could fully erase. Hermione stood near the transfigured table they’d turned into a supply station, ticking through inventories and scribbling restock notes she could barely read.
She was halfway through cataloguing the blood-replenishing potions when Ginny appeared beside her uncharacteristically silent, hands clenched so tightly her knuckles had gone white.
Hermione didn’t look up. “If you’re here to drag me to bed…”

“It’s George.”
Hermione’s quill paused mid-stroke.
Ginny’s voice was quiet, but something about it cracked on the edges. “He was stationed at Delta and no one’s seen him since the blast.”
Hermione slowly turned. “What do you mean no one’s seen him?”
“I mean,” Ginny said, voice rising despite herself, “they found blood. Near the north perimeter and his wand. But not him.” Her breath hitched. “He’s not in the lists. Not injured. Not accounted for.”
The air seemed to tilt sideways.
“Was he taken?” Hermione asked, already bracing.
Ginny shook her head, blinking too fast. “They don’t know. It’s chaos. There was fiendfyre, hell, Hermione, it leveled that whole die of the forest. They think… they think he might’ve been trying to hold the line so the others could get out.”

She scrubbed a hand across her face, voice breaking. “That idiot. That absolute noble prat, why would he do that alone?”
Hermione reached for her, but Ginny stepped back. Not in rejection, just as if she didn’t know what to do with her body, like grief had made her limbs too big for her skin.
Hermione’s own chest had gone tight. “Why didn’t anyone tell me sooner?”

“They only just pieced it together,” Ginny murmured, then drew a breath that sounded like it scraped her throat. “But that’s not why I came.”
Hermione looked up.
Ginny’s jaw was tight. “Ron’s looking for Draco.”
That stilled her completely.
“What?” she asked.
“He thinks…” Ginny trailed off, clearly reluctant. “He thinks Malfoy had something to do with the intel leak.”
“That’s absurd,” Hermione snapped. “Draco gave us the intel that led to the first raid.”
“I know,” Ginny said quickly. “I told him that. But George is missing and Ron’s not thinking clearly. He said maybe Malfoy gave us one good tip to build trust, then set us up for the next.”

Hermione’s pulse thundered in her ears. “That doesn’t even make sense.”
“I told him,” Ginny repeated. “But he’s not listening. And you know how he gets when…when it’s about family.”
Hermione didn’t answer. She was already moving.
She shoved the parchment aside, grabbed her wand, and headed for the hall. She could hear Ginny calling after her, but the sound faded with each step. Her boots pounded against the stone as she raced through the corridors, past the archive, past the pantry, toward the heavy door that marked the start of the cellar stairs.
She didn’t know what she was going to say.
Didn’t know if this was defense or damage control or desperation.

But she knew one thing with absolute certainty, she had to get to him quick.
As she rounded the corner she noticed, the cellar door was open.
Hermione’s pulse spiked as soon as she saw it ajar, swaying slightly on its hinges. There shouldn’t have been anyone down there.
Voices filtered up from the stairwell. Raised and sharp
She broke into a jog, hand closing around her wand. As soon as her boots hit the bottom step, she knew something was wrong.
“…think we’re all just going to keep trusting you, Malfoy?” Ron’s voice, sharp as splintered glass. “You always did know how to lie with that snake tongue.”
Draco’s voice came back, but it was lower, darker. “Careful, Weasley. That snake tongue’s gotten people killed.”

Hermione saw the scene and froze.
Ron stood at the bars, wand clenched so tight his knuckles were white. Behind him, Cormac McLaggen loomed, arms crossed, smirking.
“Don’t even start, Malfoy. You think this is some game? You think I don’t see what this is? You’re not one of us. You never were. You’re just a monster we haven’t killed yet.”

Draco pov

Inside the cell, Draco stood near the edge of the wardline pale, composed, aloof.
He’d been listening to Weasley and Cormac whine for a few minutes. He had been tuning them out, trying to not agitate them any further. Weasley was complaining that one of the many red head family members was missing or something. He did his best to not engage, which seemed to upset Ron even move. But the moment his eyes found Hermione, something in him snapped taut.
His spine straightened like a drawn bow. His shoulders locked. The casual detachment vanished in a breath.
Pupils blew wide, his entire posture sharpening like he’d been jolted by a curse.
Then it happened.
With a flicker of instinct, too fast to suppress, his fangs slid into view long, gleaming, unmistakable. They caught the low lamplight and glinted, slightly dimpling his lips.
Not from rage or hunger.
But from something older, more primal. The kind of instinct that had nothing to do with logic and everything to do with her.
With her walking unarmed into a confrontation.
With two wands raised and tension crackling in the air like lightning on stone.

With her potentially being in danger.
He tried to hide his transformation but Hermione saw the immediate change in his whole being and her breath caught audibly in her throat.
He recoiled from her surprise like she’d struck him, he didn’t want her to see him like this.
His head jerked away, face turning sharply to the side, jaw clenched so tight it looked carved from marble.
He wouldn’t meet her eyes.
Wouldn’t show her what else might be simmering beneath his skin.
But he didn’t need to. The damage was already done.
He was trying to will the fangs back in with sheer force of restraint.
Trying to pretend the whole thing hadn’t happened.
That he hadn’t just revealed a part of himself he had no control over.
And that it hadn’t been for her.

Hermione pov

Ron whirled toward her. “You see?” he snapped. “Look at him. You think this is normal? You think this thing is on our side?”
“Don’t call him that,” Hermione said automatically.
Draco gave a short, humorless laugh. “Careful, Weasley. You’re going to hurt my feelings.”
But his voice had dropped, guttural and cold and the fangs wouldn’t retract.
“Oh, what’s the matter, Malfoy?” Cormac jeered. “Can’t keep your monster in check with a lady in the room?”
Draco’s lip curled, slow and sharp.
Hermione stepped between them and the bars before he could say anything. “That’s enough. Both of you.”
Ron looked at her like she’d grown a second head. His face was blotchy with anger, his chest heaving.
“You’re protecting him?” he spat. “After everything after what he is?”

“I’m stopping you from escalating based on past prejudices,” she said, voice clipped. “He’s locked up. You’re the ones crossing the line.”
Ron gave a disbelieving laugh, bitter and thin. “You don’t get it, do you? George is missing. Gone and maybe if we stopped trusting things like that…” he jabbed a finger toward the bars, “…I’d still have a full family!”
Draco didn’t speak. But Hermione could feel the tension coming off him like heat. His fists were clenched, knuckles white, and his breathing was shallow. The cords in his neck stood out sharply, the muscles in his jaw twitching as he tried, really tried, to keep it together.
She stepped closer to Ron, softening slightly. “We’ll find him. Ok, don’t give up hope.”

Ron’s throat bobbed, and for a second he looked like the boy she’d grown up with frightened, fraying at the edges.
“I can’t lose him too,” he said quietly. “Not after Fred.”
Hermione’s heart twisted. “I know.”
She placed a hand gently on his arm. “But this isn’t the way, Ron. He didn’t do this. We both know it.”
Ron’s eyes flicked past her to Draco, still radiating menace behind the wardline. His gaze hardened again. “You don’t know anything,” he muttered, pulling away. “You’ve spent so much time down here you can’t even see what he is anymore.”
Ron wrenched his arm free and stepped back, his expression darkening into something sharper, more wounded.
“You know what, Hermione?” he snapped, voice cracking under the weight of too many unsaid things. “You’ve always been brilliant. Brilliant at making excuses for the people who hurt you.”

Hermione flinched just slightly, but it was enough.
Ron’s gaze flicked to Draco, who remained utterly still, as if carved from stone behind the wardline.
“Enjoy your little dungeon chats,” Ron spat. “Hope it’s worth it when he turns on you.”
Ron stormed out the cellar without a second glance. Cormac stayed behind like he didn’t know what to do with himself and then he turned to Hermione and then he took a step closer, not aggressive, just inside the boundary of comfort. “Still… funny place to spend your evenings. Alone, with him.”
Hermione kept her expression neutral. “By being with someone would void the definition of alone” she said simply, glancing past him toward the bars.
She didn’t miss the way Cormac’s smile faltered, just a hair. His gaze flicked toward the cell.
“I’m just saying,” he murmured, backing away with a small shrug. “Not everyone’s as… understanding as you.”
Then he turned, walking off without waiting for a reply.
The cellar door thudded closed behind him.
Hermione didn’t move at first. Just stood there, pulse quickened, but not from Cormac.
From the way the air behind her had changed so she turned.

Draco was at the bars, close. Closer than he’d been before. His expression unreadable. Hands braced on the iron. Watching her, with something taut and unsettled in his stare.

Draco pov

Draco didn’t move.
Not when Cormac smirked. Not when he leaned in too close to her. Not when Hermione subtly shifted away and said she wasn’t alone when she was with him.
But every inch of him was coiled.
Not just tense and primed. Muscles tight, jaw aching, breath caught somewhere in his chest. His hands itched with the urge to tear the bars from their hinges and rip Cormac’s throat out.
He knew how that would look. He knew what it would mean. Weasley would call it proof, Cormac would call it instinct, and the rest of the Order would never let him out of this cell again. Not even to help.
He’d be their cautionary tale, See? He was always a monster underneath.

So he stayed still, but just barely.
Because something in him had snapped the moment Cormac stepped into her space. Something ancient and low and not entirely human. It wasn’t just the hunger. It wasn’t even anger, not really, more like possession.

He hated that word. The taste of it and the implications. But there it was, knotted behind his ribs like a second heartbeat. Hermione had been uncomfortable with Cormac, not obviously, but enough for him to see it and suddenly his vision had narrowed to one simple truth:
He’s too close to her.
The bars were the only thing between Draco and a mistake he wouldn’t come back from. That, and her voice.
When she spoke, cool and clear, and sent Cormac on his way, he forced himself to breathe again. She wasn’t in danger, he tried to tell himself like a desperate mantra.
And when the door at the top of the stairs finally slammed shut, when Cormac’s scent disappeared from the air, he exhaled like he’d been underwater.
He didn’t realize how hard he was gripping the bars until his knuckles ached. Slowly, methodically, he loosened his fingers.

But the rage wasn’t gone, just simmering under the surface.
And worse than the rage was the realization, this really wasn’t getting better.
He’d spent the past few weeks tracking changes, subtle ones, disturbing ones. The shift in how he could smell her blood even through closed doors. The way his senses flared without warning. The way just her scent knocked the wind out of him, but this was different, he wanted to kill for her.
And it hadn’t taken any effort at all for his fangs to slide into place. He usually couldn’t make his fangs emerge by will. But now just the thought of someone looking at Granger wrong made them erupt.
He rubbed a hand down his face, trying to scrape the sensation off, but it didn’t work, he kept replaying her defending him, calm but sharp. And the worst part was…He liked it.

He didn’t know what this was. Why she specifically unraveled every rule he’d set for himself. Why her fear was more unbearable than his own, but he couldn’t stop it.

Couldn’t stop feeling and that terrified him more than the fangs ever had.
The silence after the door shut was thick, almost suffocating. She hadn’t moved yet, still lingering near the bars, maybe waiting for the tension to ease.
But it didn’t, not for him.
Draco dragged in a breath, slower this time, trying to reset. Instead, it hit him all over again.
Blood.
Not hers, not just hers.
He frowned, nostrils flaring slightly, and let the scent thread deeper into his brain. Metallic and lingering. Not right. It clung to her skin in faint traces, settled into the fibers of her jumper like smoke.
His stomach turned, not with hunger this time, but something heavier. Jealousy? Possessiveness? He didn’t want to name it.
“You’ve been near blood,” he said before he could stop himself.

Hermione blinked. “What?”
He didn’t clarify at first, just kept watching her, eyes narrowed. The smell was wrong. Too many people, too many scents layered together. Pain and fear, luckily not her spilt blood.
He spoke again, voice lower. “Other people’s blood. It’s on you.”

Her expression shifted into confusion. “I…well, yes, of course. I’ve been in the infirmary all morning. Setting up cots, changing bandages, helping clean people up.”
She trailed off, brow furrowing. “But… haven’t you always been able to smell people’s blood?”
Draco nodded once. “Always, especially yours.”
The admission hung there, heavier than it should’ve been. Hermione’s mouth parted slightly, but she didn’t speak.
He looked away, jaw tense. “But this is different. This is fresh. It’s not just blood in the air. It’s on, ‘you.’

Her arms folded over her middle, maybe from reflex, maybe from discomfort.
“I’m sorry, didn’t think it would bother you,” she said, quieter now. “You’ve… you’ve been around a lot of blood.”
His eyes flicked back to hers. “I know that’s not the point.” Hermione’s confused face urged him to press on. He tried to collect his thoughts while the conflicting blood coating Hermione clouded his brain. “Since coming here I don’t really notice other blood… other than yours, that’s is. And yours doesn’t bother me.”
He regretted saying it the moment it left his mouth, but it was true. Her scent, when it was hers alone, was grounding. Sweet in a way that made no sense. Rich and sun-warmed and dangerously magnetic.
He didn’t want to think about how many times he’d imagined cupping the curve of her neck, just to breathe it in or how many times her presence had steadied something inside him that should’ve been untethered.
But now she smelled like them. Like death, wounds and other lives.
And something in him, low and feral, hated it.
Hermione pov
Hermione blinked, unsure if she’d heard him correctly.
‘Yours never bothers me.’
It echoed in her mind, not in his usual dry drawl but quieter, heavier.

Her first instinct was to analyze it. Break it down like a puzzle. Because surely he didn’t mean what it sounded like what it felt like.
But then she looked at him, really looked, and saw the rigid line of his jaw, the faint tension around his eyes. He wasn’t watching her. He was watching the floor. Like he regretted saying it at all.
“That’s…” she started, then stopped.
She took a half-step closer, careful, like approaching a wounded animal. Or a friend who’d just said something vulnerable and didn’t quite know it yet.
“That’s kind of a big deal, Draco.”

His shoulders lifted slightly, but he didn’t answer.
She tilted her head. “Why didn’t you tell me sooner?”
Now his eyes met hers, and there was something in them she hadn’t expected, caution and even embarrassment.
He shifted his weight. “Because it sounds insane, Granger. Imagine how it would’ve gone: ‘By the way, I can smell your blood from across the room and it’s the only thing that doesn’t make me feel like tearing someone’s throat out.’”

She blinked again.
“I wasn’t trying to be creepy,” he added quickly. “Or manipulative, or whatever this is.”
Hermione stared at him, brow furrowed. “You think I’d be… offended?”

“I think,” he said carefully, “that when someone like me starts waxing poetic about how your blood smells better than everyone else’s, it raises… red flags.”
Despite herself, a laugh escaped, quiet, incredulous. “You’re right. It does sound insane.”
Draco huffed, half-exasperated, half-relieved.
“But,” she said gently, “it also sounds important. If something about my blood actually calms you, that’s something we should be studying. That’s huge.”
He didn’t answer right away. Just leaned back against the wall again and ran a hand through his hair.
“It’s not just calming,” he muttered, so softly she almost missed it. “It’s grounding. Like everything else is static, and then you walk in and suddenly I can breathe.”
Hermione’s throat went dry.
There was no flattery in his tone. No flirtation, it was just… truth. Bloody and raw.

And she didn’t know what to do with that, not yet.
So instead she just said, very softly, “Next time you notice something like that… don’t keep it to yourself.”
A pause, then Draco gave a single, silent nod.
He was silent again, lost in thought.
Hermione tucked her notes under one arm, watching him, but his eyes didn’t meet hers this time. They were fixed somewhere past her shoulder, unfocused.
Then, without his usual sarcasm, without the armor, he asked, “Are you going to tell them?”

The words weren’t accusatory. Just resigned, as if he already knew the answer. Like he’d already imagined Kingsley replacing her with someone “less involved,” someone who wouldn’t trigger his instincts or make him forget to keep his fangs hidden.
Hermione’s brow creased. “Tell who?”
“The Order,” he said flatly, like the taste of the name soured in his mouth. “You’ll report this, and they’ll pull you from the case. Or just replace you with someone else. Someone less…”
He trailed off, and that pause said more than any accusation.

Less personal and attached, less her.
Hermione looked at him for a long moment.
“No,” she said simply.
That pulled his gaze back. He blinked.
“I’m not telling them yet,” she clarified. “Not until we understand what this is.”
A beat passed. “You’re not… worried?” he asked carefully. “That maybe it’s only your blood that—”
“Yes,” she cut in. “I’m worried. That’s exactly why we don’t report it yet. If this is real, it there’s something different about how your system reacts to my blood, then we need to test it. Not just mine but others too. Controlled experiments.”

She shifted her notes again, jaw setting with quiet determination.
“I need to know if it’s a fluke. A chemical anomaly or a side effect of proximity. If it’s magical or biological or something else entirely.” Her voice lowered. “And I need to know if this bond, this reaction, could be replicated… or if it’s only with me.”
Draco’s eyes narrowed slightly, thoughtful now.
“You’re serious,” he said.

Hermione nodded. “Dead serious. If we’ve stumbled across something that actually stabilizes you, that eases the bloodlust, this could change everything.”
He let out a low breath, gaze flicking to the floor.
“And,” she added, softer now, “if I report it too soon, they’ll just lock you up tighter. Treat you like a threat. Not a breakthrough.”

Draco’s eyes met hers, and something flickered between them, recognition, maybe. Or trust.
Hermione gave a small, sharp nod.
“Let’s start running tests. Just the two of us. No one else. Not yet.”
Draco stared at her for a long moment, expression unreadable. Then, at last, he said:
“All right.”

She lingered at the base of the stairs longer than she meant to.
Draco had already stepped back into the shadows of his cell, the faint rune-glow tracing along the curve of his shoulders. He was calm now, watchful, but no longer aloof. There was a new weight between them, unspoken but undeniable. Something had shifted, and she couldn’t quite tell whether it thrilled her or terrified her more.
“Well,” she said, gripping her notes tighter against her chest, “get some rest. We’ll start fresh tomorrow. I’ll…bring the samples.”
Draco nodded once. Not mocking. Not cool or snide. Just agreement.
Something in her twisted.
She hesitated, then added, softer this time, “Good night, Malfoy.”

There was a pause, just long enough for her to feel foolish for saying it, before his voice came, low and even:
“Good night, Granger.”
Hermione turned and took the stairs two at a time, heart fluttering in a way that made her want to shake herself. This was about research. This was important, critical. A scientific aberration, maybe even the first real breakthrough in weeks, and yet.

She pressed a hand against the wall when she reached the corridor, grounding herself with its cool stone. Her thoughts were spiraling, warm and fast and disjointed. Not dangerous, exactly, but… charged. Like her skin remembered the way he’d looked at her. Like her body had clocked the near-electric tension before her brain could rationalize it.

She should’ve felt unnerved. Maybe even ashamed. But instead, she felt, hopeful.
Ridiculously, dangerously hopeful.
And something else, too. Something giddy. As if she’d just opened a door that couldn’t be shut again.
She exhaled a shaky breath and forced her feet to move. She had research to organize. Controls to plan, blood samples to request without raising too many questions.
But part of her, just a small, irrational part, wanted to run back down there and ask what exactly he meant when he said her blood was the sweetest thing he’d ever smelled.
She didn’t, of course, but she smiled the whole walk back to her room.

Chapter Text

Draco pov

Draco sat motionless on the edge of his cot, hands clasped loosely between his knees.
The rune-glow flickered lazily along the wardline, mocking, almost. He’d been testing its seams for weeks now, subtle, careful, a brush of power here, a push of will there. At first, nothing. Then a tremor and just last night, a moment, barely a breath, when the magic bent instead of pushing back.

He hadn’t told her, of course. This was a huge security issue. At this point he probably could escape his cell with minimal effort.

Still, he’d shared the blood thing and that had to count for something. He hadn’t planned to, but watching Cormac lean in and watching the way Hermione had gone still beneath his shadow, Draco had snapped tighter than he should’ve. His instincts had taken over, fangs and all, and when he’d realized what it meant, what her presence did to him, how soothing her scent was amidst the chaos of blood and adrenaline, he hadn’t been able to keep it to himself. To her credit, she hadn’t run, she actually seemed excited for the new information.

Draco let out a slow breath, leaning back until his shoulders pressed against the stone. It was cold and persistent. Like the knowledge humming under his skin. I could get out. I could leave this place, right now.
But he didn’t want to, not when she’d smiled at him like that. Not when she’d said goodnight in that quiet, almost shy voice, like it meant something.
Not when they were going to test her blood tomorrow.
His lips twitched, fangs threatening. Merlin, he was a monster.

And yet he couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt anticipation that wasn’t tied to hunger or dread.
She’d said she’d bring the samples. That they’d experiment. That they’d keep it secret.
His fingers flexed restlessly. He should tell her about the wardline. Should tell her his magic wasn’t just stable it was growing. The anchor theory had something to do with it, he was sure. But there was too much at stake, too much unknown, and if she backed away now, he grimaced at the thought.
He’d wait, just a little longer.
He had earned that much, and besides, tomorrow he’d get to smell her blood again.

Hermiones pov

The war room was colder than usual.
Hermione slid into a seat near the end of the table, a stack of scrolls balanced precariously on her hip. Ginny dropped into the chair beside her with a huff, jaw clenched and arms crossed. Ron sat opposite them, eyes dark and unreadable, refusing to look at either of them. Cormac loitered near the fireplace, casting long glances toward her that Hermione pointedly ignored.
Kingsley raised a hand. The room fell silent immediately.
“Let’s begin,” he said, voice low but resonant. “Delta was compromised. We lost the compound and six confirmed members. As of this morning, George Weasley is still unaccounted for.”

Ginny flinched and Hermione reached for her hand beneath the table, found it shaking.
Kingsley continued. “We’ll discuss possible leads and extraction scenarios later. But for now, I need a full intel breakdown, speculations or emotional spirals.”
His eyes cut pointedly toward Ron, who looked ready to ignite.

Hermione straightened her parchments. “I’ve cross-referenced the patrol logs from the three days prior. Nothing was out of place. If someone leaked our location…”

“No if,” Ron bit out.
Kingsley turned his gaze slowly. “You’ll wait your turn, Weasley.”

Ron swallowed whatever accusation had been gathering and sat back, the muscle in his jaw twitching.
“We’re exploring every possibility,” Hermione continued, carefully measured. “But it doesn’t match known Death Eater raid patterns. The use of fiendfyre, the way the wards collapsed all at once…”

She didn’t finish. Kingsley didn’t need her to.
Beside her, Ginny’s eyes glistened, but she said nothing.
He shifted forward in his chair, eyes shadowed behind his glasses. “If they’re targeting safe houses, we can’t assume any of us are safe. Not even the ones we’ve kept off the registry. That makes what Ron and I are doing even more urgent.”

Ron stiffened but didn’t argue.
“We’re close,” Harry went on. “We’ve got two locations left that could be viable. If one of them holds what we think it does…” He trailed off, shaking his head. “Then none of this will have been for nothing.”

Hermione felt a pang deep in her chest. Harry always carried the mission like a burden stitched into his bones. Even now, with George missing and Ron barely holding it together, he didn’t flinch, just pressed on.
Kingsley nodded once. “Understood. I’ll arrange a new exit route for you two. You leave before dawn.”
Ron finally looked up, eyes bloodshot but dry. “If they’ve got George…”

“We don’t know that,” Kingsley said, voice gentler now.
“We don’t not know it either,” Ron snapped.
Hermione opened her mouth, then stopped.
Ginny beat her to it. “There’s still hope, Ron.”
Ron’s jaw flexed, like he wanted to believe her and couldn’t. “Hope didn’t save Fred. It hasn’t saved anyone.”
There was a stretch of silence so long, Hermione thought Kingsley might end the meeting then and there. But instead, he said, “You have the rest of the night to prepare. I want everyone focused.

He didn’t raise his voice, but the command was clear.
The tension fractured as chairs scraped back and murmured conversations started up again.
Hermione didn’t move, she was still staring at the table, at a coffee ring near the edge that someone had left. It felt absurd, the way something so mundane could exist in a room that had just discussed blood and fire and possibly another brother gone.

“Granger, stay back a moment.”
Everyone else had started to trickle out, Ginny brushing past with a worried glance, Ron storming off without a word, Harry hesitating just long enough to meet her eyes before giving a small nod and following.
Only Kingsley remained seated. He waited until the door clicked shut behind the last of them before speaking again.

“I know Ron’s emotions are compromised right now,” he said. “And I’m not blaming him for that. Loss makes us dangerous. It makes us irrational.”

Hermione didn’t reply. Kingsley folded his hands on the table. “But if Malfoy could give us more, anything, it would go a long way in settling some of this unrest.”
She turned, hand pausing on the metal. “Sir?”
He stood, retrieving a parchment from the stack in front of him. His tone shifted, low, measured, and heavy with implication. “We’ve lost another shipment. South route this time. Potions, food, and burn salves. Vanished without a trace.”

Hermione’s brow furrowed. “So they’re targeting the supply lines.”

“They’re surgical about it,” he said. “We’re not just being outnumbered anymore, we’re being outmaneuvered. I want to hit back. But we need intel.”
Her stomach turned before he even finished the thought.
Kingsley didn’t press. He just looked at her, steady and calm.

“I was hoping you might ask Malfoy if he knows anything about their supply lines, we need to hit back.”
Hermione’s spine straightened. “Understood, I’ll ask him.”
He gave a small murmur of gratitude. “We’re not going to get another chance at this. If we want to push back, it has to be now.”

She let out a breath and gave the faintest nod.
“Thank you,” he said, already turning back to the stack of reports. “And Hermione, ”
She glanced over her shoulder.
“Remember, keep your guard up.”
“Always,” she said with more conviction than she felt, and slipped out the door.

The infirmary had mostly emptied, leaving Hermione alone with the soft clink of glass and the quiet hum of cooling charms.

She moved methodically between shelves, selecting and labeling vials with practiced precision. Samples from key Order members, Neville, Dean, Seamus, each carefully collected for the controlled experiments she planned to run with Draco. They were trying to determine if the strange reaction he had to her blood was unique… or something else entirely.

Her fingers hovered over a vial labeled G. Thomas. She hesitated before gently placing it into the enchanted cold case, trying not to let her mind wander too far down what-ifs and implications.

The door creaked open behind her. Two sets of footsteps.
She turned just in time to see Harry and Ron walking in, packs slung over their shoulders, boots still dusted with ash from the last mission. Ron didn’t even glance at her. Just strode past like she wasn’t there, jaw clenched tight.
Hermione felt the air thin in her chest. “Ron…”

Nothing, he pushed through the side exit without a word, his silence more cutting than anything he could have said.
Harry lingered and paused beside her, his gaze flicking to the labeled vials before settling on her face. “Heading back out,” he said gently.
She nodded. “I figured.”

Harry gave her a faint smile and stepped forward, wrapping her in a hug. She let herself lean into it, just for a moment. Just long enough to pretend none of this was as heavy as it felt.
“You’re doing good work,” he murmured. “Even if Ron won’t say it.”
She gave a small, wordless nod.

“Just promise me you’ll get some rest,” he added. “And if there’s anything….anything weird or off, you’ll tell someone. Don’t carry it all alone.”
Her throat went tight. Because she was carrying it alone.
“I will,” she said anyway.
Harry pulled back, gave her hand a squeeze, and turned to leave.

Hermione watched the door close behind them, then looked down at the cold case of blood samples. It was strange, how something so clinical could carry so much weight.

She secured the latch with a flick of her wand, then there was still so much to figure out.

Malfoy was already standing when she entered, posture rigid, arms crossed, eyes fixed on the satchel in her hands. He didn’t say anything, but she could feel his anticipation.

Hermione stepped past the wardline without hesitation, even though her pulse had quickened. She tried not to notice the way his gaze followed her. She tried not to wonder what he was thinking.
“I brought the vials,” she said quietly, setting the satchel down on the workbench. The glass clinked as she unfastened the flap and began laying them out in rows. “We’ll start cataloging reactions tonight. Mine, and others..”
Draco didn’t respond right away. When he finally spoke, his voice was quieter than she expected. “You brought a lot.”

“I want the data to be thorough.”
Another pause. “Right.”
She glanced over her shoulder. He hadn’t moved, just stood there, eyes dark and unreadable.
“I also brought the recording crystal,” she added, pulling out the small enchanted recorder and placing it beside the vials. “Before we start, Kingsley asked for intel. He wants to move on the supply lines. Anything you remember could help.”
Draco’s mouth pulled tight. “So that’s first.”
“It’s important, after the raid on Delta we need to hit back.
“I know.” He looked away. “Information for the cure.”
Hermione stilled and words sat between them, colder than she’d meant them to sound. She hadn’t realized until that moment how clinical it might all feel from the other side of the bars. He’d shared something vulnerable, about her blood, about how it soothed him. But now there were vials, labels and experiments again, dehumanizing him.
She turned fully to face him. “Malfoy, it’s not…”
“I’ll tell you what I remember,” he cut in. Still calm, but there was something in his voice, strained and distant. “I’m not going to sabotage your war effort.”
“I didn’t think you would.”
He gave a slight nod, but it felt like a wall had gone up.
She wanted to say something else. Something to close the distance, to soften the edge that had crept back into his tone. But she didn’t know how to name it, didn’t know how to explain that she hadn’t meant for it to feel like a transaction.
So instead, she reached for the quill and parchment.
“Let’s begin.”

Draco POV

She didn’t sit. Draco watched her from the cot, hands resting loosely in his lap as she moved around the cellar with her usual brisk efficiency, vials tucked into a tray, parchment unfurled, crystal flicked on with practiced ease.
He used to find it admirable, the way she could drown in a task until everything else faded. Now it just made his throat feel tight.

“We need intel on supply runs,” she said, voice crisp and even. “Routes, caches, weak points. Kingsley wants to be thorough.”

Draco nodded once. No use pretending to be surprised. He’d known the second he saw the vials that this was the price. Information for experimentation, blood for blood.
Still, the reminder stung more than it should have.
“They don’t use trains,” Draco said, his voice low as he leaned forward, forearms braced on his knees. “Too traceable. Too Muggle, their system runs beneath magical conduits, really ancient ones. Vault links, ghost routes, and… corrupted ley lines.”

Hermione’s quill paused mid-word. “Corrupted ley lines?”
He met her gaze. There was a flicker there, regret, maybe, or weariness. “You know what ley lines are, don’t you?”

She nodded slowly. “Theoretical energy lines, said to connect sacred sites, places of power.”
He gave a humorless smile. “Not theoretical, they’re real. The ancients built along them for a reason. Hogwarts sits on a pristine one. But when a line’s been tampered with, twisted by dark spells, blood rituals, or too much death, it warps. Turns volatile. You can still travel through it, but the cost is higher. Things get distorted.”
Hermione felt a chill crawl up her spine. “You helped design that system?”

“I did more than help,” he said, his voice colder now. “I mapped it. Strengthened the links, thought I was building something clever, but they poisoned the lines after I left.”
She didn’t speak. The silence hung heavy, until he broke it with a bitter exhale.

“You want an essay or a map?”
The question wasn’t cruel, it was defensive, but Draco felt guilty regardless.
She blinked. Not in offense, but startled by the rawness in his voice.

“Start with whatever gives us the best shot.”
Draco nodded once. “There’s a chapel near Dunstable. Burned down, left untouched for a reason. Nobody goes near it, not even Muggles. The ground’s wrong and the line underneath runs straight to a smuggling nexus. They used to stage low-risk drops there. Now it’s for the dark stuff, only high-risk transports. Magical components that rot or explode if delayed, but it’s warded to the teeth.”
She resumed writing, but slower this time.
“Don’t go in alone,” he added. “Corrupted ley lines don’t just move things, they remember them.”
She scribbled quickly. “And the wards?”
“Blood-triggered, but they cycle every third day. There’s a brief window where they drop for transfer, less than half an hour.”

“Do you know when the next window is?”
He gave a low, humorless laugh. “You think they trusted me with that kind of detail? I was never core. I was peripheral. Useful but controlled.
Hermione finally looked up from the parchment.
“I’ve told you this before,” he added, voice softer. “They stopped trusting me long before I gave you anything.”
He expected silence or maybe more questions. But she only nodded, jotting down the last bit of detail.
No praise or blame. Just acceptance, and somehow, that was worse.

“You’re not going to ask why I didn’t tell you this sooner?” he asked.
Hermione set down her quill. “No.”
“Why not?”
Her eyes were tired when they met his, but steady. “Because I know what it costs you every time, to revisit those old memories.”

Draco felt something cold and sharp twist low in his chest.
Gods, why did that feel worse than suspicion?
She didn’t speak right away after the last note was scribbled down.

She hadn’t touched the tray, not yet
Her fingers hovered above the vials like they were explosive. Something about the way she was looking at them, like they were a fork in the road, set him on edge.
“This might change everything,” she murmured.
He exhaled through his nose, slow. “You said that yesterday.”

“I know,” she said softly. “But now we’re actually doing it.”
He didn’t move or speak.
Hermione turned toward him, her brow pinched. “I told you, I’m not going to the Order. You remember that, right?”
Draco gave a tight nod. “I remember.”
And he did. She’d said it firmly before. That she wanted to understand this fully before anyone else got their hands on it.
But it still felt fragile now. Like saying it again gave it more weight, like it needed reaffirming not for him, but for herself.

He flicked his eyes to the vials again. “You don’t trust them.”
“I trust them to do what they think is right,” she said. “But that doesn’t mean it’s what is right.”
Her voice was a little steadier now. Enough to move.
Draco watched her set the vial down and begin prepping the kit.

She was careful and efficient, but her shoulders were tight, and she kept darting glances at him when she thought he wasn’t looking.

Because she wasn’t just the girl with the cure anymore.
She was the one who believed him and now, she was the one who might unknowingly unmake him.
She finally set the vial aside and turned to him with that determined wrinkle between her brows.
“I want to draw a fresh sample,” she said.
His pulse ticked faster.

“Why?” he asked, keeping his voice neutral.
“It’s best for this particular test. Potency matters.” She hesitated. “And I want to do it manually.”
That made him go still.
She was already walking toward the supply table, reaching for the kit. No wand. Just gauze, needle, crystal phial. All muggle techniques.
“No magic?” he reiterated, even though he knew the answer.

She didn’t look up. “I don’t want to risk cross-contamination. The wards in this place already mess with magical residue. Better to keep the samples clean.”
Draco’s jaw tightened. “This is less safe for you.”
That finally got her attention. She glanced over, brown eyes sharp. “It’s not about safety.”
“It should be.”

Her lips thinned, but she said nothing.
She returned to the tray and rolled the sleeves of her jumper to her elbows, movements precise. She was preparing like she always did, scientific, focused, a little tense, but there was a different sort of quiet between them now.

She wasn’t afraid, not of him at least.
But he could feel her thinking, calculating, anticipating, trying not to show how much this mattered. Trying not to give away how much she needed this to work.
“You know,” he said, dry, “most people don’t volunteer to stab vampires.”

“Good thing you’re not a proper vampire, then.”
Her voice was lighter, teasing, but her hands were careful as she approached. The kit balanced in one, a fresh phial glinting in the low cellar light.

She stopped just short of the wardline, and he stilled, watching, curious. Wondering what she’d choose.
“Are you going to step in,” he asked, voice low, “or do I need to stick my arm through the bars?”
She exhaled, half sigh, half smirk, and then stepped over the line.
His entire body went taut. The way she crossed the boundary without hesitation. No wand raised, no backup in the shadows, no hint of fear. Just steady eyes and stubborn faith, like she trusted him.

And that, he didn’t know what to do with.
Draco sat against the far wall, shirt sleeves pushed to his elbows, pale forearms scarred in places where magic hadn’t been kind. His posture was casual, but it was a lie. Everything in him was coiled, sharp angles and controlled tension, the illusion of ease carved over something barely contained.

She knelt beside him, calm and clinical, arranging the supplies on the cold stone floor. But when she leaned closer, he caught it, that scent. Subtle but unmistakable.
Warm. Sweet. Maddening.

His jaw flexed as he extended his arm toward her, fingers already curling into a fist.
Her fingers found his wrist, cool and confident, and her touch was more than professional, it lingered. Just long enough to make something primal in him strain against the chains of his own self-control.
“Try not to look smug,” she murmured, glancing up from beneath her lashes as their eyes met.

Draco’s mouth twitched, but he said nothing. Smug wasn’t the word for what he felt. Not when she was this close. Not when every heartbeat thundered like a warning.
She had no idea what she was doing to him.
And Merlin help him, he hoped she never stopped.
“Try not to enjoy this,” he muttered back.
A smile ghosted her face and she prepped the needle.
And when she pressed the tip to his skin, he didn’t flinch, but he did watch her the entire time.

Hermione POV
She’d done this dozens of times, drawn blood from witches, wizards, even a werewolf once, but it had never felt like this.

Her fingers closed around Draco’s forearm, and she was immediately aware of everything. The lean muscle beneath pale skin. The slight tremor in his wrist, not fear, not exactly. Something more restrained, but she could feel the strength behind the control.
He was watching her. Not overtly, not in that predatory way he used to look at people in school. No, this was focused.

His hair had grown out a bit since she’d first come down here, longer at the top, a soft, silvery mess that fell just over his brow in loose waves. A few strands clung stubbornly to his temple, damp with sweat or tension, she couldn’t tell which. But he didn’t brush them away. He was too busy watching her.

Her fingers grazed a vein and she adjusted the needle, trying to stay clinical and detached.
Except she couldn’t help noticing how strong his arm looked. Or how steady he was holding it out for her. Or how his skin had gone a little tighter across the muscle as soon as she stepped into his space.
She steadied the needle against his skin. “This might pinch.”
“Not my first time, Granger,” he murmured.
She didn’t reply. Didn’t trust her voice.
The moment the needle slid in, his fingers twitched. Just once.

But it wasn’t his hand that caught her attention.
From the corner of her eye, she saw it, a glint of white, just beneath his upper lip. The barest flash of fang, sharp and sudden, breaking through instinctively like a reflex he couldn’t quite suppress.

But just as quickly, they vanished. He retracted them immediately and clenched his jaw, as if to keep it from happening again.
Hermione said nothing, didn’t want him to feel uncomfortable when he was obviously trying very hard to not set her on edge.
She simply steadied the vial with careful fingers, pretending not to have noticed, though her pulse had jumped and her grip was suddenly less sure than it had been a second before.

He didn’t blink or say anything. Just kept watching her like nothing had happened.
But it had, and they both knew it.
His blood pulsed into the tube slowly, dark and warm and strangely beautiful. He tilted his head, still watching her.
“You always this intense during phlebotomy?” Malfoy’s obvious attempt to ease the tension.
She fought the blush climbing her neck and kept her eyes on the vial. “You’re a bit of a special case.”
“Flattered.”
“I meant volatile.”

He chuckled, low, rough, almost under his breath, but it did something to her spine. A spark of heat flared in her chest before she could shove it away.
It was just proximity mixed with adrenaline. A reaction to working too closely with someone dangerous and intelligent and far too attractive for his own good.
Nothing more, she lied to herself.
She sealed the vial and tried not to look as rattled as she felt. “Done.”
“Painless,” he said, lifting a brow. “Mostly.”
She tried not to smile. She really did.
But the way he was still watching her, like she was the only person in the world who’d ever dared to cross a line and still treat him like a man, it made her pulse behave very stupidly.

She stepped back and turned to label the sample.
She needed distance and for the logical part of her brain to re-engage.
But all she could think about was the feel of his skin beneath her fingers, and the way she had not wanted to let go.

She labeled the vial with practiced care, though her hand hovered longer than necessary over the parchment. The ink bled slightly as she pressed too hard.
Behind her, Draco sat still, not breaking the silence.
Hermione cleared her throat. “I’ll start with a baseline comparison,” she said, more to herself than him. “We’ll combine your fresh sample with each of the others one at a time. See if there’s any reaction, chemical, magical, behavioral…”

Draco POV

Her voice trailed off as she arranged the vials beside the cauldron, each marked with a neat number and a protective stasis charm.
Draco still hadn’t spoken.

“Fresh is best,” she muttered, glancing at the vial of his blood, still warm. “We need your magic to be active in the sample or the test could be meaningless. These kind of interactions degrade quickly.”

He gave a short nod. “Right.”
She measured out a precise amount of his blood into the cauldron, murmuring a mild activation charm. The surface shimmered, then settled. Still neutral.
She reached for the first comparison vial, Harry’s, and paused.
Draco’s voice broke the silence. “You’re stalling.”
Hermione blinked. “No, I’m…”
“You always overexplain things when you’re nervous.”
“I’m not nervous.”
“You’re about to find out if my blood only responds to yours,” he said, voice low. “Seems fair to be a little nervous.”
She didn’t answer. Draco leaned forward slightly, elbows on his knees, watching her fingers linger too long over the vial.
Then she murmured, “What if it is?”
“What if, what is?”
Her voice was steadier than she felt. “What if I’m the only one your blood reacts to?”
There was a beat of silence before he spoke. “Then we work with that.”

She didn’t look at him.
“And if you don’t want that,” he added, quieter now, “if it ever feels like too much… maybe there’s a way to sever it. The connection. The pull.” He swallowed. “There are rituals. Reversal spells. Something. I’ll help you look.”
That made her head snap up.
“No.” His brows lifted, surprised.

She cleared her throat. “I mean… if I’m the only thing keeping you stable, biologically, magically, it’s dangerous to even talk about severing anything. We don’t even know what that would do to you.”
A beat passed. Then, more softly, “I’m not looking for a way out.”
He blinked. Whatever he’d expected, it wasn’t that.
Her gaze dropped back to the vial. “Let’s just finish the test.”

But her hands were shaking slightly now. And he hated that he was putting her in this position.
Draco watched as she lined the vials along the edge of the table, labeling each one again even though the wax seals already bore the initials of their donors. Her handwriting was perfectly legible. It always was. Still, she recapped each one like it might bite her.
She hadn’t touched the last vial.
His eyes flicked to it, smaller, clear-stoppered, marked only with a faint “HG.” She hadn’t so much as glanced at it since she set it down. He could smell it from here anyway. The blood inside that vial called to something deep in his chest, sharp and low and maddening. It made the other samples smell like ash and vinegar in comparison.
Hermione cleared her throat and picked up the first vial. “All right, this one’s Dean’s. We’ll begin with a neutral baseline.”
She uncorked it and carefully poured three measured drops into the center of the small cauldron. His blood, already simmering faintly with a pale bluish hue, reacted with a few sparks and a dull shimmer, like a cold firework going off underwater.
“Minimal reaction,” she murmured, scribbling something on her parchment. “Interesting…”
He leaned back on the stool, folding his arms, watching her.
“Neville’s,” she said tightly.
Same process. Same dull shimmer.
Then came two more, Ron’s, Ginny’s. Nothing significant. A few sparks, a strange fizz, a brief swirl of green that dissipated like fog. She noted them all diligently, her quill twitching like it gave her comfort.
But her hands weren’t steady anymore.
Draco exhaled carefully through his nose and let his gaze settle on her face. “Granger,” he whispered.
Her eyes lifted to his, a little wide. Her mouth opened, then closed again.
“What’s got you shaking?” he asked.
Hermione pressed her lips together, then, finally, picked up the vial.
And this time, she did look at him. “If this works,” she said, voice paper thin, “everything changes.”
He didn’t respond right away. Just held her gaze. Something heavy sat between them, unspoken and thick and real.
And then, barely above a whisper:
“Then let’s change it.”
Hermione held her breath as she tilted the vial.
Just a few drops, that’s all it took.
They hit the surface of the cauldron with a soft plink, vanishing instantly into the swirl of his blood and the residual traces from the others. Nothing happened, not at first.
The tension in her shoulders bled out a fraction, and she scribbled a quick note. Draco didn’t move. His eyes stayed locked on the cauldron, jaw tight.
Then, the entire mixture pulsed.
Hermione quickly cast another ward over the concoction.
And then it pulsed, like it had a heartbeat. Like it recognized something. Hermione’s quill froze.
The color of the mixture deepened, rippling from blue to violet to a vivid, molten gold. Heat poured off the surface in waves. The table trembled faintly beneath it.
And then, like a held breath being released, a plume of silver light burst upward from the cauldron, stopping at the protective ward. Draco shot to his feet. Hermione staggered back, shielding her eyes with her arm.
Draco didn’t think. He moved.

In two strides he was in front of her, slipping between her and the cauldron. One arm swept around her shoulders, the other coming up instinctively, shielding, steadying, as if his body could buffer her from whatever came next.
For one suspended moment, the light hovered above the cauldron, humming, crackling, then abruptly collapsed inward. The surface of the potion went eerily still.
He stood there, breathing hard, heart slamming against his ribs. The magic was gone, but its echo still vibrated through him, like something ancient had stirred and then gone quiet.
Hermione slowly lowered her arm, blinking against the fading haze. Her cheek brushed his shoulder, eyes wide as she looked past him.
“What the hell was that?” she whispered.
Draco didn’t look away from the cauldron.
“I think that was…” he swallowed, voice raw, “your blood saying hello.”

Chapter Text

Chapter 17: Finally

Hermione pov
The cauldron’s light cast jittery shadows across the stone walls, flickering like a heartbeat against the gloom. Hermione’s breath came slow, unsteady. She was hyper-aware of every point of contact, Draco’s arm curled protectively around her waist, his chest pressed along her back, the way her shoulder nestled just beneath the curve of his jaw.
Safe, she felt safe.
The thought startled her. Safety wasn’t something she trusted easily, not anymore. Not with anyone and certainly not with Draco Malfoy.
She exhaled shakily and shifted, just a little. Testing the space between them.
But he didn’t move, his arm remained around her, not tense, not forceful, just… there. A quiet brace almost caging. “Malfoy,” she said gently, glancing over her shoulder. “I… I can’t really breathe.”
He froze, for a moment, it was like the words bounced off the stone before reaching him. Then, with a sudden jolt of panic, he stepped back so quickly he nearly lost his balance.
“Merlin sorry,” he blurted, eyes wide. “I didn’t I wasn’t…”
Hermione reached out without thinking, catching his sleeve. “Draco, it’s alright” she said softly, fingers curling once, then letting go.
Startled, with eyes wide and flicking across her face as if trying to confirm what he’d just heard.
It took her a second to realize why he reacted oddly. She’d called him Draco.
Not Malfoy. Not with a clipped tone or a raised brow. Just his name, said kindly.
“I, umm” he rubbed the back of his neck, gaze skittering to the cauldron and then back. “I didn’t think. I just… saw you too close, and there was that noise, and I…” He cut himself off with a quiet breath, then looked down at his own hands like they’d acted without permission. “I wasn’t really thinking.”
Hermione tilted her head. “It felt instinctual?” He nodded once, almost sheepishly. “Yeah.”
She watched him for a moment. He wasn’t posturing or deflecting. No smirk or biting comments. Just a boy with haunted eyes and trembling fingers who’d wrapped himself around her like a shield and hadn’t even realized he’d done it. An awkward silence stretched between them.
Then, with a small, tentative smile, Hermione said, “You make a surprisingly good bodyguard.” Draco blinked, surprised by her admission. Then almost shyly, he looked at her.
Not with the usual guarded curiosity or sardonic amusement. Not like she was an equation to solve or a threat to monitor.
His eyes were gentle and wide. Silver-blue in the shifting light. There was something painfully unpracticed about the way he stared at her, like he wasn’t sure what to do with the warmth flickering in his chest. But he didn’t look away.
Hermione’s breath caught. The space between them suddenly felt much smaller.
For one suspended second, neither of them moved. No quips. No rules. Just the quiet possibility of something unspoken pulling tight like a thread between them.
And then, creeeeeeak.
The cellar door groaned open above them.
Both of them jolted like they’d been hexed. Hermione leapt back across the wardline, her hair catching on the static of the containment charm as it reactivated behind her with a sharp snap.
Draco dropped to sit on his cot with exaggerated nonchalance, arms draped lazily over his knees like he hadn’t just been clutching her like a lifeline.
Footsteps echoed down the stairs. Lantern light bobbed closer.
“Granger?” Ginny’s voice. Suspicious. “Did I hear something?”
Hermione whipped around, quill in hand, notebook propped awkwardly on her knee. “What? No. Just… magical feedback from the last trial. Probably.”
Ginny paused just inside the threshold, narrowing her eyes. Her gaze flicked to the cauldron, then to Hermione’s flushed face, and finally to Draco, who was studiously looking at the wall.
She squinted, like she was unraveling a puzzle. Draco cleared his throat. “She, uh” He gestured vaguely toward Hermione. “She stumbled.”
Hermione shot him a sideways glare.
He continued, deadpan, “You know, she’s so clumsy. Tripped over her own sense of self-importance, probably.”
Ginny’s eyes narrowed further. She didn’t say anything for a long moment. Just stared at them. The silence stretched.
Then, “Right.” Hermione’s stomach twisted. Ginny knew. Not exactly what had happened but enough to know something had.
Ginny stepped forward, resting her hand on the stone railing by the stairs. Her voice, when it came, was laced with grief.
“We’re meeting in fifteen. Kingsley wants everyone upstairs.” Hermione frowned, straightening. “What’s happened?”
Ginny’s gaze dropped, her fingers tightening around the stone. “It’s George,” she said softly. “Still nothing and it’s been three days.”
Hermione froze, she had been so engrossed in her research that she hadn’t spared many thoughts to George. And now the guilt twisted in her gut.
“Three days,” Ginny repeated, like saying it again would somehow make it make sense. “No owl or patronous. The emergency portkey never activated. He was supposed to check in from the drop point near Norwich, but…” She didn’t finish.
Hermione felt the air shift around her, thick and heavy like it suddenly required more effort to breathe. Her grip on her notebook tightened.
Fred had already died and George had kept it together. Kept the jokes flowing, the pranks light, the corners of the safehouse just a little brighter, like if he could just keep them all laughing, Fred might still be alive in some corner of the noise. He hadn’t cried. Not once, but Hermione had seen the way he stiffened every time someone said his brother’s name in past tense.
She hadn’t cried either. There hadn’t been time. Too many missions and research. Too many people depending on her to hold things together and now she was playing doctor downstairs with a handsome vampire while Ginny suffered alone.
I’ll come up with you,” Hermione said, her voice low. Ginny didn’t answer, just kept walking, shoulders tight with everything she wasn’t saying.
Hermione followed and didn’t look back. Even though she felt Malfoy’s eyes boring into her.
She couldn’t, because just moments ago, she’d felt protected but now it was tainted. She clutched her notebook tighter, guilt crawling beneath her ribs.
Saving Draco had felt like purpose, but now it felt like a distraction.

Draco’s POV
The cellar swallowed her footsteps like they were never there.
Draco stayed rooted to the cot, staring at the base of the stairs long after the echo had faded. The containment charm hummed faintly behind him, but it couldn’t hold back the silence that pressed in like a second skin.
He ran a hand through his hair, fingers tangling tight at the crown of his head.
What the hell had just happened? Holding her, having her, even for that one impossible moment, had felt like something ancient. Like he’d stumbled into a memory he’d never lived.
She’d melted against him. Trusted him, without even thinking. Her breath had brushed his collarbone, her heart had stuttered against his chest and Merlin help him, part of him wanted that again. Wanted her close. He could still smell her. That sharp, bright scent of her blood that cut through the damp stone and ash, something pure. Could still hear her delicate voice saying his given name.
His mouth watered, and in the dark corner of his mind, the place he tried not to look too often, something coiled.
Take her. Not violently or even cruelly. Steal her from all this, the pain, the pressure, the Order with their demands and their clipped words and their endless war meetings. Whisk her off to one of the old, hidden Malfoy estates. The ones no one but he even remembered. Ward it, charm it, fill it with warmth and light and everything she never lets herself ask for.
She wouldn’t have to flinch every time bad news arrived. Wouldn’t have to bleed for people who didn’t see how much it cost her.
He would give her peace. He would give her everything.
She could sleep in a real bed, not a borrowed cot. Brew potions in a sunlit room instead of underground. Speak without measuring every word. Smile without guilt.
Be safe. Be his in any capacity she was comfortable with. He imagined her going still beneath him, not out of fear but surrender. Letting him tip her head gently. Letting him taste her blood, let it flood through him like sunlight instead of fire.
He shut his eyes, breath ragged.
It would be so easy. A distraction charm and a well-placed lie. A quick enchantment on the door upstairs. He could have her, but the thought twisted and soured in his belly.
That wasn’t him. He didn’t know exactly what Greyback had done to her. But whatever it was, it had carved deep. Draco knew darkness, had lived with it, served it, been reshaped by it, but he would never let that same darkness touch her again. Not from the outside. Not from him. No matter what burned beneath his skin, no matter how badly he wanted to keep her, drink from her, have her, he would never put her in a position where she felt cornered. Trapped and helpless.
If she ever looked at him the way she must have looked at Greyback, he didn’t think he could survive it. Because she was the one person who hadn’t looked at him like a curse in a cage and if he gave in, if he made her feel unsafe even once, he’d lose that forever.
He exhaled hard through his nose, forcing the hunger down like bile. It never really went away. But for her, he’d bury it deeper.
Draco leaned forward, elbows on his knees, hands dangling between them.
The restraint felt like a collar around his own neck. He stayed frozen, back pressed to the wall, until his pulse finally steadied. She’d be back tomorrow, with her precise notes, her measured questions, her neatly labeled vials of blood. And with that careful distance, too. That quiet insistence on keeping things professional, like nothing had shifted between them. Like the way she’d clung to him in the fallout of the cauldron hadn’t happened at all. And he’d play along. Pretend he didn’t want more. Pretend the memory of her in his arms hadn’t rooted itself in his chest like a second heartbeat. Because no matter how badly he wanted to keep her, he wouldn’t steal her. Not even to save her. Still, the doubt lingered. Maybe the bond, the pull, the ache to be near her, maybe it was all in his head. Maybe it was just proximity. Familiarity, a trick of isolation. Because when Ginny had come to relieve her, Hermione hadn’t even said goodbye. Not a glance. Not a nod. Just left him down here like a secret to be hidden beneath the floorboards. Only warm to him in private. Only real when no one else could see it. And somehow, that hurt worst of all. Hermione’s POV
The meeting had dissolved into noise. Maps, theories, heated voices, everyone trying to make sense of George’s disappearance, to stay useful, to do something. But underneath it all pulsed the same truth: No one knew anything.
Hermione sat near the edge of the long table, her notes untouched, a quill gripped in her fingers but unmoving. The candlelight flickered against her parchment, casting her shadow longer than she felt. She hadn’t needed to look to know Ginny had been watching her.
That direct, pointed sort of gaze, part suspicion, part worry. The kind that felt less like being seen and more like being measured.
Hermione had kept her face carefully composed, her quill steady. But beneath the surface, her skin had prickled.
She was tired. Not the kind sleep could fix. The kind that lived in the bones.
George was gone and she had no comfort to offer Ginny. No clever strategy or new spell or charm or miracle tucked in the folds of her books. Just an ache behind her eyes and a gnawing guilt in her chest. Because even now, even now, part of her mind kept drifting downward, back to the cellar.
To Draco. Hermione closed her eyes, trying to banish the memory of his chest against her back, the steady thrum of his heartbeat where her shoulder had rested. It had been terrifying and beautiful and she’d walked away from it.
Just turned, stiffened, followed Ginny up the stairs like none of it had happened. Like that single heartbeat of closeness hadn’t cracked something open between them.
Now she sat with her spine straight and her heart quietly breaking, trying not to think about going back down. She couldn’t. She had too much to do. Too many people depending on her. But Merlin, the thought of being in his arms again, it made her throat ache. Made her fingers twitch. She clenched them tight in her lap, nails digging crescents into her skin. She wasn’t foolish. She wasn’t naïve. But for one fleeting second, she had been and it had felt like sunlight in a storm. Hermione swallowed hard and forced herself to gather her things. There were still tasks to complete, supplies to sort, and another round of research to prepare for tomorrow’s blood testing. The room emptied slowly after the meeting, chairs scraping against stone and voices trailing off into uncertain murmurs. Hermione lingered only long enough to help Luna gather a few stray parchments before slipping away with a mumbled excuse. Her feet carried her down the corridor on muscle memory, but her mind wasn’t in the hallway. It was downstairs, with him. She hadn’t looked back earlier. Couldn’t, not when everything inside her was already fraying at the edges. But she’d felt it, the way his eyes followed her to the stairs. The way he didn’t call out, didn’t try to stop her and somehow, that silence felt sharper than a shout. She paused outside her quarters, hand resting on the doorknob. Draco would be hurt, she knew that. He would never say it out loud, might just stew in that brooding, maddening silence of his, but she wasn’t stupid. He’d protected her. Held her like she was something sacred, and she hadn’t even said goodbye.

Hermione POV

The stairs creaked and Draco didn’t look up.
She crossed the wardline without a word. Her eyes flicked to the untouched flask beside him.
“You didn’t drink.”
“Not hungry,” he muttered.
“You said it was still tolerable yesterday.”
He shut the book with a snap. “Guess I was being polite.”
Hermione frowned. “You could’ve told me.”
He didn’t answer. Just stood and walked close to the wardline. “Let’s get on with it.”
Her jaw tensed. “You’re angry.”
“Let it go, Granger.”
She hesitated, then sighed and reached for the vial.
“No exposure experiments today,” she said. “Too volatile. I want to start small and controlled.”
Draco’s gaze dropped to the vial, then lifted slowly back to her. “You’re mixing our blood again?”
“This isn’t just another reactivity test. I already know your blood doesn’t flair with almost every donor sample. But mine did, it actively enhanced your magical signature .”
Draco’s brow furrowed. “So what does that mean?”
“It means,” she said, levitating a silver mixing dish into the field, “that we’re testing stability over time. Whether the calming effect holds, or if it fades. If it’s momentary… or something more inherent.”
“If the mixed sample remains inert through a set of magical disruptions, light, temperature, kinetic shift, it confirms magical attunement. That my blood doesn’t just stabilize yours temporarily, it binds to it. Protects it.”
She paused.
“And if it does that… we may not be looking at a biological anomaly.”
Draco gave her a wary look. “What, then?”
Hermione glanced at him. “We may be looking at a magical bond.”
She drew a drop of blood from the vial and added it to the silver mixing dish. Then her own, hovering the instruments carefully above the stabilizing ward.
They didn’t speak as the drops touched but they both watched.
Because last time… the reaction had been immediate. Violent, with the cauldron flaring dangerously.
Now, the dish shimmered. Hummed, but instead of flaring or sparking, the surface stilled.
Hermione’s eyes widened.
Draco, too, had gone still.
He didn’t say it. Neither of them did but the truth hung in the air between them anyway.
Her blood calmed his.
Not silenced it or weakened it.
Stabilized it, and if that was true, then the questions they’d been avoiding were no longer theoretical.
The shimmer between their blood drops pulsed softly, like something alive.
Hermione didn’t speak. She was too focused, too startled. Draco, standing just beside her, didn’t move either, though she could feel the tension humming off him like heat.
Ordinarily, his blood rejected contact. It hissed against other samples. Burned in open air and in sunlight, it seared.
But now, she reached for the mirrored plate positioned beneath the enchanted skylight that she conjured. She angled the dish, letting the soft golden light spill over the surface of the mixed blood.
Draco tensed, with his fists curled.
Nothing happened.
No smoke or burning.
Hermione adjusted the angle, watching for any hint of resistance. The dish remained calm. The mingled blood held steady in the light like it belonged there.
She blinked. “That’s not possible.”
“Clearly,” Draco said, voice low, “it is.”
She glanced at him.
His eyes weren’t mocking. They weren’t sharp with snide amusement.
They were stunned and afraid. Not of the blood, but of what it meant.
“This would’ve flared up by now,” he added. “Mine alone, sunlight makes it blister.”
But hers changed that.
Her blood had tempered whatever dark, volatile magic lived in his, made it stabilized.
Malfoy, this confirms it,” Hermione murmured, eyes scanning the notes. “My blood isn’t just compatible, it’s complementary.

Draco POV
The blood shimmered between them, calm and unthreatening. Like it belonged there.
Hermione leaned in, scribbling notes with frantic precision, but Draco wasn’t watching the quill. He was watching her. The furrow of her brow, the way her lips parted slightly in surprise as the reaction held. The candlelight caught in her curls, softening the edges of everything sharp inside him.
It should’ve been just another test. Another datapoint.
But the magic between them, her magic, had never followed the rules.
His chest was tight. Too tight. He wasn’t breathing properly.
And then she looked up at him. Bright-eyed. Hopeful. Open. And something in him cracked.
“I lied,” he said hesitantly. Hermione froze. The quill stilled mid-word. “What?”
He dragged a hand through his hair, jaw clenched. “I didn’t just stumble across this place,” he said. “I didn’t wander around half-dead and miraculously find the safehouse like I told everyone.”
Her brows drew together. “What do you mean?” Draco exhaled hard, the confession scraping out of him. “I was drawn here. Not by a map or an escape plan. By something else. And I think… at this point, it’s obvious what it was.” Hermione blinked. “You’re saying?”
“I’m saying I think it was you.” The words landed between them, heavy as stone.
He kept going before she could respond, because if he stopped, he might lose the nerve.
“I didn’t understand it at first. I just followed it, this pull I couldn’t explain. I thought I was going mad. Or desperate. But now, with the blood, with the way everything reacts to you…”
He shook his head, voice lowering. “I didn’t want to scare you. Or make it seem like I was trying to manipulate you. So I lied. Said I got lucky. That I just showed up.”
Hermione’s eyes searched his face, but her expression was unreadable.
“I didn’t mean to keep it from you,” he added. “I just… I didn’t want to name it. Because if I did, then it became real. And I wasn’t ready for what that might mean.”
He looked down at the dish where their mingled blood still shimmered in the sunlight.
The silence rang like a bell.
Hermione stood frozen beside the ward-line, her eyes still locked on the mingled blood that shimmered soft and steady in the light.
“I think I’ve known for a while,” Draco said, quieter now. “And I think… so have you.” She swallowed. Her mouth was dry.
It wasn’t the kind of thing you could argue with. Not when the blood hadn’t burned. Not when the containment spells had registered harmony. Not when every other test had failed but her blood balanced his as if it had been made for it.
But Hermione didn’t deal in feelings. Not when the world was crumbling and her hands were the only steady ones left. She dealt in proof.
“You said you didn’t want to scare me,” she said softly, not looking up. “But you’ve just upended the entire foundation of magical theory and you expect me to just… guess what it means?” Draco didn’t answer.
She turned, swift and sharp, and crossed the cellar to her stack of research trunks. Her hands moved fast, tugging open drawers and shifting spellbooks until she found what she was looking for, a slim, cracked volume with a purple binding and silver lettering nearly rubbed away.
Theories of Resonance and Magical Echo: Soul Magic & Harmonic Threads. She flipped to a dog-eared page and pressed her palm flat against the enchanted parchment. The ink shimmered and activated.
Draco furrowed his brow. “What is that?”
“A resonance alignment charm,” Hermione said tightly. “Advanced theory, used to detect potential soul tethering, magical bonds, or entanglements. It’s obscure, barely referenced in the curriculum. Almost no one uses it. Too invasive. Too unpredictable.” She flicked her wand. The tip glowed faintly.
“I never cast it before because there was no reason to. I’ve run every diagnostic test under the sun. Blood alchemy, magical compatibility, core stabilization, nothing pointed to this.”
She hesitated. “But after today... I need to know.”
Draco shifted uneasily. “What does it do?” “It reads overlapping magical frequencies,” she said. “Compares them. If two people have ever been magically bonded, intentionally or not, it will show. Strong soul connections create visible harmonics. Usually faint. Flickers, maybe a pulse.”
She raised her wand. “But if there’s something more... we’ll see it.”
She cast the charm in a single breath. The magic rose like mist, curling in the air above them, colorless at first, then, light.
It burst across the cellar like someone had cracked open a star.
Golden threads erupted from her wand and surged outward, weaving around both of them. Draco gasped as bands of silvery-blue shot from his chest, colliding with hers midair. The room pulsed, slow, rhythmic. Like a shared heartbeat.
Hermione’s breath hitched. Every resonance frequency matched. It wasn’t a flicker, it was blinding.
Their magic wasn’t just compatible, it was fused. Intertwined and alive. “Oh,” she whispered, blinking against the light.
Draco just stared at the bands curling between them, like vines of fire and moonlight.
“I’ve… never seen it do that,” Hermione murmured. “Is it supposed to?” Draco asked, voice hoarse.
She shook her head numbly. “No. No, not like this.” The spell slowly dimmed, the threads fading back into the air, but something remained. A tingling in her fingers. A strange weight in her chest.
She could still feel him. And he was still staring at her like he’d just seen her soul.
Hermione’s hand trembled slightly as the last threads of magic dissolved into the air. The glow faded, but the imprint of it clung to her skin. To her core.
She felt exposed. As if her magic had been peeled back and laid bare in front of him. Draco hadn’t moved. Still staring at her like the room hadn’t returned to normal. Like he hadn’t.
Her wand buzzed sharply in her hand, urgent, insistent. She flinched, blinking as the sensation jolted her back into her body.
An enchanted pulse. Luna.
Hermione glanced down and muttered the spell to activate the message charm.
A soft, airy voice filtered out: “Hermione? Sorry to bother, Nettle root’s spoiled again. And Neville dropped the echinacea tincture. Could use help finding the fresh ones before curfew sets in.”
She closed her eyes briefly. Of course, perfect timing.
She let out a slow breath, forcing her heartbeat back to something manageable. Part of her was relieved, an excuse to step away, to re-anchor herself in something tangible. But the other part... she didn’t want to go. Not now, not after this.
She looked at Draco. “I have to help Luna gather ingredients,” she said, voice steady but quiet. “She’s not great with root identification and they’re running low upstairs.”
There was something careful in his expression now, as if he wasn’t sure if she was walking out because of Luna, or because of him.
Hermione hesitated at the edge of the ward-line.
“You’re just going to leave?” Draco said with frustration.
“I have to,” she said, too fast. “Granger,”
“I’m not going to tell the Order,” she said sharply, cutting him off. “Not until I understand what this is. And don’t thank me for that, it’s not for you. I just don’t need more people meddling in something we don’t fully comprehend.” He flinched, barely, but she didn’t stop.
“This changes everything. And if you did know you were drawn here by me,” she finally looked at him, her expression cold, eyes narrowed, “you should have told me. That wasn’t your choice to make.”
Draco’s mouth opened, then shut again. She didn’t wait for an answer. “I’ll be back later,” she said flatly, pulling on her cloak. “Don’t do anything reckless. And for Merlin’s sake, don’t lie again.”
And then she turned and walked out, footsteps hard against the stone. The door thudded closed behind her, leaving the silence sharper than before.

Hermione’s POV
The last of the ingredients had been gathered. Hermione brushed dirt from her palms, but the smell of damp soil still clung to her skin like something living.
Luna tilted her head toward the sky, strands of pale hair catching the moonlight.
“They were restless tonight,” she murmured, cradling the foraged bundle in her arms. “Roots don’t like to be pulled up when something’s about to shift.”
Hermione glanced at her. “Something’s about to shift?” Luna didn’t answer right away. She just turned to look at Hermione, her eyes slightly too wide, slightly too knowing.
“It’s not the roots I’m worried about,” she said. “It’s you.”
Hermione’s throat tightened. “I’m fine.” Luna gave a small hum, not agreeing or disagreeing. “Some bonds don’t wait for permission. They bloom all on their own. And they don’t always care whether they’re welcome.”
Hermione opened her mouth, then closed it. The air suddenly felt too sharp in her lungs.
Luna looked at her for a long moment more, as if she might say something else, but instead, she turned and padded softly back toward the safehouse, humming a tune Hermione didn’t recognize.
Hermione didn’t move. She stood alone in the cold, herbs pressed to her chest like armor, heart thrumming like it wanted to claw free of her ribs.
Then, slowly, she slipped inside. The door clicked softly behind her as she slipped into her room and leaned back against it, pressing her palms flat against the wood like it could hold her up.
For a moment, she didn’t move. Didn’t breathe. Just stared blankly at the floor as if the right thought might rise from the worn floorboards like steam.
The silence here was different. Not like the cellar, thick with magic and caged hunger. This was the kind of silence that gave her too much room. Too much space to think.
She sank onto her bed and let her hands fall into her lap, fingers threading together tightly. Her pulse still hadn’t settled.
He lied. Not in some grand, theatrical way, but it was still a lie. He hadn’t wandered aimlessly after escaping Malfoy Manor. He hadn’t just happened upon the Order’s safehouse.
He’d been drawn, by her, or more specifically their bond.
She swallowed, bile rising behind the taste of disbelief. Her blood, volatile, potent, had ignited the cauldron, calmed the magic in his veins, stood steady under sunlight that should have seared it to ash. And today, when she cast the anchoring diagnostic, they’d lit up like a bloody Christmas tree.
There was no denying it now. Not the bond or the pull. Not what she was to him or worse, what he was starting to be to her and still, he hadn’t told her.
Hermione closed her eyes, trying to line the facts up cleanly in her head, to make sense of them like any other research problem. Cause and effect. Isolate the variables. Stay neutral.
But this wasn’t a research problem. This was her and him problem.
Had he been manipulating her from the beginning? Every carefully measured word, every sidelong glance, every gesture of restraint, was it genuine? Or was it hunger in a different costume? Was it patience meant to earn her trust until she let her guard down enough to feed him?
Or worse, until she couldn’t say no? A cold knot twisted in her chest.
He hadn’t asked to drink from her. Not once. Hadn’t crossed any lines. But the possibility had always been there. Circling beneath the surface. And now, she couldn’t stop wondering if that restraint had just been part of the plan. Lulling her into a false sense of security.
She pressed her hands to her face. Her breath caught in her throat. No, she didn’t want to believe that.
And that was the most dangerous part, she didn’t want to believe it. Because if she looked too closely, she’d have to admit something far more terrifying:
That when their magic exploded in resonance and her blood aligned with his like a puzzle finally clicking into place.
That the thought of being bound to Draco Malfoy had stopped feeling impossible and started feeling inevitable.

Draco POV
The cot creaked beneath him as he shifted, every movement an effort. The hunger had sharpened overnight. Not just the dull, gnawing ache of emptiness, it was jagged now, burning through his limbs, dragging claws down the inside of his throat. He’d tried to meditate. To breathe through it. To ignore the way the sheep’s blood curdled in its flask beside him, untouched and useless.
It wouldn’t stay down anymore. He clenched his fists, jaw tight. He wasn’t going to beg. Not even in his own mind, but Merlin, he was close.
And worse than the hunger was the waiting. He didn’t know if she would come back.
Not after what he told her. He’d watched her face carefully, watched something raw and uncertain flicker across it before she left. He’d broken her trust. He’d known that would happen, and he’d told her anyway.
Because she deserved the truth, even if it cost him whatever fragile thing they’d started to build.
His head dropped into his hands, fingers threading through his hair.
He didn’t want to lose her. Not because of what her blood could potentially do. Because she was the only person who’d ever looked at him and seen something else. Not a monster. Not a mistake. Something salvageable, something human. Now Draco waited, not for freedom, not even for blood, but for the sound of her footsteps.
The one sound that could break him or save him.

Hermione POV
She paused at the cellar door, fingers tightening on the knob until her knuckles ached.
It wasn’t just the lie that bothered her. It was everything else. The way her skin felt electric near him. The way her temper burned hotter and her worry curled in tighter the closer she got. Like her emotions had been rewired.
Was it the bond or was it her? That uncertainty, that maddening, impossible question, was making her angrier than the lie itself.
Because if it was the bond, then what was real anymore? And if it wasn’t, then were her changing feelings her own?
She shook the thought off like rain and pushed the door open with a little too much force.
She was tired of not knowing where she stood, but she knew one thing: they needed to talk.
And this time, she wasn’t going to let him off easy.
Hermione’s magic stumbled through first, frayed, dragging behind her like a threadbare cloak. She descended slowly, each step deliberate, like she wasn’t sure she should be here at all.
Draco sat up instantly, eyes narrowing. She didn’t speak. Her bag dropped with a thud. Her notes spilled across the stone. The recording crystal rolled, bounced against the rune line, and fizzled out.
She stood there for a beat, just stood there. Arms loose at her sides. Hair knotted, ink on her collar and eyes hollow.
“You didn’t sleep,” Draco said carefully. She didn’t answer.
“You should’ve,” he added, gentler this time. “Yesterday was… heavy.” Still nothing. Her silence scraped against his nerves like grit under a wound.
“I didn’t mean to upset you,” he tried again. “I only told you about the bond because I thought, if it was affecting the research…”
“It’s always been affecting the research,” she snapped, eyes flashing. “I just didn’t know how badly until you decided to drop that on me like a bloody bomb.”
Draco went still.
Hermione advanced, eyes burning. “You should’ve kept it to yourself. At least until I could finish testing. Now I don’t know if anything we’ve done means anything. I’ve spent weeks trying to keep this professional, clinical, but you…”
“I was trying to help, I thought it was the right time to tell you.” Draco said, holding his voice steady. “You thought wrong,” she bit out.
Draco’s jaw twitched. “Right,” he muttered. “Of course. Because I’m always wrong, aren’t I?”
Hermione ignored that. “Maybe I have been unraveling, but at least I’ve been doing it while holding this whole thing together. While everyone else argued and second-guessed and waited for you to snap, I showed up. I carried this, alone.” Draco stood now. Agitation making his movements more jerky.
“I know that,” he said, tightly. “And I’m not trying to take that from you.”
“You already have,” she said, stepping closer to the wardline, voice rising. “You complicated everything. You let yourself get turned into this and now I’m the one losing sleep, second-guessing my sanity!” His eyes sharpened. “I didn’t let myself get turned,” he said coldly. “I didn’t ask for this.”
“You didn’t stop it either,” she snapped. “You made your choice. You threw in your lot with him.”
That did it. Draco’s hands fisted at his sides. His magic flared like a spark jumping a wire.
“THEY WERE GOING TO KILL MY MOTHER!” he roared.
The words ricocheted off the stone walls. The air pulsed, the wardline shimmered violently between them. Hermione flinched back, but only a step.
Draco’s chest heaved. His voice cracked on the next word. “What would you have done, Granger? Watched her beg? Let them bleed her out on the drawing room floor while I stood there like a good little rebel?” Hermione’s lips parted, stunned. “I was seventeen,” he spat. “I was a coward. I admit it. But I didn’t choose this. I survived it. Just like you did.”
She didn’t move. “I didn’t ask to be remade into a monster,” he growled. “I didn’t ask to be dragged here, locked underground, picked apart by the girl I once hexed on a staircase
Hermione’s voice echoed off the stone. “You always do this!” she snapped. “Twist the narrative like you’re the victim when you made the choices that led you here!”
Draco bristled. “I didn’t…” “You didn’t what?” she shouted cutting him off, stepping closer to the wardline, too close. “You didn’t mean to become a Deatheater? You didn’t mean to be a blood purist? You didn’t mean to watch me be tortured on your dining room floor and do nothing?!”
The air went taut. The wardlines flared in response, pulsing crimson, reacting not to Draco’s magic, but hers. Her rage and her intent.
And then they struck. A sharp, radiant crack of energy erupted from the perimeter, lashing toward Draco like a whip.
He screamed. The force knocked him off his feet. His shoulder collided with the wall, and he dropped with a strangled sound, clutching his side. Smoke rose from where the rune line had burned through his shirt.
Hermione’s breath caught. “Oh God.” Her wand was in her hand before she knew it, already moving. “Draco!” All her initial anger dissipated, now turning into concern.
He hissed in pain, curled in on himself. “I didn’t mean to” Her voice cracked. “The wards, they’re still tied to me, I didn’t think, they must have thought you were attacking me”
He coughed. “Yeah, no kidding.” She dropped to her knees at the edge of the containment field, shaking. “I’m taking them down.”
“Don’t.” He looked up at her, eyes golden, wild, his voice shredded. “Don’t come in here. Just, get someone else. I’m not… safe.”
“Draco, you’re burning and you're too weak to heal yourself.” “Exactly,” he snapped. “So go get someone else. Get Shacklebolt, Moody, or Harry. Someone who won’t hesitate to put me down if I lose control.”
Her hand hovered over the rune trigger. Her breath was shallow.
“And if I don’t?” she asked. He didn’t answer. His fangs were out and his breathing was coming in ragged gasps. “You didn’t even try to defend yourself,” she whispered. “Why?”
His head fell back against the stone. “Because I deserve it, maybe. Or because I’m too fucking hungry. I don’t know.” That silenced her.
A beat passed. Then, quietly, bitterly, he added, “I can’t keep the sheep blood down.”
Her eyes snapped to his. He stared past her now, into the dark above. “Hasn’t stayed down for days. First it made me sick. Now I can’t even get it past my throat. It burns.”
“You didn’t tell me.” “I knew what it meant.” “And what does it mean?” she asked, even though she already knew.
He looked at her then, something hollow in his eyes. “It means I’m not stable. Not anymore.” His voice cracked, barely audible. “Maybe it would be easier for everyone if you just let me slip away.” The silence between them stretched tight.
Hermione’s mind reeled. The tests, the symptoms, the hunger, it all pointed to one truth. She wasn’t just a stabilizer anymore. She was the source. The tether. The key.
She swallowed. “Not unless you feed from a human,” she said. Draco flinched.
They both knew it. Logically, human blood would help. Might even hold him steady for a while, but it wouldn’t be hers. Wouldn’t be the one thing they’d seen, stabilize and soothe his blood. Would just be delaying the obvious inevitability, her blood was the key.
Hermione exhaled slowly. “We don’t know what feeding from someone else would do at this point. Maybe it’d work. Maybe it’d make it worse. You said it yourself, my blood doesn’t just calm yours. It stops the pain, it makes you better.”
“And that’s the problem,” Draco said hoarsely. “This shouldn’t be your burden.”
“Maybe not. But we’re out of options.” His voice dropped to a whisper. “Granger, just go.”
She didn’t move. “I said go.” He turned toward her, and she saw it: the full strain in his face, the shimmer of sweat at his temple, the way his fangs had dropped, unbidden. “Before I lose it. Before I hurt you. I can feel it under my skin. I’m slipping.” “I’m not leaving you like this.”
“Damn it, why not?!” “Because if I get them, they’ll kill you,” she snapped.
That stopped him. “At the very least,” she continued, voice trembling now, “they’ll separate us. You’ll be chained up again, interrogated like an experiment. They’ll take one look at what we’ve discovered and call it a threat. They won’t see the breakthrough, they’ll see risk.”
He said nothing, chest heaving, hands curled into fists. “They’ll never let me near you again,” she said softly. “And if you think I’m going to stand by and watch them turn you into a monster just to make themselves feel safer, you don’t know me at all.” Her wand hovered at the ward’s edge. The line glowed between them like a verdict.
“I can’t do this,” Draco said. “Not if you come closer.” His voice cracked. “Don’t come in.”
Hermione didn’t lower her wand. But she didn’t retreat either.
“I don’t think you’d hurt me.” He let out a bitter laugh. “That’s because you don’t feel what I feel. You don’t hear it calling to me every second you’re near.”
She stilled. He turned from her, pressed his forehead to the stone wall like it might ground him. “Just… give me a vial. I’ll stay behind the line. You stay out.”
She hesitated. And in that hesitation was a choice.
This would change everything. Not just the research, not just the experiment. This was a turning point. She was choosing to keep this from the Order.
She was choosing him. “Fine,” she said. Her movements were precise. She drew a clean vial, made a shallow cut across her palm, and watched as a thread of crimson slipped into the glass.
The scent hit him instantly. His head jerked up like someone had yanked a leash.
Still, he didn’t move. Hermione sealed the vial and cast a preservation charm. For one long moment, she just stared at it in her hand.
“Are you sure you can do this without assistance?” she asked. He nodded once, jaw tight. “Just send it over, please.”
She lifted her wand and floated the vial across the ward-line. It hovered, suspended in golden light, before it dropped gently into his open hand.
He held it like it was sacred. Then reverently, he drank.

POV: Draco
The moment the blood touched his tongue, everything changed.
It didn’t burn. It didn’t taste like metal or rot or guilt.
It tasted like light. Clarity and peace. Something ancient and familiar all at once, like a memory that didn’t belong to him but still fit inside his skin.
He savored it. Every drop hit like a pulse to the heart.
His body, moments ago curled in pain, trembling with hunger, uncoiled. The sharp ache in his bones dulled. His thoughts unknotted. The static in his blood went quiet.
The world came into focus. And then he felt it. A surge behind his eyes, like warmth pushing outward, like magic trying to escape through his skin.
Across the wardline, Hermione let out a soft gasp.
“Oh, sweet Merlin…”
She dropped to her knees beside her bag, snatching up her notebook and quill, hands trembling.
“Your eyes,” she said breathlessly. “They’re glowing. Not just a flicker. Full-spectrum saturation. That’s… that’s not just magical stabilization. That’s magical attunement.”
He could barely hear her. His whole body felt like it was exhaling for the first time in weeks.
The fire in his veins had gone quiet. His skin didn’t feel like it was being carved from the inside out. The pressure in his chest, the constant thrum of restrained hunger, was gone. Not dulled, but gone. He laughed. Sharp and breathless and surprised.
Hermione looked up, startled. His head lolled back against the stone wall, a faint grin tugging at his lips. “I feel like I could run. Or levitate this whole fucking room.”
“Your aura’s stabilizing. Hold still, I want to check magical alignment.”
She waved her wand, muttering diagnostic spells in a frenzy, eyes flicking between the glowing results and her notes. Her mouth moved faster than her hand could keep up. “There’s no magical resistance. You’re not rejecting it. Your aura is harmonizing. With mine, I think.”
Draco just blinked at her. “You’re excited,” he said, dazed.
Hermione didn’t look up. “Of course I’m excited. Do you realize what this means?”
“That I’m not going to combust?” “That your blood rejection isn’t permanent. That you’re not bound to ferality. That your body is responding to something, someone, and we can measure it. Study it. Maybe replicate it.” “Sure,” he murmured, still breathless. “Or maybe I just really like how you taste.”
Her hand froze mid-sentence. The pause was short but he noticed it.
She cleared her throat, and refocused on her parchment. “Right. Well. Let’s not draw conclusions without more data.” Draco watched her for a long moment.
Her hair was coming loose again. Ink smudged her knuckle where she’d been writing too fast. She was flushed, but pretending not to be.
“Granger.” “What?” He leaned forward slightly, smile lazy, almost drunk. “You’re flattered.”
She didn’t deny it. Instead, she flicked her quill and muttered, “Enhanced visual acuity confirmed. Emotional filter compromised. Subject exhibiting signs of euphoria and reduced inhibition.” Draco laughed again. “Still flattered, though.”
Her lips twitched but she didn’t look up.
He sank back against the wall, eyes half-lidded, savoring the quiet hum of magic under his skin.
For the first time since his transformation, he wasn’t at war with himself. He wasn’t sure how long it would last. But right now, he felt alive. And all it had taken… was her.

Chapter Text

Chapter 18 —
Potatoes
The potatoes were diced too small. Almost shredded. Hermione didn’t notice. Her knife moved in clean, rhythmic strokes, but her thoughts were miles below, buried in stone and shadows, in the quiet tension of a cellar that had started to feel more honest than anywhere else. She could still see him. Draco, curled on his cot, holding the vial in both hands like it might vanish if he wasn’t careful. The way he had looked at her just before he drank—like he wasn’t sure he was allowed. And then, the way his eyes slid shut when her blood hit his tongue. Relief and bliss smoothing his features. She hadn’t expected the way it would make her chest ache to see him like that, like something inside him had finally gone still. And then he’d said it. Barely above a whisper. “Maybe I just like the way you taste.” Her stomach flipped even now at the memory. He hadn’t meant it to be cruel. Or flirtatious. He’d just… said it. Like it was truth. “Merlin, Hermione,” came Ron’s voice behind her. “You trying to carve a message into that cutting board?” She blinked down, the potato was in fragments. Neville glanced over from the stove. “She’s in the zone,” he said kindly. “Leave her be.” Ron gave a short laugh and leaned against the counter beside her. “Nice to see you upstairs for once,” he said, too casually. “Figured you’d moved into the cellar permanently by now.” Hermione froze, just for a second. Neville, still stirring, glanced between them. “He’s been stable the last few days. That’s good, right?” Hermione nodded, but didn’t speak. Ron didn’t stop. “Right,” he said, voice easy. “I’m sure it’s the goat blood doing the trick or maybe it’s the personalized rations. Or maybe” he looked at her sideways, eyes narrowing just slightly, “maybe it’s something a bit more… human.” Hermione’s chest tightened. Neville glanced between them, visibly uncomfortable now. “Ron.” Ron said, shrugging. “We’re all pretending it’s just research, but Malfoy is a snake and snakes bite.” “Ron.” Neville warned again, firmer. Hermione didn’t say a word. She set the knife down carefully, like it might break if she touched it wrong. And then she turned and walked out of the kitchen, no sharp words or explanation. The air in the hallway was cooler, but it didn’t help. Her hands were shaking. She didn’t know where she was going. Not at first, but her feet did. They carried her past the storeroom, past the empty war room, past Ginny’s door and the cramped medical supply closet, straight toward the stairs that led down. The cellar door loomed at the end of the hall, familiar and heavy and humming faintly with wards. Her fingers twitched. She didn’t need to go down there. She just… wanted to, to hear his voice, not the snide version he used with everyone else, but the one he saved for her. The quiet one. Dry and sharp and steady in a way nothing else was anymore. But Ron’s words echoed louder than her footsteps now. “Nice to see you upstairs for once.”She stopped two feet from the door. Was that what she was doing, hiding? It hadn’t felt like it before. With Draco, things made sense, clinical. In that space, she wasn’t grieving, wasn’t expected to be anything more than what she was. But now… now it felt like running. She hovered there a moment longer, one hand brushing the edge of the wardline, fingers prickling with familiar static. It would be easy. One unlocking charm, a few quiet steps and he’d be there, waiting. Maybe say something sarcastic, or just look at her like he had the night before, like she was the only thing in the world that didn’t hurt. She swallowed hard and then stepped back. Her hand dropped to her side. She turned on her heel, walking away from the door before she could talk herself into doing something she didn’t know how to explain. Draco pov Draco sat on the edge of his cot, elbows on his knees, fingers laced tightly together like if he held still enough, the want might pass. It didn’t, his tongue ghosted along his lower lip, chasing a taste that wasn’t there. Granger’s blood hadn’t just helped, it had undone him. Even now, hours later, he could still feel it: the warmth as it spread through his chest, the calm it brought to the chaos in his head. The sharp, metallic sweetness. The way his limbs stopped shaking. The way the fever retreated like it had been waiting for her. And the taste, not like anything else, not sheep, not human. Not even food, but magic made flesh. Like safety and sin, in equal measure. “Maybe I just like the way you taste.” He hadn’t meant to say it. It had slipped out, soft and dazed, while his head was still buzzing and the world had narrowed to nothing but her heartbeat echoing across the stones. Now he couldn’t stop thinking about it, about her. About the curve of her throat, the pulse under her skin. About the way she’d looked at him, not afraid, not even cautious. Just watchful, as if she’d known exactly what she was offering… and had done it anyway. The vial had been small, a few measured sips. He’d paced himself, tried to make it last but now his body knew. Knew the difference between survival and satisfaction. Between feeding and feeling fed. He ran a hand through his hair, jaw clenched. He wanted more, not just the blood, but her. The sharp edge of her mind. The steadiness of her hands. The silence that didn’t judge him when she was in the room. He’d never been good at restraint. Not really, The Dark Lord had carved that out of him early on. Rewarded cruelty, punished patience and now this, this slow, aching pull toward the only person who saw him as something worth fixing. He leaned back against the wall, eyes closed. If she didn’t come today, he’d survive. But if she did… he didn’t know if he’d be able to keep pretending it was just clinical anymore. Hermiones pov Hermione stood outside Kingsley’s office for a full thirty seconds before knocking. Her hand hovered just above the wood, her pulse thrumming in her ears. She wasn’t even sure what she was going to say. “I think I crossed a line.” “I don’t know if I can stay detached.” “He looked at me like I was salvation, and I liked it.” So, she knocked. “Come in,” came Kingsley’s deep voice. She stepped inside. The room smelled like ink and char. A map of the Scottish highlands hovered midair above his desk, dotted with flickering red points. A few of them blinked out as she watched. Kingsley rubbed a hand across his face, eyes tired. “Granger.” “Sir,” she said, steeling her voice. “I needed to talk to you.” “Good,” he said, gesturing to the seat across from him. “Because I needed to talk to you, too.” She hesitated, then sat. Kingsley didn’t mince words. “We lost another outpost last night. North of Inverness. Two order members dead. One missing..” Hermione’s stomach sank. “I’m sorry.” “I know,” he said. “I’m telling you because we’re out of time.” He turned to the map, pointing at a cluster of red. “They’re getting bolder. Moving in packs and striking at night. Greyback’s wolves are coordinating now, not just following blood. Someone’s giving orders. And it’s working.” Hermione stayed still, heart thudding, bile rising at the name of Greyback. Kingsley looked at her. “I need to know,” he said quietly. “Is there any version of this where Draco Malfoy fights for us?” The question hit harder than she expected. “Sir, he’s… recovering. I’ve been working on regulating his instincts, keeping him stable.” “I’m not asking if he’s house-trained,” Kingsley said, not unkindly. “I’m asking if he could be an asset. A weapon. Something we can point at the people tearing us apart.” Hermione stared at him. “Because we don’t have many moves left,” he added. “And whatever Voldemort did to him, it worked. He’s stronger and faster He can track, resist most curses, sees in the dark. If we could get him on our side…” He didn’t finish the sentence and he didn’t have to. Hermione’s throat tightened. She had wanted to tell Kingsley that she wasn’t sure she could stay objective. That her research had blurred into something messier, that she was slipping. Instead, she sat there while he looked her in the eye and asked her to slip further. “He trusts you,” Kingsley said. “If there’s any chance of reaching him, it’s through you.” Hermione swallowed, she thought of Draco, leaning back against the stone wall with her blood on his lips. The way he’d exhaled like it was the first time he could breathe. She thought of how still he’d gone. How quiet and she knew. She knew how to make him agree to anything, her blood. “Yes,” she said finally. “There’s a chance.” Draco sat on the edge of the cot, one leg bent, an arm slung across his knee. His expression was softer than she expected, unfamiliar. “Granger,” he said evenly, not standing, not smiling. But not cold, either. “Hi,” she said, shutting the door gently behind her. Silence stretched, she lingered near the door for a beat too long, like she might flee, before finally stepping further into the room. She took a slow breath, glancing toward the table, the chalkboard, the stacks of parchment and notes, all of which felt miles away from what she came here to do. “I was with Kingsley,” she said finally. Draco tilted his head, skeptical but silent. “He asked me something,” she continued. “Something I wasn’t sure how to answer.” That earned her a raised brow. “He wanted to know if you might ever fight with us. For the Order.” Draco’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Fight, with the people who locked me in a cellar.” “I told him you’d never agreed to anything. That you were here for recovery. Not… recruitment.” He didn’t interrupt, but the air had shifted, the calmness from before was already slipping. “But,” she pressed on, “he’s right about one thing. We need help. The war’s turning, people are dying. We’re running out of time, and we don’t have anyone like you.” “Monster quota already filled?” She winced. “Draco, don’t.” She took another step closer. Her voice dropped. “I’m not here under orders. He asked a question, I’m asking something else.” His eyes fixed on her, unreadable. “If you want revenge,” she said carefully, “if you want to stop him, Voldemort, you can. We can help you do it.” Draco stood slowly. “You’re here,” he said, “to offer me a leash.” “No.” She shook her head. “Not a leash, a deal.” He stared at her for a long moment. And then, softly,“You’re not just here to talk.” She swallowed hard. “No.” Her voice cracked slightly when she added, “If you fight for us, if you join the Order… I’ll give you my blood. Freely, no vials, no charts. Just me.” He blinked once and then that calmness from before? It vanished completely. Draco stared at her and this time, the silence was heavier. “You know what it does to me,” he said, voice low. “You know what it means and you came down here anyway, dangling it like a carrot on a string.” She opened her mouth, maybe to apologize, but he shook his head. “I’m not angry,” he muttered. “Or maybe I am, I don’t even know.” His eyes met hers, sharp and unreadable. “But I can’t say no to you. Not when you offer that.” Her breath caught. “And maybe that’s the worst part,” he added, softer now. “Because I’d like to believe I still have a choice.” He exhaled, long and slow, running a hand through his hair. His voice dropped, quieter than before, almost vulnerable. “I’ll help,” he said. Hermione’s throat ached. A beat of silence passed before he added, calmly but with something burning just beneath: “Now we’re even.” And then he turned away. Hermione swallowing back everything she didn’t say, and then walked up the stairs Hermione’s Room – Late Evening A soft knock pulled Hermione from her haze. She blinked, realizing she’d been staring at the same page in her notebook for nearly ten minutes. The ink had pooled in one spot, spreading like a bruise. “Yeah?” she called. Harry peeked in, his silhouette backlit by the hallway sconces. “Can I come in?” She nodded, gesturing to the chair across from her. He sat slowly, hands clasped between his knees, looking more tired than usual but gentler too. “I just… wanted to check on you.” “I’m fine,” she said too quickly. He gave her a look. “Right. Of course you are.” A pause. “I heard Malfoy’s agreed to fight with us,” he said carefully. “Not just… stay caged up, actual combat.” Hermione set her quill down with practiced calm. “So I’ve heard.” “That’s surprising,” Harry went on. “I didn’t think he was ready. Didn’t think he could control it long enough to be useful out there.”Hermione’s throat tightened. “He can now,” she said. “Really?” Harry blinked. “You cracked it? A serum?” She nodded once, tightly. “Yes.” “What’s in it?” Her heart skipped. “Oh, just stabilizers. Modified calming draught, reinforced with phoenix ash and a blood-binding agent.” “Wow,” Harry breathed. “You’re incredible, you know that?” The words hurt more than they should. Hermione smiled thinly. “It’s not perfect. But it keeps the bloodlust down and makes him clearer.” Harry nodded slowly, running a hand through his hair. “Good. That’s… that’s really good. We need every edge we can get.” He stood, pausing at the door. “I don’t know how you do it, Hermione. Everything you’re carrying, what you’re doing down there, it matters. He trusts you. That’s something.” She didn’t respond. After a moment, Harry offered a small smile. “Get some sleep, yeah?” And then he was gone. Hermione stared at the door for a long time. The guilt threatened to overwhelm her, she was juggling so many things. She felt guilty for using her blood against Draco, she felt guilty for lying to Harry, Kingsley, Ginny… well basically everyone except Draco. The ink on her notes had dried hours ago. She hadn’t turned a page since dinner. Hermione sat back in her chair, rubbing at her eyes until stars sparked behind her lids. Every part of her felt thin, worn, like parchment left too close to flame. She couldn’t shake Harry’s question, even though he hadn’t asked it aloud. What exactly are you doing, Hermione? She didn’t know. Not really. Just that something had shifted, and she didn’t know how to shift back. The fire crackled low in the grate, casting long shadows across the floor. Somewhere down the corridor, she could hear the muffled sounds of footsteps and distant voices, Order members making their rounds. It grounded her and reminded her that this wasn’t a dream. This was the war and Draco was part of it now. Well, he’d always been apart of it but now he was on their side. With a slow breath, she stood. Her knees ached from sitting too long. The lamp flickered as she passed, casting her face in half-light. She didn’t bother changing. Didn’t bother fixing her hair. There was no vanity left in this, no performance. It had been hour since Draco agreed but she couldn’t settle, couldn’t sleep unless she knew they were okay. At the very least she could at least give a peace offering to Draco. She picked up the vial and left the room, before she lost her nerve. The door opened quietly. Draco was already seated in the far corner, legs stretched out, back against the wall, staring at nothing in particular. A book rested on the table beside him, closed and untouched. Hermione hesitated in the doorway, then stepped in, her shoes barely making a sound on the stone floor. “They’ve scheduled some assessments,” she said softly. “A series of controlled tests. To evaluate how you handle pressure in the field.” He didn’t look up. “Spellwork, simulated combat, maybe even field communication exercises. It won’t be for a few weeks. They want a baseline first.” Draco nodded once. “Fine.” Just that, not a flicker of emotion. Not even sarcasm. She lingered. “You’re not… upset?” “No.” “I know it’s dehumanizing,” she added, voice quieter now. “I’m sorry.” Another pause. “They have to be sure,” she offered. “It’s protocol, it’s not personal.” He finally glanced at her but the look was unreadable. Not cruel, not warm, just distant. “Of course,” he said. “They want to see if the monster has manners.” Hermione flinched. “That’s not what they think.” He gave a faint shrug. “Doesn’t matter what they think. I said I’d do it.” Silence stretched between them. Hermione stepped closer. “Draco…” He didn’t respond. She studied him, his posture, his stillness, the way his eyes avoided hers now. Like whatever flicker of connection they’d built had been extinguished the second she made the offer. Her blood in exchange for his cooperation. It shouldn’t have felt like this. “I just…” Her voice faltered. “I didn’t want things to feel like a transaction.” Draco finally looked at her again. “But they are.” That landed hard, he turned his gaze back to the wall. “You should go.” Hermione didn’t move. She knew she should. He’d shut her out, turned away. Made it clear he didn’t want her there. But her feet wouldn’t carry her to the door. Not when the air between them still felt like a thread pulling taut. Her hand moved before she could think, slipping into her pocket, fingers curling around the small vial. She hated herself for what she was about to do. For how much it felt like bartering. But she had nothing else. No words that wouldn’t shatter in her throat. She held it out. “I brought you another,” she said softly, the words barely holding themselves together. “If you… still want it.” Draco turned slowly. His eyes dropped to the glass in her trembling hand, then rose, sharp, unreadable, to her face. “I just thought…” Her voice cracked. “I don’t really know what else I have left to offer.” And she meant it. Whatever steadiness she’d clung to before, it was slipping. Draco stepped forward, but he didn’t take the vial. He reached for her hand instead, his fingers curling gently around hers, anchoring them both. “Hermione.” His voice was quiet and measured. “You’re not a resource,” he said, voice laced with something careful and sincere. “Your worth isn’t measured by what you can give. Especially not like this.” She swallowed hard, blinking fast. He loosened her fingers, slowly easing the vial from her grip, but his hand lingered on hers, thumb brushing lightly along her knuckles. A moment held still. “I don’t want this to become something cold between us,” he said. “Because whatever this is… it isn’t that. Not for me.” Her breath caught. He stepped back, not far, but enough to keep his control intact. His gaze flicked to the vial, then back to her, softer now. “I’m not doing this just for the Order,” he added, almost like it cost him something to say. “Or even for the blood.” A pause. “I’m doing it for you.” Hermione stared at him, stunned silent. And when she finally turned to go, it wasn’t out of rejection or shame or duty. It was because if she stayed one second longer, she might have reached for him again, and she wasn’t sure she could take the heartbreak if he didn’t reach back. Draco pov The door clicked shut behind her. Draco stared at the space she’d just left, the quiet of the room pressing in like a weight. In his hand, the vial she’d given him still radiated her warmth. Still her, even in absence. He hated this. He hated that she came to him like that, eyes tired, voice trembling, offering something so small and devastating like it was all she had left. A bloody vial clutched in her hand like a peace offering, like an apology. He should’ve sent her away. He meant to. Had planned to keep his walls up, his answers clipped, his gaze cold. He wanted her to feel the distance, to understand that what they’d had, whatever it was, had shifted. Maybe even broken. But then she’d stood there, reduced to that one quiet offering. No pride or pretense. Just raw humanity and he couldn’t do it. He hadn’t meant to savor it. He really hadn’t, but the moment the first drop touched his tongue, something shifted. Not just inside his body though the effect there had been immediate. The dull ache in his limbs vanished like mist in morning sun. The fire in his nerves quelled. The tightness behind his eyes, the gnawing hunger in his gut, all of it eased. But that wasn’t the only strange part, it was how clear everything became. The cellar, the stone, the rune marks etched into the ceiling he could feel them now. The magic in the air didn’t just hum; it sang. His fingers buzzed with latent power. When he reached for the empty vial out of instinct, it floated into his palm before he even realized he’d summoned it. Wandless magic, stronger than ever, rivaling his wanded magic. It was effortless. He stared at the vial, the smear of crimson still clinging to the glass lip, and tried to slow his breathing. That should’ve terrified him. Should’ve made him feel monstrous, but it didn’t. It felt right and that was dangerous. He flexed his hand, and the cot beneath him creaked softly as the mattress shifted on its own. Hadn’t even thought about moving it. His magic was responding to thought now. No incantations or intent. Just emotion. He stood slowly, pacing the narrow cell, the loose stone floor whispering beneath his bare feet. The edges of the walls didn’t feel like boundaries anymore. They felt like suggestions. And yet…He wasn’t thinking about escape. He was thinking about her,Hermione. Her scent still lingered faintly in the air, sharper now, like the blood had tuned his senses to her specifically. He could taste the ghost of her on the back of his tongue sharp, clean, like peppermint and something ancient. His whole body felt aligned with her now, tethered to something he couldn’t name. He craved her, not just her blood though the thought made his fangs throb with memory but her presence. Her voice and her mind. That impossible calm she brought with her, even when she was angry. Especially when she was angry. He slumped back against the wall, pressing his palm to his temple. This wasn’t hunger. Not exactly, but this was pull. When she wasn’t in the room, something in him went restless. Unmoored, like she was a gravity he was supposed to orbit and her absence unbalanced everything. Her blood had sated him physically and yet now, he felt more unsatisfied than ever. But one thing was sure, he could not live without Hermione Granger anymore. She was still willing to bleed for him and couldn’t say that about anyone else. And part of him hated her for that. Hated her for reducing what they had, what he felt, into this transaction. Into a bargain. Fight for us, and I’ll give you what you crave. But even more, he hated himself. Because no matter how badly he wanted to stay angry, no matter how much he wanted to twist the knife back… he couldn’t. Not when she looked like that. Not when she was already bleeding, in more ways than one. He let his head fall back against the stone wall, the empty vial still in his hand, shame burning slow beneath his skin.

Chapter Text

Chapter Ninteen — First Bite
Hermione POV
Hermione lay sprawled sideways across her bed, after a long day brewing potions, trying not to think of Draco’s voice from the night before.
‘I’m not doing this just for the Order. Or even for the blood. I’m doing it for you.’
Every time she replayed it, her stomach flipped, heat crawling up her throat. It was ridiculous, he hadn’t said it like a confession, hadn’t laced it with tenderness. His tone had been clipped, restrained, almost begrudging. And yet… it still landed somewhere inside her that made her pulse quicken.
Her cheeks burned. She wasn’t sixteen anymore, wasn’t a girl scribbling initials in the margins of a diary. She was a war strategist, a healer, a woman carrying more secrets than she knew how to keep straight. And still… those words lodged in her chest, stubborn and dangerous, refusing to be ignored.
She pressed her palms over her eyes, as if she could blot it out. But the memory remained, vivid and bright against the backdrop of everything else, the desperation, the deaths, the gnawing fear of failure. Amidst all of it, he had said he was fighting for her. Not the Order, not even for revenge, but for her.
Hermione rolled onto her side, staring at the empty vial glinting faintly on her nightstand. Guilt pinched deep. The lie to Harry still burned on her tongue, about the serum, and the carefully fabricated stabilizer she’d never brewed. If the others knew what she was really doing, giving her blood freely, night after night, they’d drag her out of the cellar themselves.
And Draco? Merlin, what did he even mean by it? Did he want her to believe him? Did she want to believe him?
Her lips curved before she could stop them. She felt giddy and sick all at once, like she’d swallowed something she wasn’t meant to taste.
The thought made her unbalanced. A knock at the door jolted her. Sharp and abrupt, like it didn’t belong in the hush of her spiraling thoughts.
She didn’t answer right away. Then, softly through the wood, “Hermione? It’s me.”
Neville. Her spine eased slightly at the sound of his voice. She took a breath, just one, then rose and opened the door.
He stood there with a cup of tea in each hand, hair slightly mussed, jumper half untucked, that ever-present furrow in his brow that meant he was thinking too hard again, or maybe worrying.
He held one mug out sheepishly. “Chamomile, I figured if you were still working this late, you probably hadn’t stopped to breathe, let alone hydrate.”
She blinked, then took it with a small, grateful nod. “Thanks, Neville.”
He didn’t move to come in. Just stood in the doorway like he didn’t want to crowd her.
“I, uh…” He rubbed the back of his neck. “I’m not trying to pry, but… I guess I’m just a little worried. You’ve been… quieter than usual, and not in your normal, hyper-focused way.”
Hermione glanced down at the tea. The steam rose in lazy swirls. She could feel the warmth in her palm but not much else.
“I’m okay,” she said quickly. “Just…tired, but things are actually going well. With the tests, and Malfoy.”
Neville’s eyebrows lifted, not in surprise, but in quiet interest.
She pressed on. “We’ve made progress. His healing is stabilizing. The blood trials are… working. I think,” she hesitated, choosing her words, “I think he’ll be able to roam more freely soon. Under supervision, of course.”
Neville nodded thoughtfully. “That’s good. I mean that’s really good.”
He lingered for a beat longer. “It’s just you looked pale tonight. Paler than usual, I mean, and your hand was shaking when you left the kitchen.”
Hermione forced a smile, small and brittle. “I didn’t sleep much last night.”
Neville tilted his head slightly. “You don’t have to do this all alone, you know.”
The words nearly cracked something in her. She knew Neville had harbored a crush on her since second year, but there was no spark on her side. Even though she had fantasized what a relationship with Neville would like she had decided that there was no end to their story that didn’t end with him having his heart broken. She stayed friendly but never crossed the line.
So, she just nodded and said, “I know.” He hesitated, then smiled gently. “Well, just in case. I’m around, if you ever want a second brain or just… some silence that doesn’t feel so loud.”
Her throat tightened. “Thanks, Neville,” she whispered. He gave a soft shrug and stepped back. “Goodnight, Hermione.” She watched him go, the door clicking softly behind him.
Her tea had gone lukewarm in her hand, she didn’t drink it.
Draco POV
Hermione descended the stairs with a floating crystal bobbing at her shoulder, quill and parchment already in hand. She looked more focused than usual, like she’d practiced keeping her expression neutral before coming down.
Draco sat on the cot, arms resting on his knees, watching her with that infuriating calm.
“We need to start cataloging the changes,” she said without preamble, setting her notes on the table. “Now that you’re on… my blood.” She hesitated, then pushed on briskly. “Physiological, magical, emotional. The Order will need data if I’m going to argue you’re stable enough for field use.”
Draco arched a brow. “So I’m a science experiment now.”
“You always were, but if all this works you won't be for much longer” she said pointedly, ink scratching as she drew columns across the page. “Start simple. Strength, senses, pain tolerance.”
He smirked faintly. “Stronger, faster, sharper. Pain’s gone.”
She jotted it down. “Cravings?” His eyes flickered, a small pause before he said, “Manageable. As long as…” His gaze lingered on her throat for a half-beat before he forced it away. “As long as I have what you give.”
Her quill slowed, but she didn’t comment. “All right. And… emotional state?”
“Brilliant,” he said dryly. “I’m locked in a cellar, surrounded by people who want me dead, drinking your blood to stay alive. Positively cheerful.”
“Malfoy.” He sighed, leaning back. “Clearer. Less… volatile. Until I think too long about it.”
She nodded, scribbling. “Now,” she asked, voice dipping a little, “any acute reactions? Immediately after ingestion?”
Draco went very still. Hermione looked up, expectant but softer now. “Malfoy?”
His jaw flexed. “My fangs descend. Instinct, obvious enough.”
“Yes, good. What else?” He looked away. “Nothing worth..”
“Malfoy.” His lips twitched, not in humor but in irritation. Finally, he exhaled, long and slow, rubbing a hand across his face. “Other things… happen.”
Hermione blinked. “Other… things?” He gave her a sharp look, as if daring her to make him say it. Her quill hovered midair, her brow furrowed, uncertain.
His ears went faintly pink. “I get aroused, Granger.” The words came out clipped, bitten off. “Is that clinical enough for your notes?”
The cellar seemed to still. For the first time all morning, Hermione faltered. Her quill dropped to the page without moving, her face warming as her mouth parted soundlessly. She bent her head quickly, scribbling something almost too fast to read.
“Physiological arousal,” she murmured, her voice thinner, shy in a way she hadn’t meant it to be. “Sympathetic surge. Possibly… hormonal.”
Draco groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “Merlin, don’t reduce it to hormones. That’s worse.”
Her lips twitched, but not with amusement this time, more like she was struggling not to look at him, cheeks hot. “You’re… embarrassed,” she said quietly, and for once her tone wasn’t sharp.
“Of course I’m embarrassed,” he snapped, then lowered his voice when it echoed too much in the cellar. “I’d rather not discuss… that… with you of all people.”
Hermione hesitated, her quill trembling faintly in her hand. “I know it’s uncomfortable,” she said gently. “But it matters. We need to understand everything, even the parts you’d rather not say out loud.”
He shot her a look, sharp but edged with self-deprecation. “You didn’t say I’d have to document my… engorgement.”
Her eyes widened, and she pressed her lips together, visibly flustered. “I’ll… I’ll mark it down,” she said, voice unsteady but trying for brisk. Her ears were pink now, her gaze fixed very firmly on the parchment.
Draco slumped back against the wall, muttering, “Bloody humiliating.”
But when she finally glanced up,face still red, quill clutched like a shield, her eyes softened. Tentative and shy.

Hermione cleared her throat, trying to collect herself as she set her quill down. “We… should move on,” she said, voice brisk but not quite steady. “The sunlight exposure.”
Draco tilted his head, smirk faint but eyes still sharp. “Back to burning me alive, then.”
“It’s necessary,” she muttered, gathering the floating crystal from the table. “You know that.”
He stood slowly, the cot creaking beneath him. “Shirt off again?”
“Yes,” she said automatically, then caught herself, color rising at how quickly it had left her mouth. “I mean, yes. I need direct contact.”
His smirk widened, but he didn’t comment. He tugged his shirt over his head in one smooth motion, tossing it aside carelessly.
Hermione’s breath caught before she could stop it. He’d always been lean, sharp angles and shadows. But now… his frame had thickened, subtly but undeniably. Shoulders broader, chest and arms cut with new definition, muscle stretching his skin in ways that hadn’t been there before. He looked taller, too, like his body had lengthened, straightened.
Her fingers tightened on the crystal. This isn’t supposed to happen. This isn’t recovery. This is change.
“Granger,” Draco drawled, his voice low. “You’re staring.”
Her cheeks burned. She turned quickly, adjusting the calibration on the floating sphere. “I’m observing.”
“Observing,” he echoed, amused. “Of course.”
She ignored him, forcing her professional tone back. “Stand still.”
He did, unusually obedient. The crystal brightened, spilling golden light over his bare skin. Hermione watched closely, breath held. The first time she’d tried this, his skin had blistered almost instantly, smoke curling from the contact.
The crystal flared, spilling gold into the dim cellar.
Draco stood in it, bare-chested, still as stone. The light washed over his skin, touched his hair, set pale strands aglow. Hermione’s breath caught in her throat. She braced herself for the sound she dreaded—the hiss of burning, the curl of smoke, the blistering agony that had come the first time they’d tried this.
But nothing came. He didn’t flinch. Didn’t cry out. Didn’t blacken and blister under the warmth.
He simply stood there. The golden light clung to him as though it belonged, bathing him in a glow that made him look almost otherworldly. His eyes fluttered shut, lashes catching in the brightness, and for a long time he didn’t speak. He only tilted his head back, just slightly, as if he hadn’t believed he’d ever feel this again.
Hermione’s throat tightened. “It’s… it’s not burning you,” she whispered, as though saying it aloud might undo it.
Draco opened his eyes, slow and deliberate, pale irises catching the glow. What looked back at her wasn’t smug or sly. It was stripped bare.
“No,” he said softly, voice hushed, like a man in prayer. “It feels only warm.”
He lifted his face again, letting the glow touch every angle of him, as though committing it to memory. Awe moved across his features in quiet waves. For once, there was no edge, no cheek. Only wonder.
Hermione could hardly breathe. She stepped closer, the crystal trembling faintly in her hand. “It’s probably not permanent,” she managed, words tumbling out before she could stop them. “If you stop drinking, if the supply ever…” She faltered, the quill in her other hand slipping slightly. “You’ll burn again.”
Slowly, Draco’s gaze lowered to hers. His expression held no defiance, no bitterness, only that same raw awe, heavy and quiet.
“Then I’ll take whatever you give, because it’s more than I deserve.”
The words sank between them like a stone in deep water, ripples spreading outward. Hermione’s heart twisted painfully, because it wasn’t hunger, it wasn’t demand. It was devotion, laid bare, simple and unguarded.
Her quill hand shook as she forced herself to write: Sunlight exposure, no reaction.
But even as the ink dried, she couldn’t look away from him.
Draco stood there in the glow, shoulders broad, face lifted like a man who’d been handed back something holy. His lips parted faintly, as though he still couldn’t believe it. Reverence clung to him, saturating the air between them.
And the terrible, exhilarating truth pressed in: she was the one who had given it back.
The sun itself, and in the silence that stretched between them, it was unspoken but inescapable, they were bound now.
Not just by blood, by the light itself.
Hermione POV
Hermione paused at the door to his cell, wand raised, lips already shaping the counter-charm. The familiar runes carved into the stone began to stir at her command, until the magic shivered, collapsed, and dissolved into nothing before she could finish.
Her words died in her throat. The wards were gone.
She looked up sharply. Draco was inside, one hand lifted lazily, his expression maddeningly calm. Bare-chested still from the sunlight trial, the sharp lines of his shoulders caught the lantern light as he lowered his arm.
“You don’t need to bother anymore,” he said softly, voice carrying in the quiet stone chamber. “I can unravel them myself.”
He looked down at his hand, flexing his fingers. “It’s not just the wards. My wandless magic…” His eyes lifted again, catching hers. “It’s stronger now than it ever was with a wand.”
Hermione blinked, startled. “Stronger than…? Draco, that shouldn’t be possible.”
“I know.” His voice was quiet, but edged with something heavier. “But it is.”
Her academic instincts surged despite herself. She took a half-step closer, eyes darting between his hand, the fading traces of ward-magic in the stone, and his face. “Stronger than channeling through hawthorn and dragon heartstring?”
He gave a single, deliberate nod. For a heartbeat, all she could do was stare. “That’s…” her voice faltered. “That’s extraordinary.”
A faint flicker tugged at the corner of his mouth. Not smugness, not gloating, just something softer, pleased by her awe.
Hermione’s grip tightened on her wand. “You…how long have you been able to do that?”
He stepped closer to the bars, his eyes never leaving hers. The air between them seemed to constrict, charged. “A while.”
Her stomach flipped. A while. Which meant every night she’d walked away, trusting the layered magic to hold, he’d already outgrown it. He could have walked free. He hadn’t.
“Then why didn’t you?” she asked, her voice lower, unsteady.
Draco tilted his head, so close now that the glow of the wards or what had been wards, still shimmered faintly against his pale skin. His eyes were pale fire, direct, unflinching.
“Because you asked me not to.”
The words sank into her, sharp and quiet. Not a promise but a choice.
Hermione realized too late how near they stood, the stone cold at her back, his body filling her vision. Her pulse thudded, her breath caught, and for one dangerous second, she couldn’t think of a single word. The silence drew close again, pressing, the sharp outline of his shoulders filling her vision, the smooth pale line of his throat catching the glow.
She broke the silence with the first thing that came to mind. “You need to put a shirt on.”
The corner of his mouth tugged, faint but unmistakable.
“Professionalism,” she added quickly, cheeks warming as she stepped past him into the cell. “This is supposed to be training, Malfoy, not…” she faltered, “…whatever this is.”
Draco didn’t move for a long moment, gaze lingering on her with an intensity that made her stomach twist. Then, slowly, he bent to pick up the shirt draped across the cot, tugging it over his head in one smooth motion. The fabric stretched faintly across his chest and shoulders, as if even the shirt wasn’t used to the breadth of him now.
“Better?” he asked, his voice low. Hermione kept her eyes on her notes, refusing to look up. “Marginally.”
But her hand trembled just slightly as she wrote: Wandless magic: now exceeds wanded channeling.
That should have been impossible. But then again, everything about him lately seemed impossible.
She cleared her throat, forcing herself back into the role of examiner. “Next,” she said briskly. “Strength.”
Draco arched a brow but didn’t argue. He stood there, shirt hanging loose but doing little to disguise the breadth he hadn’t had weeks ago. His body was still changing—she could see it every time he moved, the lines of him sharper, stronger.
“Lift the cot,” she instructed.
He glanced at the iron frame, then at her. Without moving his hands, the entire bed scraped upward off the floor and hovered, silent, as though suspended by invisible chains.
Hermione’s pulse jumped. Her quill scratched: Levitation: wandless. Precision: controlled.
The cot rotated slowly, deliberately. He set it down without a sound.
She swallowed, eyes flicking back up. “Fine. Reflexes.”
Hermione fired the first spell fast, Expelliarmus! A red streak through the air. Draco tilted his wrist, and the beam fractured into harmless sparks.
Another, Stupefy! He sidestepped so cleanly it brushed his sleeve but missed.
She increased tempo, her voice sharp with incantations, wand snapping. The air hissed with hexes, jinxes, volleys fired back-to-back. Draco deflected them all, some with gestures, some with nothing more than thought. His movements were smooth, controlled, terrifyingly efficient.
By the fifth spell Hermione’s hair stuck to her damp forehead, her breathing ragged. Draco hadn’t broken a sweat.
She scribbled furiously: Deflection time < 1 second. Near-perfect accuracy.
Draco cocked his head, gaze steady. “That the best you’ve got?”
Hermione shot him a glare to hide the ripple of awe. “Control next.”
The crystal hovered again at her shoulder, waiting. “Channel into it,” she instructed. “No words.”
Draco extended his hand. The crystal blazed so bright she flinched, white-gold light spilling like molten fire through the cellar.
Her heart stuttered. “Merlin,” she whispered. “You shouldn’t be able to sustain that without strain.”
“I’m not straining.” His voice was quiet, and it was true, his chest barely moved with breath, his hand steady as stone.
Her quill tore the page in her haste: Energy output: exceeds known capability.
“Resilience,” she said finally, throat tight.
She aimed her wand, gave him the courtesy of warning. “This may sting.”
He only stood taller. “Do your worst.”
Petrificus Totalus! His limbs locked for a second—then snapped free, the spell breaking off him like shattering glass.
Hermione’s quill slipped in her fingers. “That…” She shook her head. “That isn’t possible.”
Draco looked at her, pale eyes unblinking. “It is now.”
By the time she lowered her wand, her parchment was crowded with frantic scrawls, smudges where her hand had shaken: Strength ++. Speed ++. Wandless control: exceeds baseline. Sunlight: stable.
She finally looked up. He stood there, shirt clinging faintly to his chest, hair damp, watching her with an unreadable steadiness. Not arrogant, not mocking—just waiting.
“You’re more powerful than I thought,” she admitted quietly.
Draco didn’t reply. Instead, he stepped closer, slow and deliberate, until the lantern glow cut across the sharp planes of his face and she had to tilt her chin to keep his gaze. His eyes caught hers, steady, pale, unflinching. Something reverent moved there, unspoken.
Her quill slipped in her grip, smudging the page. The silence between them was too thick, too charged, as though the absence of words meant more than any declaration.
Hermione forced her attention back to her notes, though her heart thudded traitorously loud in her chest. She tried to write, to hide the heat crawling up her neck, but she couldn’t shake the thought pressing down on her: whatever bound him here, whatever had changed him, it lived now in the space between them.

The silence pressed in, heavy, and Hermione’s quill hovered uselessly above parchment. Draco hadn’t looked away. He’d stepped closer, and she hadn’t stopped him.
Before she could find her voice, a sharp vibration rattled through the air. Her wand buzzed violently against her palm, the signal charm sparking. She flinched, breaking eye contact.
Kingsley. She lifted the wand, the rune glowing faintly. The message unfurled clear and commanding: Bring him upstairs. Meeting room. Now.
Hermione’s stomach clenched. Draco’s brow arched slightly. “What now?”
She swallowed. “Kingsley. And the others. They want to… discuss your future involvement.”
That earned her a long pause. Draco tilted his head, studying her like he could read everything she wasn’t saying. His voice was steady, but quiet. “So the tribunal finally wants to look at the monster up close.”
“It’s not like that,” she said quickly, though the heat in her throat betrayed her own doubt. “They need to see your progress. To know what I already know.”
His lips curved faintly, humorless. “That I can lift beds and break your hexes?”
“That you’re not a liability,” she corrected sharply. But her grip on the parchment was too tight, her knuckles white.
For a long beat, neither moved. Then Draco stepped back, giving her space, but his gaze never wavered. “Lead the way, Granger.”
Hermione tried to gather her scattered composure. She tucked her notes under one arm, raised her wand to dissolve the last traces of warding, and gestured toward the narrow stairwell.
The sound of his footsteps behind her was strangely loud, reverberating through the stone passage. And for the first time since they’d locked him down there, Draco Malfoy was walking out of the cellar.

The heavy door groaned as Hermione opened it, the wards dissolving at her touch. Draco followed her out of the cellar, his steps measured, shoulders squared. For the first time since he’d been imprisoned here, he was moving freely through the Order’s halls.
The corridors seemed narrower than usual. Every sound carried, the echo of his boots, the faint rustle of his shirt, the hitch in Hermione’s breath.
They passed a pair of younger recruits first. One sneered openly, lips curling in disdain. Another whispered too loudly, “That’s him.”
Draco didn’t flinch. His gaze remained steady, his mouth a line carved from stone. But Hermione felt the air thicken as they went, suspicion and fear pressing down on both of them.
Lupin met them at the stairwell. His expression was softer, cautious curiosity rather than scorn, but even he lingered on Draco a beat too long before nodding at Hermione.
Further up, Neville leaned against the wall, arms crossed, eyes flicking between them. There was no hostility there, but interest, sharp, appraising. Draco caught his stare and raised one pale brow.
Hermione kept her chin high, forcing her pace even. She could feel every set of eyes following them. Some narrowed, some burning with old hatred, some glimmering with reluctant intrigue.
Draco’s voice cut quietly into the silence, pitched only for her. “Charming welcome.”
“Don’t,” she murmured, not looking at him. “They don’t know what I know.”
At that, he glanced sidelong at her, pale eyes unreadable. For a fraction of a second, his expression softened, something like amusement, or gratitude, or both. Then it was gone, replaced with the same mask of calm he’d worn since the door opened.
When they reached the meeting room, the air shifted again. The senior members were waiting. Kingsley, Moody, Arthur, all of them silent, all of them watching.
Hermione stepped aside to open the door, and for just a moment their shoulders brushed. A small, fleeting contact, but enough to ground her before she ushered him forward, past the threshold, into judgment.
The room went quiet when Hermione led Draco inside. Kingsley stood at the head of the long table, Moody at his shoulder, Arthur and Lupin entering and flanking the far end. Their eyes tracked every step Draco took, sharp and assessing, like predators measuring a threat.
Hermione laid her folder of notes carefully at the edge of the table, intending to reference them if needed, obviously, everything to do with him drinking her blood was already removed and her fabricated serum included.
“Granger,” Kingsley said, his voice even but firm. “Thank you. You can wait outside while we speak with him.”
The words had barely settled when Draco scoffed under his breath.
“Really?” His pale eyes swept the table before fixing on Kingsley. “You’ll keep her out? She’s the one who’s been down there doing the work. She knows more about my condition than any of you. She’s the reason I’m even standing here, and you want to ice her out like she’s irrelevant?”
The room went very still. Moody’s magical eye whirred, actually pausing in its spin.
Draco’s voice dropped, low and deliberate. “If you’re smart, you’ll recognize she’s worth ten of the rest of you.”
Hermione’s stomach lurched. Heat rushed to her cheeks. Merlin, what are you doing?
She caught his eye, sharp, urgent, willing him to understand. “It’s fine,” she cut in quickly, tone clipped. “They need to assess you, not me. I have… other things that need my attention.”
Her gaze held his a beat longer, a silent plea: drop it. For a fraction of a second he looked like he might argue again. Then he exhaled through his nose, jaw tight, and fell silent.
The door shut behind her with a soft thud. Inside, Kingsley reached for the notes she’d left. The pages were dense with ink, margins filled with scrawls, her familiar neat hand recording every trial: Strength ++. Reflexes: near-perfect. Wandless control exceeds known capability. Sunlight : no adverse reaction.
Moody gave a low grunt. “Bloody hell,” he muttered. “She wasn’t exaggerating.”
Draco only leaned back in his chair, unreadable, while the Order leafed through Hermione Granger’s meticulous account of just how dangerous, and how useful, he had become.
Kingsley closed Hermione’s notes with deliberate care, then looked straight at Draco. “Granger’s records make it clear: your strength, your control, your… stability. But all of that depends on her serum.”
Draco’s jaw twitched. He said nothing. Remus adjusted her spectacles, frowning. “She’s crafted something remarkable. According to her, it steadies your mind, tamps down the bloodlust, lets you go out into the sun, keeps you… manageable.”
Moody gave a sharp bark of laughter. “And if you step out of line, if you show even a flicker of teeth, she stops brewing it. Simple as that.”
A ripple of unease twisted through Draco’s chest. Brewing. The word was almost funny, if it weren’t so insulting. There was no serum. No potion. There was only Hermione’s blood, still vivid on his tongue, still burning through his veins every time he thought of her.
He pressed his mouth into a line, fighting not to smirk at the absurdity of their “control.” Fighting harder not to let his mind slip back to the way she’d looked the last time she offered it, hand trembling, eyes steady, vial trembling between them.
Remus leaned forward, tone measured but firm. “So you understand, Malfoy: if you obey, the serum continues. If you don’t…” His eyes softened, almost apologetic. “…then it doesn’t. And you’ll spiral back to what you were.” Draco’s throat worked once. He forced his expression flat, careful. “I understand.”
Kingsley nodded slowly. “Good. Then here are the terms: You’ll fight with us, but never alone. You’ll obey commands in the field without question. You’ll remain under constant observation, until we’re certain this serum can hold.”
Moody’s growl cut in: “And the moment you give us reason not to trust you, she corks her little vials, and you go back to the dark.”
Draco exhaled slowly, expression smooth, only the faintest curve at the corner of his mouth betraying him. They thought they’d found his weakness. That their leash was glass and cork. That his stability came bottled.
He almost laughed. Almost. But instead he leaned back in the chair, pale eyes half-lidded, voice steady. “Crystal clear.”
Kingsley gave a curt nod and moved on, but Draco let his gaze drop to the abandoned folder of Hermione’s notes, lingering there a moment longer than necessary. The faintest spark of satisfaction lit in his chest. Let them believe in their serum. Let them think they held the leash.
Because the truth, that all of it came down to her blood, to her, was a secret too sharp, too intoxicating, to share. And Merlin, it was delicious having it all to himself.
The meeting finally adjourned with the scrape of chairs and the rustle of parchment. Lupin gathered Hermione’s notes with a brisk flick of her wand, muttering about filing copies for the record. Kingsley dismissed the room in his low, even tone. Moody stomped out last, giving Draco one last lingering glare, his magical eye swiveling in suspicion before the door slammed shut behind him.
Hermione slipped back inside as the room emptied, her hands clasped tightly in front of her robes. “Well?” she asked carefully, eyes darting between Draco and Kingsley.
“You’ll have the details,” Kingsley said, passing her the folder of notes. “But the short of it is, he fights where we place him, when we place him. Under constant supervision. You’ll continue your… work.” His gaze softened slightly. “You’ve done well, Granger.”
Hermione inclined her head, but her eyes flicked quickly to Draco. He stood by the chair he’d occupied, posture loose, face calm, too calm.
Kingsley brushed past her with a heavy hand on her shoulder, murmuring, “Keep him steady. That serum of yours is our anchor here.” Then he was gone.
The door shut, leaving only the two of them in the echoing chamber.
Hermione exhaled, tension bleeding out of her shoulders. “You handled yourself better than I expected.”
Draco tilted his head, the faintest quirk at the corner of his mouth. “I tend to rise to the occasion.”
She frowned at him, the look she always gave when she knew he was teasing but couldn’t quite parse why. There was something in his eyes, sharp, glinting, private, that made her stomach flutter uneasily.
The walk back down was quieter than the walk up. The hallways had mostly emptied, only the occasional shadow of an Order member slipping past, casting Draco another sharp glance. Hermione said nothing, and neither did he. The silence between them felt taut, charged, but not uncomfortable.
When they reached the cellar, Hermione paused at the door, murmuring the wards under her breath. The air shimmered faintly, then gave way with a low crackle. She pushed the door open, and Draco stepped inside, only to stop short.
It wasn’t the same room. The cot had been shifted, dressed now in clean sheets and a thick wool blanket dyed in deep green. A rug softened the stone beneath it. A lantern glowed with steady light, warmer than the flickering torches. Even the air was different, fresh parchment, lavender soap. Little things. Human things.
Draco’s brows drew together, his face unreadable.
“It’s… different,” he said slowly. Hermione set her notes on the desk, fussing with them a little too neatly. “Well, you’ve been… cooperative. Kingsley agreed you should have more freedom. You’ll be allowed to move about during the day if you want, though I assumed you wouldn’t care to spend your hours with the rest of the Order.”
His eyes flicked back to hers, faintly amused. “Sharp assumption.”
Her mouth quirked but she pressed on, brisk. “Still, there are boundaries. You’ll need to be back here by curfew, ten o’clock sharp. That was nonnegotiable.”
He gave a low hum, glancing around again. “And if I don’t feel like obeying?” Hermione hesitated, then turned to meet his gaze fully. “Then let’s keep it between us that you could break the wards if you wanted to. They don’t know. I think it’s better that way.”
Draco blinked at her, caught off guard. For a moment his calm cracked, and something flickered through his pale eyes, surprise, maybe even respect.
“You trust me with that,” he murmured. Not quite a question.
“I trust you to be smarter than giving them another reason to hate you,” she corrected, but her voice softened at the edges.
Draco sat slowly on the cot, hand brushing the blanket, grounding himself in its softness. His gaze lingered on her where she stood, lamplight catching in her curls.
“More freedom,” he echoed, almost to himself. His voice had dropped to something low, reverent. “Didn’t expect that.”
Hermione cleared her throat, clutching her folder tighter. “Don’t make me regret it.”
But the corner of his mouth curved, faintly, less smirk than secret. He leaned back against the wall, eyes steady on her, and for the first time the cellar didn’t feel like a cage.
It felt like his. Hermione moved to the desk, setting her folder down, straightening the lamp wick more out of habit than need. Draco was still standing near the cot, hand lingering on the blanket, taking it all in with a strange, quiet reverence.
She crossed back toward the shelves to retrieve an ink bottle she’d left earlier, brushing past him in the narrow space. The faintest shift of her robe, the warm slip of her shoulder against his arm, small, incidental.
It was enough. The hunger slammed into him like a storm breaking open. His chest tightened, his throat flared hot, and before he could brace himself, his fangs descended. Sharp, aching, insistent.
Draco stilled, every muscle coiled. He hadn’t realized how deep the ache had gotten, how much the day’s assessments, spellwork, reflexes, control, had drained him. He hadn’t noticed how badly he needed her until she was right there, close enough that her scent lit his veins like fire.
Hermione froze too, quill still in her hand, eyes flicking to his face. She saw them, the sharp white points breaking through, gleaming faintly in the lamplight. Her breath hitched.
“Malfoy,” she whispered, voice caught between warning and something softer.
Draco forced his eyes shut, jaw locking as he turned half away from her. “I’m sorry.” His voice came rough, strained. “Didn’t mean…”
Her heart thudded. For a moment, the room was nothing but her pulse, the sound of his ragged breathing, and the awareness of how close they stood.
He pressed the heel of his hand hard against the stone wall, as though grounding himself, forcing the hunger back down. “The tests… they burned through it faster.” His shoulders heaved once. “I didn’t realize how empty I was until it hit me”
Silence stretched. Draco’s pale eyes opened again, sharp and unguarded, meeting hers. There was shame there, yes, but also a raw truth that made her stomach twist.
“I can manage,” he muttered, though his voice trembled at the edges. “Just… keep your distance.”
Hermione’s hand tightened on her quill, her knuckles white. She should have stepped back. She should have put space between them. Instead, she stayed exactly where she was, breath shallow, heart pounding.
Because the dangerous, unspoken truth was, she didn’t want to move.
Hermione’s quill shook in her grip. She should’ve stepped back, should’ve put the desk or the whole bloody cot between them. Instead, she found herself watching him, shoulders drawn tight, fangs glinting in the lamplight, pale eyes flickering with both restraint and need.
Her pulse jumped. She knew that look now.
She set the quill down carefully on the desk, her throat dry. “You said you could manage,” she said softly, “but I don’t want you starving.”
Draco’s jaw clenched. “I can.” His voice was low, guttural, unconvincing. “I won’t…”
“You’ll tear yourself apart before you admit it,” she cut in, quieter still.
His eyes snapped to hers, sharp, almost wounded at the accuracy.
Hermione’s quill slipped from her grip, clattering against the desk. Her pulse was loud in her ears. She reached automatically for her pockets, fumbling, searching, nothing. No vial.
Her throat tightened. Draco was standing too close, his shoulders coiled tight, his breath uneven. His fangs had slid down unbidden, glinting in the lamplight. She swallowed hard, then lifted her sleeve with trembling fingers, baring her wrist.
“I don’t… I don’t have a vial,” she admitted, voice barely above a whisper. “If you need it, it’ll have to be from me. Directly.”
His eyes snapped to hers, startled. “Granger,” He broke off, voice harsh, like it grated in his throat. “Do you even know what you’re saying?”
Hermione’s chest rose and fell, fast but steady. “Yes.”
He caught her wrist before she could bring it closer, his grip firm but shaking. His pale eyes burned, sharp and uncertain. “It might hurt.” The words tumbled out, rough and unguarded. He looked away, jaw tight. “I don’t… I’ve never bitten anyone who wanted it. I don’t know how to…” He faltered, almost embarrassed.
Hermione’s gaze softened. Against the fear thrumming in her, she still found the calm she always did when she was parsing information. Her voice steadied as she said, “In all my research, the bite doesn’t have to hurt. Not if it’s… gentle. Not if you’re careful.”
That made him look back at her, eyes narrowing, searching her face like he couldn’t quite believe she meant it.
She managed a faint, nervous smile. “You’re many things, Malfoy, but I don’t think careless is one of them.”
His breath left him in a slow exhale, his fingers tightening on her wrist. He lowered his head slightly, lips parting near her skin, still hovering, still waiting.
Hermione tilted her wrist toward him. Her voice shook when she whispered, “It’s all right. I trust you.”
For a heartbeat he stayed frozen, every muscle trembling with restraint. Then, almost reverently, Draco leaned in and let his fangs pierce her skin.
The pain never came. Just a sharp pressure, then a spreading warmth that stole her breath. A shiver ran through her as the pull began, her body answering before her mind could catch up. Her pulse surged faster, not just from fear but from something headier, hotter. The strange intimacy of it, his mouth on her, the tether pulling between them, made her stomach twist and her knees weaken.
She gasped softly, eyes fluttering shut. Her heart raced, every beat thrumming against his lips. It was terrifying, yes, but there was a darker truth underneath: part of her liked it.
Draco groaned low in his chest as her blood hit his tongue, his whole body going taut with the rush of it, but he kept his grip steady, careful, as though terrified of hurting her.
Hermione’s free hand braced against the desk, her fingers clutching wood. She forced herself to breathe through the flood of sensation, but each inhale left her dizzier, her thoughts scattered. This was supposed to be clinical, necessary. Yet her body betrayed her, flushed and trembling from the pull.
When he finally pulled back, lips wet and eyes molten, Hermione swayed faintly where she stood, sleeve tugged quickly down over the punctures. Draco’s breathing was ragged, his voice rough when he asked, “Did it… hurt?”
Hermione met his eyes, her own still bright with the remnants of the pull. “No,” she whispered. “It didn’t.”
Relief flickered across his face, sharp and fleeting. But then she reached for her wand, murmuring a glamour over her wrist. The faint shimmer of magic blurred the marks, hiding them from view.
Something twisted low in Draco’s gut. His eyes glowed faintly, silver catching like fire in the lamplight, instinct, raw and possessive, flared hot, a sudden, irrational anger at the sight of her covering what he had left on her. His mark, his proof. The one thing that tied her to him now in a way no one else could see.
He clenched his fists at his sides, forcing the reaction down, shame crashing in just as quickly as the hunger had before. What the hell am I doing?
Hermione exhaled softly, tucking her wand away, pretending not to notice the tension in him. Even though they were both trembling.

Chapter Text

The sting at her wrist didn’t fade, it blossomed. Heat rippled outward, winding through her veins, leaving her chest thrumming, her skin tingling. Her knees wobbled beneath her, and she caught the back of the chair before she slipped.
Draco’s hand was on her elbow instantly. “Granger, sit down before you topple.” His voice cracked, sharp with urgency.
“I’m fine,” she insisted, though her lips curved in a laugh she couldn’t hold back. The warmth lingered like firewhisky blooming in her chest. It wasn’t fear she felt. It was… good. A little too good. Her face flushed hot. “I think… the bite made me feel… amorous.”
His head snapped toward her, silver eyes wide. “Am…what?”
She nodded with mock solemnity, though her grin betrayed her. “Don’t worry, I’ll log it.”
Her words rattled through him, shame twisting in his gut. His own pulse was unsteady, because he could still feel her inside him, her blood, coursing hot and electric through his veins, humming with life that wasn’t his. It sharpened his senses, stoked something hungry, something dangerous.
“You’ve been taking blood-replenishers, haven’t you?” he demanded suddenly, the words sharp, cutting through the haze.
Hermione blinked, cheeks still flushed, lips parted in a guilty silence.
“Unbelievable,” he spat, turning sharply away. “You’ve been skipping them. You let me feed without preparing? Do you have a death wish?”
He dragged the cauldron to flame, furious with himself, with her, with everything. His hands moved furiously but precisely, yanking down jars of dittany, willow bark, and powdered moonstone. He crushed too hard, the pestle biting stone, trying to drown the echo of her heartbeat pulsing inside his chest.
Her curls bounced as she leaned against the wall, giggling despite his tone. “You’re… snippy,” she teased, the warmth in her chest making everything funny.
“Stop laughing,” he snapped, frustrated, but she only laughed harder, a sound bright and absurd against the stone.
“You’re worried,” she sing-songed. “And guilty. I can tell. You get cranky when you’re guilty.”
He froze mid-stir, his back rigid, knuckles white on the ladle. “See?” she murmured, grinning. “I’m very good at reading you.”
She reached forward, fingers brushing the fabric of his sleeve. His arm stiffened beneath her touch, but he didn’t move away. Braver than she should have been, she slid her hand lower, curling faintly around his wrist.

Her touch seared through him, setting every nerve aflame. Her blood still thrummed inside him, hot and dizzying, making her warmth feel like his own. He should have ripped his arm free. Should have stepped back. Should have remembered she wasn’t herself.
“You shouldn’t,” he rasped, the words catching. “You shouldn’t touch me like that.”
She smiled, unfiltered and unafraid. “Why not? You like it.” His breath caught. Damn her. Damn himself. She was right, he hadn’t moved and that silent admission bound him tighter than any chains had.

After a few tense beats of silence, Hermione blinked hard and forced herself back into motion. She bent to snatch her notebook from where it had fallen, slid onto the nearest chair, and cleared her throat. “Must… document… effects…” she muttered, tongue poking out in concentration. She scrawled across the page with exaggerated care.
Subject reports heightened, the word trailed off into a crooked squiggle. She frowned, tried again… and ended up doodling a crooked cat with fangs instead.
She snickered, showing him the page. “Not very scientific.” Draco made a noise somewhere between a laugh and a groan, burying his face in his hand.
She was flushed, smiling, utterly disarmed. The euphoric haze of the bite had stripped her down to something raw and unbearably sweet. And he wanted to revel in it. Her blood still thundered through his veins, warm and wild, and the temptation to lean into it, to take more, to take her, was suffocating.
But she wasn’t in her right mind. She was “because of him. Giddy because of him. If he so much as indulged it, he’d be no better than the monster they all feared.
He forced his voice rough, shoving a goblet into her hands. “Drink this before you embarrass yourself.”
Their fingers brushed. His hand trembled faintly, though his eyes burned steady. She drank obediently, the potion’s warmth sinking deep, steadying her pulse. The dizziness dulled, though the pleasant glow of the bite lingered, humming through her like a secret.
“See?” she whispered with a sleepy giggle, setting the goblet aside with exaggerated care. “Nothing to worry about.” Her quill wobbled, then slipped from her fingers with a faint clatter. The notebook slid from her lap to the floor, pages open on the ridiculous fanged cat. She blinked at it as though she meant to reach for it, but her limbs had already gone loose, heavy.
Her body was still catching up to what had happened, blood drained, then swiftly restored. The abrupt swing left her system struggling to recalibrate, forcing her into a drowsy reset.
Her eyelids fluttered despite her effort to hold them open. The warmth coursing back into her veins, the haze still tugging at the edges of her mind, pulled her downward, soft and irresistible.

Within moments, her body surrendered, melting back into the cot, her breathing slow and even, a faint smile still ghosting her lips as sleep claimed her.
He crouched, pulling the blanket over her shoulders. His hand hovered over her wrist, the place he’d marked, the source of this dangerous sweetness, before curling into a fist and withdrawing. “Foolish girl,” he murmured, though the words cracked soft.
He sat back in the shadows, sleepless, her blood still alive in his veins. Every beat of his heart carried her with it, reminding him of what he’d taken… and how much more he wanted. So he kept his eyes fixed on her steady breathing, guarding her slumber until dawn bled into the cellar stones.

***

The cellar was still, the only sound Hermione’s slow, even breathing. She’d curled on her side beneath the blanket, one hand tucked under her cheek, lips parted faintly in sleep. A scrap of parchment with her fanged-cat doodle lay slightly crumpled on the floor where it had fallen from her fingers.
Draco stared at it for a long moment before reaching into the shadows under his cot. His hand closed around the slim, leather-bound book he’d hidden there weeks ago. His own journal. Not one of her meticulously labeled research logs, his.
He flipped past earlier pages, lines of tight script filling the margins with speculations, crossed-out hypotheses, and restless fragments of thought. He had started it the night he’d admitted to himself that he hadn’t simply wandered to this safehouse. He’d been pulled.
He dipped his quill and began a fresh entry. Tonight confirmed what I’ve suspected: her reaction to my feeding is aberrant.
Instead of only fatigue, she experienced euphoria. Laughter. Warmth. Even admitted to feeling “amorous.”
Not an act. Not bravado. The effect lingered long after her pulse steadied.
Hypothesis: The tether between us predates my arrival here. I was drawn to this place, compelled, though I told myself it was chance. Nonsense , there is no chance in magic this strong.
If the tether began before, then the question is how.
Did it begin the night of my infection? Was she marked at the same time, though she does not feel it as I do?
Could her blood have been altered long before? Possibility: her blood resonates uniquely with mine. That would explain:
Why she alone calms me. Why I cannot stomach others’ blood without frenzy.
Why I feel her presence as though it burns through walls. If true, then our connection is not choice but design. Whose, I cannot say.
Note: She remains careless about blood-replenishers. She will dismiss my concern as “snippiness,” but the guilt is mine. She should not feel faint. She should not be left vulnerable.
There is no simple explanation. But what ties us it is older than us, older than her experiments, and stronger than my will to resist it.
Draco closed the book and sat with it balanced on his knees, thumb pressed into the worn leather. Hermione shifted in her sleep, sighing softly, her hand curling against the blanket.
The sound of her breathing filled the hollow ache in his chest, but it didn’t silence the question that plagued him most. Why her? Why me?

The grey edge of morning pressed at the barred window, thin as knife metal, not yet light, but no longer night. Hermione had curled on her side beneath the blanket, one hand tucked under her cheek, the faintest smile still lingering.
He watched her for a long moment, resisting the strange urge to leave her there undisturbed. It was obvious in her softened features, in the even rhythm of her breathing: she hadn’t slept like this in a very long time. Not the shallow doze of exhaustion, but deep, untroubled rest. The realization tugged at something he didn’t want to name.
He leaned closer, his voice low. “Granger.” No response. She sighed softly and shifted against the cot. “Hermione.” The name left him quieter, rawer.
Her lashes fluttered, reluctant. She made a small sound and burrowed deeper under the blanket. He almost smiled. “Before the house wakes,” he coaxed, tone dry. “I assumed you’d prefer your own bed to the scandal of being found in the cellar.”
Her eyes blinked open, still heavy with sleep. For a beat she only looked at him, confusion softening into recognition. “Oh right, discretion.” She pushed up on her elbow, cheeks pinking, her voice rough with sleep.
He offered his hand without thinking, steadying her as she sat. His palm was cool, firm, grounding. “I haven’t slept like that in… Merlin, I don’t remember how long,” she admitted with a laugh, smoothing her hair with her free hand. “No nightmares, no tossing. Just… out.”
Draco’s expression flickered, almost imperceptibly. He withdrew his hand first. “Consider it a side effect,” he said, dry, though something in his tone betrayed how carefully he’d tucked the blanket around her. “Best side effect yet,” she muttered, gathering her notebook before catching sight of the silly fanged-cat doodle. Her mouth twitched and she shut it fast.
“For the record,” she said, trying to recover some dignity, “I’m reinstating my blood-replenishment schedule.” “For the record,” he replied crisply, “I’ll be verifying compliance.”
“Snippy,” she teased, rolling her eyes. “Alive,” he returned, softer. “And unobserved, if you move now.”
She gathered her things with more care than necessary, stalling at the bottom of the cellar stairs. The glow of rest still clung to her, the best sleep she’d had in ages, but so did the memory of her own loosened tongue, her laughter, her fingers brushing his wrist.
She turned back, tucking a curl behind her ear. “Listen, about last night,” Her voice faltered, then rushed. “If I said anything… inappropriate… I wasn’t myself. I didn’t mean to make things uncomfortable.” Color touched her cheeks, and she looked down, the words coming like an apology and a shield both.
He leaned against the workbench, arms crossed, expression unreadable in the dim light. Her discomfort should have pleased him; Gryffindors squirming were usually a delight. But now it only made his chest tighten in an unfamiliar way.
“Uncomfortable?” His brow arched, voice drawling just enough to be teasing. “Granger, I’ve survived Dark Lords, torture, and Potter’s friendship. Your giggling doesn’t even make the list.” Her eyes flicked up in surprise. He let the corner of his mouth quirk, subtle but unmistakable.
“You were ridiculous,” he continued, deliberately mild, “but not objectionable.” A pause, softer. “And it was… harmless.” She exhaled, tension easing from her shoulders. The corners of her lips lifted despite herself. “Harmless,” she echoed. “You mean humiliating.”
“Amusing,” he corrected smoothly, the word sharpened just enough to keep her guessing.
Her blush deepened, but the smile lingered now, lighter, freer. For the first time since she’d opened her eyes, she didn’t feel mortified. “Well then,” she said, chin lifting with a trace of her usual defiance. “Goodbye, Malfoy.” He inclined his head, mock-formal. “Until you return to harass me with more scholarly doodles.”
She laughed under her breath, turning toward the door, still unsure of what they were now, but no longer ashamed.
***
The kitchen smelled of scorched tea leaves and butter, faint comfort against the chill of the dawn. Hermione stepped inside with her notebook hugged to her chest, hoping she could slip through unseen.
But Ron was already at the table, boots half-laced, jaw tight. Ginny stood by the counter, adjusting the strap of a dagger at her thigh. Both looked up when Hermione entered.
Ron’s eyes flicked to the cellar door, then back to her. His mouth twisted. “Well, well. Another late night, or should I say, another one spent with him?”
Hermione forced her pulse to steady. “I was working.” “Working,” he echoed with a bitter laugh. “Sure, monitoring that so-called serum? The one no one’s seen work yet? Strange, how Malfoy’s suddenly hale and hearty right when you need to show him off. Almost like you want to parade him in front of everyone.”
“Ron,” Ginny warned, but he leaned forward. “Tell me, Hermione. What’s he done to deserve this? All your hours, your defense, your whatever it is you’re giving him? Because I don’t see it.”
Once, his words might have flayed her. But something warm still lingered in her blood, faint and steady, a daring echo of the night before. It held her upright when she turned to face him. “What I do in that cellar is my responsibility,” she said evenly. “The serum works. You’ll see it today, and if you don’t believe me, that’s your problem, not mine.”
Ron’s jaw clenched. He shoved his chair back with a scrape. “You’re blind. He’ll show you what he is, sooner or later. And when he does, don’t come running to me.”
He slung his pack over his shoulder and stalked out, the slam of the door rattling the cups on their hooks. Hermione exhaled shakily, but Ginny stayed where she was, arms crossed, leaning against the counter with a weary look. “Don’t let him get to you,” Ginny said more gently. “He’s worse than usual right now.”
Hermione frowned. “Because of George?” Ginny’s gaze softened. “Partly,” Ginny sighed, rubbing at her temple. “And it doesn’t help that Padma ended things with him last week. Said he was too intense… that he needed to ease up on the drinking.”
Hermione blinked. “She told him that?” “Flat out,” Ginny said with a grimace.
“Now we are meeting Harry outside the city, Kingsley got chatter there might’ve been a sighting… of George.”
Hermione’s chest tightened, the words sinking like stones. “Do you think…?”
Ginny shook her head quickly. “We don’t know. Could be nothing, like the last time. But Ron’s hanging all his hope on it. Every time the lead goes nowhere, it cuts him deeper.”
Hermione clutched her notebook tighter to her chest, heart heavy. That explained Ron’s sharpness, his fury boiling over the moment she walked in. Without George, and with Harry gone chasing shadows, he was fraying at the edges. Ginny gave a small, tired smile. “That’s why he lashes out. Easier to aim it at you or Malfoy than admit he’s terrified.”
Hermione nodded faintly, but the words stayed with her long after Ginny left to follow her brother into the cold dawn. Ginny gave a small, tired smile. “But don’t think everyone feels like he does. Not everyone resents Malfoy. Some of us…” she hesitated, then added, “some of us are hopeful. If your work holds, if he really is stronger, maybe he can help turn the tide. Even the scales, just a little. We need every advantage we can get.”
Hermione let out a breath, the warmth still humming faintly inside her, boldening her where she might once have withered. She set her cup down with a decisive clink and gave Ginny the faintest smile. “Safe travels, Ginny,” she said quietly.
Ginny studied her a moment, then nodded, slipping out after her brother.
The kitchen door clicked shut behind Ginny, leaving Hermione alone with the soft hiss of the kettle. For a moment, she just stood there, hands wrapped around her cup, the steam fogging her glasses.
Her mind betrayed her, wandering back to the cellar. The sharp press of Draco’s fangs at her wrist, the rush of her blood leaving her body and flowing into him. It should have frightened her, should have made her recoil. And yet… Hermione’s cheeks burned. She remembered the way her head had gone light, the way laughter had bubbled up unbidden, the way his silver eyes had flickered with both hunger and restraint. She remembered the dizzy sweetness of it, the way the pain had blurred into something else entirely.
Merlin help her, she had liked it. That was the part she couldn’t put into her notes, couldn’t rationalize into theory. She could tell herself it was the blood loss, the need for replenishing potions she hadn’t taken, but beneath all those excuses was the truth: she hadn’t wanted him to stop.
She closed her eyes, exhaling slowly. The memory lingered on her skin, a phantom thrum where his mouth had been. She should feel shame, but instead there was only confusion, and a pulse of something dangerously close to longing.
Setting her teacup down with a deliberate clink, Hermione straightened. There was no room for this, not today, not with the demonstration ahead. She was a researcher, a strategist, a soldier in this war. Not a foolish girl enchanted by the dangerous boy in the cellar.
And yet, as she turned toward the stairs, she couldn’t shake the whisper of it: the guilty, heady truth that his bite had made her feel more alive than she had in months.

***
The courtyard was crowded, a restless hum of voices drifting in the morning chill. Order members lined the edges, arms crossed, eyes sharp. Hermione stood near the front, notebook clutched like a shield against her chest. She had insisted Draco walk out on his own, it would look better, more convincing, as if he weren’t her shadow but a willing participant. Still, the waiting was torture. Her eyes darted toward the back door, half-expecting it to remain stubbornly closed.
A gust of wind swept across the yard, lifting the edges of her hair. Ron, Ginny, and Harry appeared at the back, returning from their mission. Their clothes were rumpled, mud on their boots, exhaustion etched into the slump of Ginny’s shoulders. Harry’s jaw was set, his eyes shadowed, and Ron’s expression was stormy, dark as a gathering cloud.
‘They didn’t find him,’ Hermione realized, her stomach tightening. George was still missing.
Ginny murmured something to Kingsley, who gave a grim nod. Harry lingered close, speaking low with him, while Ginny’s gaze found Hermione’s. For just a moment, Hermione saw it, the flicker of quiet hope that Draco’s demonstration might mean something more than just Order politics. Hope for an edge, for balance, for survival.
Ron, though, didn’t bother to hide his scowl. His gaze flicked to the back door, then to Hermione, and his mouth twisted as if he already knew she was to blame for whatever was about to unfold.
Hermione swallowed hard. She had rehearsed the explanations, the arguments, the numbers, but none of it would matter if Draco faltered.
Her hand drifted unconsciously to her wrist, where the faint mark of his bite still lingered beneath her sleeve. The memory of it sent a dangerous heat curling through her. She forced her thoughts back to the present.
The crowd hushed and all eyes turned toward the door.
Hermione’s heart thudded painfully against her ribs. Any moment now, Draco would have to walk out into that sea of suspicion and prove, if not his loyalty, then at least his strength.
The courtyard had gone still, every gaze locked on the pale figure stepping out from the cellar. The morning light caught Draco’s hair like burnished silver, dazzling against the dark stone. A ripple of murmurs spread through the crowd.
“He’s in the sun…” someone whispered, half in awe, half in suspicion.
Hermione’s heart gave a sharp kick in her chest. Yes, that was the first shock, most of them knew vampires or half-turned couldn’t bear sunlight without burning, blistering, or worse. But there, Draco stood, unflinching, letting the rays fall full across his face as though daring anyone to question him.
Still, her palms were damp around her notebook. They didn’t know what she knew, that before stepping out, Draco had downed a vial of her blood she had pressed into his hand in the shadows. Just to be sure the sun wouldn’t undo him before the crowd.
The memory flickered hot in her mind: his fingers brushing hers, the look in his eyes as he tipped it back. That strange tug between them humming sharper for it.
Her chest tightened with a quiet, guilty pride. She had given him the strength to stand there like this, sunlight spilling across his sharp features while the Order gaped.
Ron’s mutter carried from her left. “Bloody miracle worker, are you?” His voice was bitter, but beneath it lay something almost like disbelief.
Ginny’s elbow caught him again, sharp enough to make him grunt but Hermione kept her eyes fixed on Draco. He looked like a figure carved from marble, his faint smirk an open dare.
“Well?” he drawled, letting his gaze sweep across the crowd. “Is this what you were waiting for, or am I wasting my morning?”
Gasps, mutters, a rustle of shifting boots. Suspicion warred with unease and wonder. Hermione’s pulse hammered. He’d bought their attention, yes, but not their trust.
Kingsley Shacklebolt stepped forward, voice deep and steady. “Malfoy, you’ll show us what you can do. Prove to us your strength, your control.” He held out a wand. “You’ll need this.”
Draco glanced at it, then at Kingsley. Slowly, deliberately, he shook his head. “I won’t.”
The murmurs rose sharper now, some disbelieving, some scoffing. Wandless magic was rare, nearly impossible at this scale. Kingsley’s dark eyes narrowed, studying him for a long beat. Then he gave a curt nod. “Very well, let’s begin.”

“Summoning,” Kingsley ordered first. Draco lifted his hand. The heavy training dummy skidded across the stones as if yanked by an invisible chain, halting neatly at his feet. He flicked his fingers, and the object rose, spun lazily in the air, then dropped with a bone-rattling thud. “Defense.” Tonks didn’t hesitate, her wand snapped, firing a jinx straight at his chest. Draco barely twitched; a bright shield flared into being, the spell dissolving on contact. He dismissed it with a roll of his wrist, faint smirk tugging his lips.
Gasps rippled again, sharper this time. “Transfiguration,” Kingsley said. “Three targets.”
Three stones lined the far wall. Draco’s eyes narrowed, his palm slicing the air. The first stone stretched into a long spear, gleaming viciously in the sun. The second coiled into a serpent that hissed before crumbling. The third reshaped into a bird, wings flapping once before freezing solid. It had taken him less than five seconds.
Even Hermione felt her breath catch. Her quill scrawled nonsense lines over the page, her hand shaking just enough to betray her. “Combat,” Kingsley said at last.
A broad-shouldered recruit stepped forward, jaw set, eager to prove himself. He swung. Draco sidestepped easily, caught his wrist, and twisted him to his knees. With a sweep of his leg, the man hit the stones hard. The crowd muttered, watching Draco pull him smoothly back up before turning back to Kingsley without gloating.
Draco pulled his shirt over his head in one smooth motion, pale skin catching the hard light of morning. His frame was lean rather than bulky, every line defined with wiry muscle that spoke of endurance more than vanity. Shoulders broad, chest sculpted with precision. Even the sun seemed to sharpen him, carving the long lines of his torso into marble, dusted faintly with sweat.

Hermione’s quill stilled. She told herself she was only observing the effects of strain, but her gaze lingered too long. Heat flushed her face, her eyes dragging despite herself across ivory skin and lean muscle. She ducked her head quickly to her notes.
Beside her, Ginny crossed her arms with a low murmur, “Well.” A sharp word, almost teasing, but Hermione saw the quick flick of Ginny’s eyes before she looked away.
Hermione pressed her lips together, scrawling harder. This wasn’t about appearances. This was about survival. About proving him an asset, and yet, her chest felt too tight, her throat dry.
The tension bled slowly from the crowd, replaced with hushed whispers. Suspicion remained, thick as ever, but beneath it lingered something else. Reluctant acknowledgment and for the first time, they weren’t seeing Draco as a prisoner. They were seeing him as a weapon.
Kingsley gave another curt order. “Speed, go as far from here as you can before I finish counting three.”
Draco’s mouth twitched, not quite a smile, not quite a smirk. He gave no warning.
One moment he stood before them, sunlight blazing across his bare shoulders.
The next, he was gone. Gasps cracked across the courtyard as every head whipped upward. Draco now stood perched in the branches of an old elm on the far side of the yard, platinum hair catching the morning light, one hand braced casually against the trunk as though the climb had been nothing. Except, he hadn’t climbed. He had simply appeared.
Hermione’s pulse slammed against her ribs. The crowd buzzed, uneasy murmurs breaking like ripples in a pond. Some looked unsettled, others outright alarmed. She forced her hand to scrawl across the page, though her vision blurred. “Down,” Kingsley commanded.
Draco dropped lightly to the ground, landing without so much as a stagger. He rolled his shoulders as though bored.
“Strength,” Kingsley said, voice steady but louder now, carrying over the noise. He gestured to a boulder half-buried near the wall. “Move it.”
Hermione’s stomach coiled, even with magic, it would take effort. Draco strode forward. He slid his fingers under the edge, muscles in his arms and back flexing. Then, with a sudden heave, he wrenched the stone free from the earth. Dust billowed, dirt cascading off its sides and before anyone could fully react, he threw it.
The massive rock hurtled across the courtyard and smashed into the far wall with a thunderous crack, crumbling into shards. Gasps and shouts erupted, several members flinching back instinctively, wands half-raised.
Draco straightened, breathing only a little harder now, his chest rising and falling under the sun. His expression was cool, faintly amused, as if daring anyone to question whether he was useful now.
Beside her, Ginny’s arms were crossed, her mouth a thin line, but Hermione caught her stealing a second glance at Draco before looking away quickly.
Hermione herself couldn’t look for too long without heat creeping up her throat. Her mind screamed at her to catalogue the data, the speed, the raw strength, the control, but her heart wouldn’t stop hammering.
Kingsley’s deep voice cut through the din. “That will do. The Order has seen enough.”
The crowd slowly broke into whispers, some hushed and fearful, others grudgingly impressed. Draco turned his head slightly, his eyes locking on Hermione. For the briefest moment, the corner of his mouth curved, not smug this time, but knowing.
Hermione quickly looked down at her notes, but her pulse still thudded traitorously in her throat. The murmurs hadn’t settled when movement caught her eye, Ron and Seamus at the far side of the yard, hovering too close to one of the practice dummies. She frowned, something was wrong.
Then she saw it: the glint of a bucket being apparated above, the sharp metallic tang hitting her nose a beat later, blood.
Her stomach dropped. They meant to dump it over the dummy, to make Draco snap in front of everyone, to prove he was a monster.
But the rope caught on the pulley. The bucket wrenched sideways, swinging toward the crowd, toward her. Hermione barely had time to gasp but he moved before thought.
One instant he stood halfway across the courtyard, still half-bared to the sun. The next, he was there, arm banded tight around Hermione’s waist, pulling her out of the bucket’s path as it crashed down.
The wood clattered, and the contents poured in a sickening rush, thick, red, gallons of it drenching stone. Too much to mistake for anything else.
It splashed over both of them, hot and cloying, soaking through clothes, streaking faces, hair, skin. Gasps and shouts erupted, wands half-lifted in reflex.
Draco didn’t flinch. He had Hermione crushed against his chest, shielding her from the worst of it. He leaned back just enough to meet her eyes, his face smeared with red.
For a heartbeat, the world narrowed to the steady press of his body around hers, the metallic scent choking the air, the sound of her breath quick in her throat.
Then, so gently it made her stomach turn over, he reached up and brushed the back of his fingers along her cheek, smearing away a streak of blood.
“You’re all right,” he said gently. Not for the Order’s ears but just for her.
Her chest heaved, her notebook forgotten, slipping into the puddle at their feet. Her cheeks burned, not just from shock and humiliation. The crowd’s eyes felt like daggers, but Draco’s touch, steady, protective, unguarded, made her feel suspended in some other reality.
The Order had gone silent. Every face fixed on them, Hermione in Draco’s arms, both drenched red, the air thick with the metallic stench. Ron’s face blazed, his mouth opening and closing without words. Seamus had gone pale, muttering something about it being a “demonstration” that had gone wrong.
But no one seemed to care. The image was seared into them all: Draco holding Hermione against him, calm where he should have been frenzied, gentle where he could have been terrifying.
She pushed lightly at his chest, and he let her go at once, stepping back just enough to give her space. Still, his hand lingered a second longer near her face, thumb brushing the last of the blood from her cheek. His eyes, piercing and intent, never left hers.
The courtyard was still ringing with gasps when Kingsley’s voice cut through, low but sharp as a whip. “Enough.” The single word dropped into the silence like a stone into water. All movement froze, Ron stiff, Seamus flushed, the rest of the Order watching with wide eyes.
Kingsley strode forward, his cloak brushing the blood-soaked stones. His expression was thunderous. “Explain yourselves,” he said, his gaze fixed on the two culprits.
Seamus stammered, “It was, it was supposed to land on the dummy, sir,”
Ron’s jaw worked furiously. “We needed them to see what he is. To see what he’d do,”
“What you’ve shown us,” Kingsley interrupted, his tone cutting, “is recklessness. Dangerous, childish recklessness. You nearly injured one of your own.” His eyes swept briefly to Hermione, still flushed and streaked with red, and the hush deepened.

He turned back to Ron, voice cold. “You would endanger her, and the Order itself, just to prove a point?”
Ron flinched, color rising in his ears, but he glared at the ground rather than answer.
“Seamus, Ron,” Kingsley said, each name a heavy-weight. “You will report to me directly after this. We will discuss consequences at length. For now, stand down.”
They muttered half-hearted acknowledgments, but neither dared protest further under his stare. Hermione felt her pulse still hammering, though Draco’s steady presence at her side anchored her. She risked a glance at him, he stood calm, grey eyes unreadable, though his hand still bore faint smears of blood from where he’d brushed her cheek.
Kingsley’s gaze shifted briefly to Draco. “Malfoy showed restraint under provocation,” he said for all to hear. “More restraint than some of you who claim loyalty to this Order.”
A ripple of murmurs passed through the crowd. Suspicion hadn’t vanished, but something else had taken root alongside it, doubt. Doubt that their hatred was as justified as they’d believed.
Her stomach fluttered uneasily. This was supposed to be Draco’s demonstration of strength, but now the image seared into everyone’s minds was something far more intimate: Draco drenched in blood, holding her as if she were breakable glass, gentler than any of them would have expected.