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Chapter Text

Hermione had just settled at her desk when her hair suddenly whipped around. Amanda Bolt instantly collapsed. The parchments she had been carrying scattered across the room, viewed by the confused stares of those who’d felt nothing, a stark contrast to those who had felt it all. Hermione's boss, Vincent Thornan, emerged from his office with a grim face. The years of war had sharpened Hermione’s instincts, allowing her to recognize that look: his expression was one of pure terror.

A more specific experience, however, allowed Hermione to understand that the motion in her hair, Amanda's fainting, and her boss’s reaction all pointed to something unusual, something wicked. It traced back to an event from the previous spring. In one of the many rooms of Malfoy Manor, Hermione had first felt dark magic engraved on her skin.

For Hermione Granger, dark magic smelled like Bellatrix Lestrange, and it felt like her, too.

"No one... leave your post. I'll be right back." Thornan's voice wavered.

The office began to stir as a colleague moved to help Amanda. Thornan and Hermione exchanged a look before he vanished through the door, tugging at his tie as if he couldn't breathe.

Ron burst into the office, pale and panicked. It was far too soon for the Ministry to have made an official statement. Rumours of what might have happened spread as fast as the mysterious vibration had. Hermione hadn't remained at her desk; she'd helped Amanda regain consciousness and was calming those unsettled by the feeling that something terrible had occurred. After the war, Hermione wasn't surprised by how quickly people could descend into chaos; the wounds were still fresh for many of them. The fear Voldemort had sown was always ready to bloom.

"Did you feel it?" Ron asked the moment he reached her, urgency in his eyes as he scanned her face.

Hermione nodded, taking his arm gently to draw him away from the others; she didn't want her assumptions to fuel the panic.

She looked over her shoulder before speaking. "It's dark magic. I'm certain."

Ron tensed beside her. He clenched his jaw and shook his head as if the answer were already forming before he even asked the question.

"Do you think he's back?" He asked, looking at her with a hint of fear in his eyes. 

Hermione wished she could deny it. But she’d felt and recognized it without a single doubt. She was certain. She had already accepted it herself, yet she couldn't find the strength to confirm it aloud. The idea that Voldemort had a failsafe to ensure his survival didn't seem far-fetched; he was, after all, the most powerful and feared Dark Wizard of all time. Hermione hugged herself, unable to meet Ron's gaze. He was breathing heavily next to her, a captive of his rising panic.

"Let's wait to talk to Harry. I'm sure he knows more than we do," she soothed.

Ron nodded, not fully convinced. He pulled her into his arms, holding her tightly to his chest. Hermione relaxed for a moment before remembering where they were and stepping away with flushed cheeks, only to realize Ron was just as embarrassed as she was.

"I'll go... I'm going to find Harry."

St. Mungo’s was already overflowing with patients by August 24th.

Some witches and wizards arrived with symptoms described as an inexplicable burning beneath the skin, akin to boiling blood, and a heightened sexual craving. Many speculated this was due to the incident the day before. Still, most patients were acting relatively normal—until night fell.

When the full moon rose over Great Britain, the affected descended into a chaos of pure obscenity. Hermione read about it in the papers four days later. St. Mungo's was now partially shut down. Most of the indecent stories she heard seemed to originate from a mind stimulated by eroticism. Two women near the Ministry entrance spoke of the issue, blushing. The stories were disproportionately sexual compared to what likely occurred, or so she thought. Hermione wouldn't know, because she had been confined to her flat, suffering from a terrible fever that left her immobilized.

The shame that followed the full-moon nights manifested in awkward silences that flooded not only the Ministry but seemingly the rest of London. It was as if the wizarding world had suddenly been paralyzed. Hermione arrived at the Ministry on Monday to find it nearly empty.

She stepped into an elevator, mouth agape and eyes wide at the news being detailed in the Daily Prophet. She blushed, blinking rapidly, thinking she must be having an erotic dream. The elevator door opened on her floor, and Hermione slammed the paper shut, clutching it to her chest as she noticed Percy Weasley standing in front of her. Her face was visibly red.

She cleared her throat and smiled.

"Good morning, Percy."

"Hermione. Perfect, I was looking for you."

He didn't even allow her to fully step out of the elevator before entering, giving her a slight smile.

Hermione eyed him: "Where are we going?"

"Shacklebolt needs to see you," he told her nervously.

"May I ask why?"

"I don't know yet, either,” he lied.

Silence monopolized the small space after that. In the blink of an eye, they were on the floor in front of the meeting room—the one only used to discuss extremely important matters.

She followed him, her body rigid. The absence of Aurors and workers was evident; the floor was unusually quiet. She looked around and saw no one lurking in the corridors. She swallowed, trying to lessen the lump of anxiety that had obstructed her throat.

Percy knocked on the door, then, after a few seconds, opened it for her and stepped in right behind. More high-ranking officials were waiting in the room. Shacklebolt was seated at the head of the table, and everyone appeared to have been in discussion before their entry. She looked at them all, disconcerted; they were seated around a giant table that spanned the length of the room.

"Have a seat, Miss Granger," Shacklebolt said, his voice deceptively calm.

There were two empty seats, one for her and one for Percy, both on the end farthest from Shacklebolt. Despite the distance, the room was enchanted, so everyone could hear each other without difficulty.

“May I know what this meeting is in reference to?” She asked, voice trembling.

Her question was ignored.

"Miss Granger, did you attend St. Mungo's on Tuesday, August 24th?" one of the attendees asked.

Hermione shook her head before she could find her voice to speak.

"No," she said firmly.

"May we know the reason?" another man asked, and Shacklebolt raised an eyebrow at the question, as if disapproving.

Hermione furrowed her brow.

Why were they questioning her? Did they think she had something to do with it?

"I was home with a fever. I sent an owl to inform Mr. Thornan of my absence, and I received confirmation from his secretary, Susan, to take the rest of the week off," she replied with the same firmness as before, refusing to be intimidated since she had done nothing wrong.

She made eye contact with her boss for a moment, expecting him to confirm it, but the man refrained from speaking.

"Are you aware of what happened at St. Mungo’s?" a woman questioned.

Hermione felt heat rise from her chest as she flushed, recalling the graphic descriptions she'd read in the papers after recovering from her intense fever. The weight of the newspaper on her lap suddenly increased, as if reminding her of its presence.

She nodded.

Everyone began exchanging glances.

"We have various theories, Miss Granger," Shacklebolt began. "Taking into account that the majority of those affected by the accidental release of dark magic are Muggle-born witches and wizards."

Hermione felt her stomach drop.

"It was only a release of dark magic?"

"An accidental release," someone added.

"Then, he didn't return?" Hermione continued.

Everyone was horrified by the idea or the mere possibility, just as she and Ron had been last Monday. But surely, that had already been ruled out. It had been the first fire the Ministry had rushed to extinguish.

"We are still finalizing the details of what may or may not have been the incident on the morning of Monday, August 23rd, Miss Granger," another man intervened.

"What is the reason I was required to come here, then? Is this an interrogation?" she challenged, leaning forward.

Shacklebolt looked at everyone present before speaking: "It is not, Miss. You are one of the few Muggle-borns who were not intensely affected. We wanted to know if there might be a correlation between you and the others seemingly unaffected, who have already been asked to attend this meeting."

An Auror appeared next to Shacklebolt. His face was young, but his gaze severe. His caramel-coloured hair was neatly slicked over his eyebrows. He stared intently at her with green eyes, as if he could read her thoughts.

"Nathaniel Bow is leading the investigation in collaboration with some specialist curse-researching Healers from St. Mungo's. We wanted to request your cooperation for a special program; if you accept, you would be immediately escorted to the facility and, of course, relieved of your current post," Shacklebolt continued.

She stared at him, her breath catching. The room seemed to stretch as he spoke. The effects of the charm seemed to vanish only for her, because she heard him distantly, like an echo. Hermione abruptly stood up; the newspaper dropped to the floor with a dry thud.

"You're going to fire me?" Disbelief mixed with annoyance was visible on her face.

Nathaniel's eyes gleamed as he watched her, almost as if he were preparing to stun her if necessary.

She understood the nervousness. The Ministry didn't know exactly what they were facing. For all they knew, a new Dark Lord could be brewing somewhere while they spoke. She let out all the hot air in her chest, like a dragon exhaling fire.

Shacklebolt raised his hand in a warning, not toward her, but toward Nathaniel.

"Miss Granger," Shacklebolt said, using a calming tone. "We can not allow last week's incidents to repeat themselves. If there are witches and wizards capable of resisting the curse's effects at any level, we must understand why before the next full moon. You, certainly, would be doing the Ministry a great favour and, of course, you will be compensated for it. This is not a dismissal. You will be temporarily relieved of your duties."

She relaxed under the gaze of the twenty-one onlookers, all attentive to her next move.

"I demand," Hermione began with determination, her hand clenched into a fist. "To be reinstated in my post as soon as my involvement in the investigation is over."

"You can count on it, Miss Granger," Shacklebolt said, standing up, buttoning his jacket. "Nathaniel will accompany you to St. Mungo's. Thank you very much for your cooperation."

A portion of St. Mungo’s was in quarantine. It was sealed off and protected with magic. They had opened another entrance, and the emergency area appeared to be undergoing complete reconstruction.

Hermione felt the pressure of Nathaniel's hand around her arm, and she tried to push him away.

"I’m not going to escape, Bow," she gritted out when she finally managed to shake off his grip.

There wasn't enough staff; people were waiting in chairs along both sides of the narrow hallway. They walked past, trying not to step on the witches and wizards who were unable to look at each other, their gazes fixed on the floor. The only sounds were an occasional cough and the scratch of a mediwitch's quill at the small desk at the end of the hall. Nathaniel crossed his arms beside her.

"Register, Granger," he ordered her.

She glared at him while he smirked. It was unbelievably infuriating that she had to be supervised by an idiot like him. It wasn't necessary to ask to know he was a Slytherin. It was written on his face and in his movements, but more so, in his attitude.

The mediwitch greeted her at the makeshift reception with a smile that slightly wavered. Nathaniel looked over her shoulder at the other waiting patients as if they smelled horribly.

"Good morning, I'm here as a volunteer for the investigation on behalf of the Ministry."

The mediwitch nodded, picking up a registration board she had set aside from the rest.

"Name and racial origin?"

Hermione felt a pang in her chest that dropped straight to her stomach. It made her want to vomit.

“You are one of the few Muggle-borns who were not intensely affected.”

That had led her to believe only Muggle-borns had been affected. But why would she need to clarify her racial origin if that were the case?

"Hermione Granger. Muggle-born."

Mudblood.

The mediwitch immediately guided them to another area, with Nathaniel trailing behind them. Like the Ministry, St. Mungo's seemed agonizingly empty, increasing the sense of anxiety growing in Hermione’s stomach. They arrived in front of a bare wall, and the mediwitch offered Hermione a smile.

"This is the entrance," she said before leaving.

Hermione watched her walk back down the corridor and disappear.

"Rufus Febrem," Bow recited, and the door made itself seen.

Opening with a click.

A password-protected door? How much security had they implemented? Why was the investigation guarded with such secrecy?

Another mediwitch, dressed in robes of a different color than the one who had registered Hermione, waited behind a counter. When she saw Hermione, she pulled out a gown and placed it on the surface, then held out her hands, holding an open plastic bag.

"Miss Granger, for security reasons, your wand will be confiscated until the investigation is complete."

Hermione stared at her steady hand, then looked at Nathaniel. His hand protectively hovered over his own wand. They weren't asking for her wand with the expectation that she might refuse. His presence was to ensure she did everything she was told. She placed her wand inside the plastic bag the mediwitch offered. The mediwitch sealed it with magic before filing it away in a metal filing cabinet that seemed to have some sort of padlock and chain charm that glinted under the hallway light.

They had indefinitely stripped her of her magic.

"Behind the first door on the right, you will undress, and a Healer will be with you shortly to begin a general inspection." The mediwitch smiled, sliding the gown toward Hermione with a cheerful expression.

She took it reluctantly and headed toward the room indicated. She heard Nathaniel's steps close behind, and realization struck her.

"Don't you even think you're going to—" Hermione began, but was interrupted.

"Merlin, Granger, I have no interest in seeing you naked!" Nathaniel turned away, offended.

She entered the room, her stare boring holes in Nathaniel's back. Everything looked sterile and stripped of any calming features. It smelled of alcohol and mint, of cleanliness and hospital. She hugged herself before placing the gown on the table where they would likely have her lie down for the body inspection. A shiver ran through her, and then she removed her coat and high-collared shirt, stripping off all her clothes and putting on the white gown. She folded them into a neat pile beside her.

A Healer entered when she was finished. The young woman with long, thick, dark hair observed her with deep black eyes. She examined her from head to toe after asking Hermione to remove the gown. She paused at Hermione's left arm, taking hold of it to analyze it in detail.

"Lesion on the left forearm from a cursed, sharp object. The wound does not appear to be affected by the effects of the red fever. The wound also shows resistance to healing and scarring."

The Healer looked briefly into Hermione’s eyes before continuing: "The wound is a deep inscription that spells out 'Mudblood'. The edges are irregular."

Hermione closed her eyes while an enchanted quill wrote down everything the Healer dictated. When Shacklebolt had asked her to participate in the investigation, she never imagined it would feel so degrading.

Her scar throbbed when she got dressed again, but Hermione did not comment on it. 

She had been practically isolated for ten days. No one had come for her the day before. Neither to get samples, nor to check on her.

Still, food appeared three times a day on a small steel table opposite the room. Hermione hadn't eaten dinner, and the tray was still there, as if she had been forgotten. Just like the food. She wasn't being informed of any progress on herself or the other patients.

Generally, they only asked for samples from the lesion on her arm and ignored her questions. She was getting tired of playing the ignorant patient. She was much smarter than that. She had noticed changes in her body that the Healer in charge of her had overlooked, but if they weren't going to inform Hermione of their discoveries, then she wouldn't inform them of her own findings either. Her physical changes were mainly cosmetic: Hermione had noticed the growth of her breasts and the widening of her hips, like going through a second puberty. It was evident that these were for reproductive purposes. She also had partial irritation in areas of her neck and wrists, noticing slight swelling in the affected areas, but apparently, these were not visible to the Healer attending to her, as she hadn't mentioned them.

She had experienced olfactory sensitivity and sensitivity in the genital area, along with unusual activity in her womb, which was still difficult to describe but came in slight pulses. Hermione looked up as she was self-examining her chest, quickly withdrawing her hands when she heard the door creak. Her Healer finally entered with a vial and Hermione's file. She had a pin on her robe pocket and dark circles under her eyes.

"Patient H. Granger..." she said monotonously before stopping and cursing under her breath.

She released the file, and it floated in the air, opening up. A quill detached itself from the first page, ready to write on the paper.

"Patient H. Granger..."

The pin on her lapel started to glow, and she rolled her eyes, leaving the room. The file remained floating in the air. Hermione stayed still and silent, staring fixedly at the document. The file was motionless for a moment. Hermione slowly got up; suddenly, the folder abruptly snapped shut, shooting toward the door as if trying to escape. It seemed to have a mind of its own. Hermione had to catch it and read it. She had to know what they knew and if the information she possessed was somehow useful.

The file hit the door, and the pages fell in a scattered mess on the floor. She noticed names other than her own: Colin Covey, Delilah Fairchild, Drake Delaney, Edgar Aldridge, Aurelia Callahan…

The list continued, reaching fifteen patients. Hermione looked through the parchments with curious eyes as she moved to sit on her bed.

Colin Covey: No side effects of any kind.

Delilah Fairchild: Severe lacerations on the lower abdomen, magical hyperthermia, described as intense heat beneath the skin.

Drake Delaney: Tactile hyperalgesia (skin sensitivity), aggressively rejects physical contact.

Hermione Granger: Wound caused by a sharp object…

Hermione continued flipping through the pages until she stopped at one near the bottom of the bunch, dated August 25th.

"All patients exhibit a cyclical state that is suspected to be… characterized by a combination of physiological, endocrine, and magical alterations of unknown cause. Increased secretions are linked to the magical reproductive cycle. Intermittent insomnia due to nervous hyperactivity. Psychological manifestations: anticipatory anxiety, hypervigilance, bonding impulses, mild cognitive impairment..."

Hermione ran her fingers over the letters, which appeared to have been written sluggishly, some stretching out more than necessary, as if the writer had been severely tired. She found another important section near the end of the parchment.

"Magical manifestations: Unstable energy waves and magical core dysregulation."

She picked up the quill and began writing on the inside of the folder. The incident had begun on Monday, August 23rd. On the morning of Tuesday, August 24th, everything still seemed normal despite the symptoms some were exhibiting, and then that night, everything had changed. The horror lasted four days. With the dates listed, Hermione closed her eyes, trying to remember something—something that felt important, something she had read in one of the newspapers she had skimmed the morning Percy intercepted her and took her to Shacklebolt.

The full moon. The full moon phase. She recited the text perfectly, as if she had memorized it: "During the night of August 24th, at the beginning of the full moon phase, chaos and panic gripped St. Mungo's emergency ward."

She recited the text softly as her brain began to make connections. Full moon, magical hyperthermia, hypervigilance, magical core dysregulation, nervous hyperactivity, then it hit her.

“Increased secretions are linked to the magical reproductive cycle.”

Full moon, werewolves.

Wolves, animals.

Heat cycles.

“Magical hyperthermia is described as intense heat beneath the skin.”

A heat.

 Hermione had worked in the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures for eight months, reading countless books on all types of creatures. She found werewolves particularly fascinating. She bit her lip, opening her eyes wide, just as the Healer who had left the documents behind walked back into the room. She froze upon seeing Hermione with the quill and parchments in her hand. Panic was visible in her eyes, but her expression was so drained from the hours of sleepless work that she barely reacted.

"It's a heat cycle. It correlates with the full moon phase, or so I believe. All the symptoms described in the patients are similar to those of an animal's or, more specifically, a dog’s heat, adapted to a magical human being." The young Healer leaned against the wall as her legs gave out, like she couldn’t take all the information in.

She covered her face.

"That’s what I wrote," she said, a sob clinging to her lips. "But I'm so tired I forgot where, and then I forgot I knew it."

Hermione watched her collapse by the door.

"When was the last time you slept?" she asked, getting up. She put the folder on the table next to her untouched food, then approached the Healer.

She helped her up, noticing her legs trembling from exhaustion.

"Thirty-two hours ago."

Hermione’s heart twisted. She helped the girl sit down on the bed.

"Sleep. I'll continue making notes, and when you wake up—"

The girl abruptly pulled her hands away, standing up to run toward the table and grab the folder, as if a sudden burst of adrenaline had hit her.

"I can't. I... I can't. I'm the last one left."

And she left the room in a rush.

Chapter Text

Chapter Text

Anomalies. Hermione had plunged herself into their study, comparing symptoms and the reactions to the curse in each patient. She firmly leaned toward her theory: a mixture of werewolf blood with experimental dark magic. They still needed to unravel the exact components of the potion and its true purpose.

The first truly obvious anomaly was Colin Covey's. With no apparent side effects, Shaila named it the Resistance Anomaly. Although Covey reacted to the Red Moon just like the rest of the affected, he had developed an impressive resistance to pain. Despite the strong physical changes, he didn't externalize his agony. Shaila was handling his case, while Hermione focused on the other patients, particularly the Muggle-borns.

Another notable case was Drake Delaney, with the Aberration Anomaly: a total repulsion to touch. His body had negative physical reactions to contact, becoming so problematic that Hermione and Shaila decided to use only magic for any analysis. But even the influence of external magic made him uncomfortable, skyrocketing his heart rate as if he were terrified, even though he didn't consciously feel fear. His body reacted negatively to any intrusion into his personal space.

"We have to find some kind of remedy," Shaila said next to her. "Before the next full moon. We have all the pure-bloods locked up here, which prevents chaos, but... the Muggle-borns..."

"How sure are we that all the affected pure-bloods are locked up here?" Hermione asked, closing the book she had been researching. As expected, it hadn't been helpful. There was no recorded information about this completely new magic.

Hermione looked up. She had just returned from her morning check-ups and was organizing the anomalies, aware that they would have to devise a quicker process to identify them in those who were still outside. She looked at the book, Anomalies of Magic by Charlotte Duffey, and then at Shaila, who was also thoughtful, reviewing her notes.

Hermione stood up to approach Shaila. The pure-bloods were the most dangerous. After the transfiguration, the physical power they had acquired made the use of magic to attack unnecessary. Shaila had detailed what Dean had done: effortlessly ripping off a colleague's arm, crushing it with a squeeze, and popping it out of its joint with a simple tug. Hermione shook her head, trying not to imagine it.

"Any changes in the pure-blood patients?" she asked Shaila.

Shaila shook her head. "Apparently, all the transfigurations are over. We could start the assessments together. Today I was able to talk to Zabini using only a numbing charm; there was no need to stun him."

Hermione watched the healer, who was frowning, trying to make sense of something before speaking.

"Have you looked into the telepathy with Malfoy?" Shaila finally asked her.

Hermione turned, feeling a pang in her head. She scratched her neck and wrists, which were slightly itching. She didn't want to think about that. She hadn't been able to approach Malfoy's room. When she had, she only heard him think about how much he wanted to leave, or, most of the time, he wasn't thinking at all. Hermione didn't doubt that was the natural state of his brain: a total silence.

Shaila interpreted Hermione's silence as negative and continued, "Are you using the ointments I prescribed?" She walked toward the potions cabinet.

"Don't bother, it doesn't work," Hermione replied, pulling down the sleeves of her robe to cover her wrists.

"What are they like?" the healer asked, approaching Hermione to try to see her neck. "The glands."

Hermione had verified that the glands were not visible to those unaffected by the curse. She had inspected the small, almost imperceptible bumps on her neck and wrists, and on the other Muggle-born patients. It wasn't her main focus, but she paid attention when she had free time. The fatigue was becoming evident, and she couldn't help but think how impressive it was that Shaila had managed practically alone before she started helping her.

"Actually," Hermione said, stepping away. It made her uncomfortable for anyone to see her glands. Although she knew Shaila couldn't. "I made a drawing. It's like a small bunch of grapes. When they swell, they are easily distinguished, but that only happens with stimulation."

"What kind of stimulation?" Shaila took the drawing and analyzed it, letting her file float to take notes.

"I've noticed it can be from temperature increases, or also from friction..."

"When did yours start to erupt?"

"After the first fever, but the itching is recent."

"They look disgusting," Shaila commented, her gaze fixed on the drawing.

Hermione shrugged, not understanding why they now seemed like something precious, something she had to take care of. Part of her, but not just anything—something important that she couldn't afford to lose.

"Really?" Hermione asked, almost absentmindedly. She had uncovered a wrist and was carefully touching the edges; the skin was extremely sensitive.

"Do they have any suppuration or odor?" Shaila asked.

Hermione looked at her. She hadn't thought about it. If they were swollen, they must contain something. She looked at them more closely; yes, they seemed to have something inside. She squeezed, but no liquid came out.

"No suppuration," she murmured. She brought her wrist to her nose and inhaled. "No odor either."

Shaila nodded and watched her before turning to grab her file.

"We have to go see the pure-bloods. If only you can see these things, you have to tell me what they look like on them. Maybe they look different. Or, probably, they don't even have them..." she told Hermione, as they left the office.

Zabini had his head resting against the wall when they entered. He looked at them sideways and, for a moment, was about to react. But it was as if he was fighting an instinct; his eyes kept traveling in their direction, and he was desperately trying not to look at them. Then, he succumbed to whatever was disturbing him, turned his face towards them, and showed his canines. From his expression, Hermione couldn't tell if it was a warning or just a display.

His eyes were fixed on Hermione. Shaila immediately pulled out her wand.

"Zabini," she warned him.

He didn't even pay attention to her. After a moment, he inhaled deeply and wrinkled his nose, turning his head away from them, as if they were no longer worthy of his interest. Hermione took the opportunity to inspect his neck from a distance: the glands were visible, but not swollen or reddish.

Shaila didn't relax and kept her wand raised.

"Extend your wrists forward," she ordered him.

Hermione remained quiet behind her, looking over Shaila's shoulder as Zabini extended his long, muscular arms, exposing his wrists. The gland marks were there, but they were not inflamed either. Hermione observed them closely, trying to memorize the shape and patterns to replicate them on paper. Zabini's glands were similar to hers, but not identical. She supposed that, just like among the Muggle-borns, the marks would differ among the pure-bloods.

"Now your neck."

Zabini tensed. It was clear he was unwilling to obey.

"Don't make me stun you, Zabini," Shaila hissed, almost maliciously. Hermione looked at her for a moment, as if she didn't recognize her. Although Shaila had been cold to Hermione at first, Shaila didn't seem like someone who would speak to anyone with such a mixture of authority and disgust.

But he didn't yield. He kept his gaze firmly fixed on Shaila's eyes.

"You know you're under probation," she reminded him, as if this was any different from being locked up elsewhere.

He clenched his jaw so hard that Hermione heard his teeth grind. She tried to listen to him mentally, as she had done with Malfoy, but no. There was nothing. She couldn't hear Zabini. He exposed his neck reluctantly, only long enough to allow them a glance. Shaila turned to Hermione to wordlessly ask if she had seen enough; Hermione nodded and stepped away.

Zabini still kept his arms exposed as Shaila began the routine questions. Hermione's eyes continued to scan his body for more changes. Undoubtedly, he had also grown in proportion to the thin young man she knew at Hogwarts; although Zabini was always tall and slender, he now looked much more built. He had the body of an athlete. Hermione didn't know if this was a result of the curse or some hobby acquired after the war.

As she examined his arms again, for the first time, she saw the Dark Mark. The dark ink was branded as if the tattoo had been placed recently, with reddish edges, and immobilized, unlike the last time she saw it. This was on Malfoy's arm in the Manor.

The scene came to mind as a vivid memory: the snake sliding over the skin to emerge from the skull when Draco used his wand to summon the Dark Lord. She remembered his face. His indecision. The silver eyes of a prisoner.

Hermione shuddered, leaving the room in search of air.

Ron stood up abruptly when he saw her. He wrapped his arms around her in an instant. Shaila was about to stun him, but it was clear Ron hadn't approached with the intent to harm; concern radiated off him as much as his heat. Hermione could feel the warmth of his skin at the points of contact. She hugged him back with relief. She hadn't had time to think or worry about him, but after seeing him, her eyes filled with tears.

He looked different, too, taller, more radiant. Hermione took his face in her hands to inspect it. He had glands too, in the same places and with the same different appearance, no swelling. She relaxed upon seeing he was still Ron, her red-headed friend.

"How is Harry?" Hermione asked, feeling silly afterwards. Ron wouldn't know; he had been locked up shortly after her.

"Last I saw him, he was up to his neck in work," Ron replied, rubbing the back of his neck and grimacing at Shaila. "I see you've inevitably gotten involved," he said, addressing Hermione this time.

"I had to."

"I know, you always have to."

"What's that supposed to mean, Ronald?" Hermione raised an eyebrow, her concern dissolving into annoyance.

"Well. The Ministry's last order was not to involve anyone external in the investigation." His eyes locked onto Shaila again. Hermione looked over her shoulder and saw the healer glaring at Ron.

External?

How could she be external if she was also locked up there?

Annoyance swelled in her chest.

Hermione was about to ask, but Shaila spoke first, her eyes not leaving Ron.

"If the Ministry were to find out about Granger's involvement in the investigation, I highly doubt they'd be surprised. They sent the brightest witch of her age as an object of study, not as an active member. A massive mistake. I wouldn't have made any progress without her, and any penalty suggested would be unjustified." Shaila finally looked at Hermione, who was flushed from her chest to the top of her head. "Wouldn't you agree, Weasley?"

Hermione stood staring at the door, holding her breath. She wanted to try to listen to him before entering. It was more a way to prepare herself, as she didn't know how the contact would affect her; the mere memory of it had almost given her a panic attack. The first time she heard his voice inside her head, it was like a shock, a tremor. An unwanted intrusion, much like a violation of her privacy.

Shaila had told her there was no pressure, that she could see him later, that Shaila would go in alone and give her the details afterwards. But after Shaila's flattering—and especially inspiring—speech, Hermione would feel like a fraud if she ran away now.

Draco was essential to the investigation. That had been clear from the start. This was all his and his family's fault.

Besides, it wasn't like Draco Malfoy scared her. He never did. He was just a spoiled, idiotic boy who...

"Just come in, Granger."

She shivered as his voice caressed a dormant corner inside her brain, almost like her subconscious, beyond her superficial thoughts.

Did he also know how she felt?

"Come in now."

It felt like an order, and without knowing why, Hermione entered. She turned the doorknob with a fluid movement and took a step, so fast that Shaila was surprised and didn't have time to stop her before the door slammed shut right in her face.

"HERMIONE!" Shaila screamed in panic, banging on the door with her fists.

Hermione heard her cast useless spells over and over again.

"HERMIONE!" Shaila's voice grew distant.

In the corner of the room, on the bed, with his neck exposed and his eyes fixed on the ceiling, was Draco Malfoy. He radiated a heat almost as intense as Ron's, but one that could reach her even from a distance. Her skin prickled at the sensation. The room didn't smell like anything, but Hermione could see streaks of reddish smoke from time to time, as if emanating from him.

She inhaled deeply. Although it didn't smell like anything, it burned her nostrils, and Hermione felt a void in her stomach as she realized she could almost taste it in the air, even without knowing what it was. Her mouth watered.

Draco raised his hand and covered his face.

"Granger, are you horny or something?"

Right, he could hear her.

But could he also feel her? The strange feelings he was provoking? The sudden sensation of wanting to be enveloped in that suffocating heat forever?

This was the first time she had seen him in a year and a half. He was so different. Even with his hand covering his face, his body gave her more details about his changes and his transfiguration: his fingers were longer, his nails slightly long, almost like claws had formed. The veins in his neck and forearms were swollen, branching out over the skin on the back of his hands. It could be due to the recent strain of enduring the forced changes of the curse or the increase in temperature.

Hermione took a step forward, and Draco turned to look at her, as if she were completely insane.

Draco's eyes were dilated. There wasn't a hint of the usual charming grey; Hermione, as she approached, realized she wouldn't need to write down anything she was seeing. The image was being burned into her brain like hot iron on gray matter.

"Stop it," she heard in her head.

Only then did she realize she had been so busy thinking about how he looked that she hadn't bothered to listen to his thoughts.

He turned his face away from her again.

"Just do the inspection and get out," he told her.

Draco's voice in her head was exactly as she remembered it from school. Hearing his voice outside her head was different; it gave her a chill. It was deeper. 

Hermione stared, trying to listen for his thoughts. She wanted to make sure she couldn't hear him anymore. Nothing.

Could he decide when their minds connected?

Draco didn't react to her thought.

He exposed his neck for her without a word, as if wishing the moment would end soon. Then, he stretched out his arms, showing his wrists. Hermione furrowed her brow and moved a little closer: the glands were swollen and reddish.

"Do they itch?" Hermione asked him, almost sitting on the bed.

"More than you can imagine," he replied curtly.

She did, in fact, she knew, but she didn't mention it. She observed the irritated skin. These glands looked much more like hers than any of the others. Without precaution, she uncovered her own wrist in front of him to bring it closer and compare. Draco stood up instantly, moving away from her as if she had insulted him.

"What the hell are you doing?" His eyes were wide as he turned away.

Hermione slowly came back to herself, out of the trance-like suppression caused by the heat and the reddish flashes in the room. Annoyance and frustration broke through the thick cloud that had clouded her judgment. Once out, she felt like herself again.

"Trying to figure out what's wrong with us." She explained exasperatedly.

"Exposing yourself like that?" he asked, scandalized, as if Hermione's gesture had been indecent.

Hermione rolled her eyes.

"You did it too," she reminded him.

Draco still wasn't looking at her, his back turned. A broad, muscular back that ended in a narrow waist. She could see the muscles in his arms tense as he placed them on his hips, a gesture intended not to show weakness to her. Yet there were no words to argue against Hermione's logic, and both of them knew it.

"It's different," he simply said.

"Why?"

"Don't ever do that in front of anyone." His warning tone intrigued her.

"Do you know something I don't?"

Of course. She didn't have to read his mind to know that was the case. After all, the curse had originated from his home. They must have been plotting something while Voldemort was hiding in his manor, and he should have perfectly known what it was. The experiments were surely conducted right there. Her stomach turned at the thought of whether they had used wizards, werewolves, or Muggles to test the effects of the cursed potion. She wondered if the potion had even been finished to fulfill whatever its purpose was before Voldemort's downfall.

Hermione moved away, giving him space to turn towards her.

When the distance was sufficient, with Hermione near the door, she could hear Shaila still trying to get in from afar.

Shaila.

Hermione turned towards the door, and it flew open. Shaila stumbled in with her wand raised and cast a spell at Draco. He fell backward, hitting his head against the wall.

"Shaila!" Hermione screamed. She grabbed her arm to stop her from casting another spell at Draco.

The healer had panic and fear in her dark eyes as she looked at Hermione, checking to see if Draco had torn her apart as she had feared. When she made sure Hermione was not missing any limbs and wasn't bleeding, she relaxed.

"Shit..." she finally murmured, looking at Draco. "I thought..."

"I know," Hermione said with a gesture of understanding, releasing her.

Shaila used a spell to lift Draco back onto the bed. He was definitely unconscious.

"I'm sorry," she said, with not a hint of genuine remorse in her voice.

Hermione didn't reply.

Her gaze was fixed on Malfoy's forearm. The one she hadn't been able to inspect properly during her initial check because she was too stunned under the effects of the heat and strange sensations. On the exposed skin, where the Dark Mark should have been, reddish lumps rose, almost as if the skin had been irreparably burned and was constantly searing, but without expanding. At the edges where the dark, magical ink should be, there was a reddish, lava-like, burning ink.

Hermione gasped, and then Shaila's gaze followed hers.

"So that's why it's so hot in here all the time," Shaila muttered, as if this discovery was just an inconvenience.

And it probably was.