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Chapter Text

“I want your fear. For your fear, like a current, rushes through your body.” -Bram Stoker, Dracula

Hermione awoke on the Hogwarts Express when it started to rain. The weather bore down hard on the windows, shaking her awake. She couldn’t remember falling asleep. The small cabin around her was soaked in dim, gray daylight. She looked at it through bleary eyes.

It felt like a lifetime had passed since her last ride on the Hogwarts Express. In some ways, being back felt like the most natural thing in the world, but Hermione couldn't ignore the images of crumbling buildings and hot bursts of magic that flashed on her eyelids when she closed her eyes. The new throbbing in her arm was a constant reminder of what had happened. Though Hermione doubted she'd ever be able to forget regardless.

Across her, Ron dozed unattractively, his head leaned at an awkward angle as his mouth hung open. Sitting in the same seat he’d been in when they were children, he looked grown up. They all did, in some irreversible, innate way that didn't just occur from aging. When she looked at him then she thought of the Yule Ball, when her biggest problem had been wondering if he'd pluck up the courage to ask her. Until Krum had, and she'd gone with him in spite. It seemed so silly to think of now.

Harry sat quietly next to her, a Quidditch book open on his lap, which he read as he munched away at a stale-looking pumpkin pasty. She blinked, noticing the crumbs falling onto the pages. He didn’t seem to notice that she’d awoken.

The other two-thirds of their Golden Trio seemed to be taking the journey back to school better than Hermione. Their enthusiasm had been palpable in the air the entire time, suffocating her as they said their merry goodbyes to Molly, ran into Dean and Seamus on the train, then bickered over the cards they got in their chocolate frogs when the snack cart came around.

Hermione knew they still carried the fresh losses of the war with them too; she could see it in the smile Harry sometimes put on, the one that never quite reached his eyes the way it used to. The way Ron would sometimes go quiet all of a sudden, in the middle of a conversation, and everyone in the room knew he was thinking of Fred. In some ways, they were all the same. Broken. Haunted. Scared little children with all this terror and nowhere to put it.

But Hermione couldn't shake the feeling that slowly, surely, the boys were learning to live with it, and she wasn't. She couldn't.

Hermione doubted they had much longer before they’d be at school. As she looked out the window, the countryside passed by in a blur of green and rain, and she could see the faint outline of the mountains in the distance. Hermione turned to the door of their cabin, trying to look out the window on the other side.

She instead locked eyes with Draco Malfoy. He stood immobile in the corridor like a shadow. He looked unusually casual in a black jumper and black jeans, hands tucked lazily into his pockets. He seemed to be just passing by, but no amount of practiced arrogance could hide the fact that Hermione had never seen him look worse. Ghostly pale, skin sallow, and jaw unnaturally sharp. He looked like a starved, wild animal.

Yes, she thought, yes I recognize that look. It was the same one she’d been seeing every morning when she looked in the mirror. Something about him looked stretched thin, like he was holding himself in a body that no longer fit. And those eyes, grey and cruel–they were eyes that had seen war, yes, but there was something else there too. Hermione studied him curiously. Malfoy’s jaw clenched as his eyes flicked to Harry and Ron, then back to her. She sensed something predatory in that gaze.

Before Hermione could make anything more of it, he turned and stalked down the corridor.

She turned to lean her head back against the window.

Malfoy looked like shit. For the first time since stepping onto the train, she’d found another student that looked as screwed over by the war as she’d felt. She found a sick kind of satisfaction in it.

How does it feel, Malfoy?

Harry awoke her when the train had stopped. “Hermione. Hermione, get up.”

She opened her eyes briskly, brought alert by the sounds of suitcases coming out of compartments in nearby cabins as students chattered softly.

“We’re here?” Hermione mumbled, more of an affirmation than anything. Harry nodded, giving her space to get up and out of the cabin. Ron was already handing her her suitcase, which she took with a tight nod before turning back to go inside. It had grown dark outside, and Hermione could barely see anything outside the windows save for what the train lanterns illuminated in the near vicinity. She watched in silence as Harry and Ron got up to get their bags and put on their robes. She didn’t move to put her own again.

“Bit tight for you, isn’t it, Weasley?” Seamus appeared in the corridor, smirking. “Mummy couldn’t spare you a new one?”

“Shove off,” Ron muttered, tugging at his collar. His hair stuck up in every direction from his nap.

“Dunno why you’re back here,” Seamus regarded Harry. “War hero of our generation. My dad reckons you’ll be running the Auror office by Christmas.

Harry flushed. “Hardly.” Seamus’s gaze flicked to her.

“Granger,” he nodded cordially. “You’re looking well. Where’s your robe?” Hermione met his eyes blankly. Seamus looked different now, but she supposed everyone would. Before she could answer, Harry rose. “I’ll get it for you, Mione.”

“Thanks,” she said roughly.

“I just don’t know if I can stand sitting NEWTs after all this,” Ron said as they shuffled down the corridor. “Think McGonagall’ll let us skip them on account of trauma?”

“Doubt it,” Harry’s smile was humorless. 

Hermione trailed a few paces behind them. Outside the window, the rain had settled into a thick fog.

“Only someone mad would look forward to coming back here to take their NEWTs.” Ron glanced back at her, “Right, Hermione?”

She said nothing. Hermione had been stupid to think that he could be subtle after they’d broken up. Honestly, she should’ve expected this behavior.

“Ron,” Harry said quietly, warning him off. It was fine. If Harry thought that Hermione was still caught up over him, he was wrong. Whatever relationship they’d had during the war had been short-lived, and if Hermione was being honest, pointless too.

They lined up to get off the train. “Come on, you know what I meant, Mione,” Ron stepped onto the platform. Around them, the sound of students finding each other and migrating towards the edge of the river filled the air. “It was just a joke. I mean…all of us are nervous to be back. Right, Harry?”

“Right,” he echoed.

Ginny appeared at her side, eyeing her brother warily. “What’d he do this time?”

“Nothing!” Ron exclaimed.

“Nothing,” Hermione shrugged at the same time.

“Surely,” Ginny brushed it off. She smiled at Hermione. “I heard Luna’s got Head Girl this year. Isn’t that exciting?”

Ron looked aghast. “Looney? She’ll order us all to start sleeping outside.”

“Shut it,” Ginny glared. “She’s a great pick.” “

I’m surprised they didn’t go for you, Hermione. You seem like a more natural choice than Luna.” Ron looked at her.

“I didn’t want it,” Hermione said simply. “I’m with Ginny. I think Luna’s smart for the job. The first years will like her.”

“That’s mad.” Ron sighed.

She shook her head. “He means it as a compliment,” Ginny whispered to her. “He’s just a dolt.”

Hermione fought the urge to roll her eyes. Without another word, she went ahead to catch the next batch of boats before they set off for the castle.

The journey across the lake was silent save for the sound of water moving as the boats rowed themselves across. By the time they reached the gates, Hermione paused.

She didn’t think it’d be so hard to see Hogwarts again after the war. The windows glowed through the fog with warm lanterns and candle light, and she could see the faint outline of teachers in the Great Hall. First years milled around her, half listening to Hagrid’s booming voice, half distracted by the castle’s beauty.

A shiver went through her. In an instant, Hermione was back there, smelling the burn of dark magic and smoke lingering in the courtyard. The sky had looked so gray that day, as though the sun would never come out again. As though she’d never know what good felt like again.

It’s over. It’s over.

Students pushed against her, trying to get to the front. The feel of their bodies pressed against her made her feel hot.

A movement caught her eye by the doors. Malfoy stood there, glaring down at the first years darkly. In all black, with his pale face half-lit by the torches, he looked like an omen of death. She could’ve sworn that look in his eyes was not an accident; he was also thinking about the Battle. Thinking, and hating. He hadn’t changed either, Hermione noticed distantly. Like her, he was still in the same clothes from the train. She almost laughed at their shared insolence–refusing to let things go back to normal as long as possible. Hermione decided that looking at Malfoy was like being back in the War.

For some reason, it was a comfort.

As the people behind her pushed forward, Hermione followed along, edging closer to the entrance as Hagrid hung the lantern on its hook and began to heave the doors open. She clutched the edge of her sweater sleeve tightly, so the fabric pressed against her scar. She’d gotten used to the dull burn of it over time.

Hermione glanced back and saw Ginny, Harry, and Ron a few paces away, bickering about something and glancing at the rest of the students. She dropped her suitcase by the doors and walked into the hall. It was loud, but all the students were already filing into the Great Hall.

Luna appeared next to her suddenly, smiling that same smile. “Are you going to join us for dinner, Hermione?” She asked, gaze so unfocused that it was only because of the direct address that Hermione knew she was talking to her. “It’s nice to see you.”

She swallowed. Though she’d slept almost the entire train ride, Hermione still felt inexplicably exhausted. The last thing she wanted to do was sit through the Welcome banquet. “Not tonight, Luna.”

“Nice to see you. Nice to see you,” she crooned out, like it was a song. “Pretty Hermione.”

Luna looked untouched by the War. Hermione felt partially relieved and also partially envious. “Congratulations on Head Girl.” She said. “You’ll do great.”

“The dorm is quite large,” she remarked dreamily. “Would be good for a little forest.” A giggle escaped her. “I don’t like it without. Quite drafty. Quite, quite drafty.”

“And who’s the Head Boy?” Hermione asked, trying to follow Luna’s wandering gaze but ending up nowhere.

Another giggle. “You’ll be surprised.” Luna leaned in, whispering, “We could be siblings.”

Hermione opened her mouth to say something, but Luna turned and drifted in the other direction, towards the dining hall entrance. She watched the girl go, and for a fleeting moment, Hermione considered following. But then that inexplicable tiredness settled over her again at the thought of having to be around so many people, in this place she no longer found comforting.

Hermione turned to the stairwell and started towards Gryffindor tower.

When Hermione was a girl, her mother used to burn bay leaves for her when she couldn’t sleep. She’d sneak out of her room and down the hall, careful so her footsteps wouldn’t make the floorboards creak, and squeeze into her parent’s room to poke her mom awake. The two would go downstairs to the kitchen and Hermione would sit on the kitchen counter while her mother dug through the pantry, fished out the dried leaves, and burn them for her on the stove. They would talk, or sometimes they wouldn’t. She never fully understood the reasoning behind it, but by true science or a simple case of Pavlovian conditioning, the lingering smell of earthy smoke and her mother’s soothing voice never failed to put Hermione to sleep as a child, even during the gnarliest storm or nightmare.

Now Hermione wasn’t a child. Her nightmares followed her into waking thoughts. Everything she knew about her mother was a memory, and like all others, it inevitably would fade.

When she woke, Hermione was standing in the hallway outside the Gryffindor dormitories.

Funny, she thought. I usually go much further.

Hermione looked down to see she was still in the same clothes she traveled in, now old as well as wrinkled. She tried to clear the sleep from her eyes as she glanced around at the dark hallway, feeling disoriented. It really was surprising she hadn’t gone farther.

Since the war, Hermione’s schedule revolved around when she couldn’t sleep, and where she ended up once she did. It started small–vivid dreams, talking in her sleep. Until one night a few months ago, she’d woken up in the hallway outside of her guest room at the Weasleys’. A few nights later, she was in the stairwell, staring out the window. A month before the term started, she woke up about a kilometer out of the house, in the fields. The smell of the weeds and the night air as she woke had shocked her into the memory of the night Greyback attacked. Hermione had collapsed and laid frozen in the dirt for nearly thirty minutes before her breathing returned to normal.

That morning, Ron came down and asked, “What, did you forage for breakfast this morning?”

She blinked confusedly before Ginny reached over and pulled a small leaf out of your hair. “He means you look like you’ve been outside.”

Hermione took a sip from her mug of tea. It was cold. “Early morning walk,” was all she managed.

It was no mystery that the sleepwalking was caused by her vivid nightmares from the war. Hermione knew she’d been bound to develop a disorder at some point, given how irregular her sleep was. And while it had never put her in any danger, she worried about how much longer she had until she ended up at the edge of the Astronomy Tower or down by the Slytherin dungeons before she woke up.

Now, she strolled along the hallway, only relieved she’d not been woken up by a prefect on patrol. Hermione found herself heading in the direction of the library, not wanting to face the Fat Lady just yet. She shivered as her bare feet hit the cool tiles with every step. The school was just as she remembered it, and yet seemed so much bigger this way, with nothing to fill the space but silence.

A few minutes later, Hermione smelled something strange, something other than the faint must of the halls. Something fresh and…wild. She kept walking and inhaled sharply, convinced she was imagining things. But it didn’t leave.

She’d barely made it three steps when she heard a shuffle just in the distance. The barest sound, an echo. A whisper.

A sign she was not alone.

Hermione didn’t stop. Something pulled her along, and with no warning bells going off in the back of her mind, she followed it without question.

Then the smell hit her again. Stronger this time. Sharp, sweet, with a tinge of something coppery. Hermione couldn’t control her gag reflex at the familiarity of it. Was that…blood? She slapped a hand over her mouth, heart thundering wildly. Panic fell over her like a familiar friend. She whipped her head around, searching for the source of that awful stench.

There, a few meters away, illuminated only by the pools of moonlight from the windows above, was a figure at the top of the stairwell. His tall frame shuddered with heavy breaths. As she turned towards him, the smell became suffocating. Hermione stumbled a couple steps back at its potency, and the sound of her shuffling footsteps made him look up.

For the second time that day, Hermione found Draco Malfoy looking back at her. Across the dark hallway, his gaze looked wild, but powerless too, like she’d caught him in the act of something. Hermione wondered if he would say something to her. She took a step towards him, and noticed it at the same time he raised a hand to wipe it away.

A spot of red, at the corner of his mouth. Without thinking, Hermione turned and bolted back to the dorms. Halfway down the hall, she broke out into a run, not checking to see if he was following behind her.

Chapter Text

“Your former glories, and all the stories / Dragged and washed with eager hands.” -Siouxsie and the Banshees, “Cities in Dust”

McGonagall found her the next morning before breakfast. She trudged towards the Great Hall to meet with her friends when the Headmistress appeared at her side, eyeing her warily. Hermione stopped upon seeing her.

“Miss Granger,” she nodded. “Are you feeling alright?” 

Hermione worried for a moment that this was about her leaving the tower last night. She didn’t even want to think about it. “Yes,” she spoke gruffly. “Yes, I’m just tired.”

“I noticed you weren’t at the Welcome Banquet last night.” Her words were pointed.

Hermione sighed internally. “Yes, Professor. The travels didn’t sit well with me, so I decided to head to bed early.” 

“Alright.” McGonagall peered at her through her glasses. “I was surprised by your refusal of my offer over the summer, Granger. I wanted to make sure that you were…in right sorts, going into the term. I meant to call you to my office, but now that I’ve caught you…”

Hermione looked down. Over the summer, McGonagall had Owled to offer the position of Head Girl to her. All the Weasleys had rejoiced at seeing it, and rushed to congratulate her. 

But while there had been a time when Hermione dreamed of receiving that letter, when it actually happened, she wasn’t even sure about going back to school. The writing on Hogwarts stationary only reminded her that McGonagall was inquiring because Dumbledore was no longer there to ask her himself. She’d barely read the letter through once before tossing it and returning to bed for the rest of the afternoon.

“I wrote you back,” Hermione said. “I hope the letter wasn’t discourteous-” 

“The letter was fine,” McGonagall interjected. “I was inquiring about you.” 

Hermione didn’t know what to say to that. What could she tell McGonagall? Sorry, Professor, but you’ll never be Dumbledore and part of me hates you for it. So she said the same thing she’d told Ron. “I think Luna was a perfect choice, Miss. She’ll be kind and patient.” It’s more than I can say for myself. 

McGonagall looked displeased, and even a little worried. “I see.” She said. “I hope this doesn’t mean anything about your involvement otherwise? Academically? You’re still pushing yourself, I hope?” 

A nod. “Yes, Professor,” she struggled for an explanation. “The Head Girl thing…I just didn’t know if it would be the best for me.” 

“Funny,” she murmured. “I thought you better suited than any other girl in your year.” 

Hermione fought the urge to shake her head. How could McGonagall put down Luna so outrightly? She almost felt bad for the girl. 

“Anyway, I’ll let you go meet your friends in the Great Hall–but consider my offer open, Granger.” McGonagall began to turn. “If you change your mind about Head Girl, let me know.”

“What about Luna?” She called. 

“I will figure something out.” Her eyes glinted through her spectacles in the way Dumbledore’s often did. She thought of it the rest of the way to breakfast.

“Where were you?” Ron asked her before she even sat down.
“McGonagall had to talk to me,” Hermione mumbled, going straight for the pot of tea at the table as she sat across from him.

“I mean last night,” he said. “You went ahead of us and then never came back.” 

“Decided to turn in early?” Ginny asked from beside her in a softer tone. 

Hermione nodded. “I was really tired.” And even more tired of saying it over and over again. 

She was brought out of her thoughts by McGonagall’s voice echoing throughout the Grand Hall. “Students, I want to wish you all luck in your classes today. Before you go off into the school, there’s just one thing left on the agenda that we didn’t get to at the welcome dinner.” She glanced around the hall, “And that is the appointment of this year's Head Boy and Girl. First years, these individuals will effectively be your guides through the school as you acclimate." She paused. "They'll be the me when I can't always be around--enforcing the rules when you aren’t in classes, and providing you with advice or direction should you need it.” McGonagall’s eyes went to Hermione. 

“I think she misses you,” Ginny whispered to her with a smirk. Hermione rolled her eyes.

“This year’s Head Boy and Girl represent the moral code that Hogwarts has and always will hold to the highest standard. They are intelligent, noble, gracious individuals.You will treat them as such.” McGonagall gestured to the front of the Hall, “Luna Lovegood and Draco Malfoy, everyone.” 

Hermione turned her head and they met eyes almost instantly. His were guarded steel, vacant as ever. He stood rigidly, hands behind his back, and stared out into the crowd without looking at anyone. He was Occluding. She could tell instantly. Because despite the gray shadows under his eyes and that bluish vein pumping in his neck, despite his entirely inhuman disposition, he looked calm. Aloof. Unaware of the utter tumult his naming of Head Boy just caused. If it weren’t for the slight flare of his nostrils as she leaned towards him, she might’ve thought he were a statue.

We could be siblings, Luna had told her the night before with a wry smile. Hermione stared between the two of them. Luna gazed at the crowd, a dazed and wistful smile plastered on his face. Hermione looked back at Malfoy and saw his jaw tick slightly. She wondered if any two people could’ve been so different. 

Hermione looked away and picked at her scar under the table, keeping the thoughts of cold tile pressing into her back and electric pain shooting through her at bay. Mudblood. Mudblood. Mudblood. 

It would be an interesting year.

In Herbology that morning, the Greenhouse felt unusually stuffy. Gryffindors and Hufflepuffs stood crowded together as Professor Sprout dug around the supply closet, looking for something. 

“I mean could you think of a worse git for the job?” Ron hissed to Harry, who, despite his usually aloof exterior, still looked shaken at the news. “He’s up to something, I know it.” 

“Up to what?” Harry muttered. “Voldemort’s dead, Ron.” 

“Ron’s right.” Seamus interjected. “The war might be over, but their cause lives on.” 

“Oh, please,” Hermione’s voice was low with irritation. It was too hot in the room. “You know McGonagall chooses the heads, right?”

“Yes,” Ron snapped. “She knows Malfoy’s a Death Eater and chose him anyway. What, is she mental?  He must’ve Imperio’d her or something.” 

“I mean it’s a toss-up to who Imperio’d her if she chose Luna too…” Seamus muttered.

Hermione shot him a glare. “Shut up!” 

She looked away from the boys and tried to inhale the fresh air from the plants. The greenhouse filled with warm sunlight and mostly everyone had shrugged off their robes and rolled up their sleeves. At the front, Professor Sprout called, “If I could direct your attention to the front, everybody! Does anyone know what I have here next to me?” 

Hermione glanced past the people standing in front of her, seeing a tall, slender plant with long leaves and white flowers that resembled lilies. She looked around, but no one seemed inclined to say anything. 

“McGonagall has her reasons,” Harry was whispering next to her. “She probably wants to promote school unity.” 

Hannah Abbott came up to them then, saying under her breath, “You’re talking about Malfoy being Head Boy, aren’t you? I mean, why not just re-name Hogwarts the Death Eater School of Magic and Evilry?” 

The words buzzed in her ears.

“They’ll conduct blood tests on all the first-years,” someone whispered behind her. Blood. Blood. Mudblood.

“Asphodel!” Hermione blurted, louder than she intended. 

 “What was that, Miss Granger?” 

“It’s Asphodel, Professor,” she said, looking around. It was suddenly hard to breathe. 

Ron shot her a wry look. “Same old Mione,” he whispered.

Hermione focused her attention on the plant in the front, searching for truths she could grasp onto. She recalled all the times she’d studied the plant in books and diagrams.

“In the same family as the common Lily, ma’am,” she continued hesitantly. “It’s most known for its powdered root essential to the Draught of Living Death.” 

“Well done, Miss Granger. That’s ten points to Gryffindor.” Sprout’s face wrinkled with a smile. “And under what conditions does it grow best?” 

“He’ll tear the House badges off our cloaks and replace them with Death Eater marks,” Lavender had joined in, whispering to Ron and Parvati. Ron shook his head disapprovingly. 

“He’ll corrupt the youth, that’s what he’ll do!” He hissed. “Harry, we’ve got to do something. Use the map and find out what he’s up to.”

Hermione felt the tea she had for breakfast churn uneasily in her stomach. “Full sun! Moderately dry air. High humidity makes the roots susceptible to rot, thus rendering the plant useless.” She spoke rapidly, just to drown out the conversation happening behind her. 

“Another ten to Gryffindor. Excellent, Granger.” Sprout continued, “Asphodel is a rare occurrence in that both we as magical creatures and Muggles have found the plant useful in common use…” 

“Let’s talk to McGonagall,” Seamus whispered back. “Maybe Hermione can take his spot?” 

“Me?” Her voice went high as she turned to him.

“It’s Head Boy and Girl, you idiot,” Parvati snapped. 

“Then Harry. Or Ron. Or me,” he exclaimed. 

Merlin save us all, Hermione thought. Because something told her this was only the beginning.

The frenzy didn’t let up for the next couple of days. In class, during meals, in the common room. Ron seemed to get more passionate with time, insisting that he and Harry take this to McGonagall, then the Ministry itself, to get Malfoy expelled. Hell, get him in Azkaban. Harry accepted all of this solemnly, but to Hermione’s relief, didn’t add fuel to the fire. She couldn’t say the same thing for the other Gryffindor boys. Most of them sided with Ron, telling him if he could take Malfoy once, he could take him again. That they’d be happy if he was the Head Boy instead, that he could let them out past curfew if needed, and run a hard watch on the Slytherins. There was only one notable exception to this tirade. 

Hermione sat on the far end of the common room three nights later, feeling her eyes weigh heavily from how little sleep she’d gotten the past few nights. Her assigned Arithmany reading laid open on her lap while Ginny cracked away at an essay by her side. Hermione felt herself dozing until someone approached them.

“Mind if I sit?” Neville asked timidly. 

Ginny shook her head, shoving her bag out of the way. “Not at all, come here.” 

“Done the Herbology homework yet, Hermione?” He asked, sitting down at the foot of the seats.  

She nodded. “It was interesting. I hope Professor Sprout doesn’t take it too easy on us for the rest of the year, though.” 

“Me too,” Neville shrugged. “Though she’s been giving me supplemental work for the past two years, so it wouldn’t matter much either way.”
“Really?” Hermione smiled a little. “Want to go into Herbology, do you?” 

“I’d like to take over Sprout one day, if I could.” He smiled and his cheeks went pink, looking a bit embarrassed. 

“How lovely, Neville!” Ginny encouraged. “You’d be a marvelous teacher. I can only hope you get a better set of students than those dolts over there,” she jerked her head over to the guys sitting around the fireplace, chatting animatedly. 

“S’okay,” he said. “It’s not as bad as everyone says, really. I talked to Luna recently.” Hermione looked up from her book, interested. “You know they practically share a dorm.” 

“Did you ask about him?” Hermione asked. They avoided his name.

He nodded. “Seems like he keeps to himself mostly, though it’s only been a few days. He’s asleep by the time she gets there and he’s gone for breakfast by the time she wakes up.” 

“Huh,” Ginny hummed. “Peaceful. How un-Malfoy of him.”

Neville grimaced. “There was one thing Luna mentioned. She said one night she heard him walking down the corridor in the middle of night. She couldn’t figure out if he was leaving or coming back from somewhere.” He shrugged. “My guess is that he was back down in the Slytherin dungeons and was coming back.” 

“You can take Malfoy out of the pit of snakes but you can’t take the snake out of him, I suppose,” Ginny muttered. 

Hermione felt dazed. She stared out the window into the dark courtyard, imagining Malfoy creeping down the stairs and back into his Head Boy dorm after committing whatever Death Eater business he’d been up to before. 

What kind of Death Eater business requires blood? A small voice questioned in the back of her head. 

Blood magic. Dark magic. 

“Alright there, Hermione?” Ginny’s voice brought her out of her thoughts. She snapped her head back towards Ginny and Neville, nodding furiously.

“Yes, just…just tired.” She gathered up her book and stood up. “I think I’ll be off to bed then. It was nice talking to you, Neville.”

“But it’s only just eight, Mione,” Ginny called as Hermione fled out.

Their first Advanced Potions class was at the end of the first week, taught by Slughorn. Gryffindors on one side of the classroom, Slytherins on the other. It was the first class they’d all had with Malfoy, and while the talk of his Head Boy had died down over the past couple of days, it suddenly returned with a vengeance. Only this time, Hermione couldn't help heed the words. 

“Look at him, whispering to his lackeys,” Dean whispered to Ron. They sat on one side of Hermione; Harry sat on the other. 

“That’s Zabini and Nott,” Ron replied. “His so-called best friends. The next Lestrage and Crouch if you ask me.”

“Good insight, Weasley,” Dean nodded. 

Hermione followed their gazes to where Malfoy indeed sat flanked by Nott and Zabini. He looked, for the most part, the same as always. Snobby and proud, a faint sneer fixed onto his face. And he had a new, arrogant sense of authority that no doubt came from the shining Head Boy badge on his robes. But there were other changes beyond that. She’d noticed earlier in the halls that he towered over the rest of the students. The angles of his face had sharpened, his shoulders broad beneath the crisp black of his robes. The spoiled boy from before the war that would yawn loudly and cast petty charms on Harry and Ron from the back of the classroom had disappeared. Malfoy didn't talk. He didn't laugh. The distaste hadn’t left, but the childishness had. 

She tore her eyes away as Slughorn started to speak. 

But as class dragged on, certain details kept pulling her gaze away from the board and to him. The restless twitch of his fingers on the desk. He drummed them along in an almost anxious manner, as though he was in a hurry. The faint flare of his nostrils, like he was catching some scent in the air. The quick, almost reflexive drag of his tongue along his teeth every so often, as if he couldn’t help it. He never looked her way, but Hermione found herself watching him, heart thudding for reasons she couldn’t name.

At the end of class, she leaned in to Harry and said in a low voice, “Everything they’re saying, you don’t think it’s true, do you?” 

“What?” He regarded her, “Malfoy leading the new Death Eater cause?” 

“Yes.” 

Harry shrugged. “I don’t think he’s stupid enough to do something like that.” 

“But don’t you think…” Hermione trailed off, wondering how she’d explain her thinking without revealing to him what she’d seen. And for some reason, Hermione didn’t feel inclined to do so. “They’ve all just been making very convincing arguments this past week, is all. I don’t know what to believe.” 

“You know how Ron is,” Harry mumbled. “It’s just his twisted way of coping, preying on Malfoy. Trying to return things to normal.” 

“That is twisted,” Hermione affirmed. “How come you’re not entertaining it?” 

Harry fished into his bag, likely looking for his Potions textbook. “Quidditch season’s coming up, Hermione. I’ve got real problems on my mind.” 

Hermione smiled a bit. “And how are things with you and Ginny?”

His face fell slightly. “I dunno. We haven’t talked much. You saw us over the summer, right? I just don’t know if things will ever be the same again.” 

“You should talk to her,” Hermione met his eyes. “The silence won’t do you any good. She’ll get the wrong idea.” 

“Is that what happened with you and Ron?” He asked, looking a bit sheepish. 

“You know it isn’t.” Hermione stared down at her open textbook. “I couldn’t keep pretending for him, Harry. I couldn’t keep pretending everything was alright.” 

“He still cares about you. You know that, right?” He said in a low voice. “I don’t think he’s over it yet.” 

“Neither am I,” she said, but had a feeling they were talking about two different things. 

After all the dismay had settled, Hermione was left with her curiosity. If it was dark magic he was doing, what was his purpose? Did he still have his Dark Mark? Was he trying to somehow resurrect Voldemort?  

It was a fitful sleep she fell into that night, filled with dark thoughts about the future rather than her past. At night, Hermione had begun sleeping with her wand lest she ended up out in the corridor when she woke up. She’d long since convinced herself whatever she’d seen that night was a trick of her imagination, but nonetheless, she kept it with her as a precaution. It came to fruition that night. She’d slept fitfully, tossed by dreams of running barefoot through a dark wood, hearing her pursuers chase after her but unable to see them in the darkness. When she awoke, Hermione was not in the Gryffindor corridor. She wasn’t by the library. She wasn’t in the dungeons; she wasn’t at the grand entrance. Hermione was outside, and she’d ended up at the entrance of the Forbidden Forest. 

It was by far the farthest she’d ever gone. With a quiet “Lumos”, she looked around, intending to turn around and return to her bed as soon as possible. And then she was overcome with a wave of the same stench she’d smelled a few nights prior, the night she’d spotted Malfoy at the top of the stairwell, shrouded in shadows. The smell was undeniable this time, earthy and strong and tinged with something metal. It was heady. Disgusting. 

And she found herself walking towards it. The Forbidden Forest at this time of night didn’t look like much more than a large shadow looming over her. For a while, the only sound was the rustle of her feet against the grass and the soft night wind. The weak light from her wand barely illuminated the area far enough for her to take a couple steps at a time. Then, just as the trees were about to swallow any kind of light the moon was providing her, Hermione heard it. 

The wet, unmistakable sound of flesh being ripped apart. Behind gritted teeth, Hermione gagged violently. “Hello?” She called out against all better judgement. Her voice shook. Chances were whatever evils lurked a few feet away were moments away from opening its gaping mouth and swallowing her whole. “Hello? Who’s there?” 

She took another step. For a few moments there was silence again. Hermione started to convince herself she’d imagined it all. Some kind of twisted, waking nightmare. Nothing out of the ordinary.

“Go away,” a distorted voice warned. It barely sounded human, but stopped her in her tracks nonetheless. It sounded like…but it couldn’t have been-

“Mudblood,” his voice sounded ragged, and there was a hint of desperation. “Go.”

“Malfoy?” She called shakily, holding her wand up to the darkness. 

“I said go,” there was something wrong with his voice, as if he was talking around a mouthful of something he couldn’t swallow. “It’s…past hours.” 

“What are you doing in the Forbidden Forest?” She hissed, mustering up all the vice she didn’t have. Hermione hoped he couldn’t see her shaking violently. “You’re Head Boy.” 

“I won’t…” he sounded out of breath. “I won’t ask you again.” 

Hermione shook her head, going closer against all better judgement. The stench emanated from him–there was no doubt about it. The closer she got, the more she could make out his shape in the darkness. Hunched slightly, face turned away from her. What was wrong with him? Was he really doing dark magic? All by himself, out in the forest? 

Her heart thundered violently. “Lumos maxima,” she whispered under her breath, the white, hot flash spouting from her wand growing unbelievably bright. “Show me what you’re doing.” I won’t tell, she almost said.

Hermione could only describe what she saw next as a deer caught in headlights. Or perhaps the beast that ate the deer, caught in headlights. Because there stood Malfoy, a few feet deep into the forest. Wild and unbidden, one with the trees. Hair mussed, shirt unbuttoned. The perfect picture of carnality, complete with a mutilated, fleshy carcass in his hands, and blood dripping down his chin. He turned to the light, and bared to her a set of perfectly white fangs. 

Vampire. 

Chapter Text

“It’s where we go, it’s where we’ll be / I know if I’m onto you, you must be onto me.” -Beyonce, “Haunted” 

In third year, Hermione wrote to McGonagall during the summer about taking extra classes. Her academic hunger had grown too big for what she was being offered. During her first two years at Hogwarts, Hermione had devoured books and assignments whole and craved more. And the craving fueled her more than air or water ever could. She was made of light and determination and hope and hunger. Hunger.

She’d expected McGonagall to shut her down immediately at the ask for more work, but back then, no one had underestimated her. There was nothing that Hermione or the people around her thought she couldn’t do. 

So she took twelve classes, three more than the average third year, and didn’t tell anyone. The Time-Turner exhilarated her. She clutched it against her chest in bed at night, or while she holed up in the library doing homework, and felt its rightness. How right this was. She wrote to her mother often, complaining of the workload and her tiredness, but even her mother knew there was nowhere her daughter would rather be. The other professors who knew often remarked in quick hushes about how extraordinary this was, what she was doing. She received it all with tight nods, but inside, she bloomed with pride. 

Hermione wondered what that girl would think of her now. 

“Vampire: a mythical creature born after death or a near death experience that feeds on fresh blood to survive.. Vampires are most commonly born after being bitten by other vampires.” -Vampires, Goblins, and other Magical Beings: A Deep Dive into Slavic Folklore

She began lying to her friends. After dinner, Hermione gathered her schoolwork and left the common room with a quick, “Need to focus. I’ll be in the library.” only to leave all her books forgotten in her bag by a table and wander into the Magical Creatures section. She didn't know what she was looking for exactly, but questions circled her mind, ranging from scientific to sickening, and she planned to find the answers to all of them. 

For the first time in years, Hermione Granger, the Brightest Witch of her Age, had a new research project. 

“Again, Mione? We’ve only just begun classes,” Ron called after her from the couch as she walked to exit the common room for the third night in a row after dinner. “You’re not using the Time Turner again, are you?” 

She shut the door behind her. 

“Not much is known about the Wizard-turned-Vampire case. Classically called the Sanguimagi, very few have lived long enough or revealed themselves for study. These creatures can experience erratic symptoms ranging from periods of memory loss, insanity, cannibalism, and more. Symptoms get worse as time goes on–the longer a Wizard has been turned, the worse their condition gets. Each day, they put in danger their life source, and in turn, their magic source.” -‘The Undead One Who Drinks Blood’ (A Direct Translation of the Serbian classic) 

It didn’t take long for her to decide Malfoy was a vampire. But she couldn’t decide if it was better or worse than him leading a secret Death Eater cause. Because if it was the latter, there would be no question about how to proceed. She would’ve told Ron and Harry immediately and they’d jump into action without a second thought, or at the very least tell McGonagall.

But now, Hermione was caught in uncertainty. Every time she ate with Ron and Harry in the Great Hall, or chatted with Ginny and Neville in the common room, or passed by Luna in the halls, something stopped her from saying anything. 

She should've. If she was smart, she would've. But instead, Hermione walked through each day with a cool, sullen front that concealed everything beneath, as if this were her secret to keep.

Lesser Known Magical Diseases & Ailments (Vol. 3)

“Enlarged incisors serve the purpose of cutting through raw flesh that the Vampire’s diet consists of. Red meat is best–cows, goats, deer–if he is avoiding the human. If the Vampire is well-fed and conscious, he is in control of retracting the incisors to appear more human. But if he should become hungry, or have his baser instinct drawn out through some other fashion, they will extend of their own accord.”

She thought of Potions—the way he’d run his tongue along his teeth. Again. And again. The way she’d watched every time.

Some of her research led her to dead ends. Ancient folklore from different countries where vampirism was little more than a metaphor for evil or dead spirits. She found very little on real cases, let alone real cases where the infected person was a Wizard. 

Hermione did not stop and think about why she felt this inordinate fascination about Malfoy’s case. It was a magical mystery that needed solving–that was all. And she still couldn’t be sure he wasn’t dealing in some kind of dark magic–his vampirism could’ve been directly connected to it. So really, she would’ve been committing a moral crime if she didn’t do research to find out what was going on. 

A week passed with no sleepwalking. Malfoy had become hard to miss since the war–all height and broad shoulders and a clenched jaw. And yet not once did she spot him in the castle. Not during meals or in passing in the hallways or elsewhere. He had, in every sense, disappeared.

And yet with every waking moment, Hermione couldn’t shake the fact that he was just in the distance, waiting. In the throes of her research, she'd forgotten about one crucial detail about Malfoy, which dawned on her Friday morning as she put on her uniform and wondered if she’d finished her Potions homework.

Malfoy was Head Boy. War-stricken or not, he was still the same polished and well-bred bastard he’d always been. He obviously didn’t want anybody to find out what he was, but despite this, Hermione had seen him anyway. Malfoy had to have known that she’d seen him.

So what was he going to do about it?

There were certain things about him Hermione never cared to notice—things no one would ever care to notice, unless they were inordinately obsessed with him. But in Potions that day it would’ve been a challenge to distinguish her actions from true obsession. Hermione got to class early and sat towards the back with Ron and Harry. When Malfoy arrived, flanked by Nott and Zabini, they sat on the other side, a few rows below. They all settled and quieted as Slughorn entered. Then they listened.

And Hermione noticed. 

She noticed the slight jerk of his head any time the sixth year Slytherin girl a row in front of him leaned back, and her hair dropped off her shoulder, baring her neck. For all the unnatural grace and stillness Hermione had imagined vampires to have, Malfoy seemed oddly antsy. Constantly tugging at his cuffs, the collar of his shirt, itching the back of his neck. Inclining his head, as if…he was smelling the girl. 

It must be killing him, she thought idly, to not lunge forward and rip the flesh out of her neck. 

Hermione knew she should’ve been thoroughly disturbed at the thought, and at the thought of Malfoy with blood running down his chin like the juice of a ripe fruit that had been running through her mind for the past few days. And yet she couldn’t get past how disarmed he’d looked, caught in the act of something private and intimate. Something no one was meant to see. It awoke a morbid kind of fascination in her. Malfoy, something to pity. Hermione felt attached to the idea that for once, he was forced to feel shame.

She stared at him lost so deep in thought that the moment he twisted his head around and met her eyes, her heart dropped. Oh. 

Malfoy glared at her intently. She froze, wondering if anyone in the class noticed the death stare he pinned her with. There was no mistake behind that gaze, no vacancy. Just pure, cold intention. It was a look that meant something. It was a look that said you’re in trouble. And though terror flooded her system as the seconds ticked by and his nostrils flared and Slughorn’s voice became background noise, Hermione didn’t look away. 

You don’t scare me.

When the bell rang at the end of class, she pretended not to notice Malfoy’s every movement out of the corner of her eye. His swift rising, shouldering his bag, and walking up the steps towards her. 

“Interesting class,” she murmured to Harry, packing her things methodically. She hoped he wouldn’t notice her shaking hands. 

“Really?” Harry yawned, “I barely paid attention. And I saw you staring in the opposite direction of the board too.” 

She shot him a dirty look. “You didn’t.”

A smirk. “You don’t have to find every lesson fascinating, Hermione.” 

“Merlin, that was dreadfully boring,” Ron came up to them. “You guys want to go to Hogsmeade this weekend?” 

They left the row and started towards the door. Hermione pretended not to notice Malfoy’s presence looming behind her. “I’m not sure,” she said slowly, trying to keep her tone level even as her throat dried. “I might have a lot of homework.” 

“Bring it to the Three Broomsticks,” Ron winked. “It’ll definitely get done.” 

She forced a chuckle. They were all filing into the corridor now. In the rush of students, Hermione bet he would lose track of her anyway. 

At the end of the corridor, Katie Bell caught up to them, “Ron, Harry, McGonagall wants to talk to us about the Quidditch season. She’s asking to meet in her office.”

Ron and Harry exchanged an excited look. “Right now?” Harry asked. Katie nodded. “Alright then.” He turned to Hermione, “We’ll catch up to you, alright?” 

“Sure,” she kept her voice steady, even as all the oxygen left her lungs. “Yeah. Common room?” 

“We’ll be there!” He called as the three of them went down the opposite way. Hermione didn’t dare turn around. She gripped the handle of her bag and sped down the hallway towards the stairwell. It was fairly busy–Malfoy wouldn’t risk anything here, would he?

Footsteps and the voices of students chattering echoed around her. Up the stairs, Hermione. Just get up the stairs. 

She turned down the corner, finding herself in an empty hallway. Before she could make a single step towards the stairwell, a cold hand gripped her arm in a vise and pulled her into an alcove. 

“What–” 

“You will not say a word.” Malfoy stared down at her with wrath in his eyes.

She glanced around, making sure no one had seen him yank her into the alcove. “Malfoy?” Hermione feigned confusion. “What’s going on?”

“You will keep your mouth shut.” He repeated. God, his voice hadn’t changed at all. For all the time that had passed during the war, none of the snide or arrogance had managed to leave his tone. 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Hermione snapped, keeping her gaze trained on the wall behind him so she wouldn't accidentally focus an inordinate amount on his mouth or his chin or the brief flashes of his teeth when he talked. Enlarged incisors. 

The hand around her arm found her jaw instead, fingers digging into her chin. “I never thought I'd see the day where you played stupid, Granger.” She met his eyes then, and said nothing, but had the feeling she'd revealed herself to him nonetheless. “I won’t play games with you. If you tell anyone what you saw, I’ll kill you,” he said softly, voice controlled. “I will kill you. You’re smart enough to know when I’m telling the truth, aren’t you?” 

The quick movement and words left her in a state of slight shock. A silence passed, and he looked about ready to let go of her and leave when she spat out, “And if I already have?” 

“It’s been a week,” he said. “I would know by now.”

“So you remember.” Interesting. Hermione had been wondering if his bouts of feeding were set off by a baser instinct he couldn’t completely control, and if he blacked out during it. But it seemed as though the Malfoy from the woods and the Malfoy standing before her were one in the same. How fascinating that he could contain both versions so easily. 

But really, if she looked close enough, Hermione could see cracks already forming in the facade. The vein pulsing quickly in his neck, the slight twitch in his left eye. The uneven breaths. So he did need to breathe. 

“Of course I need to breathe,” he forced out, baring his teeth. “I’m not a corpse, Granger.” 

“Could’ve fooled me.” His grip tightened. “Oh please,” she tried to sound casual, even through a choked voice. “Will you stop handling me like an animal?” 

He let go of her roughly, with enough force that Hermione had to fight not to stumble back a step. Or cough. Or bring her hands up to her neck to feel for bruising. Toughen up. 

“What will it take then, Mudblood?” He asked roughly. “Is it money you need? Weasley fortune isn’t quite what you thought it would be?” 

The words burned, but Hermione couldn’t decide whether to feel insulted or gratified. He would do anything, she realized. Anything to make sure no one found out. “I don’t want anything from you, Malfoy. You must know that by now. It’s foolish of you to even try.” 

He said nothing for a few tense, trembling moments, but Hermione could read all the awful things he said to her with his eyes. She didn’t drop his stare. “I won’t forget this, Malfoy. You can obliviate me if you please, but one way or another, I will find out again. And if you plan to kill me, I will find a way to tell someone before you do.” Each word was a threat, a taunt. Each one emptier than the last. “There’s only one path waiting for you on the other side of this, Malfoy. And if I were to bet, I’d say it leads to a cell right next to your father.”

He stared at her with bare loathing in his eyes. “Are you quite finished?” Malfoy gritted out.

“No.” Hermione shook her head. “Don’t call me Mudblood again,” in a rough movement, she yanked back the sleeve covering her forearm and the light hit her scar. His eyes fell to it instantly. “I already know what I am to you. You don’t need to remind me.” 

When Hermione looked up, she found something pass over his gaze briefly, breaking the cool facade he’d built. Was it shock? At her brazen words, at the casual reveal of a wound so personal? 

Or maybe it was that same look again, the same one that had been running through her mind since she’d seen him in the woods. Shame.  

At dinner, she sat between Ginny and Ron and pretended not to notice Malfoy shooting daggers at her from the Slytherin table. He certainly made a picture: perfectly combed hair, Head Boy badge shining on his robes, and eyes filled with rage only a wild animal should’ve been capable of. She decided it was entirely Malfoy-like of him to be angry with her for having seen him. 

“I’m just saying you can’t take it easy on them,” Ron was saying to Harry, about Quidditch. “Remember Wood? He had a stern hand, and it worked.” 

“We won’t be easy,” Harry and Ginny exchanged a look. They would be leading the Gryffindor team once again, and with the season coming up in a couple of weeks, they were occupied with hosting try-outs for the team. 

“And you can’t guarantee people spots just because they’ve been on the team before,” Ron paused. “I mean obviously I’ll probably be given a spot, seeing as I have close ties and all. But it just can’t be that way with everyone.” When Harry and Ginny didn’t say anything, he looked between them. “I will be given a spot, right?” 

Ginny smiled drily. “I can’t imagine anyone else being Keeper.” 

McGonagall called everyone’s attention with a few clinks of her cup, and the hall quieted. “Yes, hello, everybody. I hope you’ve all been having a good start to your term. You should be aware that this year, we are trying harder than ever to instill unity in the student body.” She paused. “I acknowledge the difficult time we’re passing through, and I understand that this year will be different in that sense, to any other year at Hogwarts. I encourage everyone, especially our eighth years, to be gentle with yourselves in this transitional period. And understand that in this castle, we are all one kind.” Hermione’s eyes fell to her lap, where her hands rested. “To that effect, I would like to host a Welcome ball at the end of the month to celebrate the new year. More information will be forthcoming, but I encourage you all to arrange your dress robes if you haven’t prepared for a formal event already.” Immediately upon the words, the hall erupted into excited chatter. McGonagall looked around helplessly, accepting the fact that the rest of her speech would fall unto deaf ears. “Yes, I suppose that’s all,” she sighed. “As you were.” 

“Well, isn’t this exciting,” Ginny grinned at Hermione, who was having trouble in that moment to keep her dinner down. She grasped the end of her sleeve so the cool fabric brushed against her scar. 

“Yeah,” she murmured. “It’s a good idea.” 

They turned to Ron and Harry, who exchanged tense looks with each other. They seemed to be having a silent conversation through their eyes. 

“Idiots, the both of them,” Ginny whispered to her. “We’ll go to Hogsmeade next weekend, alright?” 

“What for?” She asked. 

“Dresses, obviously,” Ginny thought for a second. “We’ll invite Luna as well. Yes, it’s settled. And we’ll have to look for new jewelry for you as well, Hermione.” 

“But I-”

“I said it’s settled, didn’t I?” 

At her persistence, Hermione relented, nodding until Ginny was satisfied and turned back to her dinner. Under the table, her thumb brushed against the edge of her sleeve, the scar beneath it thrumming with memories she was trying to forget, memories she doubted would ever leave her. Across the room, Malfoy’s expression had drawn in. As the other Slytherins prattled on animatedly about the ball, he stared down at his plate distantly, something dark flashing across his gaze. 

They both had scars too big to ignore at that moment. For Hermione, it was that single word that tormented her every waking moment and at night. The word she’d had to come to terms with for nearly ten years, now branded on her skin forever. 

Malfoy, on the other hand, suddenly had to grapple with the truth that for the rest of his life, he would have to hide. Pompous, proud heir to Slytherin, now condemned to secrecy. Searching for mercy at the hands of someone like her, someone he used to laugh at. And no matter how hard he tried to disguise his desperation under empty and violent threats, Hermione knew he feared the day she might stop being so kind as to keep his secret. 

Hermione wondered which of them had it worse.