Chapter Text
Art by Chaosandcodices
Her blood roiled like a raging tempest as she craned her neck before the stone building, which was more glass than wall. It loomed; sinuous lines carved by centuries-old hands and centuries-old magic, still imposing in its abandonment, still mighty while ensnared in overgrowth. The door, which was doubled, each half a brutal iron structure that could never be manipulated—a final resistance to her invasion—was rusted at the lock.
She knew, or had at least been told, that the building was not entirely uninhabited; the elves remained in their quarters, maintaining the dying structure for as long as they drew breath, endlessly loyal and pitifully masterless. Just as she knew, with unexplainable certainty, that the first footsteps to echo through this entryway in many moons would be her own. The biting press of an ornate key in her palm, chilled by whistling winds, reminded her that she was here for a purpose, and she slowly pressed it into the crumbling lock.
The elves would hear it open, would rush to guide her through the passageways of this wretched, wilting estate, would lead her and the pouting guard at her heels to a cold, unwelcome library where they would play cold, unwelcome house until their work was done. Slowly, she turned the key, listening to the lock cry with the agony of disturbance. It gave a low groan of protest from the hinges as she leaned her full weight into it, and the wind howled as it rushed to fill the opened space.
Tauntingly, the manor beckoned her in.
Sitting at her desk, Hermione’s heart beat almost as thunderously as her head. The mug sat rapidly cooling before her; tea leaves swirled as she stirred it methodically, half-hoping to find the answer to her predicament at the bottom, along with a spontaneous belief in divination.
Benedict, her lively young assistant who was overly eager to prove himself where he needn’t bother, was rattling through the day's schedule at a breathless pace. She caught the odd word; a paper that she was due to sign, a meeting she was due to attend—they all joined the long queue of thoughts she was brushing aside in favour of another.
“Benedict?”
The young man sat up unnaturally straight. “Yes, Ma’am?”
“You know better than to call me that,” she corrected wearily.
“Sorry, Ma—Miss.”
Ma’am was reserved only for the boss, which she was not. Not here, anyway, tucked away in her office, tucked further away in the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures, tucked further still in the fourth level of the Ministry. She was the smallest in a stack of Russian Dolls, a turning cog amongst turning cogs, nobody worthy of Ma’am. Though she could be…the opportunity was fast approaching, and her hand itched to reach for it.
Thus, her quandary.
“I’m sure you’ve seen that Gregor Ivanov is retiring from the D.M.L.E. before the year is up,” she said, finally looking up from her tepid brew and into the wide, inexplicably inexhausted eyes of her assistant.
“I have not, Miss.”
“Well, he is.”
Benedict shifted in his chair, the leather creaking. “Admittedly, I thought him already retired.”
She couldn’t help but smile at that, because at Gregor’s tender age of one hundred and seven years, he probably should have been. He’d seen enough overhaul, enough war, enough of the ever-morphing political landscape, to have earned retirement three times over. Yet, in the eighty years he spent working his way through each and every branch of the Ministry, he’d hardly even taken a day off…until now.
“You’re not the only one,” she hummed, dipping her finger into the now-cold tea and collecting a single leaf. “They have asked me to fill his position.”
“Oh,” Benedict said, clearly fighting a frown. “Indefinitely?”
“It was not a temporary offer, no.”
“I see.”
She flicked the leaf away, resting her forearms on the rosewood desk, no longer interested in looking anywhere but the wizard before her, who was, in turn, no longer interested in looking anywhere but his folded hands.
“This surprises you?” she asked.
His head shot up, blue eyes like twin moons. “No, Ma’am—Miss! Of course not, but…”
Hermione, whose lumbar was suffering the consequences of her distraction, leaned back against the built-in support of her chair, situated in an office that had become her second home. She’d fought for it upon receiving her promotion to deputy head, then spent weekends with Molly picking out colour-coordinated and blissfully ergonomic furnishings, hung pictures of her friends on the walls, and placed the static photograph of her parents upon the desk. The room smelled like her jasmine perfume and rosemary shampoo, and maintained a perfect temperature.
Years of careful consideration had made the space uncomfortably comfortable.
She waved a hand to Benedict. “Do speak freely.”
“It is the same position you have here,” he said, overly cautious.
“In title alone,” she argued. “The D.M.L.E. is an establishment that garners significantly more respect.”
“Is that what you want? Respect?”
It was a bold question, bolder than any he’d dare ask before, and for the first time in the year since she’d hired him as a scrawny little intern fumbling with his briefcase, she actually wanted to hear what he had to say.
“Forgive me, Miss,” he continued, “I only mean that the work we—you do here is vital. Maybe not to everyone, but…isn’t that the point?”
“I can do a lot more good with a lot more power.”
His head, adorned with shiny, thin, chemically bleached hair, tilted ever-so-slightly to the side when he said, “There was a time when you had no power at all, yet you managed to accomplish rather a lot of good.”
It was a point worthy of honest consideration. In the years she’d spent here, there had been many successes; they were in the midst of trying to pass a bill to protect Acromantula birthing grounds, they had raised enough funds to support the inclusion of Lycanthropy studies in the education system, and they had endured countless turned heads and patronising scoffs from higher officials with no regard for any species but their own. Would a change of badge really provide fulfilment that she could not find here? Certainly, it would make her beliefs a little easier to fight for, but could she sit comfortably knowing the reason for that ease was so vapid?
“That’s some food for thought,” she acquiesced, letting her shoulders sag.
“For what it’s worth, Miss, I think you’d do well, if that’s where you decide to go.”
“Thank you, Benedict.” They shared a kind smile, one that only workplace acquaintances who had spent countless hours of overtime shuffling papers together could share. “You were saying something about the Pigmy Krakens in Windermere?”
“Oh, yes!” He almost leapt from his chair to place a file in front of her. “Several events are scheduled over the next two months to locate PK1330…”
His words blended in her ear like the fizz of her father’s old television as the hours went by. She signed away more of her life listening to Benedict diligently dedicate himself to causes she ought to have had more energy for. When, finally, she allowed herself to take a belated lunch, she opted to head away from the Ministry, leaving her cloak behind, in favour of purchasing an unimaginative but somewhat luxurious prawn sandwich and a packet of Percy Pigs from Marks and Spencer.
The atrium was bustling when she returned. A small crowd of workers gathered by the newspaper stand, all whispering and chattering in conspiratorial tones that had the back of her neck breaking into gooseflesh. Her steps echoed off the emerald-tiled walls, resounding down the curves of every floo entrance, until she reached the masses. Every head turned her way, every set of legs shuffled to stand aside and allow her passage; a common occurrence for Hermione Granger, the woman whose girlhood was immortalised in Portland stone in the atrium's centre. With no obstruction, she plucked a paper from the stand and unfolded the afternoon’s headline.
As she did, the chattering grew louder, for right there in bold ink was the confirmation of yet another attack, another turning, another trail of victims left in the wake; one Muggle and two magical this time. Concern was growing amongst the crowd, and she felt it gnawing at her own sternum. This was the second headline of its kind in the last week…the fourth in the last month. Hermione could feel eyes on her like pressing needles, all eagerly waiting to see what she would do, how she would solve this new issue that threatened the equilibrium they had so precariously reached. Shadows danced in the corners of her eyes, faces pinched in concentration, hands wringing with expectation, and she turned on her heel before anyone could ask her a single question.
Benedict was, blessedly, still on his lunch break when she stumbled back into her office. She never knew where he spent it, never thought to ask, it wasn’t her business. Previously, when she’d had fewer time constraints and they’d had fewer skirmishes with dangerous arrests, she would take her lunch with Harry and Ron, but now that the three of them were established (and therefore, required) fixtures of their respective departments, they resolved to gather outside of work hours. Hermione fell into her chair, fighting a yawn as she peeled open the sandwich carton, trying not to let the sight of the gathering mayonnaise put her off.
A memo, made of aged parchment and folded into the beating wings of a barn owl, flew through the crack in her door and landed atop her unbitten sandwich. For a second, she closed her eyes and imagined ignoring it, brushing it into the bin and enjoying her lunch in relative peace, then her eyes fluttered open to the rhythm of paper wings, and she let her sandwich fall back into the carton.
It was a request, directly from Kingsley himself, to join a meeting that evening at a restaurant she had never heard of. It offered nothing more in the way of an explanation, no mention as to who would be attending, why it was being held outside of the Ministry, or why she, of all people, had been summoned for it. She frowned at the paper and picked up a Percy Pig, biting the ears off first.
A smaller-than-usual house elf trundled down the hallway to greet them, protected from the chill by nothing more than a moth-addled pillowcase. It was a desolate place, cold and cobwebbed and utterly miserable, but it was not, she reminded herself, the drawing room. The elf stopped at their knees and bowed, his little body bent in unwanted servitude. It took everything in her not to physically recoil, to bend down to his level and straighten his spine herself.
“Name’s Femur,” the elf, named Femur, spoke in whispers. “You must be Miss Granger and Mr…”
“Will Prosper,” her guard offered.
“Mr Prosper. If you’ll be following me,” Femur said, and they did. Will demanded to carry her bag along with his own as they shuffled behind Femur, paced by his short legs and shorter steps.
Their shoes left imprints in the dust, which did not let up as they moved deeper into the building, passing empty walls and vacant rooms. Her eyes lingered on the pale bedsheets draped across ancient furniture in a poor preservation effort. The only light was born of flickering candles, which hardly touched half of the hall and wavered as the three of them disturbed the heavy air. It must be true, after all; nobody was here. Then, she wondered, why are the elves?
“It’s quite chilly,” she said.
“Misses can be using the fireplace in the library,” Femur replied without missing a beat.
He led them to a second set of equally impressive and, frankly, insidious doors, not hesitating before clicking his tiny fingers. The doors creaked, the sound travelling down the empty hallways as it travelled the length of her spine, dust swirling around them like a landspout. Inside, she found the most magnificent, terrifying sight she had ever beheld: a library unlike any other, in stature or sensation.
The shelves stretched endlessly before her, and with it, so stretched the length of time she expected to remain here, scouring through every leather spine and rolled scroll. The smell—mildew and decomposing binding agents—filled her nose with ferocity, the long shadows stretched and retreated from her as the candles lit one by one, the ceiling was impossibly tall and vacuous, dancing flames parodying starlight, and she felt herself a speck amongst the hovering dust, minuscule in the face of the task at hand.
“This will take an age to sort through,” Will voiced her thoughts as he let their bags drop with a resounding thud, making both her and the little elf startle.
“Possibly,” she mumbled.
Will turned to Femur and asked, “Where will we be sleeping?”
“In here’s library, sir. The chairs will be suitable, sir, to transfigure.”
“Brilliant,” Will huffed. “What about eating? Or shitting?”
The elf flinched, and Hermione shot a warning glare at her scowling guard, though she could hardly blame him for his ire; seven years of service had landed him here, in this stained estate, acting as her glorified babysitter.
“Femur and Tibbs will be bringing yous food, Misses Granger and Mr Prosper,” Femur explained. “Yous is not to be wandering without escorting.”
Will snorted. “Is there a bell to ring, then, when my bladder starts screaming?”
Femur clicked again, holding out his palm for the small bell that appeared in an instant. Hemione couldn’t resist a subtle roll of her eyes as she turned them back to the vast stretch of bookshelves, separated by carved pillars and watchful gargoyles. Her exhalation was overdrawn, dread settling deep into her bones as she considered quite how long they would be doomed to these quarters.
The first thing she noticed about the restaurant, other than its impossible-to-read cursive name, was that it was by far the most decadent one she had ever been to. The red carpet was soft under her Oxfords, the sconces lit a dim tungsten glow, and she found herself feeling remarkably underdressed. The service station held a selection of perfectly polished silver cutlery and the wine bar had a selection of long-stemmed glasses suspended above the taps, fully stocked but notably unmanned. The serving hatch offered a clear observation of the kitchen, where she would have been able to watch the chefs prepare dishes, had there been any present.
The second, slightly more pressing thing she noticed was that there were no dining guests and no staff to wait on them. Kingsley greeted her at the door with a warm smile and a firm squeeze of her upper arm, which wasn’t out of the ordinary, before leading her to a round table in the corner of the otherwise barren restaurant, which certainly was.
The table was not as unoccupied as the others surrounding it, but instead seated the heads of every Ministry department, along with a representative from the Wizengamot and Dr Nico Carlsen. Nico was a consultant with a rich background in mythology, whom she’d worked with on previous campaigns. He did not work directly for the Ministry, acting more as a free agent, though he appeared to be rather chummy with the Minister this evening. As she looked upon the circular table—isolated in the far corner of the restaurant—and the faces of those occupying it, she couldn’t help but notice that Bertha, the head of her department, was missing.
“Is Bertha not coming?” she asked.
Kingsley turned to Nico. “We haven’t summoned for her, have we?”
Nico shook his head, and it was, admittedly, a little jarring to see the Minister refer to him for confirmation. “Just Miss Granger.”
“Then that’s settled,” Kingsley said, gesturing for Hermione to take the last empty chair.
Tentatively, she lowered into it, scanning the faces of her superiors with curious concern. They all looked pinched, just as confused as she felt, which told her one thing: none of them knew why they were here.
It was Robards, the head of the D.M.L.E., who spoke first. “I take it we are not here to dine, Minister?”
Kingsley chuckled, a chesty sound that rattled her ribcage. “Afraid not. Thank you for joining us with such urgency, especially you, Camilla. I hope we don’t keep you from little Johnny’s birthday party for any longer than is absolutely necessary.”
Hermione shot a confused look at Camilla, the Unspeakable, whose exact line of work remained decidedly undisclosed. Feeling eyes upon her, she met Hermione’s frown with a kind, patient smile—the sort only perfected by parents.
“To cut it short,” Kingsley continued, “I confidently assume that we’ve all been keeping up with the papers over the last month?”
Headlines rolled through her mind: the attacks targeting politicians and prominent wizarding figureheads, turning them from reasonable fellows of cognitive function into creatures of unbridled desire. Their immediate bloodlust had left bodies in their wake, seemingly unable to stop until the very moment they were apprehended.
Vampires.
“If you are discussing the recent attacks,” Robards began steadily, “our reports have been clear that the perpetrators were arrested and—”
Dixson, from the Department of Magical Accidents and Catastrophes, cut in to finish, “And placed under medical supervision in a secluded ward of St. Mungos, inaccessible to those without direct ward clearance.”
Kingsley nodded placatingly. “You have all done an excellent job with the information we’ve been granted, but would you all agree that we have not been granted much?”
A murmur spread like spilt wine across the table. Hermione didn’t join in, still unsure as to why she was here.
“This is where I hand over to Dr Carlsen.” Kingsley swept his hand towards Nico. “A few of you will already be familiar with him.”
Nico gave them all a friendly nod, including Hermione, before clearing his throat and demanding their utmost attention. He took it easily, without diffidence, just as Kingsley was able to. Cut, it seemed, from the same charismatic cloth.
“Good evening, and thank you again for coming on such short notice,” Nico spoke clearly, his voice amplified by the mostly empty restaurant. “All of you are here because you play a prominent role in the functioning of our beloved society, and because that society needs you.”
Bending forward, he placed an open file in the centre of the table, and a flick of his wand sent the pages on a slow rotation for all to see. Hermione held her breath as they passed by her, a parade of autopsy reports and crime scene photographs, close-ups of puncture wounds and ravaged skin, of grey faces and cloudy eyes. A few leaned back as the papers floated by, a few leaned closer—Hermione leaned closest of all.
“Very little is known about vampiric turnings,” Nico pressed on. “However, we do know that mass turning events such as the one we have been experiencing this past month are, to put it lightly, unprecedented. As you will recall, unprecedented times call for unmitigated panic, and what we don’t want is to frighten the general population with the threat of another monster arising so soon after ousting the last.”
Hermione stiffened in her seat, unable to stop her mouth from speaking despite being categorically out of turn. “Vampires are not monsters, Dr Carlsen.”
Nico held her gaze for a moment, inquiry sparking within his deep eyes, then nodded his agreement. “Right you are, Miss Granger. No creature, human or otherwise, is monstrous by nature. That being said, I need not tell you that every batch has a bad seed.”
She fell against the back of her chair, letting her eyes return to the line of papers making their rounds, realising just how sparse they really were.
“Fortunately, we have managed to catch these attacks early and can, with your combined help, get on top of the issue before it picks up any further traction. We are putting together a task force of sorts, with our primary focus being to uncover and understand the origin of these attacks.”
“Forgive me, Dr Carlsen, Minister,” Robards said, “but the D.M.L.E. already has an active investigation being spearheaded by our top Aurors—”
“And I am sure that Mr Potter and Mr Weasley will, in record time, provide you with the who. What we are here to focus on is the how, and more importantly, the why.”
The following silence was almost as loud as a protest, but Hermione could hardly tear her attention from the photographs still spinning slowly; from the bite marks on their neck, from the dried final drops of blood crusted near the wound. Instinctively, she reached up to brush her fingers along her throat, pressing on the same spot. Nico tracked her movements, his brows knitting. She dropped her hand and corrected her posture immediately.
“To stop the problem is one thing,” Nico said, thankfully not drawing attention to her behaviour, “to resolve it is another, and requires a level of understanding we do not currently possess. Who amongst us has had direct experience with newly turned vampires?”
Nobody moved, nobody even flinched, then Camilla began to cautiously fill the silence, “There are experts in the field of dark creatures such as Vampires, surely it would be more prudent to consult them?”
“That is exactly what we are going to do,” Nico confirmed. “The people at this table are some of the most well-connected and valued names in wizarding Britain. I struggle to think of a single door that would not open for at least one of you, and with access to such a wealth of informational sources, we can come to understand the events of the last month and work towards taking preventative measures.”
Iwan, from the Department of International Magical Cooperation, cleared his throat. “I do not mean this to sound as dismissive as it may, and I am aware that everyone here has an extensive list of remarkable achievements, but I cannot help noticing a discrepancy among those of us at this table.”
Kingsley narrowed his eyes. “A discrepancy?”
“We are all heads of our departments or representatives of the house, apart from…”
Just as they had earlier in the atrium, all eyes fell on Hermione. She blew out a breath of surprised laughter, raising her eyebrows to her hairline at Iwan’s apologetic grimace. He had a point, though, and it wasn’t as if she hadn’t noticed.
“Honestly, I was thinking the same thing.” She turned to Kingsley and Nico. “Why am I here?”
If it was solely because of who she was, of what she’d done in the war, of her fame and notoriety, of the trust the public seemed to have in her, surely they would have chosen Harry instead, who was already heading the investigation, or Ron, who had been his partner since the age of eleven.
Nico seemed unperturbed. “You worked as a healer after the war, correct?”
“I did,” she confirmed, clasping her hands in her lap.
“Underwent intensive emergency training, so I was told.”
“Had to, there was no time for standard medical schooling.”
Nico’s head dipped. “I can only imagine the horrors you were asked to mend.”
You cannot possibly, she thought, but stopped herself, because she hardly knew this man, certainly did not know the horrors he may or may not have seen, only her own. When she blinked, she saw visions of severed limbs, splinched skin, hex-boiled bones and organs on the outside of bodies. The silence in the room began to sound akin to a scream, like those from the patients she’d been forced to treat even after they’d run out of pain draughts. Her knuckles cracked as she curled her hands into fists, like the ribs she’d pressed her weight upon when magic failed and CPR had been her last resort.
She’d spent most of the war on the run, which had simultaneously turned out to be the most and least dangerous place to be. It was only when the battle ended and the sun cast its golden light upon the wreckage that she began to comprehend the true scale of destruction. Harry and Ron had been ushered into Auror training, and far be it from her to sit on her hands, so when St Mungos cried out for volunteers to assist with the influx of post-war casualties, she’d penned her name down—just as she’d done for the DA—and gave herself over again, and again, until there was no more blood to mop.
When the dust settled and the dead were coated by six feet of fresh soil, she was relieved of her duties and sent home. She slept for a week, ate like a starving dog, and then began her work at the Ministry.
“I was not a senior healer, not even a healer at all by trade, Bertha is—”
“Trade is nothing compared with experience,” Nico cut her off gently. “You are a war hero, a healer, and the deputy head of a department dedicated to understanding and protecting magical creatures, such as these.” He caught one of the papers in his hands and turned it to face her; the arrest confirmation of the first victim. “Bertha, though accomplished in her own right, is not who we need. You are.”
Unsure how she could possibly respond, Hermione elected to remain silent, listening to Nico assign roles to each of the personnel at the table. Iwan was to discuss Vampire relations with officials from other European Ministries, Camilla was allocated to the archives to dig for historic mentions of similar events, Dixson and Robards were to work closely on the ongoing investigation, Elise from transportation was to monitor the floo networks for any suspicious activity, and Edward from the Wizengamot was to secure them any privileges they might otherwise not be afforded. Hermione waited for her turn, increasingly impatient, until he finally turned his head her way.
“Miss Granger, do you have time to meet me at St Mungo's tomorrow morning?”
“I do,” she replied.
“Bright and early, then, if you wouldn’t mind. Let's say…seven?”
“Let’s.”
As she shook hands with the others and braced for the biting winds, her thoughts drifted back to the file now tucked under Nico’s arm and the photographs held inside it, the bite marks upon pale necks, the teeth marks still indented under their slack jaws. There seemed to be no signs that any of them had fought back. Perhaps they didn’t have the time, perhaps the act of biting was completely incapacitating, perhaps they simply hadn’t wanted to.
After making their way to the centre of the dense library, which was more like a labyrinth she could not make heads or tails of, Femur left them to set up the few belongings they’d brought in the reading area, which consisted of a large, unclothed table and several oversized armchairs. Nothing in this library, in this entire manor, looked as though it had been born in this century. Everything was heavy and elaborate, the legs of the chairs bore artistic carvings and house signets, the upholstery was hand-sewn and worn with use and age, the candelabras too weighted to use as portable lighting.
Will, growing more displeased by the minute, threw himself down upon a wide chaise-lounge and tossed his arm over his face, releasing a guttural whine. Hermione, unwilling to keep apologising for their shared predicament, opted to pin her hair back with a bolstered claw clip and set to planning how best to attack the beast that this library presented.
As she was pulling her curls to the back of her head, the corner of her eye latched onto movement in the far shadows of the towering bookshelves. She dropped her hair, whipping around to see what had shifted, finding absolutely nothing.
“Femur?” she called.
When no response came, Will let out a brittle laugh and lifted his arm from his eyes to say, “Why don’t you try ringing the fucking bell?”
The hospital ward was unplotted, an absolute marvel of concealment magic, and required her to pass through several manned wards in order to get in. Therefore, she reasoned, it would require the same to get out. The people kept here were not just patients; they were prisoners, and would undoubtedly have to face the recoil of the innocent lives they’d taken in their bloodlust.
Nico Carlsen looked every bit as put together as he had at the restaurant the night before. His thick brown hair was neatly combed back, his beard sharp as though shaped only that morning, his soft white vest sitting perfectly upon a soft white shirt. In contrast, she hurried beside him with unbrushed hair, wearing yesterday's skirt and an obviously unironed shirt.
“They are still in a transitional state,” he explained as they walked through the overly bright hallways, which smelled of antiseptic and soap. “Which means they are…volatile.”
“Have you consulted with other Vampires on how long this state is supposed to last?”
“Of course,” he said. “But the findings are inconsistent, and the parties willing to speak with us are mostly born vampires.”
“Is there much of a difference?”
Nico threw her a half-formed smile over his padded shoulder. “That is the question.”
He stopped at the first room, guiding her to look through the observation window, through which she found Wilhemina Bagsworth, a long-standing representative of the Wizengamot and a sure candidate for the next election. She was not the polished, high-chinned woman Hermione had been the captive audience of, nor the bright-eyed colleague who had, on more than one occasion, held the lift while Hermione ran to it. Instead, she was curled over herself in the corner of the hospital room, her lips sealed around a bag of blood, letting it drip down her chin and onto her knees. Even through the walls, her choked gags and groans of pain were audible.
With a hand on her shoulder, Nico brought her to the next window. Genevieve Rosier, a member of the Sacred-Twenty-Eight, was lying upon the hospital bed in the fetal position, her entire body shaking like a leaf. One of her hands was buried deep in her blonde hair, tugging hard enough to rip entire chunks from her scalp, while the other clawed at the base of her throat, fingernails breaking skin.
Next was Rowan Armitage, editor-in-chief of The Daily Prophet, with whom Hermione had given many a formal interview. Unlike the others, he was standing stock-still in the centre of the room, the hospital bed pushed against the far wall, his blood bags still full on the table. His eyes were vacant, staring into an abyss Hermione could not see, and she stepped closer to the glass to get a better look.
Nico reached for her. “I wouldn’t—”
Rowan’s eyes flashed with recognition, his face twisting with agony and wicked, sudden violence, then he was running at the window with inconceivable speed, sharpened canines bared under his snarled lips. She leapt backwards, hand flying to her chest, and looked back at Nico’s troubled face. He didn’t look frightened, not at all. He just looked…lost. Slowly, she turned back to the window and stepped forward again, examining the mangled fury of the man still slamming himself against the other side of it. His teeth were glinting under the harsh lights, sharp and white and desperate.
“Is he aware of himself?” she asked quietly.
“Hard to say,” Nico replied, stepping up beside her. “Even harder to ask.”
Hermione recalled, with unfortunate clarity, a trip she’d taken with her parents to Paignton zoo when she was five. A beautiful Sumatran tiger had leapt at the observation glass—its glorious coat dulled by artificial habitats and the still-water pond provided—and it had scared her, as it would scare anyone, until the precise moment it hadn’t. Little Hermione peered around from behind her father’s legs and watched the animal, regal and capable, paw at the glass with frustrated cries of anguish, hungry and taunted with relief it could not reach, and her stomach had churned, just as it did now.
Unable to bear it, she’d never set foot in another zoo.
“Well,” she whispered, staring at Rowan’s dilated eyes. “I suppose that depends on who we’re asking.”
The work began like any other project, with preparation. She selected a shelf to start on and rid it of as much dust as magically and physically possible before pulling down books and settling them into organised piles: non-fiction, fiction, mythology and creatures, political structures and societal history, and, finally, the irrelevant rest. A roll of parchment and an inked quill hovered over her shoulder, taking note of each title and where it needed to return once she was done.
Will followed her around, scuffing his shoes on the stone-slabbed flooring, mumbling to himself about all the things he would rather be working on—she almost joined in. The air was cold, and the fire was too small to heat it in good time, so Will kept up a rigorous schedule of warming charms and requested back-to-back cups of tea from Femur. The ring of the bell set her teeth on edge every time, but she couldn’t deny the relief a hot beverage offered.
As the night crawled in and the candlelight reached less and less of the library space, the eerie feeling in the air seemed to follow, growing taller and taller, swallowing them in penumbra.
“This place gives me the creeps,” Will admitted, frowning at the unseen edge of the room.
“Yeah,” she agreed, peering up at the blackened windows, no light emitting but the candles above and the tip of her wand, longing for Ron’s deluminator. “Me too.”
The two weeks that followed her visit to St Mungo's served to distract her from her usual duties. Her focus was on making inquiries with experts in the field of creature lore, staying late to make use of her office space, or slyly requesting that Benedict set up consultations with academics and professors alike. On the weekend, she ventured as far as Cambridge University to access their secluded Wizarding library, finding nothing but the same basic information she could find amongst her own collection.
She even, in a bid of what could only be described as delusion, tried to read Gildroy Lockhart’s Voyages with Vampires, skimming it from front to back before tossing it into the fireplace and watching it burn.
Sundays were often spent with Harry and Ron—but this weekend also made room for Ginny and George. They milled about the joke shop, all chipping in to help the process of restocking. Unsure as to how much Harry and Ron knew about the task force and even more unsure as to how much she was permitted to divulge, Hermione kept quiet, though silently wishing to seek their advice. They were working the investigation, surely they knew something she did not—maybe, even, she would know something they did not? Regardless, secrecy was an unwelcome viper in the tall grass of their friendship, and she resolved to oust it at the earliest opportunity.
Several of her weekday afternoons were spent at St Mungos, trying and failing to interview the lucid vampires being kept there, none of whom seemed to be able to offer a full response. On one shameful occasion, she’d joined the nurses as they held down Genevieve by her thrashing limbs, and pulled as much memory from the night of her turning as she could get her magic on. The task force had met that night in the Department of Mysteries and crowded around the pensive, eager for any light the memories could shed.
The memories were, at first, clear and mundane; a wealthy witch on her way home from socialising with other wealthy witches. Then, suddenly, she was not. There was pain, unfelt and yet entirely known by all who witnessed the memory, severe and as piercing as the scream that tore from her lungs, comparable only to the misery of the Cruciatus. Vision dipped in red, a hunger unlike anything—nothing penetrated beyond it, no faces, no names, just the burning desire to feed.
When the memory was over, Hermione asked to watch it again.
Three days later, she received acceptance of her meeting request from Professor Lidwig, a French academic who’d authored various publications on dark creatures. He invited her to visit his eclectic home, and she didn’t hesitate. His residence could be more aptly described as a hazard, with towers of books piled along the ground and rugs layered negligently over warped wooden floorboards, pictures on the walls knocked to a slant, plants rotting in forgotten clay pots, and curtains that had been feasted upon by swarms of moths. Still, she sat upon his sofa (which was printed with florals and smelled strongly of pipe smoke) and ran her hand down the back of his elderly dog, who sported glassy eyes and a jaw of missing teeth, while she watched the professor pull books from the chaos.
“Not a lot is known about vampires, try as we might to discover them,” he said, voice warbling with age.
“I’ve met vampires before, surely they are not so elusive,” she replied.
“Can you count the vampires you have met on one hand, Miss?” She rolled her lips together in lieu of answering, because…yes, but Lidwig raised a smug brow anyway. “Exactly. They are not hiding, but they are not proud creatures either. It is, to my limited understanding, commonplace for them to experience some form of self-revulsion.”
“Why?”
Lidwig scoffed as he pulled another book from a precarious stack. “Wouldn’t you, if your primary life source had to be taken from another?”
“But blood bags are readily available these days, there is no need to—”
“Need does not dictate desire.”
She slumped back, forgetting to stroke the dog for all of twenty seconds before it turned its rancid breath to her as a reminder. “So, the consensus is that they are unremittingly bloodthirsty, regardless of the readily available and ethically sourced alternative options?”
“I cannot answer that in confidence,” Lidwig said, shrugging.
“Wonderful.”
Lidwig, having exhausted his search, sat down in a faded armchair that maintained the shape of his body, knees creaking as he went. Immediately, the little dog hopped down from his spot beside Hermione to take up residence atop his master's slippered feet, going back to sleep within seconds of settling.
“There are men, be they Muggle, Wizard, or Creature, who have stable incomes and functioning kitchens, and still decide to hunt with bows and eat raw liver,” he said.
“So, you’re saying we might be dealing with a particularly enthusiastic omophagist?” she chuckled.
He smiled and shook his head. “Possibly, but I am not an Auror.”
Silence descended, in which she took the time to scan the books he’d placed in her lap. Old, to be sure, but all of them appeared to be standard issues. In fact, she even owned a copy of at least two, though she would read these ones just to be sure.
“What I can tell you is only rumour,” Lidwig said, recapturing her attention, “and you must understand that rumour is not something I usually indulge in.”
She winced. “I think rumour is all we can indulge in right now, professor.”
“You might be right,” he said, pausing to breathe in a long inhale, his hands rubbing against his thighs nervously. “There have been whispers, for years, of ancient texts written by the first cursed hands of the first cursed houses. I have never seen them, obviously, but they are supposedly rich in lost artefacts and history. Tales, which may only be tales, of ancient civilisations, of a time when the darkest creatures not only walked among us but made up a sizeable chunk of the ruling class. The structure was a little more tenuous than anything we have in place these days, naturally, but the possibility still fascinates…”
Hermione leaned in closer. “Vampires and creatures alike were once…in charge?”
“Possibly. As I said, Miss Granger, I have neither seen these texts nor verified these claims.”
“Where can I find these texts?”
He laughed, a pitying sound, and her stomach sank to her knees. “If I knew the answer to that, I wouldn’t be living in such squalor.”
She decided not to argue that he would likely be living in these conditions regardless of wealth, instead letting out a defeated sigh as she rose from the sofa and collected her bag. “Thank you, Professor, for your time and resources. I will return the books as soon as—”
“Collectors.”
“Pardon?” she asked, pausing.
Lidwig pushed his glasses further up his nose and peered at her. “Start with collectors. Every item of historical value has, at some point, been overshadowed by its monetary value. The rich collect and hoard like dragons upon gold. If those texts exist at all, my best guess is that they are currently sitting under a scaled belly.”
Hermione frowned, thinking of the vaults at Gringotts, of goblets and jewels that multiplied and burned and buried.
“Thank you.”
Femur arrived late in the evening with two hearty bowls of stew, which were much needed after a day of digging through seemingly unending piles of completely irrelevant books. Her quill and parchment continued taking stock while she ate, the diligent scratch of feather upon paper accompanying the sound of their chewing.
Will hardly looked up from his bowl, but Hermione was distant, watching the books arrange themselves under her ongoing charm, deep in thought about any way in which she could narrow her search, lest they be here forever. By the time her spoon scraped along the bottom of her bowl, Will was already up and transfiguring the chairs into small, single beds.
He worked efficiently, performing neat magic with merely a mumble and a flick of his wand, positioning the beds just as he wanted them; his closest to the door, where he had a clear view of their entries and exits, and hers in the centre, furthest from both.
“Don’t want to put it too close to the windows either,” he explained, though she hadn’t asked.
He was, she decided, going a bit overboard, but his one job was to protect her from any harm that might befall her in these old, weeping walls, and she was reassured by how seriously he was taking it. Especially because she had to admit there was something extrinsically off about the manor, and she couldn’t put her finger on exactly what it was.
The gathering in Kingsley’s office was a sombre affair indeed, as news of the latest attack had not yet reached the media, but had certainly reached the Ministry. This time, it was one of their own: Elise Singleton, head of the Department of Magical Transportation. She was on her way home from work—not even two hours ago—when she’d been discovered feeding upon the lifeless body of a Muggle woman, two more bodies already at her feet. Currently, she was sedated and locked in St Mungo's alongside the others.
The call for a meeting had been quiet but urgent, and nobody had denied attending.
“Robards,” Kingsley addressed the head of the D.M.L.E. “How is the investigation?”
“Potter is still at the scene with several Aurors.”
“Good,” Kingsley said, though his grave voice indicated it was anything but.
Hermione stepped forward. “I would like to personally consult with him and Mr Weasley regarding the situation.”
Kingsley looked to Nico first, who gave a noncommittal lift of one shoulder, then turned back to her. “I needn’t remind you of the importance of discretion.”
“You needn’t.”
“Then I see no reason for you not to consult with them,” he heaved a weary laugh, hardly more than a breath. “Merlin knows it cannot hurt to have the three of you put your heads together.”
“Thank you,” she said, stepping back.
Camilla cleared her throat next. “Sir, Miss Granger and I have been working with the archivists to track down the ancient texts as previously mentioned.”
“Keep at it, it’s the only lead we have right now,” Kingsley said with an encouraging smile. “What about you, Edward? Have you managed to secure permission to move the affected to an off-site facility?”
“I am awaiting imminent approval, Sir. The papers are due to be signed tomorrow morning, during—”
“Sorry to interrupt,” Camilla cut in, “but I had more.”
Hermione’s head jerked towards the unspeakable, who hadn’t yet informed her of whatever this ‘more’ consisted of, despite the pair of them spending an ungodly amount of hours searching together. They’d tucked themselves away in the archives and summoned lists of known collectors, their historic transactions, and decades of auction sheets, scouring them with tired eyes for any mention of ancient texts rooted in vampiric lore and coming up woefully short.
Camilla shot her an apologetic smile. “Apologies, Miss Granger, I would have informed you beforehand if the chance arose, but this information was handed to me as I left my office this evening.”
She produced a thin roll of parchment from her briefcase and placed it on the table for all to see, but Hermione, feeling starved for information, snatched it up first. Her heart picked up speed as her eyes fell to a line circled in red ink, to the scribbled title of ‘Casele Cechilor Vampiri’, then stopped altogether when she read the line that followed: purchased in return for a plot of land, dated 1767, by one Septimus Malfoy.
“Malfoy?” she croaked. “As in…”
“I cannot say I know of any others,” Camilla confirmed solemnly.
With reluctance, she let the document be pried from her grip and passed around the room, her mind spinning as though circling a plug. Of all the leads, of all the names, it had to be a Malfoy. It wasn’t even that surprising, knowing their history and their penchant for owning, but it was shocking. Not often was she confronted with the reminder of that family without significant preparation.
The paper landed in Nico’s hands last, and he peered down at it with pinched brows. “The Malfoy estate is under Ministry supervision, is it not?”
“Supervision is a strong word,” Kingsley said. “We do, however, have unlimited access to any and all parts of it whenever we require.”
“Including the library, I presume?” Nico asked.
The library.
She may not have given much thought to the Malfoys in recent years, but she’d always wondered about the famous Malfoy library. Supposedly, it was large enough to require a map. Supposedly, it housed a rare collection of ‘lost’ first editions. Supposedly, it was as fiercely warded as any Gringotts vault. Hermione, a lifelong bibliophile, could not deny the allure of its mystery, but even allure wasn’t enough to outweigh the transgressions of its inhabitants. Malfoy—the youngest, the one she’d known for a long, miserable time—always claimed it superior to the library at Hogwarts, and she’d never quite known by which metric he measured that claim. Was it in size? Was it in selection? Was it because Hogwarts offered favourable tales of Muggleborns, and his library offered undue, vindictive lies about her very blood?
“Hermione,” Kingsley said, shaking her from her stupor, “we’ll arrange for you to go and locate these texts. If they are at the manor, ensure they are placed under Ministry ownership. Camilla, if you could continue your search of the archives for any further—”
“Pardon?”
Everyone turned to Hermione, who hadn’t truly been aware that she’d spoken, still unsure if she was even hearing correctly. Her mouth was agape, her eyes widening and narrowing as she attempted to make sense of the utterly nonsensical. It wasn’t until Kingsley’s mouth softened with guilt that she realised his words had not been imagined.
“If there is anyone most adept at scouring a library, it is you,” he said.
She fought the bubble of hysteria threatening to pop in her throat. “If there is anyone least adept at being anywhere near that building, it is me.”
Thus began a staredown, unrepentant fury in her eyes, unwavering resolve (and a healthy dose of remorse) in his. Hermione refused to relent, refused to let herself be sent to the gallows without putting up a fight, refused to be ushered through a tour of her worst memories just to find an old book that may not even be there.
Nico looked between them, raising a placating palm. “Maybe if we—”
“You know what happened there,” she said quietly, still fixed on Kingsley. “You know how they feel about me. I am not welcome at Malfoy Manor, regardless of how little they can deny my entry.”
For a moment—a blissful, hopeful moment—Kingsley looked as though he were about to concede, but Robards spoke up first, stamping on that hope with the thick tread of his boots. “As far as I am aware, the manor is almost entirely vacant.”
“What?” she asked, voice too high, eyebrows rising with it.
“The elves are still there to maintain it,” he explained, “but Lucius and Narcissa are long dead, and it is presumed that their son has taken residence at their home in Vézenobres.”
She blinked, dumbfounded. “I didn’t think he would be able to leave the country.”
“Why not? He was acquitted.”
He was, and she supposed it made sense, legally speaking, but somehow it still felt…wrong.
“So, he’s not even there?”
“Nobody has seen him since the trials, and we have been to the manor a great number of times since then, never once have there been any reports of any living presence aside from the elves,” he said.
“I still don’t think it’s prudent for me to go, any one of us could go, and…” she trailed off, knowing that her words were not strictly true; she was the only one in this room who was not heading a department, heading the task force, or holding an active seat in the Wizengamot. She could, in theory, spend as much time as would be required in that library—if it were any other, the idea might even thrill her. If she knew this, Kingsley surely knew it too, so she met her eye and implored silently, the only way she could: I don’t want to, please don’t make me.
The Minister tipped his chin to the ceiling and let out a resigned sigh. “Robards, do you have a spare Auror?”
“I can find one.”
“Then you will not go alone, Hermione.”
She almost scoffed. “You’re sending me with a bodyguard?”
“Yes.”
“I don’t—”
“With all due respect, Miss Granger,” Nico said calmly, “this is of the utmost importance.”
Her protests died on her tongue as she looked upon the empty chair where Elise should be sitting, as she thought about the parade of crime scene photographs and the drained faces of innocent victims, most of whom hadn’t even known of the existence of creatures before being killed by one. She thought about the war, about how she’d never been able to bring herself to sit anything out, even when she hadn’t been the one the burden fell upon. She thought about Harry and Ron, both already doing their part, and how desperately she wanted to talk to them first.
Then, with disinclination, she thought about Draco Malfoy, a boy with more spite than sense, who she’d never once let hold her back, who hadn’t factored into her considerations at all in so many years, who wouldn’t even be there to stop her from what she needed to do; help. Help the families of those fallen prey, help to prevent any further changings and attacks, and most importantly, to help the public servants now confined to an unplotted ward, guzzling blood from bags and sobbing through the nights.
“I’ll go,” she said firmly, lifting her chin high, “and I will not leave until I have secured the texts or am absolutely, unreservedly sure they are not to be found there.”
Kingsley’s shoulders dropped with relief. “Thank you, Hermione.”
“And the Auror?” Robards asked.
“Yes,” she answered, perhaps a little too quickly, but she wasn’t above admitting her nerves. “I don’t want to be there on my own.”
“That’s settled then.” Kingsley clapped his hands together. “Hermione will go to the manor and search for the texts, Camilla will continue her overhaul of the archives, Dixson will accompany Robards to the scene of Elise’s attack and…”
It was all white noise in her ears, a low whistle that reverberated through her bones until it became a shriek, a sound so similar to the ones she’d made on the floor of that Manor that night. She could still feel the pain in her ribs from the curse, the ache in her fingertips from clawing at the ground, the bitter coldness to be found in the watching eyes. Malfoy, the names he’d called her, the joy he’d taken in it, the hollowness of his tone, his father, his mother, his aunt—
Nico was watching her with increasing concern, his mouth forming a silent question: You okay?
She was not, but she nodded anyway, and that concern morphed into an expression she’d seen so many times before, one she’d coveted from Harry or Ron, from her peers or parents, from teachers and superiors alike, an unmistakable gift she could not squander; trust.
Hermione woke with a start, lifting her head from the page of an open book and feeling the instant sting in her neck. Will was sleeping, his snores filling the otherwise unnatural hush of the library. The candles had mostly extinguished, leaving her cloaked in darkness, lit only by the muted light emitting from her discarded wand. Stretching, she reached to collect it from between the book pile, deciding that falling asleep on the stone floor was, if nothing else, an indication that she’d reached her limit.
That's when she felt it.
Hermione knew what it was to be hunted. She knew the feeling of prying eyes, to be the focus of lingering glances and hushed whispers, and that is how she knew, with absolute certainty, that something was watching her now. She grabbed her wand and stood on weakened legs, the rough bevelling of the stone indented in her flesh, and pointed straight into the nearest shadows.
“Lumos maximia,” she breathed, her heartbeat thundering in her ears.
The light increased, revealing nothing but more bookshelves in its wake, though the feeling of eyes upon her back did not dissipate. She turned on her heel, scanning every corner of the room she could find, eyes narrowed and focus sharp.
“Is someone there?” she asked, braver than she felt, braver than she ought to have been. “Femur?”
No little elf emerged from the dark, no little voice called out for her to relax, response only coming in the form of deafening silence, broken by her guard's rhythmic snores. Impulsively, illogically, she walked through the library with keen interest, scanning every row with the flick of her wand.
This library, this manor, had been standing since the sixteenth century. It had housed all and every kind of magic, from the lightest to the very, very darkest. It stood to reason, she told herself, that the watchful stare she felt upon her skin may well have come from the walls themselves, cursed and cold as they were, unwilling to allow her peace in a place built to defile her. Even the gentle breeze felt abrasive, like sandpaper on skin, as she tiptoed a circle around their immediate area.
“Show yourself,” she demanded, one final request to an ungranting silence.
Her wand fell limp, her hackles lowered, and she scuffed the ground with the front of her shoe, chiding herself for being so foolish. The manor was aged, not haunted, and allowing herself to be tricked by shadows would only make the duration of their stay harder than it was already set to be. With a rueful laugh at her own ridiculousness, she turned for the bed and tapped out her wand, letting the darkness coat them like a weighted blanket.
Rest, it seemed, was a fruitless endeavour, for no matter how often she reminded herself that it had merely been a trick of the mind, the hairs on the back of her neck never quite settled.