It wasn't really warm enough outside to play. There was a thick, gray covering of clouds that blocked out the sun's rays, and a chilly breeze on the air. It was unusual weather for July, a month that should have been filled with scorching days, but seldom did the weather do what it was supposed to. However, the cloudy skies and lack of warm sun didn't stop Hermione Granger from burning off the everlasting energy all nine-year-olds seemed to have by running around in the field surrounding her house. Beatrice and Oliver Granger had decided long, long ago that they really weren't suited for city life and had moved to the country to raise their only child. Their home was set far back from the road and concealed by a thick throng of trees; surrounding the house was a wide expanse of grass, which was edged by a forest that didn't stop for kilometers. Their closest neighbor was more than a fifteen minute's drive away. It was perfect for them.
Hermione was playing near the edge of the woods, where the grass grew tall and gnarled tree roots stuck out waiting to trip up an unsuspecting victim. She was pretending to be an explorer, bravely venturing into the wild in order to discover new lands. Her parents were laying in a hammock precariously strung up between two trees near the house. They had wrapped themselves up in a thick fleece blanket and were sipping on mugs of hot tea, checking up on their daughter every few minutes. The Grangers weren't worried she would be hurt. Nobody really came around their secluded property, and Hermione was smart enough to stay clear of wild animals she saw roaming about.
Hermione had just started to feel the day's chill. Looking up into the cloudy sky, she knew the sun would set soon. It was just after eight, according the the cheap little watch she'd gotten from a cereal box. Reasonably contented with the day's made-up adventures, she was going to start heading back towards her parents when her gaze was inexplicably drawn towards the tree line. Someone was standing between two tall oaks, watching her with a curious look on their face. Hermione paused, a thousand thoughts about stranger danger racing through her mind.
The person - a man, she thought, but the elbow-length, curly blonde hair certainly reminded her of a woman- smiled invitingly and Hermione beamed back, every thought of potential trouble leaving her mind at once. Nobody that beautiful could hurt her. Not this man, she thought, walking forward as if in a trance when he beckoned her closer. He was so lovely, with hair like a doll's, deep blue eyes, and clothes like something out of a Victorian drama. Some far away part of her fancied he was a prince, lost in time and fallen right into her backyard. The man stepped further back into the woods, casting a long shadow across his face, and Hermione hesitated for a moment, a sudden fear curdling in her stomach. But then he tilted his head, and reached a hand out and she took it obediently, unfathomably enthralled despite everything telling her to go back, to run away. His hands were freezing and his grip was strong, and Hermione frowned at the sudden shock of cold.
Her parents looked up just as she disappeared into the trees.
The woods around them were absolutely silent. No bird sang, no cricket chirped; even the wind had ceased rustling through the treetops. Everything had fled in the face of this man, beautiful and terrible, guiding Hermione through the trees. A deep anxiety settled into her stomach, but Hermione couldn't find the will to break away from him. Her mind felt like the sun obscured by a cloud, foggy and dim. Something about him captivated her, held her prisoner as he led her by the hand to a small clearing. Her heart dropped as they stopped, and she stared resolutely at the ground. If she ignored him for long enough, perhaps he would leave.
"My name is Pascal," he told her. His accent was faintly French, and he lifted her chin with one pale finger, forcing her to look into his timeless face. "What is your name, little lamb?"
Hermione could practically hear her mother screaming at her to not answer, to run from this…thing. He was not a man. There was nothing human about him, she could feel that in her bones. Despite all of this, she couldn't help but to answer him, words practically clawing their way out of her mouth. "Hermione," she whispered in a small voice. "My name is Hermione."
"Hermione," he tested the name on his tongue. "I am so sorry, my dear," he said to her, but there was no sincerity in his voice. Pascal flashed a wicked smile, one that revealed all of his teeth and Hermione's heart jumped into her throat. Two long, sharp white fangs glistened in his mouth and she could only let out half a scream before he plunged them into her throat, cutting her scream into a choked gasp. A hot, burning pain lanced through her neck. She struggled against him, but he was impossibly strong. His arms formed an iron cage around her that she was trapped in like a little bird. Hermione's vision began to fog as Pascal's teeth dug further into her neck, bringing up a fresh flood of blood.
A woman's sharp voice rang out, "No!" and suddenly, Pascal was ripped away from her, his fangs torn from her neck, opening a long red gash in her throat. The momentum threw her down too, and Hermione crumpled into the summer grass, lying on her back hardly able to breathe but for short, desperate pants. She was dizzy, confused and the world churned around her even as she laid still. Above her, she could see the gray sky turning pinkish-orange as the sun started to set. Her blood welled up in the wounds, trickling down the side of her neck and into the grass. Hermione was bleeding out.
The blood came out at a rate that Hermione couldn't think was normal, even in her hazy delirium. It pumped out, fast and hot, pooling around her like water. Her whole body was burning…
"She's turning," a man's low, curt voice said to her left and Hermione tried to turn her head, but the pain was too much. She screamed again as a fresh wave of pain swept over her. Pascal's laugh was muffled, but she still heard it and she couldn't help but let out a wail as humiliation and agony coursed through her.
Hermione was only distantly aware of her parents breaking into the small clearing, having run all the way from the house to the woods. Her mother was crying, her father was screaming and demanding to know what was going on, all the while a woman knelt next to her, whispering things that meant nothing to Hermione. Everything hurt and felt far away, like she was on the verge of falling asleep and flying all at once…
With great difficulty, Hermione managed to turn her head. She wanted to see her parents, was dying to see them. Her mother's face was broken, her red-rimmed eyes streaming constant tears.
"Mummy," Hermione managed, her voice cracking and her mother sobbed all the harder, rushing forward and collapsing next to Hermione, even as her daughter's vision faded black.
Hermione opened her eyes and growled deep in her throat. The noise was low and inhuman, not at all the sound a nine-year-old girl should be making. She made to sit up, but was forced back to the floor by two strong hands. The floor…had the woods been a dream? A dizzying sensation swept over her, the feeling of waking up unsure if your surroundings were real. It was quickly overcome by a deep, horrible thirst.
A woman, dark-eyed and beautiful, loomed over her. Those were her hands and knees holding her to the floor, keeping her from from tearing through flesh to the sweet prize running in blue veins. This woman was an enemy, her eyes marked her as such. Anyone who kept her from the blood that was right there, pumped by a strong heart, ripe for the taking, was an enemy. Her mouth ached with longing and Hermione let out a guttural wail, pleading to be let loose.
"Open your mouth," the woman commanded and Hermione could smell it, blood, fresh coppery blood, dripping from a newly opened vein. She struggled to break free so she could get to the source, suck it dry, slake the overwhelming thirst. The woman pinning her down was relentless, crushing her most flail-able limbs to the floor, effectively blocking any escape. "Open your mouth," the woman repeated. Hermione did, spurred on by the same inexplicable thrall that Pascal had had.
A wrist, human and pale and bleeding bright red, was held over her open mouth. Sharp, salty blood dripped onto her tongue. Hermione sighed, blissful as the burning began to sate itself. Several minutes passed, the only movements Hermione made being those with her tongue, lapping at the blood that had missed her open mouth and landed on her lips or chin. Finally, she closed her mouth and the wrist was promptly removed. Hermione blinked slowly, feeling her mind slowly coming back to her.
She sat up with a start, and found herself face-to-face with the strange woman, whose expression was very serious. Hermione vaulted backwards and found herself much further back than she intended, having somehow pushed herself most of the way across the living room. She looked around wildly, a deep panic settling into her bones. Her mother was standing to the side, wrapping a bandage around her wrist as she watched Hermione with wide, worried eyes. Her father stood beside her mother, an arm wrapped around her waist and the same protective look on his face. Dried blood stained his cotton button-down shirt.
"What happened to me?" Hermione whispered, remembering the woods, remembering Pascal and his otherworldly beauty, remembering bleeding out in the grass. "What happened? Why- how am I still alive? I thought I was dying…"
"You were, in a sense," the unfamiliar woman said. Her voice was lovely, and low, like Pascal's had been, and she was just as beautiful as he was. Hermione pinned her with a wary gaze, unwilling to trust someone who was so much like her attacker. "You are not technically alive even now."
"I don't understand," Hermione said, her voice cracking. "I…he bit me, that…man, bit me! Where did he go? Did you call the police?"
"He's gone, sweetheart," her mother said softly and Hermione's head turned to her so fast she thought she might have whiplash. "He's gone."
Hermione bit her lip and buried her head in her lap. All of her senses had been amplified to an almost overwhelming degree. Her parents' hearts beat like drums in their chests, pumping hot blood through their bodies. A deep breath through her nose told her exactly what the room's occupants were feeling; fear and anxiety rolled off her parents in waves, while a sort of ready, on-edge tenseness emanated from the woman she didn't recognize. From across the room, Hermione could see her mother's pulse jumping in her neck, only the slightest tremors just beneath the skin giving away the tempting beat. And her mouth itched. She'd not thought that was possible.
"What's wrong with me?" she cried out. "Why…why can I hear and see and smell everything? Why didn't I die, why…," and here she swallowed, afraid and a little nauseous. "Why did you feed me her blood? Why did he take mine?" And why did she want more? Hermione's eyes flicked to her mother, on the bandage wrapped around her wrist. The smell of blood still laid heavy in the room, like the scent of rain clung to the air after a thunderstorm.
"Thirsty again?" the woman asked, a knowing look on her face. Hermione glared at her. "It's perfectly natural for you to feel all of those things, although it can be overwhelming at first," she said soothingly. She was telling the truth, and Hermione knew it even if she couldn't pinpoint why. It was something in the way her emotions came off of her. "You'll learn to filter out all but the most important things in time."
"Who are you?" Hermione demanded. "Why did he bite me?" Her hand flew up to her throat instinctively, but all she felt was her own, smooth skin. She rubbed it hesitantly. It felt mostly normal, if not a bit firmer than she was used to. There was nothing where there should have been two deep, violent puncture wounds. What happened in the woods couldn't have been a dream; her mum had said that Pascal was gone, and that meant he had to have existed, at the very least.
"My name is Elisaveta," the woman said. Her dark eyes met Hermione's and she smiled a bit sadly. "It was a terrible thing for Pascal to bite you. Sebastian and I have been tracking him for weeks, trying to turn him into the Ministry for his crimes. Unfortunately, we didn't get there fast enough to stop him, but we did get there in time to keep him from killing you."
"I don't understand," she said blankly, confusion swirling in her mind. How could she not be alive, when she was sitting on her living room floor, breathing and aware? She looked around the room, wondering if she had somehow ended up in a weird limbo, but everything was the same from the bright blue couch to the bookshelf arranged by alphabetical order.
"What do you remember?" her father asked, his voice gentle and worried.
Hermione wracked her brain. Everything felt like a dream, like some nightmare she'd woken up from with only the fuzziest memories.
"I remember following him into the woods," she said slowly. "He took me to the clearing…asked my name, told me his, and then he…he bit me, here," she brought her hand up to her neck again, brushing over the spot where Pascal had plunged his fangs into her throat. "Then I heard someone yell, 'No,', and Pascal was gone, and I fell." Hermione's eyebrows drew together as she relayed the next part of her story. "My blood…it felt like it was burning up inside of me. And it was coming out so fast… I saw both of you," she said, looking to her parents, "right before I passed out."
"Before you died," Elisaveta corrected her gently. "You died, Hermione. You're alive now because Pascal turned you."
Hermione could only stare at her. She didn't have a reply for being told that she had died in the woods behind her house. She looked to her parents, whose eyes shone with tears. She turned back to Elisaveta, who pressed onwards despite Hermione's total lack of response.
"What can you feel inside yourself?" Elisaveta urged, dark eyes boring into her own. "Your heart- can you feel it's beat?"
Hermione took a few seconds to concentrate, and she felt nothing. She held a hand over her chest where her heart was, feeling desperately for the tell-tale thump-thump that would match her parents own heartbeats, but there was nothing. Her chest was empty, no longer a beating drum. Frantic (shouldn't her panic have made her heart beat fast and loud?), Hermione scrambled to check her pulse on her wrist, but still there was nothing. Just firm skin, paler than she remembered being.
"What's wrong with me?" Her voice was rising in hysteria. "I can't feel anything!"
Elisaveta strode forward and knelt next to Hermione, taking her hand and placing it where Elisaveta's heart laid in her chest. Hermione's lips parted in surprise when she felt nothing. There was no beat, no steady rhythm that would mark her as a fully alive human being. It was like she'd put her hand against a wall.
"We are the same," Elisaveta said gently, releasing Hermione's hand. "I'm here to help you, little one." She cupped her face, running a thumb over her cheekbone.
"Listen to me when I tell you this. You have joined an ancient and powerful race. Though you did not choose to, that is what you are now."
"What...what am I, then?" Hermione whispered, even as she was afraid of the answer.
"You are a vampire," Elisaveta said simply, dark eyes boring into Hermione's.
Hermione let out a startled laugh, looking to her parents as if to ask, 'Is she serious?' When they only gazed back and nodded slowly at her, she shook her head. Elisaveta's hand slipped off her face and Hermione glared at the older woman.
"I'm not stupid," she said, scowling. "I know vampires aren't real." Hermione reached out and pushed the woman away lightly, not wanting her to be in her personal space a moment longer. Elisaveta flew backwards across the floor as though she'd been thrown by an invisible force and Hermione's parents gasped. Chuckling, Elisaveta managed to somehow climb to her feet, even as she came sliding to a stop on the wood floor. Hermione could only look from the woman to her hands, pale and small and frail-looking, not at all capable of shoving a grown woman across the room with just a light push.
"Not real?" Elisaveta asked, amused. "You were bitten by a man with fangs. Your heart does not beat, your blood burned itself up in your body. When you woke, you thirsted and it was only sated by one thing: blood. You can hear even the smallest fly's wings, and smell your parent's concern. I'll bet your mouth is itching because your fangs want to push through. What do you think you are?"
Hermione stared at her for a few moments, then began to cry in earnest, not wanting to believe her words. Everything was too much. Her mother rushed forward, knelt next to her, and wrapped her in a hug. Hermione threw herself into her mother's arms, relishing in the utter warmth she provided. She took a deep, hiccoughing breath and was hit with several scents all at once: chocolate, chai tea, lavender, laundry detergent, the welcoming scent of utter love, and running underneath it all, blood. All she could do was cry harder. Her father knelt beside them, wrapping an arm around both Hermione and his wife. Hermione took another deep breath, letting the smell of aftershave, spices, love love love, and again, the telltale scent of blood, wash over her. They held her while she cried, and eventually, she fell asleep like that, still exhausted from her changing.
"I thought you said she wouldn't sleep as much, and she only would in the daylight," Beatrice said, stroking a hand over her daughter's wild curls. They'd been frizzy just that morning, but had somehow relaxed. She looked to Elisaveta in question.
The vampire woman nodded. "That is true," she said. "I had forgotten what it is like for new vampires. All they want to do is eat, and sleep, because their bodies are still tired from dying and rising. She will be like this for a few weeks, but her sleep cycles will get shorter until they disappear completely."
Oliver scooped up his daughter, careful not to wake her. She was ice-cold, like a corpse. "I'll carry her up to her room," he said. "It's gotten late, though. Beatrice and I are going to bed…"
"I will watch over her," Elisaveta promised. "You have my word."
Neither adult particularly wanted to leave their daughter alone with the vampire woman. They hardly knew her, and had found her kneeling over Hermione's dead body earlier that day. But it was the only choice at this point. They were exhausted, and it was nearly three in the morning, having stayed up worrying over their daughter's cooling body. Only once they'd seen Hermione's wound healing and her visage changing in the slightest ways had they finally begun to believe the strange woman from the woods: their daughter would live (in a sense), but be changed forever.
They would love her no matter what those changes brought.
Oliver carried her up the stairs, Beatrice by his side. Elisaveta stayed downstairs to give them some privacy, though Oliver was certain she would hear them regardless with her advanced hearing. Beatrice opened the door for him, and he stepped into Hermione's room, depositing her on the bed. Beatrice slipped off her shoes and socks while he pulled the down comforter up around her.
"She's still our little girl," Beatrice said, gripping his hand hard as they stood over the sleeping child. "Still our Hermione."
Oliver nodded, gazing down at his daughter. She looked different, more beautiful than before and pale as milk, but she was and always would be their baby.
"Let's go to bed," he murmured, tugging his wife's hand gently. "She'll need us in the morning."
Beatrice gave their daughter one last lingering look before she followed her husband into their bedroom and turned in for the night.
Downstairs, Elisaveta gazed out the back window, deep in thought. Hermione was one of the youngest vampires she'd ever met. Elisaveta herself had been turned when she was just twelve, but was blessed enough to be a witch as well and her body forced itself to grow in order to be able to contain her magic; she'd aged until reaching magical maturity, when the magic inside of her had stopped growing. For her, it had been around the age of twenty-five, although it had been nearly a hundred and fifty years since then, so she wasn't quite sure. Otherwise, she'd have been stuck as a twelve-year-old forever. Some vampires were cursed as such, and existed as children for all their lives. Elisaveta knew Hermione was a witch; she could smell the magic, different from a vampire's innate magic, swirling inside of her. Not that her life would be easy even though she would age; no, Elisaveta thought grimly, little Hermione had quite a long, difficult road ahead of her. Being a vampire was, in many ways, a blessing, but it was also very much a curse. Watching her brothers and sisters age and die while she remained young, only being able to make friends with other immortals and creatures after her attack, had been agonizing. Her wand was snapped by the Russian ministry, and she'd been forcibly withdrawn from Koldovstoretz, the magical Russian academy her entire family had attended.
Then there were Pascal's troubling parting words. He'd struggled, screamed to get to the girl laying in the grass. He'd insisted that, as her sire, he alone had the right to raise and teach her. When they'd denied him that, he'd said, voice low and strained, "I turned her for a reason, you know. I knew you would be there, I could smell you on the wind." He'd bared his teeth, still rusty with Hermione's blood. At the time, Elisaveta had dismissed it as the ramblings of a broken vampire, trying every resort to free himself before Sebastian gave him up to the Ministry to execute. But now, part of her wondered about it. Hermione had been remarkably in control after her first feeding- most newly turned vampires would have torn through home after home before they were satisfied. It was unsettling.
Yes. Hermione Granger did have a difficult life ahead of her, but she would not be without help. Elisaveta had to herself in the forest, staring down at the broken child whose hair fanned out around her like a curly brown halo, that she would help Hermione in any way she could as she grew and learned how to exist as a vampire.
Hermione did not wake again until nearly noon the next day. She blinked her eyes, the drowsiness being quickly chased away by a deep thirst. It burned at her throat like acid and her mouth ached as two, sharp little fangs grew from her teeth. Downstairs she could hear two, steady heart-beats and she flew up from her bed, ready to attack and drink and kill-
Just as quickly as she stood, Hermione was thrown back into her bed. She snarled, struggling to break free. She was strong, nearly succeeding in pushing her captor off of her, but was quickly forced into submission as another person pinned her arms down.
"Feisty," an amused, male voice came and Hermione craned her neck to look at him. She could smell blood, but it wasn't coming from him. It was from a glass he held in his hand, clear to show off the bright red liquid it contained. The blood in the glass captivated her interest immediately, and she struggled against the two of them to get at it.
"You're getting stronger each time you wake up," a woman- Elisaveta, she remembered- complained. "Sebastian, give her the glass."
The man raised a dark brow at her and held the glass to her lips. Hermione opened her mouth and drank eagerly, calming as her thirst was quenched by the smooth, savory liquid. It wasn't fresh, and she could taste that, but it wasn't terrible either.
"Not fresh," Elisaveta said, confirming her observation. "But close. Your father was kind enough to do this a few hours ago. We wanted to catch you before you tore through your house in search of a food source."
Sebastian pulled the glass from her as she emptied it and set it on her night stand. Eyeing her warily, he released her arms. Elisaveta let her up, too, and she sat up with a frown.
"So this wasn't all a dream?" she asked hopefully.
Elisaveta smiled sadly. "Unfortunately not, but Sebastian and I are here to answer your questions. I will be with you for quite a bit longer than Sebastian, however, to help you along in getting adjusted to being a vampire."
"What happened to Pascal?" Hermione asked immediately, eyebrows drawn together. He couldn't come back for her and finish the job, could he?
"I was the one who took Pascal off of you," Sebastian said, and Hermione took a good look at him for the first time. He was tall, and slim, with dark hair combed and gelled away from his forehead neatly. He, like Pascal and Elisaveta, was beautiful in an almost unearthly way. He had warm brown skin, dark eyes, and a strong Spanish accent. "I brought him to the Ministry."
"The Ministry," Hermione repeated. "Is that like Parliament?"
Judging by the look Elisaveta and Sebastian exchanged, Hermione had a lot of things that needed to be explained to her. Her heart sank at the thought. Usually she would be jumping at the chance to learn about something new and exciting, but knowing that this was her reality rather than a fanciful foray into someone else's world made her more than a little apprehensive.
The next few days continued in a routine manner of Hermione falling asleep, waking up wild with thirst, and then being ushered back to bed, with bits of information fed to her at a time from either Elisaveta and Sebastian, or her parents. It was only when she began staying awake longer, and sleeping shorter times in between that her lessons in vampiric life really began.
Elisaveta first explained the existence of the magical, hidden world Hermione and her parents had previously been ignorant to. Witches and wizards lived in their world, walled off from the rest of society. They had a government, called the Ministry of Magic, which created magical laws in Britain, and a higher level of government, the International Confederation of Wizards. When Elisaveta informed her that yes, dragons and werewolves and goblins and trolls all really did exist, Hermione spent the rest of her time awake that day questioning her about the magical world. It was so new and not vampiric, thus not pertaining any information on why Hermione was craving blood, so it was what she wanted to hear about. Elisaveta only let her get away with that for a day or so.
When starting to get into the vampire specific lessons, Elisaveta started with what they were, first and foremost: predators. Highly advanced, sentient, predators that had human emotions and desires, but predators all the same. Then she went on to explain that vampires were no longer considered human, not really.
"But I am human," Hermione insisted tearfully one day, holding out her arms to show her, to say 'Look! Arms and legs, I must be a human!' but Elisaveta shook her head sadly.
"No, child," she said gently, cupping Hermione's face in her hand, stroking a thumb across the top of her cheekbone in comfort. "We are not human. Vampires are man's enemy. We eat them, they hunt us. That's not the way it is anymore, we don't hunt and in return, we aren't hunted, but still: we are not human. And we are not monsters, so keep that silly notion out of your pretty little head."
"What are we then?" Hermione demanded, crossing her arms over her chest. "Who says we aren't human?"
"We are vampires, technically classified as 'beings' by the Ministry of Magic," Elisaveta explained. "That means that we have sufficient intelligence to understand magical laws and that we bear responsibility in helping shape those laws."
It would take time for Hermione to fully understand that no, she really wasn't human. Humans were alive or they were dead; she was living dead.
Elisaveta's teachings about vampires grew from horrifying Hermione to captivating her. Her parents often sat in, listening almost as attentively as Hermione did while
Elisaveta explained vampire's abilities and weaknesses.
"We are very strong, stronger than any human could hope to be, and faster than them, too. All of our senses are more heightened than theirs, most especially sight, hearing, and scent," Elisaveta smiled at Hermione's wide, eager eyes. She could tell the young vampire was ready to test out her newfound strengths, but Elisaveta wouldn't let her off the short leash she was on for quite some time. "However," Elisaveta cautioned, "we are not impervious to damage. Although our skin is tough and impenetrable by almost any sharp object, advanced magic could wreak havoc on us. The sun won't kill us, but it hurts. I would stay away from garlic; it will make you sneeze like none other. Pure metals, like silver and gold, burn us. Very badly."
"I can't go outside anymore?" Hermione asked miserably. "How will I go to school?"
"We're not going to enroll you next year, sweetheart," Oliver said gently, reaching out to squeeze Hermione's hand. "You'll be homeschooled by Elisaveta, at least for a year."
"It's too much of a risk to have you around so many humans so quickly," Elisaveta said, but Hermione was hardly listening. So much had been taken from her so quickly. She couldn't be around her parents unsupervised, she wasn't going to be able to go out into the sun anymore, and now she couldn't go to school in the fall. Hermione adored school! "There are ways to skirt around the sun issue, but it involves a complex spell and it will be some time before I can bring a trustworthy wizard here."
"I know it's not fair," Beatrice said quietly, sensing the outburst before it came. Hermione's eyes had narrowed and her mouth had slipped into a scowl. "But this is how it has to be for a little while, love."
Hermione nodded, reluctant and upset but unwilling to talk back to her parents.
"Being classified as beings, vampires are not allowed to carry wands," Elisaveta said, eyeing Hermione to see her reaction. "I was a witch before I was turned, and my wand was snapped. We as vampires have our own magic that we don't need a wand for, but…there is untapped potential in allowing a vampire to have a wand."
"Do you still have your witch magic?" Hermione asked curiously, leaning forward, having already forgotten about the sun issue at the mention of magic.
Elisaveta hesitated, formulating an answer in her mind. "Yes," she said finally. "I was twelve when I was turned, and would have stayed twelve if not for my magic, forcing my body to grow so that it could contain itself."
Hermione gaped, at once horrified and shocked. The idea of eternity hadn't yet settled into her young mind, but she knew that being nine always, never growing, would prove a terrible fate. "I…I'm going to be nine forever?"
Beatrice and Oliver exchanged an alarmed look. Although when she'd been born, each had wished for her to stay their tiny, fragile little child forever, they did want her to age. Being stuck as a nine-year-old would be difficult for everyone involved.
"No!" Elisaveta was quick to reassure. "I believe you're in the situation I was in. A witch, turned into a vampire."
Hermione frowned. She'd not noticed anything very Pagan about her before. "I've never done anything…witchy," she protested.
"Yes, you have," Beatrice interjected, staring at Hermione intently. "You've done some very unusual things in the past." Elisaveta turned to Hermione in interest.
"What? No, I haven't," Hermione insisted. "I've not done anything weird before now!"
"You have, actually," Oliver said, looking surprised at himself for agreeing. "I hadn't remembered this before, but do you remember why you had to switch pre-schools?"
"I threw blocks at Jimmy Wallace's head because he was making fun of my jumper," Hermione answered promptly. "I- oh."
"Yes, oh," Beatrice retorted. "Jimmy said you didn't even pick them up, that they just flew at him."
"Sounds like I was correct in my assessment," Elisaveta said, smiling widely at Hermione. "We may not be able to hold wands, but being able to grow until you reach magical maturity was worth it, at least for me."
Hermione looked at her hands, small and frail, yet capable of throwing Elisaveta out the window. She didn't want to be nine forever, and she was glad that she would grow, but there was something very disappointing about knowing you had all the capability and potential to be something great yet having the tool to guide you be banned from you and yours. "I hope it will be for me, too," Hermione said finally, looking up to meet Elisaveta's eyes. "What exactly is the punishment for carrying a wand?"
Elisaveta's eyes glittered as she stared Hermione down. "A stint in Azkaban, I presume," she replied, tilting her head. "Maybe a fine. I'm not sure. The wand would be snapped, in any case."
Hermione nodded thoughtfully. "So what magic can vampires do?" she asked, recognizing the calculating look in Elisaveta's eyes. She didn't particularly want to think about wands and being banned from using them for a moment longer. A doorway to a new possibility had been opened and shut in just a few moments.
"There are lots of things," Elisaveta shrugged, somehow making the motion seem elegant and casual. "Any vampire can manipulate objects, whether you bring something to you from across the room or shut a door, it can be done with a simple thought and a wave of your hand."
"Cool," Hermione breathed, eager to try it out. She raised a hand and, rather awkwardly, waved at a book sat on her desk. Nothing happened. Elisaveta and her parents laughed a little when Hermione glared at the book. She wanted it, in her hand, right now. Hermione waved her hand again, and it zoomed towards her. Her parents stopped laughing rather abruptly, and Elisaveta was giving her the same calculating look as before. She clutched the book to her chest, folding her arms around it like that would protect her from Elisaveta's shrewd eyes.
"It usually takes some practice," Elisaveta said, a small smile that didn't quite reach her eyes playing around her lips. "There are other, more advanced skills. Some take years to perfect, but since vampires have thousands of years if they wish it, it's not undoable. Flight can be achieved with great will, some can shape shift into animals, and other things involving shadow or mind manipulation."
"Shadow manipulation?" Hermione asked, intrigued. "What's that?"
"Vampires are associated with shadows for a good reason," Elisaveta said. "We can manipulate them- making a brightly lit room pitch black is the easiest form of it, but I've seen vampires use shadows as a shield against magical onslaught from wizards."
"Do vampires often face…onslaught from wizards?" Oliver asked worriedly.
"Sometimes, we do," Elisaveta nodded. "Although it is illegal, vampire hunters still exist. And, although it is doubly illegal, vampires like Pascal still exist- preying on the innocent and easy to manipulate, dissatisfied with taking small amounts from volunteers."
"It's more illegal for a vampire to kill a human than for a human to kill a vampire?" Oliver asked, brows furrowed. He pushed his wire-rimmed glasses up on his nose. "That hardly seems fair."
Elisaveta shrugged. "It's the way it is. Life isn't fair for vampires."
Hermione stared at the book in her hands. She'd done that, summoned it to herself, with power that rested inside of her. Pascal had drawn her into the woods and changed her forever, for good or for worse. Elisaveta and Sebastian had been there, prevented her death and opened a world to her that had endless depths she could explore forever. A blessing in disguise as a traumatic event.
Hermione yawned, interrupting the discussion about justice she had spaced out of. Elisaveta left the room, though Hermione knew she'd stopped just outside the doorway, while her parents kissed her forehead and tucked her in for a nap. She watched them leave and then stared at her ceiling. Although the windows had been covered with black paper in order to keep sunlight out, her new vision allowed her to see everything clearly, even in pitch black darkness.
'Life isn't fair for vampires.' Elisaveta's words played a mantra in her mind. Hermione's parents had worked hard to instill a sense of fairness and justice within her. She'd been a crusader for kids being picked on in school, and stood up for herself when the situation called for it. She'd been taught not to take unfair treatments lying down. But now, it looked like the government of her new world actively sought to keep equality from vampire's grasps.
Hermione wasn't sure yet what she thought of being a vampire. Part of it was exciting; all of her new abilities and potential and power exhilarated her. At the same time, she wouldn't be allowed to see the sun for a long time, she couldn't go to school, and she'd been horribly attacked on her own property. The place she considered home had gone from a safe haven to a danger zone in a matter of minutes. Something deep and irreplaceable inside of her had been broken, but she couldn't put a finger on what it was. Nobody had told her yet what came of Pascal, only that he'd been taken to the Ministry. Was he in jail? Was he on trial? Had he walked free? What if he came back to finish the job? What was going on and why hadn't anyone told her?
When Hermione finally fell asleep, her nightmares were fueled by Pascal's blonde hair and blue eyes, his welcoming smile and her blood, covering the green summer grass, coating the front of her father's button-down, burning up like a fire in her veins, and Elisaveta's voice whispering above it all, 'Life isn't fair for vampires.'