Disclaimer: I own EVERYTHING. In opposite land.
Quick House Rules before we start
Setting: Set after the War. Book compliant, diverges from epilogue.
Narrative Voice: 3rd person, multiple shifts between Hermione's and Draco's POV
Rating: T to M because language, and Draco, in summary. Enough said.
Updating: On a strict schedule of Whenever the Hell I Can Be Arsed to Write More Stuff
Here we go. Story time:
Chapter One - Once SHHY
In which our Heroine meets a Ghost From her Past, a Non-Practicing Death Eater, a Snarky Slytherin, and a Vexed Vampire.Or maybe all at once.
Hermione scraped her woolly hair back into a no-nonsense bun as she sidestepped a Muggle commuter. She snapped the elastic around her bun, knowing in the distant chambers of her vast mind there was a Charm for doing her hair, but well, it was her hair they were talking about, and besides, she'd always been better engaged in learning the important Charms at school. Id est, the life-saving ones.
Her wayward Charmed leather Gladstone bag let loose a low growl and snapped at the luckless passer-by. Hermione idly slapped it to behave and it returned to banging a sullen metronome at her hip. That's what happens when you accept presents from Hagrid, Hermione mused. She wasn't sure if it was his magic that made the bag recalcitrant, or the residual magic from the animal the bag used to be. But she couldn't not use it because, well, Hagrid was Hagrid, and Hermione was Hermione. 'Always trying to please everyone' Hermione.
She tapped the bag's clasp three times and demanded the most recent paperwork. The bag reluctantly spat out the parchment. The pages were a little dog-eared, but with a little tinkering (especially to get the bag to recognise and file paperwork) it was a definite improvement on the ripped shreds she encountered the first time she delved into it.
Patient: 76152
Gender: Male
Age: appears to be in early twenties
Breed: Vampire
Status: Recently turned
Rehabilitation Referral: unclaimed by Vampire maker and Undead community.Turning circumstances believed to be accidental by-product of exsanguination or targeted revenge attack. Unconfirmed.
Recommendation: patient has no support network in new Vampire community.Previous lifestyle not conductive to patient's health. That 'lifestyle not conductive' phrase could mean anything from 'he used to be a professional surfer in the sunny Bahamas' to 'has small children he now views as food'.
Rehabilitation officer SHHY
Hermione frowned at the 'shy' code. It was an acronym for 'Should Have Happened Yesterday'.
She stepped into the foyer of St Mungos, seeming not to hear the frantic chimes and bells of hospital warnings, and the groans and yells – and occasional laughter (in the case of the Tickling Rash) - of patients. She made her way to her office, dumping her Gladstone bag on the coat-rack. Then she stood for a moment by the shelves, eyeing the labels: werewolf, centaurs, fae, giants, merfolk – before seizing the basket on the shelf labelled vampire. There weren't many left, and she'd have to pick up more supplies later today. She pulled open a drawer and administered her safety gear – a few spritzes of a water-and-garlic perfume spray on the major pulse points of her wrists, elbows and neck to mask the smell of her blood, and she was ready. By the door of her office were several small mats, each emblazoned with a roman numeral. It was her own invention – tired of ducking into fireplaces and brushing Floo powder off her robes, and sometimes too hurried to give Apparation her full concentration, her squares were Charmed to take her to the correct ward. She stepped on the V square and was instantly transported to the fifth floor wing.
The ward's windows were draped in heavy black-out curtains, and to be safe, the windows themselves tinted with a Perpetual Night Charm. Hermione cast Lumos to light her way and followed the glow-in-the-dark strip markings (her idea, stolen from the Muggle lights in aeroplanes) down the blackened corridor until she reached the correct door. She knocked once, then entered to see her patient.
The room was brightly lit. So bright, she blinked several times to clear the shadows away.
On the bed sat Draco Malfoy.
OhMerlinhe'shere.
Just sitting there with the same sense of entitlement as a king on a throne.
Malfoy cast a baleful glare at her wand. "If you're here for revenge, Granger, I'm already dead, so put the fucking wand away."
Kill him?
Hermione looked down at her hand.
Her fingers were clenched around her wand, her tight grip the only reason her whole hand wasn't shaking.
When had I done that? Then she noticed the glowing end, and recalled the Lumos charm.
"Nix," Hermione whispered. She was too disorientated to cancel her Charm mentally.
In response, the vampire in the bed gave an unimpressed look, one frost-white eyebrow fractionally lifting in his alabaster face. "Not you, Granger, please. Please, tell me Weasely's got some fatal mutation of dragon pox and you're here inflicting your unwanted presence upon him instead. Better yet, tell me Harry Pratter and his tortured-hero angst has finally offed himself and you're here to identify his dead body."
Of all places, he has to come into my work.
Hermione struggled to calm her half-times racing and other-times stuttering heartbeat. It wouldn't do to have an episode and be admitted as a patient herself.
That logical part of Hermione's mind that wouldn't let her simply block out Draco's existence knew Malfoy wasn't dead after the war, and maybe she even rationalised what he might be doing with the rest of his life. Usually she envisioned him holed up in an old hunting lodge or pillared secret-society building wearing moth-eaten ferret-trimmed stoles, reminiscing about the good old days of Voldemort. Maybe once or twice she'd relived punching Malfoy in third year, and letting his wince warm the cockles of her heart. But she'd never imagined them actually crossing paths in the real world.
Why, Circe, why?
The hospital lights were not kind to Malfoy's complexion – he looked worse than he had in sixth year. His skin was chalk-and-bone, his pale hair looked like wilted grass blades. Shadows pooled in the recesses of his cheeks and throat, and dark smears under his eye sockets were the only thing giving his face some depth. Bloodshot red eyes coloured his monochromatic appearance.
Hermione pocketed her wand, while her internal safety alarm rang klaxons. Firstly, he was Draco Malfoy and he hated her. Secondly, he was a Vampire and he could kill her. But sitting with a knitted pastel hospital blanket tucked around his knees, he looked... ill. Frail.
Do notfeel sorry for him, she chided herself.
Malfoy's brows slid together in a scowl. "Why are you here?"
Hermione sunk into a visitor's chair beside his bed, ankles crossed, basket clasped in her lap. "I'm here to help you."
"You're fucking late to that party as well, Granger. I'm already dead. Shouldn't you have tried to make yourself useful and tried to prevent that?"
Hermione tightened her grip on the basket handle and gritted through her teeth, "Admittedly, I am rather behind on that front, but if you tell me who killed you, I'll be the first to-"
"-Launch an official investigation?" Malfoy interrupted with a scornful snort. "Remedy the situation?"
She plonked the wicker hamper on the foot of his bed. "-Send them this Honeydukes hamper and a thank-you card."
That wasn't actually the basket's purpose, but it was still leagues better than belting him over the head with it, which had been her initial plan once that infernal smirk started spreading over his lips like a bloodstain.
Malfoy narrowed his eyes at Hermione in calculation. "Maybe you set this whole thing up Granger. A Death Order."
"Malfoy," Hermione sighed, pushing her loose hair back off her forehead to rub her brow. "I really don't care. I don't care enough to kill you. I don't care that you died. I don't care about you." She gave a little internal wince at her words. She was in a hospital visiting a sick patient. She was supposed to be cool, calm and professional. Not heartless. She rubbed her fingertips across her forehead and braced for a blistering Draco comeback expressing his likewise sentiments.
Draco's grey eyes seemed to lighten. "Bit cruel Granger, with me at my deathbed and everything." He paused. "Perhaps you should deliver the eulogy at my funeral instead of Father."
In her mind's eye she pictured Lucius Malfoy, with his black staff and angular, snake-like features. The dark, oppressive manor –and it had to be called a manor, not a house – and certainly not a home, not with every added extension and room more like a festering infection spreading further decay. Living in that... place, with that family... Cruelty was probably what Draco saw as affection.
"I'm not being cruel," Hermione hurriedly recanted. "I'm just not... concerned."
"Then piss off, Granger. You're of no help to me."
Hermione seemed hurt, or confused. Either expression was rare for her. "But - you volunteered for the rehabilitation programme."
His gaze finally stopped skirting around the room and made full eye-contact with her. Granite grey eyes glared at her. "You work here? You're the 'specialist' they sent to 'calm' me?" He gave a bitter scoff. "Perfect. That's like throwing dynamite into a Floo fire."
Hermione thinned her mouth but didn't rise to his baiting. "I understand the transition can be stressful."
"I can assure you, I did not volunteer for this painful bedside visit. I assume you, goody-two-shoes that you are, heard I was invalided here in this ... state, and you stuck your hand up in the air just like you did in every class at school. Why Mungo's agreed with it is beyond-"
Draco froze on that unpleasant thought. Ever since Granger walked in his door he'd been trying to puzzle out why. Revenge, for what he did in sixth and seventh year? Spite, to see him brought so low? Sheer malicious helpfulness? He thought perhaps with her bookish naïveté it was possible she'd misguidedly think she could 'fix' his nature and have the vampire drinking organic hand-pressed tomato juice out of her filthy mudblood hand.
He narrowed his eyes at her, considering. In return, she stared back at him benignly, her brown eyes warm as ever, her eyebrows framing faint surprise. He was skilled at Legimancy, but in his current discombobulated state he couldn't focus on reading her thoughts. And Granger usually had a lot of them rattling around in her head, so he decided not to push it. He'd have to read social cues and body language instead. And considering he'd relied heavily on Occlumency since school, his social skills had withered in direct proportion.
Why would Granger bring herself here?
Malfoy let his eyes flick up and down and tried to hide his horror as he considered the pathetic excuse for a witch in front of him. For someone who beat him in both OWLS and NEWTS, she looked like she could barely dress herself. He decided to start from the top, least offensive thing about Granger: her hair. For once it was pinned up instead of swarming over the nearest person like a creeper-vine. He eyed the bun with displeasure – apart from the atrocious slap-dash job, the coiled-up hair looked barely contained and ready to blow. Why she clearly never bothered with any of simple Charms that most girls her age had learned to tame that monstrous mop, he'd never understand.
Hermione, noticing Malfoy's judgemental smirk, blushed. He quickly decided he preferred the hair down, hiding her Mudblood face. Also, the reddening of her face drew Malfoy's attention to her blush. He knew she was embarrassed, but old Malfoy would know why. Was she ashamed about her hair? Ashamed he'd noticed? Ashamed of what he was?
He canted his head and tried harder to read her thoughts.
Fuckall.
Her blush, if anything, deepened, and he cursed her lack of hair buffering her rose-tinted skin from his eyes. Granger, ever the competitor, didn't colour delicately, but blushed a fierce and fiery shade of red.
And the new Malfoy, the Vampire part, started to notice.