A/N: Flesh and Blood was updated yesterday.


In the permanently darkened room, Hermione has lost all concept of time. Without a watch or a wand, the unknown hours bleed into uncountable days. Most of the time, she has no idea if it's night out or day out, falling asleep only when exhaustion demands it and willing the time away when she's awake.

The only way she knows that there is a passage of time is by Alma's occasional appearance and along with her, the food tray.

So far, Alma's the only other living — the term isn't strictly correct, Hermione supposes, at least not in the traditional sense — soul to make trips to 'visit' her. Demyan has not appeared in front of her again since the first night, content it seems to let his underlings deal with her.

Isolated for the most part and in an effort to not go spare, Hermione makes various attempts at learning more about her captors. Despite her best efforts, Alma remains resolutely mute on the subject and unlike previous occasions, there are no convenient books or sprawling libraries lying around for her to read and search through. She doesn't even know for sure that they don't have a library in this place. Since she's arrived, she's only been staring at the same four walls — going to the bathroom is considered a change of scenery.

After everything is said and done, Hermione ends up right back at where she started, knowing as much about them as she did before — that is, not very much at all.

As accustomed as she is to Alma's unnerving presence, Hermione still automatically tense up when she hears the door opening, though she steadfastly refuses to look.

It is only when a fuzziness, strong enough to blur out the sharp edges of her mind, settles over her that she realises that something is not right.

"Slava," Hermione calls out, barely managing to keep her voice even, her spine straight and her lips thin as her mind swims in a haze of artificial relaxation.

"Still keen as ever, Ms Granger," Slava says. Hermione turns stiffly to face him — he hasn't yet moved from his position by the door.

"You flatter me," she grits out. "Only you will stoop to third rate mind tricks first."

"You-" he begins as he steps into the room. Hermione pushes her chin up in defiance, eyes flashing and fists curling in anticipation, when he deflates, stopping halfway across the room.

"It wasn't my intent to bring you here," he says, head hung low as if ashamed, and Hermione can almost physically feel her damnable soft hearted sympathy rising at the display. "It was a mistake."

"Surely even the great Hermione Granger has made mistakes," he says.

"None on this scale," Hermione retorts, the words coming out more biting than she intends them.

"No, of course not. You're the Golden Girl, perfect, precise," says Slava bitterly, but then his lips curl up maliciously, baring rows upon rows of sharp, sharp teeth. "Precise enough to maim but not kill."

Any previous rush of sympathy she may have had towards the young vampire freezes in her veins and the way her body stiffens is almost painful.

"I wasn't on the battlefield myself, Demyan forbade all the younger ones from offering our services, but we hear things," he says, voice low and cruel. "Diffindo, nasty hex, isn't it?"

"I never did understand why some curses are more unforgivable than others," he muses, chuckling to himself. "Way I see it; it seems like a free pass for some."

"Of course, I was never a wizard. Most of us weren't. We're... what do you call it? Muggle?" says Slava and scoffs. "Sounds like a classification one would give an animal."

"If you were Muggle, why did you help Voldemort?" demands Hermione, finally finding her voice. "He would have killed everyone."

Slava barely gives any indication that he has heard her, merely staring at her with a half lidded gaze.

"Not that, I suppose, being a vampire is any better," Slava continues like there has been no interruptions. "We're certainly nowhere near human according to your ministry rules."

"The funny thing about oppression," he says, smiling lazily. "People are always so surprised when the oppressed rise in revolt."

"Have you said enough, Slava?" says a girlish voice that Hermione doesn't recognise and she immediately swivels to the source of the voice, her eyes wide and just this side of wild.

In saunters a little girl, looking no older than twelve and Slava's posture instantly changes to a more subdued one.

"Klavdiya," he says and Hermione blinks in surprise at the sheer respect evident in his tone. "I'm just sharing some truths with her."

"You're causing our guest grief," she says. Despite the height he has on her, Slava seems to shrink besides this little girl. "Leave us, Slava." To which he mumbles something under his breath and promptly obeys, leaving Hermione and the girl alone.

"Forgive him, he's young and has foolish notions of justice," the girl, Klavdiya says. A sick sense of horror brewing since Klavdiya's appearance grows and swells in Hermione as she stares at the small figure before her.

"They changed children?" Hermione whispers, more a statement than a question, unable to mask the alarm and repulsion in her tone.

A near discernible change comes over Klavdiya as the room's temperature seems to drop a few degrees. Hermione shivers, rubbing her hands together and along her upper arms. Any colder and her teeth would be chattering.

"The only crime my sire committed was of youth and ignorance," Klavdiya says as she paces the room, idly inspecting the odd frame or two. "He didn't live long enough to realise what we'd been condemned to."

Despite herself, Hermione perks and pays close attention to what Klavdiya is saying. It's the first anyone has mentioned of anything regarding the vampiric condition since what little Demyan had cryptically revealed.

"If you knew you possessed the ability to save the person that you love, wouldn't you take it as well?" asks Klavdiya. "He had no way of knowing that this is no escape."

"For someone... condemned, as you claim, you're taking it remarkably well," Hermione observes.

"I have had many years to come to terms with it," Klavdiya shrugs. "Anger and resentment have no meaning to the truly dead — what's the point of holding on to them? I learn to cope, we all do."

"By coping-"

"I mean exactly what you think I mean," Klavdiya interrupts.

"Why?" Hermione demands, all her revulsion and anger condensed forcefully into that one word.

"Why?" Klavdiya echoes. "Did you think this is a matter of choice, Ms Granger?"

"Everyone has a choice! Always!" Hermione denies, vehemence and righteous rage fuelling her on. But as Klavdiya stare steadily at her, the way an adult would as they wait for a child to realise he's being inappropriate, Hermione feels the pulsing emotions drain out of her and in its place, a meekness settles in.

Hermione has never felt so chastised in her life. The mere thought of it is almost scandalous.

"I'm led to believe that you're a very bright woman, Ms Granger," Klavdiya says evenly. If she had been condescending, it would have hurt less. "But some things, not even the most brilliant can understand."

"I think, Ms Granger, that it's time for you to go home," Kladivya says before sweeping out of the room, pigtails bouncing behind her.


Two weeks. Fourteen days. Three hundred and thirty six hours. Twenty thousand, one hundred and sixty minutes. That is how long Hermione has been missing.

They should have known something was amiss when Hermione failed to turn up for work. But they hadn't known, hadn't even noticed till Berenice came to the Auror office and asked them where she was.

As Ron paces a path into the living room carpet, Harry can't help but wonder when they stopped keeping track of each other. He just hopes it isn't too late to begin again anew.

Harry glances outside, at the garden, where the women are at. Upon their arrival, Luna had immediately steered Lavender away to some other distraction and had left him and Ron to each other's much needed company. Though with Ron in this state, Harry finds he'd rather join the girls in what appears to be a tensed discussion about flowers.

Harry turns to Ron and stares at him for a while longer.

"Ron, will you stop?" Harry says finally. Ron doesn't so much as pause in his steps. "You're being irrational. What could you have done?"

"I could have stopped it," Ron growls.

"We don't even know what 'it' is," Harry mumbles, running a hand through the unruly mess he calls a head of hair.

"What are you saying?" Ron says, accusation clear in his narrowed eyes.

"Nothing," Harry says, shaking his head lightly. "None of us knew what was going to happen — what is happening — and unless you had stuck by her the entire time, I doubt you could have done anything, Ron."

"Then maybe I should have!"

"And Lavender? You would leave her be?" Harry demands, irritation and volume rising with each word, till he's almost yelling at Ron. "You can't even leave the poor girl alone for a run. It's a wonder she doesn't suffocate under your bulk!"

Ron glares at Harry, fists clenched and partly raised. Harry crosses his arms and meets Ron's glare head on.

"Why aren't you more worried?! Do you not care?!" yells Ron with such force that a vein on his neck juts out hideously, throbbing under the strain.

"You're doing enough for the both of us!" Harry snaps. "How dare you suggest I do not care!"

By now they've moved so closely to each other that they're nose to nose, blue against green, squaring off at each other, all the while a low growl is heard emanating from Ron.

Harry blinks, suddenly realising their position, and reluctantly steps back. Ron doesn't follow, but remains where he is, looking at Harry warily.

"It's just..." Harry says, clearing his throat a little when it rasps. "Someone has to keep a level head." Slowly, Ron relaxes and the tension gradually lifts from the room.

"I don't like it," Ron says, frowning. "We should be in the office, investigating, anything, not here, doing nothing."

"They kicked us out, remember?" Harry smiles bitterly and Ron returns an equally bitter one.

"Yeah well, since when have we listened to authority?" grouses Ron. "But here we are, twiddling our sodding thumbs while Hermione is Merlin knows where, probably terrified out of her mind."

"How do we even know if she's really in trouble? How do you know she's not in Paris, visiting the Louvre or... or... in Australia looking for-" Harry cringes before he finishes the sentence but there is no Hermione around to look apologetic for.

"Listen to yourself, Harry!" says Ron. "She's our best friend! She would have said something... wouldn't she?" Ron's gaze flickers uncertainly to Harry.

"Admit it, Ron. We're not as close as we used to be," Harry sighs, finally putting to words what they've known for a long time now. "You don't even go to her about your worries about Lavender anymore."

"That's because she's already done too much for us, you know that," Ron excuses.

"Yeah well, since when has that stopped us?" Harry asks.

Ron shoots him a filthy glare and goes back to his angry, worried, pacing. Harry sighs again and resumes looking out mutely at the gardens.


In her sleep, Hermione dreams of a voice.

She is blind, but the voice guides, beckons. Sometimes it is her mother's, other times, her father's. Once it is Ginny's, then Harry's, then Ron's. The voice sings and soothes and asks questions she has no way of comprehending except that the answer is yes, always yes.

She expects the pain before it comes - sharp and biting, but only for the briefest of moments before it is gone.

Hermione bolts upright to the sound of knocking.

How thoughtful, she thinks wryly. Maybe if she ignores it long enough, they will go away.

After five continuous minutes of the sound of knuckles rapping on wood, Hermione can take it no more. Flinging the covers off, she stalks to the door, grumbling and muttering the entire time. She remembers, too late, that the handle doesn't respond to her touch, but the door is already swinging open, and she's too surprised to do much beyond 'look dumbfounded'.

Demyan stands on the other side, far more amused than is necessary and Hermione scowls. Behind him, Slava broods gloomily. They exchange a droll glance in greeting.

"Ms Granger," Demyan says pleasantly. Hermione, not in such a charitable mood herself, crosses her arms with a grunt and waits for him to elaborate.

Demyan chuckles accommodatingly and continues, "You'll be happy to know that you'll be going home tonight."

Hermione arches an eyebrow. Part of her wonders if it's Klavdiya's decision or if she's merely overheard Demyan talking about it; the other part is just glad to be rid of this place and its strange occupants.

"Just like that?" Hermione questions. "No coercion, no mind tricks to get me to help your cause?"

As if the night couldn't get any stranger, Demyan bursts out laughing. Hermione can only imagine that the same look of shock on Slava's face is mirrored on her own.

"No, I don't believe that'll be necessary," he manages to squeeze out between trickles of mirth. "I can't imagine you'd be happy to co-operate with us at any rate."

"Well- Well, then," Hermione says, wondering if it's too late to make a break for it at this point. "I'd thank you for your hospitality but that hardly seems appropriate."

"Quite right, Ms Granger, quite right you are," titters Demyan and Hermione subtly takes a step back into the room. "They didn't say you're bright for nothing." Hermione isn't quite sure if that is meant as a compliment or as an insult, but she decides, as she stares at the flush on Demyan's cheeks, that it doesn't matter.

"What about my wand?" she asks. For the time of her confinement, she's felt the absence of it like an itch, but now that the prospect of home is near, she's feeling its lost keenly - her fingers already twitching to wrap around the wooden stick.

"Slava," here, Demyan nods at the man in question, "will return it to you once he sees you home safely."

At Hermione's turned down lips, Demyan clarifies, "You are his responsibility." That, Hermione supposes, explains his broodiness.

"When shall we leave?" Hermione asks.

"Oh, about..." Demyan pulls out a decidedly antique looking pocket watch and glances at it. "Now." Without warning, Slava surges forward and encircles Hermione's wrist in a tight grasp, giving her not even the chance to make a startled noise.

Her head is caught in a dizzying pain as she pitches forward into a soft, familiar bed. Nearby, a cat hisses and she reaches out, absent-mindedly, to pat it. The cat nuzzles affectionately against her palm and she realises, suddenly, why he looks so familiar.

She attempts to sit up, but something or someone is pushing her down and slipping something into her free hand in the process. The connection of magic ripples through her and she shudders at the long awaited reunion.

A voice — Slava's, for who else can it be — whispers into her ear. Bewildered, she tries to look at him, but he seems to be flickering and she can't quite get a grasp on him.

"Why are you telling me this?" she asks blindly to the moving shadows.

"You'll need it."

"What do you me-"

"Sleep, Ms Granger," the whispers come again. "And speak of this to no other living soul."


A/N: Reviews keep me going and it's been low as of late, which saddens me. Not even yesterday's full Dramione chapter could bring it up (in fact it's at an all time low) and well, it's disheartening.