Hermione's annoyance at unsuccessfully figuring out Malfoy's endgame was usurped the next morning.
Hermione brushed her teeth, rinsed, and spat. She bared her mouth to the mirror for a final inspection and then felt the first jolt of pain. She whimpered and clutched her mouth.
Dental pain was singular for how invasive it felt.
Growing up the daughter of two dentists, Hermione never developed the innate fear that so many patients brought with them to appointments. Still, she'd had some procedures done that she could confidently say felt unpleasant enough that she'd never want to relive the experience. She wasn't the type of masochist who enjoyed a thorough tooth scaling or root planing, but could endure it in the name of preventative health.
The slip of a human hand and the sharp jab into the gum was not an easily forgotten pain. Hermione felt it now.
Something pushed its way down from her top gum. Burning tears streamed from her eyes as she braved the mirror again. She pulled back her lips and gasped out laboured breaths as she watched a sharpened tooth fight its way into position.
She remembered how it felt in Fourth Year, when Malfoy had accidentally hit her with a jinx meant for Harry. But the Densaugeo curse only made her existing teeth grow longer. This particular feeling of her mouth rearranging itself to accommodate a new addition made her sink to the floor for the sheer agony of it. She covered her mouth with shaking hands and sank down on trembling legs.
Why? Why was this happening to her? What had she done? Had someone cursed her? Poisoned her?
When one fang finally seemed settled, rooted permanently in the home of her gum, Hermione only experienced a few moments reprieve before the process began on the other side of her mouth. A symmetrical torture.
She squeezed her eyes shut and counted breaths until it finished. Wiping sweat and tears from her face she heaved herself to standing and beheld her reflection.
Hermione could tear into a man's flesh with these fangs. She could rip and tear sinew, gorge herself on fleshy tissue while warm blood trickled down her chin. Unlike the previous mornings with their painful, disturbing visions and experiences, these made her feel different.
These gave her an edge in an attack. She'd never been much of a physical threat. If you got her wand from her, she could be easily physically overpowered. But these shiny, gleaming white weapons made Hermione the danger. These were an intimidation she could leverage, if needed.
If needed, she repeated to herself. But wouldn't it be fun to test the capabilities of this newfound oral feature?
Hermione sent in an owl to work and took a sick day. She couldn't remember the last time she'd taken off.
Then she tore through everything in her kitchen. Literally.
Fruits, vegetables, crisps, bread, biscuits, cooked meat. Anything with a texture, Hermione chomped on it. Eventually she grew bored of the contents of her kitchen. She needed something else, something more exciting to test the fangs.
Hermione found herself staring down at her own hand. Thus far, she'd experimented with different bite pressures and lengths on bigger pieces of fruit, seeing how precise she could puncture an apple, for instance.
How precise could she be on a body? She couldn't say she wanted to taste flesh, nor did she feel the call to drink blood despite how vampiric she may currently appear. But she wanted to know the limits. A scientific exploration of bite radius and fang sharpness.
Hermione held her hand up in front of her eyes. Her gaze zeroed in on the fleshy part of skin between her thumb and pointer finger. It would make for a good test site.
Her gaze slid to her wrist and she caught the time.
Dinner with Ginny and Harry. It was time for dinner at their place.
She dropped her hand, ashamed of herself. She'd wasted an entire day ruminating over her absurd situation instead of trying to find a solution for her problem.
Because that's what this was. A problem. A problem she needed to solve.
A smiling couple greeted Hermione in a neat, two-bedroom flat.
Both Harry and Ginny bestowed a kiss to the cheek and ushered her to sit for dinner.
"Sorry about—" Hermione waved a hand at her fangs as she sat. "Not sure what on earth is going on but I think I'll make a healer appointment tomorrow."
"What for?" asked Ginny.
"Er, these?" Hermione said and ran a finger along one protruding fang. Ginny stared back passively.
Hermione turned to Harry instead. "Look. Look at my mouth."
Harry obeyed her and looked. Stared. Squinted at her teeth.
"It's just your mouth Hermione."
Hermione sat back in her chair, deflated.
She turned to Ginny again. "Fangs. I have fangs."
Ginny looked too, as Harry had. Peered close at her mouth then offered a placating smile.
"They just look like your teeth to me. Did you want a glass of wine?"
A pair of green eyes and a pair of light brown eyes awaited her answer. They exuded normalcy, a pull to stay rooted in the mundane act of a nice dinner with old friends in a homey little flat.
Hermione sank back in her seat and ate the food placed in front of her. She ate silently, awkwardly with the fangs requiring a different motion for her mouth.
A lump of frustrated fear formed in her throat. Why wouldn't her friends acknowledge the deformity? And further, if they truly could not see it, why weren't they alarmed at her insistence that she could?
Hermione channelled her anxiety into notetaking upon returning home. She jotted down every instance of strangeness that occurred and included her confusion over everyone else's lack of reaction to her predicaments.
All except one person.
A strange thought occurred to her then. About Malfoy's eyes and the way they ignited when he looked at her.
Hermione still had fangs when she woke the next morning. But she couldn't take another day off to mess about her kitchen, she'd be so behind at the office.
No standard spellwork could rid herself of her problem today. She had no time for thorough research either.
Hermione awkwardly shoved a toothbrush around her mouth and decided to skip breakfast. She'd gone through quite the amount of food yesterday while skiving off work and she had no desire to see all the half-eaten evidence of her carnage.
She also did not want any further temptation, fleeting though it may have been, to escalate her use of the fangs.
Despite the odd insistence of her friends, Hermione felt sure in her knowledge that her teeth looked quite ridiculous. Any time she opened her mouth today would result in her trying to speak or emote around two new teeth. A last minute idea occurred and she grabbed a scarf from her hall closet. It would have to do for now until she arrived in the privacy of her office.
But of course, Hermione would first need to bypass her ever-observant morning companion.
"Good morning Granger."
She glared over the top of her scarf and kept moving. No matter how quickly she shuffled away, his long stride meant he could easily overtake her.
Malfoy fell into step beside her.
"What's with the scarf today? It's rather warm in here, is it not?"
Hermione increased her walking speed. It didn't affect his ability to keep up with her in the slightest. It did pique his interest further. The opposite reaction she'd hoped for. Malfoy strode around her front, forcing an abrupt halt.
"What are you hiding?" he asked with a frown.
Hermione's eyes darted to either side of him. But perhaps, like Harry and Ginny, Malfoy wouldn't notice her new teeth. Would that make this all in her head? It was certainly a frightening theory she'd considered. But he had been the one to actually notice her hands. The only one.
She grabbed Malfoy by the arm and led him to a deserted corridor off the Atrium. She'd rather not make a spectacle of herself in front of all those people.
Malfoy raised an eyebrow as she took a deep breath and unwound her scarf.
Feeling more foolish by the second, Hermione bared her teeth to him, like some sort of animal awaiting inspection.
He looked momentarily surprised and leaned closer.
"Ah. Why do you have fangs?"
Relief and panic fought within her. A momentary bout of relief that she wasn't alone in this followed by a surge of panic that she did indeed have quite the physical conundrum that she'd yet to solve.
"You can… you can see them too?"
"Well of course Granger, I'm not blind and you have bloody fangs."
"But Harry and Ginny said I looked normal."
"Glasses or no, Potter's always been a blind git, so no surprise there. But the fact remains, you have pointy, precious fangs."
He regarded her with keen, almost excited eyes. Though Hermione currently possessed a physical feature that should inspire fear, why did Malfoy appear the eager predator?
He reached up and his touch came within inches of her mouth before abruptly dropping his hand. Part of her wished he'd touched them. And not because it would be further confirmation that her fangs existed corporeally.
"Anyway," Malfoy said and took a step back to an appropriate distance for two acquaintances in a public space, "have you figured out how to get rid of them or did you plan to wear a scarf the rest of the work day?"
"I've tried everything," she said with a sigh.
"Everything within your power, I presume."
"What is that supposed to mean?"
Hermione hated that he'd made her feel that way again. As if he possessed more information on her own plight. As if she was too naive to grasp the obvious answer.
"You might need to pursue other less… light avenues of magic, if you understand my meaning."
She recoiled from him and pulled her scarf up, understanding his inference perfectly.
"There's a solution that doesn't involve Dark magic, I'm sure of it."
"Whatever you say, Granger."
Malfoy took another step back and crossed his arms over his chest. He almost seemed disappointed in her, like a spoiled child sulking after a denial from a parent.
Hermione brushed past him back to the Atrium.
"Maybe I'll ask my parents if they have any tips for brushing and flossing incisors this large," she muttered as she made to leave him behind, but he'd already caught back up.
"Your parents?"
"Yes, they're dentists. Muggle teeth healers. They might think it's funny at least."
He'd lost the disappointment and she thought she saw a flicker of fear cross his features. Perhaps Malfoy was afraid of a little tooth pain? She'd have to keep that in mind for future threats if he annoyed her at a later date. Maybe gesture a sickle probe in his direction and watch him recoil.
But he'd already superseded any true emotion with his mask of cordiality again.
"What an oddly specific profession. Do you see them often?"
Hermione shrugged him off at the entrance and walked as quickly as she could to her office, lips clamped shut over her offending fangs.
"If you'd actually like help with your problem Granger, you know where to find me," he called after her.
She cringed at his loud, public proclamation, but didn't turn around.
That pompous arse. Did he think she wanted to look like this? She didn't want to have fangs.
"Ouch!" Hermione felt a sharp pain in her mouth and conjured a mirror.
No more fangs.
They'd retracted and as she ran her tongue along her perfectly normal-sized teeth, Hermione felt nothing to indicate that she'd ever had fangs at all.
"Is there much demand for it? Sorry, I meant, was there?"
"It's fine, don't apologise. Maybe they started it all over again."
"Do you plan to find them again?"
"Only if I can reverse what I did."
"If you ever find a new magical lead, I could help."
"Oh. Thank you. That's very kind."
"Not really, just pragmatic. Second pair of eyes, two brains better than one, all that rot."
"Don't dilute it, Draco. It's a kind offer."
All had been well for a time since the fang incident. Easy to shake off a few odd occurrences when normalcy reigned once again. The comfort created by sinking back into the ordinary allowed her to lock her fears away, shoving the panicked thoughts into a corner of her mind and moving right along.
Hermione woke up, she went to work, she brushed off Malfoy's attempts at nosy civility, she saw her friends, she visited with her parents, she caught up on reading. Rinse and repeat.
Her life floated along on the expected current. But the more she thought about it, the more one particular detail stuck out. A component out of place.
Malfoy.
Yes, he was a reliable presence, but not in the same comforting way her friends and parents were. She knew what to expect at the end of each of her days with familiar faces.
Monday, she'd get a cozy, home-cooked meal and amiable company from Harry and Ginny.
Tuesday, another wonderful home-made meal from Susan and updates on the joke shop from Ron.
Wednesday, she dined with her parents and they caught her up on the dental office and family gossip.
Thursday night she spent on herself, an early reward for almost surviving the work week that involved a bath and a glass of red wine.
Friday she'd find herself back at Ginny's with Susan, so Harry and Ron could have their pub night, and Luna would join for some female bonding involving movies and alcohol.
She knew exactly how each of these nights would play out. So predictable she could almost script them. And there was nothing wrong with that, Hermione told herself. There was nothing wrong with having a schedule, a routine that allowed for a safe, reliable existence. No more Dark wizards and witches, no more wars fought by teenagers, just a happy, continuous cycle of friends and family.
And Draco Malfoy.
But she couldn't square Malfoy's presence in her contented little bubble.
Because he often said odd things to her, she realised. His statements weren't trying to soothe her. They weren't coming from a place built upon years of love and friendship, forged in childhood and carried through the horrors of war.
He seemed intent to jar her in some way. Be it with an overly-familiar greeting, an insistence to walk with her, an urge to natter on about books or interrogate her about her career duties.
And lately, his unspoken actions seemed more liable to provoke her. She'd experienced that brief epiphany when she'd dragged him to a more private spot to show him the fangs. When she touched him. When she thought for a wild moment he might touch her.
Tiny details she'd been close enough to notice stuck with Hermione long after they'd parted ways. Faint scar tissue where his jaw and neck joined. How he seemed in command over every single facial feature and knew precisely how and when to quirk his lips, or furrow an eyebrow, or narrow his gaze.
Hermione noticed his voice and the way he could modulate his tone at the drop of a hat based on her reaction, both verbal and non-verbal, to his end of the conversation.
The way Malfoy always wore black made his pale features and white-blond hair all the more noticeable. Easily found in a crowd and especially by her. Was the study in contrasts on purpose or simply a matter of preference?
And less tiny details. His height, for example. He was perhaps an inch or two shorter than Ron, but Hermione never felt so dwarfed in Ron's presence. There was something looming about Malfoy in the way he stood over her, as if he could crowd in on her and she'd simply disappear. He'd envelop her whole, there'd be nothing left.
Part of her wanted him to try.
Which would Hermione say she preferred: the creeping unease of foreknowledge of excruciating pain? Or rather, that sudden attack of blindsiding agony?
Not that her preference mattered in the slightest, but her mind tried to distract her with an existential question as she experienced the latter option.
There was a ripping, a tearing, occurring along the skin of her back. Her body jerked at the sensation, and she reached her arms around herself, hands scrabbling in search of the site of discomfort.
The discomfort came to her. Her body should not be capable of the expansion it was trying to force through and the relentless nature of its pursuit tore loud, anguished cries from her throat.
Hermione shrieked and crumpled, screaming as she curled onto the floor, crying and pleading for the pain to stop but it did not relent. She had no idea where she'd left her wand, her phone. No way to call for help.
Something was pushing its way out of her. Just beneath the skin's surface, on either side of her shoulder blades and spine, there was a pulsing, a growing. It stretched out and beat against the final layer of her epidermis and it wanted out out out.
She rolled onto her stomach, onto the cool, hard tile of her bathroom floor. Normally, putting her cheek against the floor wouldn't be considered a comfort, but Hermione leaned into this feeling, this small sensation that didn't feel utterly wretched.
It did not work.
Her body decided to just surrender and assumed a prone position that would let whatever the hell was beating against her to expand to its full potential.
She felt the first tear as it broke the surface and she screamed again, her throat already raw from the effort. Hermione hadn't yelled in such an uninhibited, involuntary way since she'd been on the receiving end of several Crucios from Bellatrix Lestrange's wand.
The Cruciatus Curse inflamed every single pain receptor simultaneously. Hermione would never forget how she'd been completely at the mercy of that torture, no control over the way she'd thrashed her limbs, screamed incoherently.
Another existential question: did Hermione prefer general, omnipresent pain? The kind that didn't let her think about the origin, just felt and suffered? Or did she prefer the localised version with a specific site?
This torture now had no name, no face, just a fervent desire to have its way with destroying and reshaping her anatomy.
The other side of her body mirrored its counterpart with a symmetrical tear. More pushing and an odd suctioning noise as her skin seemed to knit itself back together even as she felt the sticky sensation of blood pooling along her back. The back of her pajama top was no match for the protrusions either, and the sound of ripping cotton joined the symphony of her weeping.
Two large growths protruding from her back had broken her open.
She had a wild thought about the mess she'd made and of even being alive to clean it up. But part of her wanted to know, wanted to see this through to the end. What sort of sight did she make in a puddle of human slime?
Who would find her like this? How long would it take for someone to discover her body?
Hermione had rivulets of blood, chunks of viscera, and displaced fatty tissue, squelching atop and around her. It smelled of rust, something tangy and acrid. Hermione finally sank into it, accepting the reality of her torn existence.
Then the pain stopped. Whatever emerged from her body was now just another extension of her. As it belonged to her, so it no longer felt unnatural.
The skin had knit back together, though she'd performed no healing spell. Pieces of her, fluids from within her, gathered on the floor in little streams and ponds.
Hermione hauled herself up by gripping the counter and stood on shaking legs, her feet precariously resting on slippery tile. She raised her eyes to the mirror.
Her shirt hung off her shoulders in tatters. Because wings had burst out of her back.
Scaly, pearlescent wings several feet in diameter stood to attention, and awaited her reflexive instruction. Free of the fog of pain, Hermione's sweat-soaked, tear-streaked face gaped at this new, fantastical development.
As natural as reaching out her hand to touch something, she lightly flapped them. One banged against her door, the other rustled her shower curtain.
Centering herself, she focused on the connection, on the place where her wing joint met her back. More graceful this time than her awkward test-flap, she carefully brought both forward to wrap around her.
Hermione brought tentative fingers up to the newborn skin and caressed along one wing. With no feathers to be found, it felt durable, yet light. Sturdy enough to support and protect an airborne creature, but not as heavy and sharp as the dragon-like scales from the other day. Each wing ran almost the length of her; beginning at just above her ankles and reaching about a foot above her head.
A memory struck: the sensation of Polyjuice Potion. The way it had bubbled beneath her skin, torched through her veins, remade her into a part-feline. She'd looked and felt ridiculous. A creature of the in-between. Not quite girl, not quite cat. It hadn't felt interesting or powerful in the least. She'd only been mortified at both her physical characteristics and that she'd bungled the potion so badly with the mistaken ingredient of the cat hair.
But this creature in the mirror inspired entirely different feelings altogether. She felt powerful, a sight to behold, admire, and fear. Her eyes seemed to sparkle with the knowledge of this confidence. Hermione envisioned how in the heat of an argument or challenge she could briskly unfurl her wings, take up more space, perhaps even take flight above an opponent. These were the appendages of someone who could subdue and conquer. Who would stand proudly at the edge of a battlefield, triumphant and tall over her enemies.
A current of energy ran through her. A surge she couldn't explain. The trickling of strength grew and spread until she felt her palms jut out and down towards the mess of blood and gunk on the floor. A burst of magic sparked from her fingers and without having said any incantation, the muck vanished.
Hermione gasped and shrank away. Her wings, as if sensing her sudden turn to despair, retracted into her back. She could feel them nestled there, warm and snug and contained.
For now.
He was there. Of course he was. Unflappable and chilling across the Atrium from her. The main hall was large and filled with other people, but she held his gaze, locked onto it like a predetermined target and stepped decisively across the room to him, passing easily through the morning throngs.
A pull towards him. She had no answers of her own and the distressing nature of her bodily change coupled with the previous dismissive attitude of her friends had pushed her to this.
That was what she told herself, anyway.
But not only had Malfoy immediately believed her, had offered to help even, but she'd seen the glow in his silvery eyes when she'd presented her cracked skin and then the fangs. Fascinated and curious. It was more than just the light banter, the momentary teasing he engaged in with her every morning.
Well she'd certainly have something to show him today.
"Good morning Granger."
"I need you to come with me."
Hermione turned on her heel and walked quickly away towards her office. When she realised she walked alone, she spun around to see him scrambling to catch up. She raised an eyebrow.
"Isn't this what you've been angling for this whole time? I'm inviting you up to my office."
"Forgive my momentary surprise at your change in attitude. You just had to want me to come with you. So now I will."
Hermione led Malfoy to her office and he looked around with a keen and appraising eye at the space.
"Not much of a decorator I see."
"I have much more pressing things to see to than filling my office with superfluous trinkets."
"Feels rather impersonal, don't you think?"
"It's about to feel a whole lot more personal," she muttered.
Malfoy didn't move or speak. He just stood in all his imposing height and self-possessed stature and waited her out. She expected him to be more impatient, to demand she explain herself for the flip in behaviour from every previous encounter. Maybe a tapping of his foot, an irritated gaze, exasperated huffing.
Nothing.
He directed his steady, patient eyes on her and Hermione took a deep breath. He looked expectant. As if he knew their little morning dance would eventually lead them here.
"I've had something… something odd happen again and I… well I think it's best if I just show you."
She closed her door and he folded his arms across his chest.
"More than fangs I presume?" he asked in an almost bored voice. She might have believed him too, if his eyes hadn't already spoken for him.
Hermione locked, warded, and silenced her office for good measure. Now he raised an eyebrow in surprise.
Hermione undid her cloak, and with slightly shaking hands, placed it on her desk surface. She didn't think she could look at him for this next bit. She turned away from him.
But she needed someone else to know. To possibly help her. To tell her she wasn't going mad.
Getting dressed this morning had been quite the challenge after the wings had appeared. Hermione had tried putting on clothes like she normally did, thinking with the wings flattened and dormant against her, she'd make it to and through work just fine.
However, her bra straps felt painful with the way they'd rubbed against the folded wings. They chafed and felt on the verge of bleeding until she'd given it up as a bad job and just thrown on a blouse and cloak.
Behind her, Malfoy didn't make a sound. She could only hear his quiet breathing. More than that, she could sense him. A presence. Waiting.
She'd come this far.
Finally, she unbuttoned her blouse and shrugged it off her shoulders. As it fell to the floor, she was now bare from the waist up. The kiss of air on her skin, the absurdity of being in such a vulgar state in the professional setting, made gooseflesh appear along her arms.
Malfoy still made no comment. No pithy one-liners, no suggestive comments. Nothing.
She took a deep inhale to conquer her embarrassment.
Hermione concentrated for a moment then felt the wings unfurl. Her arms stayed at her side. Covering her chest felt odd, and jostled the wings in a way she didn't yet know how to control.
"Oh… Oh I see," he said quietly.
She now heard and felt him approach. There was barely enough room on either side for him to step around her, but he managed it as carefully and gracefully as possible.
He did not stop in front of her, but kept moving.
Malfoy circled her slowly, his eyes never leaving her wings. They never moved down to her breasts either, but stayed firmly above her neck. A disappointed twinge, just a slight one, rippled through her.
"Do they hurt?"
"No. Not anymore. It felt like they ripped me in two when they... sprouted, for lack of a better term."
"They appeared this morning?"
She nodded.
"You can touch them."
She hadn't meant to say that aloud. Hermione hadn't realised until that moment that she'd always intended for him to touch the wings. To satisfy the curiosity of how it would feel for another's hands to feel this new piece of her.
Specifically, his hands.
Malfoy came to a stop at her back. As she could not see him, she had no idea if he hesitated. If his fingers hovered. If his mouth had dropped open in shock at her permission.
She heard the quiet rumble of his voice. "They are magnificent."
Then Hermione felt the soft stroke of a long finger along her left wing. It moved in a steady line, a scorching, feathery touch that traced from mid-back to the tip of the wing. His touch slid down along the outside, along the slightly curved edge and back inward again.
She'd never felt such tenderness in such a light caress. Her brain reminded her to gather evidence from this experience and not just suppress shivers. She honed in on how his skin pressing against hers felt. But her mind and sensory receptors kept returning the same refrain: pleasure pleasure pleasure again again need want more.
"And it's not painful?"
"No. Not painful."
"What do you feel?"
Hermione let out a breathless laugh before she could stop herself.
"I feel as if… if you stop touching them I'll… I won't know what to do with myself."
He didn't stop. In fact, his other hand came up to run along her other wing. He spread his fingers wide, increasing the contact surface area.
Thank Merlin Malfoy couldn't see her face. Her jaw fell open and she almost let out a gasp, eyes wide at the increased intensity.
"What have you tried? To get rid of them?"
Hermione opened her mouth to list off all the various methods she'd attempted. She had no answer to his perfectly logical question. Because Hermione hadn't attempted a thing. She'd only thought of him.
"I don't think I have the right books at home," she said, words almost slurring as desire dulled her mind. "And now that I think about it, I don't think the Ministry will have what I need either."
"Oh Granger." She closed her eyes at his voice murmuring her name. "You're not going to find the sorts of texts you need in a Ministry resource library."
How long had they been standing here like this? How much of her morning had she lost to this surrender? His fingers hadn't stopped their permitted wanderings. Skating patterns, exploratory, searching touches that she hoped never ended. Or if they did end, it was only because they'd escalated to other parts of her body.
"Let me guess," she said breathily. "Would you have these sorts of texts at your Manor?"
He dropped his hands. His perfect, necessary, euphoric touch gone, ripped from her with no warning. She wanted to whirl around and scream at him. How dare he make her feel that way and then remove it so suddenly?
Her wings angrily retracted, as if attuned to her mood. She hastily grabbed her shirt and turned around to face him, covered appropriately once more.
"At my… did you mean Malfoy Manor?"
"Yes, in your library there."
He looked confused, for just a moment, then pulled himself back together with a smug smirk.
"Why of course Granger, you know my library is brimming with insidious, forbidden texts."
"I suppose you would have the expertise to bring me what I need?"
Malfoy cocked his head to the side, shook it slowly, and gave her a wide, triumphant grin.
"Do you really think I'm letting any of my precious, first edition tomes out of my sight? No, no, no, you can come to me."
"When is convenient for you?"
"Any night you like."
"Tonight? What time is best for you."
"Whenever you want."
He was being unnervingly accommodating. He'd let her lead him along to her office with no questions. He'd watched her get half-naked and said nothing. He'd seen wings come out of her bare back and had no verbal reaction of horror.
And the moment she'd given consent to touch he'd obliged.
She needed to bring them back to their usual plane of interaction. For now.
"Do I need to complete an animal sacrifice or some sort of blood rite to enter?"
"No, just the Floo will do. I'm sure it will send you directly where you want to go."
"I haven't been back."
"Ever?"
"No. Not after… everything that happened there."
"Is it that you can't or that you don't want to go back?"
"If I had to return to the Manor, understand that I wouldn't hesitate to conjure Fiendfyre and then spit on the ashes."
"Surely you wouldn't need to resort to such a… Dark method."
"It's just cursed fire, Granger. If you can control it, there shouldn't be an issue."
A/N: Thanks for reading! I think this will be about 7 chapters, not sure yet.