Author's Note: Hi all! It's been a long time since I updated. Big sorry! I hope this chapter will be good so that I can make up for it.

Thanks everyone who reviewed!!! And also to Hell's Hauntress for the helpful beta-reading and Master Woo for the moral support (lol). It's been tough finding time to write between school and other things.

I emailed all the reviewers that left an address. Please leave one if you'd like to be on the mailing list.

~ Chapter Nine

~

"Hermione," Dumbledore asked. "Are you sure you're alright for this?"

She nodded.

"Hermione – as I have mentioned, all the way in France, alone - "

"Dumbledore, sir. Please, just let me go."

~

Dare I hope that I have found the one? Has the research finally paid off? Challamyn, our family Kneezle (whom we've had as long as I remember) is old and has fur grayed from age. She was the first to test my new potion. Within a few seconds of my putting it into her water dish, her fur visibly became that of a much younger feline. Her body became sleek and frisky again as she jumped unto the piano seat and purred affectionately, batting Jordan's fingers as she practiced.

Such a wonder! I sincerely hope I have found the one. Challamyn shows no sign of going back to her old self. Could this change be permanent, perhaps I have found the one true concoction of youth.

- from the journal 1922 of Isiam Torch

~

Hermione tossed on her bed, body tangled in her sheets, for several minutes after haven waken up, stubbornly refusing to open her eyes in hopes of falling back asleep.

Sorry, hon, but you're up, she thought to herself grimly. She opened her eyes to stare at the sky. Or rather, the ceiling bewitched to look like the sky. The prospect of getting up held little appeal. But then again, she thought, neither did going back to sleep.

But wait a minute.

Hermione sat up.  

What a dream she had been having. She had been dreaming about… Isiam Torch.

Isiam Torch. The brilliant wizard who wrote the Dark Magic books that Voldemort so desperately wanted. And Hermione had his journal, a possible key to figuring out everything written in there. 

His immortality concoction. Ever since finding his journal, Hermione could think of nothing else. The entry about the immortality concoction was the only potion recipe one left that she couldn't crack.

Hermione had not been able to decipher the runes properly – couldn't identify the substances…

Torch, Torch, potion, runes, spells, ingredients, books…

Hermione dragged herself out of bed.

Stupid research. It was a little known fact that sometimes even Hermione Granger got sick of it sometimes. Ron and Harry used to tease her about her bookishness. So did everyone: Seamus, Parvati and even Padma, Dean and Lavender, when those three were still….

Oh shit.

Not them again.

No matter how bad work got, it couldn't be worse than being an Auror, Hermione reminded herself.

The truth was that Hermione didn't want to see her old friends anymore, talk to or have any contact with them. She really couldn't stand it. After the deaths of Padma and Dean – and within days, Lavender, in the intensive care unit – Hermione couldn't stand it anymore.

They all knew it was her fault they were, why couldn't they simply say it out loud!? Did they have to pretend that it wasn't and change the subject every time it came up!?

Harry, Ron, Seamus, Parvati. She hadn't talked to them in two months and never wanted to ever again. She remembered the conversation she had had with Dumbledore when she wanted to leave.

Hermione ended up in Paris. In the Church of Madeleine.

The Library of Madeleine was the most amazing place; a center for the magical arts. Hidden behind the altar of the grand church was a hidden magical chamber – half the size of Hogwarts' grand hall – but filled to the top of its' hundredfold foot ceilings with skyscraping magical bookshelves – ones that, when you climbed the ladders, never ended with their store of magical information.

The ceiling was one of the only ones in the world bewitched like the Hogwarts' ceiling to look like the sky outside. In the center of the circular room was an arrangement of study furniture that magically shifted and changed to suit the user. The heaven-ascent bookshelves branched out in twelve directions like boulevards from the Arc de Triomphe. They were gilded with golden edges and their rows of hundreds of thousands of books lent a door to every subject, magical or otherwise.

Every once in a while, objects other than books appeared on the shelves. There were opal-white marble sculptures of scholars that spoke, art that ranged from oil portraits to misty Chinese ink mountains on rice paper. There were globes that sucked you in so that you could read their information from a panorama point of view.

Hermione didn't want to return to Paris, the site of the last disastrous Death Eater raid. But it was getting away, at least – at least she could be alone.

Research. Work. Hermione wasn't leaving the war.

She just wanted a break from fighting.

Hermione rubbed her eyes. Candles bobbed gently in the air around her. She hadn't actually been in bed. She wasn't even in her apartment. It was really the shifted set of furniture in the center of the library. She must have fallen asleep on her research. Now the magical furniture had turned itself back into a large oaken desk with a leather-bound chair.

The floating golden clock read 9:40 p.m. The ceiling above her was black with hazy white stars.

The journal and a stack of dictionaries sat in front of her.

The library was reputed to have dictionaries to every single dialect in the world; even the extinct ones used by the remotest shaman tribe wizards in Africa. She must have climbed miles up the ladders of the languages section, but still hadn't found the right language to translate Torch's text.

Could this change be permanent, perhaps I have found the one true concoction of youth.

Torch's journal was in English, except for the potion recipes, which were all in funny languages. Hawaiian, Morse Code, Centaurish, Elven and Mermish were some of the simpler ones.

Hermione couldn't wait to finish the last one so that she could send it back to the Headquarters.

~

"Damn them all!" cursed the Dark Lord.

The once-full circle of Death Eaters was now less than a pathetic crescent moon. The sparse group of remaining Death Eaters stood in scattered groups, far too afraid to even keep their hooded heads up. The men next to him held themselves as still as possible.

"They were fools!" he shrieked. "Fools! I should expect more from you – you who are so – lucky – to be alive." He said the word 'lucky' sardonically. The Dark Lord gripped his wand so tightly in his hand that the little wooden splinter almost snapped. The air almost shook from the sheer rage and terrified tension it caused.

"The Malfoys were valuable servants," he continued, still sounding sardonic. "But stupid…" his voice dropped to a whisper. A soft, seemingly forced laugh escaped his lips.

The Dark Lord removed from inside his cloak a large, heavy book. The cover was dark but glowed an eerie blue.

"Isiam Torch. My old teacher. This was completed in 1922." He read quietly. "Book of Life. The very first he wrote. But it is useless without the others…" An unusual flash passed the Dark Lord's globular red eyes that was eager and hopeful, almost child-like, almost vulnerable.

With a snap of his long white fingers, he snapped it shut. Then, gently, he put it down on the gravestone in front of him.

"Lazy filth." He began again, referring back to the lost Death Eaters. "Useless when dead. You are all useless already but for performing labor. And if any of you think otherwise, I assure you I will have you begging for your death."

~

Ah, her head hurt.

"Why don't you get some rest?" asked Nefertiti kindly.

Hermione blinked and turned to the stone bust of the Egyptian queen peering out from a nearby shelf. Nefertiti smiled her graceful smile.

"She isn't going to succeed if she's lazy," growled a plaster bust of Beethoven on a neighboring shelf.

Hermione had to grin.

"You must learn to keep a fine balance," said the Buddha soothingly from the other side of the room. 

"Hey, guys, do anyone of you recognize this text?" Hermione asked.

The statues didn't say anything.

"Get out for a while," said another voice. Hermione turned. It was an oil painting of Elizabeth I.

"After all," continued the regal-looking queen. "You've been in here for three nights straight without moving from that spot."

"I do believe you're the hardest working scholar we've had in some time," Buddha said diplomatically.

"Yes, and we certainly don't want you ending up like Ludwig over there," Elizabeth said, looking disapprovingly at Beethoven. "Working day and night…"

Beethoven glared at her through his tight-knit plaster eyebrows.

Hermione leaned back in her chair to look up at the midnight canvas above. Thoughts and more thoughts about Isiam Torch were overflowing her brain.

She needed a break.

"Alright, I'm going out," she said finally.

Then she stood up and walked past two of the shelves. A wall was decorated in a golden outline of a door.

She shut her eyes and ran forwards.

Hermione appeared outside into the altar of the Church of Madeleine. The church was darkened. Quietly, she left.

Soon, Hermione was wandering idly in the bustle of the Parisian streets regardless of the cold. She had changed into a muggle outfit – a sleeveless, tan-colored blouse with a low V-neck, with a suede jacket and a pair of a black pumps – it wasn't nothing nice, really. The blouse was rather too loose and the pumps too high.

The Eiffel Tower's steel skeleton was lit up in golden lights. Nightly tour boats floated down the Seine, even in the winter. Everything was dark licked with strokes of golden oil paint.

What was the stupid language? Hermione pondered, not paying much attention to the scenery. She still could not think of anything but Isiam Torch's journal as she walked.

She stepped into a narrow door between two shops, the magical coffee shop, Le Petit Escargot. 

"Bonsoir," greeted the wizard at the counter. Hermione ordered a sandwich and a mug of Butterbeer in English.

Hermione hadn't eaten much for days except for Madame Zanita's Concentrated Health Bars for Witches. The Butterbeer lit a happy fire in her stomach. Hermione felt a little calmer, and stressful thoughts of Isiam Torch ceased.

Le Petit Escargot wasn't crowded. The other customers were witches and wizards inside were dressed in black work robes and sipping on jugs of rum.

There was a handsome-looking wizard sitting at the bar. At first glance, his features reminded her of Ron, but she brushed away the thought. He was much older, of course. The wizard caught her eye at that moment and smiled. Hermione had to smile back; but then turned away quickly in embarrassment.

But then, the man got up and sat down next to Hermione in her table.

"May I join you," he said pleasantly. It was not a question.

"Oh, s-sure," Hermione said, surprised.

The wizard watched her avidly, still smiling. Hermione continued to smile back, but felt uncomfortable.

"Hi," he said, holding out his hand. "I'm Jacob Nott."

"Hi," Hermione replied, still a bit surprised. "Nice to meet you. I'm – Hermione Granger."

"What may bring a pretty young English lady like you here?"

Hermione gave him a small laugh and quickly thought of a lie. "I transferred to Beauxbatons a few years ago. I just…graduated. I'm here with…some friends, but they're out shopping." She smiled again, trying to look innocent and friendly.

Jacob flashed a grin. He was about thirty years old, with brownish hair. He was fairly good-looking but way, way too old.

No way, not my type… Still, won't hurt to flirt a little, will it?

Hermione got into a polite conversation with him. Jacob Nott talked a lot about his work in the Ministry and family. Hermione gently dodged any subject that led to her life or the war.

"Wouldn't you like a tequila, sweet?" he asked, for about the seventh time. As the night went on, Jacob the Ministry worker began trying to persuade Hermione into having alcohol with him. Hermione refused everything and ordered her own Butterbeer.

Had this been a year ago, Hermione would have been afraid. She was alone in a city at night, with an older man she didn't know offering to buy her drinks. But now, it was nothing, really. She could probably take the bastard out in one shot.

"You know, Jacob," she said. "It's been nice knowing you, but I've got to work tomorrow." Hermione got up and swiftly walked away from Jacob.

"I'll take you home!" he exclaimed, and grabbed her by the elbow.

"No thanks," she said quickly, and shook him off. Hermione opened the door to Le Petit Escargot and hurried out into the night.

"Pleeeease." He begged. 

Hermione walked as fast as she could through the streets without running. Don't make me hurt your sorry ass, Jacob, she thought savagely. You don't even know who you're dealing with.

He was following her.

"Go home to your family and job, would you," Hermione said, through gritted teeth.

A pair of hands reached from behind and halted Hermione in her walk. They held her by the shoulders and in a perverted fashion, continued their way brusquely down to her breasts and torso.

Hermione shrieked. She broke into a run and began towards the direction of the Madeleine.

Jacob followed pursuit.

Now horrified and disgusted, Hermione reached for her wand.

Jacob the attacker caught up and pushed her into an alleyway.

Oh that is it!

"Impedimenta!"

Jacob Nott gave a yell and Hermione saw him fall. Muggles on the street turned their heads…

"You – you – " he choked from behind her.

Hermione pulled her cloak around herself, turned and ran as fast as she could.

~

Draco didn't see Ankar or Bardot the way he used to. They were normal to him now. It was the mortals that were different. It was nothing like the pureblood/Mudblood thing. Discrimination against Mudbloods Draco now saw as an idea so utterly stupid…but difference between a vampire and a mortal was entirely real. They were animals, prey, beneath him in every way.

Draco was learning a lot of these things slowly, about his vampire instincts, how to best feed from a victim, when to stop. Drinking blood from a living human was fascinating. It was satisfying, terrible and delicious. Not unlike having sex, really, in that sense…but then again, still very different from sex.

Draco had only been a vampire for two months. It wasn't long; even for a mortal, but for the wizarding world, it had been a long, tumultuous two months. Draco tried to keep track of the goings-on and latest war updates through the news, as well as the remaining Death Eaters and Aurors. The latter was difficult. 

"It'll pass in a few years," snarled Bardot every time Draco brought it up.

A few years was supposed to mean nothing to him.

And what about Hermione?

Draco's vampirical companions called him 'obsessive and childish'.

Obsessive, maybe, but he wanted to see her again. His sadistic side wanted to see if war had hardened, changed the little girl. His other side…just wanted to see her. After knowing about her recovery at St. Mungo's, Draco lost track of her whereabouts for a while. The two remaining friends of hers were still in London. But she…had run away.

It took a few days, before Draco learned of her current whereabouts.

Paris.

He didn't know exactly where in Paris. He assumed it was somewhere downtown. There were several magical spots in Paris, one being the Louvre, and of course several pubs and brasseries.

Paris was a nice city.

A good choice.

"This city. Filled with luscious blood-filled mortals speaking French who walk around at night," mused Ankar as they crossed a bridge over the river.

 And a premature little girl Auror running around among them, Draco thought.

"Vampire territory," Bardot said briskly. "An old friend of ours, Lukos lives here. Interesting man…works the night shift as a Hit Wizard for the French Magical Ministry. Watch carefully…maybe you'll learn something about being a vampire Draco."

Draco listened to Bardot's talk carefully. He slipped away from them after a while, and down another street. Were there really a lot of vampires, hiding in the shadows like himself?

A girl, a young woman stood sullenly in the shadows. A prostitute, or a sexually liberated Frenchwoman? Draco caught her attention and gestured her over. The woman wasn't very pretty or well dressed. She looked cheap…like a prostitute.

Wordlessly, Draco held her chin up to his face. She stood stilly, her tired eyes transfixed by his gaze.

So easy it would be. The French were so…free. For vampires like Ankar and Bardot, it must be a wonderful feeding ground.

Draco felt sorry for the mortal woman. Was it so easy to get victims? He left a neatly folded bill in her hand before leaving. 

He was still hungry for a drink, but there were more important things to do.

~

Hermione was still walking as briskly as possible.

She had gone the opposite way of the direction of the Madeleine and was going back.

She didn't know if Jacob Nott had recovered from her hex, but she was certain that he was not the only one chasing her.

She felt sick, and extremely dirty, like she needed a thorough bath. Why had she left the Library? Why did she give out her real name to a complete stranger? And then hexed him in front of muggles? What if he was a Death Eater? What sort of straight wizard went around molesting women in coffee shops anyways?

Hermione calmed down a bit after a while. As she never stayed in her hotel apartment anymore, she went directly back to the Madeleine.

It was nearing three a.m. The priest might even be there.

~

After having arranged several nighttime train stops to Paris, Draco had not fed in days however and was feeling slightly famished.

How was he supposed to start looking? There was one other magical spot in Paris that he knew about, but what was it? It was a secret library of magical documents hidden in…where was it? A church – of course – the Madeleine.

Draco was invisible. He was weaving through the stiff, wooden crowds of muggles like liquid mercury. He would appear to them as having disappeared. Vampires have an interesting ability to be able to do that.

He could go faster than time. There - a glint of an eyes reflecting the street lamp, for a split second her face was just visible –

Draco stopped. Time sped up to its normal speed. The hustle of the street was alive again. Hermione. What is it her? Yes, it was. Draco could see her in plain view. He stood directly in her path, a dark figure wrapped in cloaks.

Clunk, clunk, clunk went her large, black muggles shoes.

She walked by, her eyes on the ground. Her dark chestnut locks hung around her face, her arms wrapping her jacket stiffly about herself.

Was she really a mortal? She seemed like a goddess, like a vampire, something like himself.

~

Hermione made her way up the tall front steps and tapped the great doors behind the imitation Greek columns of the church. They opened. Past the rows of darkened pews and the cathedral ceilings, was a light at the altar.

She walked towards it.

A small muggle man was kneeled in prayer.

"Father," she asked uncertainly.

The kneeling priest got up and turned to Hermione.

He had a kind face, wrinkled with age, and framed with white hair. He took her hand. Hermione had seen him a few times. But something that night about his presence made Hermione want to start crying.

"Are you troubled, child?" he asked her.

"I…don't know." Hermione began to say. Was she supposed to confess to this little man all of her troubles? Causing the death for three of her friends? Talking to a drunk, older man?

"The Good Lord is forgiving." The priest told her. He pressed his rosary into her palm.

For some reason, and beyond the common sense of wizards everywhere, Hermione let it all out. In a stumbling fury, she told the little muggle priest all of her troubles, about having the fault of killing, running away from them, and getting bad attention from dirty men, about the pain of war.

Leaving out all references to magic, and telling him that she was a witch, Hermione realized that it she sounded like a runaway teenager caught in a gangster war. But still, it had all come out. 

After a few minutes, she was sobbing.

The priest took wiped at her tears with his bare hands and continued to press the little crucifix into her palm. He watched her with kindly eyes.

Oh gods. He probably thinks I'm a whore and feels sorry for me, Hermione thought. Did she look like a whore? The short skirt, the loose, low-cut blouse, the enormous high-heeled shoes…perhaps she did.

She still felt much better, however. Maybe these muggles religions are really much more than they're cut out to be.

"Thank you, father," she mumbled.

"May the Lord will help you on your way," the priest was saying.

BANG! BANG! BANG!

Hermione whirled around.

The door opened. All of a sudden, like winged cronies of the devil, four black-hooded men flew inside.

Hermione screamed. The masks – they were Death Eaters! How could they have possibly –

It was a nightmare.

The little white-haired priest held his rosary's crucifix in front of him as a sign of protection.

Hermione scrambled to find her wand. A cackling Death Eater neared them.

She screamed and leapt out of the way, trying to pull the priest away. He was praying, praying furiously for his salvation.

"Please stop," she begged, half to the priest to stop praying and run, half to the Death Eater. But the muggle was now on his knees, and the Death Eater had raised his wand –

"Avada Kedavra!"

Hermione froze in terror. There was a flash of green light. And the little praying man had crumpled in a heap on the floor.

She stared in fear at the masked killer for a split second.

A split second later, she was thrust into levitation in midair.

"Crucio."

And then she was twitching, twitching with every inch of her body, in the sheer burning, burning, burning pain, pain, PAIN!!! 

~

Draco had been wandering broodingly for some time. But he had a feeling about something, something that might lead him to Hermione.

Because the group of black-clothed men that had just walked past him were Death Eaters. Not only did Draco recognize them personally, but mortals all talked too loud.

He followed them.

They led him to a large neo-Grecian building, which Draco knew as the Church of Saint Mary-Magdalene, the Madeleine.

The Death Eaters opened the front door. The church was dark, but the dark was only more vivid to Draco's new eyes. He held his wand readily and watched. Two figures were inside. One had brown hair – yes. It was she. Hermione. The glint of her expression – was definitely Hermione.

Curses began to fly.

The other muggle was killed immediately. Hermione could not react to the ambush fast enough to get her wand.

Another incantation was yelled. The Cruciatus Curse? Draco heard screaming from a screaming voice he was only used to hearing at school Quidditch matches and insults directed towards him. It took only a single movement of his wand  –

"Stupefy. "

Three masked, black-clad Death Eaters hit the church floor.

~

PAIN! BURNING!

And then, it ceased.

Was she getting used to the pain? Was she dead?

The magic holding her body up ceased too. Hermione dropped slowly again to the floor.

In the darkness, Hermione could see four bodies lying around her. To her right, underneath a pathetic heap of white clothing was the priest, open-mouthed and eyes half-closed. He was dead.

But the three Death Eaters were down, too. Were they dead, too?

Why was she alive?

The grand doorway was open to the outside world.

And there was a figure standing outside.

"Wait!" Hermione yelled.

The figure turned.

Hermione ran after it.

"Don't leave!" she screamed.

Whoever the person was – presumably a man, was leaving.

Hermione raced out the door.

"Who are you?" she yelled at him. "Is it you that keeps saving me?"

The cold night outside of the church hit her hard in the face. The man walked quickly. Hermione ran after him.

"Are you an Auror? Who are you?" she screamed.

The man heard her, he had to. But he didn't turn around. He just kept on his way into the night.

 "Tell me who you are!" Hermione begged to the man's back.  "Look, I'm tired. I just need to know who you are and what game you're playing with me because this is just – just – not right –"

Hermione was not prepared for the person she was about to face. She had no clue, none whatsoever of his identity. That was why her heart nearly burst out of her chest when he turned around.

"Draco Malfoy!" Hermione screamed.

 Draco stood frozen, every fiber of his supernatural being uneasy.

"It's you!" she gasped. He could tell that she was completely taken aback.

Is it you that keeps saving me? Tell me who you are! I just need to know who you are and what game you're playing with me…

God damn this shit, Draco thought.

What was he supposed to say?

Even he didn't know what he was doing.

He was playing a game. He wanted her to follow him, so that he could listen to her pretty little whiny voice.

"Yes." Draco said quietly. He didn't know what to say. This was different from the last few times they met. She was not unconscious, nor were they in the situation to duel or fight.

 "You're supposed to be dead," she whispered.

Draco laughed out loud. "Dead? Maybe I am."

Hermione leaned up to his face and peered into his eyes, her own brown ones large and questioning. "You – are you an angel?" Then, as if she realized the incredulousness of the question, added, "I mean…you look – very – um – you – "

Draco watched her intently.

Hermione seemed to realize that she was staring and proceeded to shake the look off her face. "I'm sorry – I – did you really save me?"

Hermione didn't believe it. Draco Malfoy? He was alive? Was the platinum-blond haired man standing in the cold, midnight air in front of her really Draco Malfoy, dangerous Death Eater, whom she had hated for half her life? One of the Death Eaters whom she had blamed herself for killing?

Her head spun.

And why was it that his skin was so pearly and beautiful, his eyes so translucently gray, his lips so pink, and his hair, so perfect, as if from a dream?

She was staring. It was mesmerizing. He looked like one of those… vampires…

"Are you…a vampire…?" she whispered.

Draco Malfoy turned his head away. He started to leave again.

"Malfoy! Malfoy – wait…Y-You just saved my life. I need to ask you…"

"Stay away from vampires, Granger." He replied coldly.

Hermione chased him down the Madeleine's great stone steps. "You are a vampire."

"So stay away from me. I'm dangerous."

"And you're a Death Eater, too. A vampire and a Death Eater. Wait - " Hermione reached out and grabbed him by the arm. 

Draco Malfoy snapped his head around and glared at her. "It shouldn't make a difference to you whether I'm either, Mudblood," he said coldly. "If I don't kill you for your muggle blood, I'll do it for your mortal blood."

"You'd kill me? Then why did you just save me if you'd kill me anyways?"

Malfoy gave her a look of the coldest fury. The light in his eyes flared. Hermione bit down on her tongue. Maybe she said too much.

Draco Malfoy suddenly grabbed both of her wrists and held them up, face-level. Hermione shivered. His nails dug hard into her skin.

He glared straight into her eyes again. She found it impossible to look away this time. His dancing gray eyes were drilling into hers. His fingers tightened their grip on her wrists. It subtly hurt, but Hermione was frozen.

What happened next was unexpected. Very, very slowly, Draco Malfoy, her left wrist still tightly in his fingers, brought it to his mouth. Eyes never leaving her gaze, his lip curled up to expose his long, white fangs.

Was she still breathing? Malfoy brought his fangs closer until they were grazing her skin.

It tingled unnaturally. The two tiny pinpricks sunk themselves into her arm, deeper and deeper until the skin broke. Hermione stayed unmoving. A trickle of bright red blood flowed from the spot where Draco Malfoy's teeth met her wrist.

As if naturally following through, Hermione felt the warm, wet feeling of his mouth over the wound. His tongue was lapping at the blood, his teeth, still cutting inside. He sucked at it very gently, but Hermione could feel a jolt course up her arm.

What is going on?

She felt him repeat the process to her other wrist. When he finished, each of the wounds were clean, almost as good as new. Now Hermione's entire body was trembling furiously.

 Draco Malfoy let her arms go. 

 "Now, stop putting yourself right under the nose of danger. You should know what they can do to you. Smart-ass Granger, so clever in school yet you don't even have enough sense to take care of yourself," Malfoy smirked. "So I'm warning you now. Obviously you can't defend yourself without your two bodyguards within a two-foot radius."

Hermione wanted to stop him again. But she couldn't move.

He walked away.