Hermione was approaching her thirty-first waking hour.
Violet stains of insomnia lined her bloodshot eyes. Scattered paper-cuts littered her fingertips. Ink was smeared across her cheek.
Her new caseload was, to put it lightly, hectic. McLaggen's files were impressively mismanaged, and after meeting her first client, she realized his schedule was too: According to the planner he'd left her, Hermione was supposed to meet a ninety-year-old child, infected at the tragic age of twelve. Instead, she faced a three-hundred-year-old Royal Navy captain. Obviously, she was completely unprepared.
Part of her hoped he'd made a similar mistake with her upcoming meeting.
An hour-long session — the client's first session — was nestled between a research block and her final appointment for the night. His name was scrawled there, the name of the man she still couldn't believe was a vampire at all.
Draco L. Malfoy.
It didn't seem possible.
She took a deep, steadying breath and glanced at the clock. The hour hand crept towards the golden II , the time she had been dreading since stepping into her office in the early evening. She groaned and shut her book. The trek to the holding room was longer than she would have preferred.
Winding corridors twisted and contorted. Her intestines did too.
Meeting her clients was unnerving enough without sharing such a tumultuous history with them, and those clients were veteran vampires — compliant and well-adjusted beings that had learned how to control themselves. Chaos rioted within the newly infected, and she knew it would only be worse once Malfoy laid his eyes upon her.
The barren halls fueled her anxiety. At last, she turned the final corner.
It was a straightaway to the infamous bronze doors, guarded by yet another one of her childhood bullies. Fortunately, she and Millicent Bulstrode had set aside their differences at the start of her internship. They had to, really. Millicent was one of just two handlers qualified to transport dangerous beings, and at the time, Hermione was a research assistant in Werewolf Support Services. Naturally, they worked together often.
That job seemed much easier, all of a sudden. Werewolves were only monstrous every twenty-nine days — vampirism saw no end.
"Millicent."
Hermione gave the other witch a nod of acknowledgment — a subtle sign of respect.
"Granger," Millicent drawled. She jerked her head towards the doors she guarded. "He's in there."
Narrow, glass panes were framed within the doors, meant to give notice to Millicent in case anything happened. Hermione wasn't sure they would do her any good. Vampires were less susceptible to magic than other beings, and she somehow doubted Bulstrode would stand a chance against any vampire, let alone one as clever as Malfoy.
And it was, indeed, Malfoy inside of that room.
Bound by chains encircling his torso, he sat in the same chair all of her new clients were forced into, his signature scowl pulling his lips downwards. The old wooden bow-back was bolted to the floor so he couldn't use it as a weapon, and Hermione knew from experience that they would have confiscated his wand before he could enter the building.
He looked helpless, nothing more than an animal the Ministry wanted to break.
She felt a surge of pity for him.
"Thanks. I'm er — I'm ready."
Millicent nodded and reached for the key on her belt. She inserted it into the enchanted lock, turning it until finally, it clicked. Hermione's heart pounded, her gaze darting between Millicent and the wizard that awaited her.
The doors parted.
Silver eyes flicked in her direction. Immediately, they narrowed.
Hermione pretended she didn't notice and headed straight for the bergère chair opposite him. It was conveniently placed as far away from him as physically possible — a necessary safety precaution, and one she was wholly thankful for.
"Is this some kind of fucking joke?" asked Malfoy.
"Sadly, it's not."
She crossed her legs, plucking her clipboard and his record out from underneath her arm. The file, just as she remembered, was quite slim — a testament to his greenness, and, perhaps, to McLaggen's poor intake methods.
"Shall we, then?" she asked, clicking her favorite ballpoint.
The sooner it was over, the better.
"No." Malfoy shook his head and stood, the chains on his ankles clanking against the floor with every move he made, no matter how minuscule. "Where's McLaggen? I was specifically told I'd be meeting with Cormac McLaggen and you are definitely not him."
"Clearly not," Hermione replied. She looked down at his file. "McLaggen's no longer a representative for this subdepartment . . . I'll be working with you as his replacement."
"Then I want to leave." He paced as far as he could manage, but the chains had limited his step, the tension yanking him backward. He righted himself and said, "I'm not doing this. Not with you."
"I understand. Trust me, I do, but unfortunately, we're a little short on staffing —"
"The Ministry is short on staffing," Malfoy echoed.
"Yes, believe it or not," Hermione answered calmly, despite the fact her blood was thrashing in her veins with reckless abandon. She wondered if he could smell it with his newfound senses, if he could hear her racing heartbeat. The thought made it race all the more. "I'm the only person in Vampire Support right now, which means I'm the only one currently qualified to handle your case —"
"I don't care who's qualified! Find someone else!" he seethed.
"I'm afraid that's just not possible."
It was a half-truth, but it was an easier answer than the long version. Of course, Malfoy was not about to make anything easy. He was the poster wizard of being difficult.
"Then, make it possible!" he shouted. "It's a conflict of interest, surely your department can admit that."
"I'm willing to concede that point," started Hermione. "The problem is . . . well, I don't think a formal complaint is a good idea. Since your case is already compromised —"
"What do you mean compromised?"
"Due to your — " She paused and wrinkled her nose. " — history , the Ministry will be looking for any reason to find you disagreeable. If they see you refused your first session, that gives them every excuse to come after you . . . The point of these sessions is to prove you're willing to comply with our bylaws — we want to ensure that's the message we're sending."
Malfoy hollowed his cheeks. He was more gaunt than she remembered, the early symptoms of vampirism evident in his pale skin and lithe frame. Behind his scowl, she imagined there were growing fangs.
"Talking to me is your best option right now, Malfoy," she continued, "even if you don't want to."
"And what happens if I don't?"
"Well, we could do the paperwork for a conflict-of-interest claim," she said. "You certainly have the grounds for it. The downside to doing this is that you'd be marked out of compliance for the duration of the processing time."
"How long would that be?"
"With current capacity? A couple of months, at least. Since you'd be racking up demerits in the interim —"
"Demerits?" Malfoy interrupted.
"Marks against you," explained Hermione, "for not cooperating."
"I know what they are," he hissed. "I just don't understand why I'd be receiving them if I'm waiting for your people to do their bloody job."
Fair criticism or not, a former Death Eater was not going to change the way the Ministry of Magic worked — especially not a Death Eater that was now part of a marginalized group. Hermione wondered if he understood yet, the implications of being a vampire.
Neither his wealth nor his status mattered anymore.
Time would teach him that.
"I'm only explaining the way it works," she said. "I'm not saying whether it's right or wrong."
"So what you're telling me is, even though I have a perfectly legitimate case, I could get a bunch of marks for reporting it," he deduced.
"Unfortunately, yes. Technically, the Wizengamot can remove them after reviewing your case, but honestly, I doubt they'd even consider it."
"Why the hell not?"
There would be no dancing around his past, not with all of his questions that, to Hermione, had obvious answers he should've already known.
"That's what I was trying to explain earlier," she stressed. "Past transgressions are accounted for when they make those decisions. So if it works out the way I suspect it would, you'd have eight, possibly more, demerits on your record, and they would be there to stay. Anything more than three gives the D.M.L.E. reason to put out a warrant for your arrest."
"Seriously?"
"Yes, seriously. And considering your recent probation, you'd likely be looking at time in Azkaban."
"What?"
Hermione nodded grimly. "I'm sorry, Malfoy. I know it's a difficult situation."
His face was warped with derision, and really, she couldn't blame him. She looked down at his case notes, trying to gauge how he ended up in such an unenviable position in the first place. He didn't seem the type to be commiserating with vampires.
"I'm cornered, then," he spat.
"In a sense. I can't force you to stay here," Hermione began, still reading through McLaggen's scribbles, "but as your caseworker, that's what I advise . . . It's the best way we can set you up for success."
He fleered at her. "You don't care about my success. You just don't want a black mark on your perfect record."
"My job is to represent you with your best interest in mind. It has nothing to do with black marks."
"My best interest is to have a different caseworker."
Hermione exhaled. "Look, I'm trying to be as professional as I can be, all right? I don't care whether I like you or not. I'm meant to help you, and that's what I'm going to do." She sniffed and peered down at his file again. "We can start with your date of infection."
Malfoy's glare was unfailing. There was no slack left in the chains tethered to his chair.
"Do you know your date of infection?" she pressed.
He didn't respond.
"Fine. We'll stick to the basics, then," she relinquished, eager to at least leave with some sliver of information. "It says here you weren't familiar with the vampire that attacked you. Is that right?"
He ran his tongue over his teeth. Hermione caught a glimpse of his fangs as they gleamed against the harsh, white rays of the room's Lumos Solem Spell. She wondered who first discovered that vampires couldn't be harmed by artificial sunlight. It seemed like a cruel experiment.
"That's right," he growled.
Hermione nodded. She scanned McLaggen's intake notes again. Circled was the abbreviation "K.A."
"Hmm . . . Knockturn Alley? Is that where it happened?"
Metal sounded as he shifted his weight. If his arms could move, he might have thrust his middle finger towards her, but they were clapped flush to his sides, the chains wrapped around him to deny his hands any movement at all. Hermione chewed on her lip. It still felt wrong to see him that way.
Despite their differences, she had known him as a bright, misguided wizard that had every ability to contribute to magical society. If he were free from his prejudices, Draco Malfoy could have made the Wizarding World a better place with his wealth, with his talents. Even his tenacity was something to be admired. She'd written as much in her character statement to the Wizengamot, just six years prior.
He had a future back then. That was gone now.
"Is that a yes?" she asked.
"What do you think?"
"I need a yes or no, Malfoy, my job is to write down what you say, not what I think."
He rolled his eyes. "Fucking hell. Yes. Obviously, it was in bloody Knockturn Alley."
Hermione nodded and penned her own notes — much neater ones than McLaggen's. "That's quite common, actually. There's a coven that feeds there. They pose as panhandlers . . ." Her face fell. "But I'm sure you figured that out already."
"You're telling me you people knew about this?"
"Large covens are rare, but hard to control." She offered an empathetic, yet entirely unhelpful smile. "I'm sorry. I can tell you that we're trying, but I know it won't make it any better."
"There was no warning, no anything," he accused. "Couldn't even be arsed to put a notice in the Prophet ! You knew they were out there and you —"
"There was a notice," Hermione corrected him. She couldn't stop herself. "In the Ministry newsletter."
"Nobody reads the fucking Ministry newsletter!"
"I'll take that feedback to administration."
"Yeah, you do that," Malfoy muttered. "That'll fix everything."
"I'm sorry," Hermione conceded once again. "The Ministry has clearly failed you, and we'll need to discuss that, but —"
"You couldn't even put up a bloody sign?" he pressed, furrowing his brow. "Just one — right at the alley entrance. Big enough everyone can see."
"We stopped funding them," Hermione admitted. "It's far too easy for vampires to tear them down, even with Anti-Sticking Charms."
"You're telling me you people have no other way of keeping a sign up?"
"I'm sure you've already noticed that your kind —" Malfoy winced at her words of choice. Hermione continued anyway. "— are immensely strong and impermeable to a good number of spells. It's made it a challenge for us to keep Ministry property out of their reach . . ." She tilted her head. "You have noticed that, right? Extraordinary strength? Speed? Most vampires would be innately familiar with those gifts by now, but I realize I didn't —"
"Nothing about this is a gift," Malfoy grit out.
Hermione considered him. "Even the positive symptoms frustrate you."
He didn't respond.
"It's understandable," Hermioned went on, "but we need to talk about why."
"I'm not frustrated that I'm fast or strong or whatever the hell you're on about."
"Then why are you frustrated?"
"Are you kidding? I can't go outside during the day, I can't eat real food, I'm banned from every apothecary from here to Germany, and I'm stuck here with you ! How could I be anything but frustrated?"
"You're banned from apothecaries?" Hermione flipped through his file. She saw no mention of that. "What did you do?"
"Clearly, you're not familiar with your own stupid laws," Malfoy muttered. "There's a widespread vampire ban in most European apothecaries. They've been known to steal . . . certain ingredients." He finally sank into his chair. "Learned that last week when Mulpepper threatened me with a string of garlic and a wooden stake."
It didn't slip past Hermione that he referred to vampires as "they." He was in denial. They'd address that later.
"Blood provisions. They're worried about raids, I suspect," Hermione said. Malfoy stiffened at that. She cleared her throat and added, "But I agree with you, the law is stupid. In fact, the Association of Magical Healers recommends Blood-Replenishing Potions as a core pillar of the treatment plan. It makes little sense to ban you from purchasing the ingredients to make one."
She knew they sent an updated list of all the vampires to shopkeepers across Magical Britain, but she thought it was for public safety. Apparently, she had some studying to do. If she was going to help her clients, getting them access to the potions they needed was crucial.
Ministry-granted rations just weren't enough.
"How long do we have left?" Malfoy asked suddenly, dragging her out of her thoughts.
"Nearly fifty minutes."
"Fifty? And I'm expected to talk to you this whole time?"
"Well, being engaged in our sessions is recommended . . . You won't get much from this time otherwise."
"Recommended," Malfoy pointed out. "But not required?"
Hermione pursed her lips. "Technically, to be within compliance, you only have to show up for the full session and answer the key questions. That said —"
"Fine. What are the key questions, then?"
"Well," she began, "you're quite early in your transition. What are some of the symptoms you're experiencing?"
"Besides the giant teeth cutting into my lip?" he spat.
"Yes," Hermione replied. "You mentioned not being able to eat food. Can you tell me more about that?"
He finally sunk into his seat. "What do you want me to say? It tastes like dirt, and makes me ill if I eat too much of it."
"You can't eat anything, then?" Hermione asked.
"I can force a steak down, if it's rare."
"And you can't go outside during the day?"
"Not unless it's fucking dark out. You know, Granger, I'm really starting to wonder if you are qualified to be doing this, considering you don't seem to know the basic symptoms of —"
"I'm familiar with the common signs of early onset vampirism," Hermione interjected. She leveled her gaze on him. "But everyone is different. Knowing what you're going through tells me how I can help you. It also shows the Ministry you're committed to working with us . . . A good track record can make a difference if you ever offend — and most vampires do, at some point."
No blame was in her tone. Forever would be, after all, a long time to go without doing what nature intended.
Malfoy said nothing, his eyes affixed upon something behind her, a clear sign of avoidance in a bare room.
Hermione sighed. "Look, I can't imagine what you're going through, and I know you don't like me, but you must know I'm on your side. Whatever you're experiencing —"
"You're right, you can't imagine it," he snarled.
"That's what I just said." Hermione bottled her frustrations, determined not to say something she'd regret. She squared her shoulders. "The symptoms have to be extremely debilitating. I can't relate to that. But I do know what it's like to be ostracized for something I can't control . . . You should know that as well as anyone."
Malfoy's eyes darted towards her. "You think you get it, do you?" He squinted. "Because you're a Mudblood?"
"First of all, I'd appreciate it if you'd refrain from using that word. I've treated you with nothing but respect today." She sniffed. "Anyway, I know it's not exactly the same, but —"
"I want to leave."
"We have forty-seven minutes left."
"Then we're in for a rather long silence, aren't we?"
"I still have a few of those key questions we talked about," Hermione said. "Not many — but if we can get through them, I won't bother you for the rest of the session. How does that sound?"
The cogs of Malfoy's mind were turning. After a long moment, he muttered, "Fine. Let's just get this over with."
No keener to be in that room than he was, Hermione found it to be an agreeable arrangement.
"First, I need to know how you're managing your hunger. Early infec —" She stopped herself, realizing it was probably not the most sensitive word to keep using, even if it were medically correct. "Early stages of vampirism are some of the most insatiable. How are you handling that?"
"I already told you. Steaks," Malfoy answered. "Blood-Replenishing Potions — when I can get them."
"How are you sourcing those?" Hermione asked. "Since you're barred from local apothecaries."
"We keep emergency rations at my family manor."
"Are your parents aware of your affliction, then?" she inquired. "They're helping you?"
Malfoy clenched his jaw. "Are these part of your key questions?"
"Not exactly, but I do need to know your living situation," said Hermione. "It's relevant."
He eyed her. "My mother knows."
"So she sees you?"
"I've kept my distance . . . I have a private wing."
Hermione nodded and quickly penned her notes. "That's — that's good. That's really good. You'll want to stay away from her — and your father and anyone else that may be in the home, house-elves included . . . You won't be safe around them until your body has had time to adjust — six months, at least."
"We aren't awake during the same hours. I can assure you, it won't be a problem."
"That can actually pose a bigger risk," Hermione pointed out, her thoughts crawling into the darkest corner imaginable. "The majority of accidental offenses are against family members, often in vulnerable positions such as being asleep or —"
"I'm not going to attack my bloody family. Fucking hell, Granger, I'm not an animal."
It wasn't worth arguing with him. Anything she said wasn't going to change his methods, and she knew it — especially if she insulted him. "All right. Good. That's good. Erm — that's er — that's it, for my questions, then." She gave him a weak smile. "Is there anything else you'd like to talk about?"
He didn't respond.
"Well, if you think of anything, I'm here, okay? And we have —" She glanced at her watch. "Forty-four minutes left. That time is all yours to discuss anything you'd like."
They sat in silence until the clock struck three.
Hermione closed his file. "Time's up."
"Finally," Malfoy grumbled.
"Right. Erm — Millicent will see you out in just a moment," Hermione explained. "She'll take you to our Potion Master for some more Blood-Replenishing Potions — he'll give you enough to get you through until your next session."
Malfoy didn't say anything — not a "thank you," not a "whatever," not even a sound. He simply stayed there, chained and waiting.
"I'll see you next week, Malfoy," Hermione went on, standing. "Maybe you'll be ready to talk more."
The session felt unfinished — like an untied shoelace she would keep stepping on for weeks to come. As she opened one of the doors, she exhaled, every bit of her confusion bubbling to the surface.
Draco Malfoy was a vampire.
It was no longer just something she read on paper, a claim as far-fetched as a fairytale or science fiction. It was real.
Millicent, who had been waiting for her as promised, raised her eyebrows.
"Is he ready for transport?"
"Yes," Hermione said. "He er — he's going to need some Blood-Replenishing Potions. Fourteen phials, if you can ensure he gets them. I'll send the order down to Brimble."
Millicent nodded and slipped into the room.
Hermione lingered there for a moment, watching through the glass as the woman unhooked Malfoy's chains from the chair and forced him upward. His hateful glare bore into Hermione through those tiny windows, burning her to her bones.
He didn't deserve to be there. That she was sure of — and no amount of ire could change her mind.