Hermione had never struggled with handling her workload — not really, anyway, not when it counted. In her third year, she used a Time-Turner to get to her classes. In her fifth, she prepared for O.W.L.s months early. During her internship, she managed not only her own calendar, but also those of two of her superiors. She was easily the most organized person in the entire department, and possibly in the entire Ministry.
The problem was not Hermione Granger. The problem was her new subdepartment.
Compliant vampires, while the overwhelming minority, were still much too large of a group to be governed by a single representative. She was learning this the hard way, and as the days went on, she was starting to think Caldwell had been desperate for an excuse to reassign her all along. After all, someone had to take the caseload from McLaggen. He was inarguably the least capable person to oversee such an enormous client base.
Vampire Support needed her. Really, it needed three of her — maybe more.
So when she found an hour-long block, she was both surprised and elated. She barely had time to think, let alone get to any of the research she urgently needed to complete.
That hour would be used to its fullest.
Coffee in hand, she sat down at her desk and carefully opened an old tome. She'd borrowed it from the Ministry Library the previous Friday. It'd been sitting there ever since, untouched, begging for her to envelop herself in its many hand-written pages. They were coming loose from the spine, some illegible from stains of what appeared to be a mixture of blood and tea, but that only meant its teachings had been read by many. She relished the smell of the aged ink.
Finally, it was hers for the taking.
A memo zipped into the room, a much unwelcome distraction.
She watched it carefully, hoping it was not hers to read.
After all, it could be a notice from the caretakers for McLaggen — he had been in trouble for trying to flush broom wax down a toilet that day. Or maybe it was a premature reminder for Caldwell for his morning meetings. He got those a lot.
It was neither.
Hermione frowned as the purple airplane landed on her desk. It unfolded itself, revealing the very thing she'd desperately hoped to avoid.
Where are you? Yav the Blood-Hungry is here.
— Bulstrode
In just a week, she'd already been late for two clients due to McLaggen's incomplete calendar. A third seemed preposterous.
"Again?" she groaned.
Had she made a mistake? It wouldn't have been the first time his ghastly penmanship fooled her.
She flipped open the planner he'd left her with, searching for any mention of a Yav the Blood-Hungry. Hermione assumed she wouldn't have forgotten such a name had it been there — and she was right. No session was listed.
Mourning the loss of her much-needed research block, she located the vampire's file, rose from her seat, and started the journey to the holding room. Tardiness and a lack of preparation seemed to be the theme for the week, and she would be particularly late for this one. The long hand on her watch lingered just before the III.
A fifteen-minute delay was enough to get her written up, if Caldwell caught wind of it.
Millicent was seething by the time she arrived.
The guard's meaty arms were crossed, her mouth fixed into a scowl. Dark eyes landed on Hermione, narrow and brimming with vexation.
"This is the third time!" she scolded.
"I know, I know, I'm sorry," Hermione apologized. "It's this blasted schedule McLaggen left me with . . . Is —" The client's unusual name refused to roll off her tongue. She made a face and opted for the short version. "— Yav — ready?"
"He's been ready," Millicent answered, unlatching her key-ring from her belt. "You'll want to keep your distance in there. He's got extra restraints on him, but he's not your average vampire."
"He's dangerous?"
"All I'll say is that the 'Blood-Hungry' bit isn't a lie." Millicent jammed the key into the bronze padlock, twisting it with more muscle than she likely needed. "He was sniffing me the whole way here."
Fear curdled in Hermione's stomach. Still, she feigned composure.
"You'll be here if anything happens?"
"Always am."
"Thank you."
With a sharp inhale, Hermione entered the cavernous room.
Yav the Blood-Hungry was indeed a fitting name.
Fangs jutted past his bottom lip. Pallid skin stretched across protruding cheekbones. Beady, crimson eyes followed Hermione as she sat down across from him. Unlike her other clients, he didn't quite look human anymore. Hermione wondered what he was capable of — something told her he'd offended in the past, maybe even recently.
He licked his lips. "You're new."
A thick and ancient accent fell from his tongue. Hermione suspected his native language was close to forgotten, if not long-dead.
"Yes," she croaked, nodding. "I've replaced Mr. McLaggen as your representative. I'll be handling your case from now on."
Red irises traced her frame. They moved slowly, calculatingly, as though he were trying to determine whether attacking her would be worth it or not. Her wand hand twitched, ready to aim it at him if he made even one wrong move.
"Vill you, now?" he said at last. "Zat is good . . . Yes, wary good . . . I zink I vill like you more zan zat other vun."
Bile rose into Hermione's throat. She cleared it away.
"Did you have trouble with Cormac?"
"Trouble? No — no trouble. Za man vos only less . . . intriguing zan you seem."
Gooseflesh prickled Hermione's skin. She ignored it and opened his file.
"You're a born vampire," she pointed out as she read the detail. His shocking appearance made more sense, all of a sudden. "That's quite rare."
"I am not rare at all," he lilted. "My bruzzers and sisters do not live by your laws so you vill not find zem 'ere — but zey exist as much as I do. I promise you zat."
Despite the implications, Hermione hoped his brothers and sisters remained noncompliant, for she had no desire to meet anyone else like Yav the Blood-Hungry. Her gut had bottomed out already, warning her of the predator before her, urging her to run.
If only she could.
" Ahem ," she continued. "The notes here say you're twelve-hundred years old. Is that true?"
"Nineteen-'undred-and-seven," he corrected.
"Right," Hermione said, crossing off the previous entry with her ballpoint pen. Just another one of McLaggen's mistakes that she had to fix. She added it to her mental pile. "And — erm — how was your week? Have you felt satiated?"
"My veek vos misery, my lady. You vill come to find zat is usually the case . . . You see, it is wary difficult to be a wampire of pure blood."
"I'm sorry to hear," Hermione said automatically. Her pen hovered over her clipboard. "Can you tell me more about that?"
"Ah, yes. You should know zat my fangs ache for a neck to puncture — but I vill not succumb! I vish to be vithin za laws of 'umans . . . It is in my best interest."
"You're right, it is. And your determination not to offend will look good on your record." Hermione wasn't sure how much she believed him, but at least he seemed self-aware. "What about your support system? Is there anyone you can rely on, outside of our sessions?"
"Oh, my loins are desperate to take mate, my lady, but zare is no one as of now. My Ovana vos given za Bath of Sun, you see. I am of loneliness ever since."
"My condolences. I can imagine that was hard."
"The most 'orrible year of all my long life. 1622," he lamented. "Vee ver in Italy ven zey discovered 'er feeding from za daughter of a lord. I votched from za shadows as she burned."
"I'm so sorry," Hermione said, and to her surprise, she meant it. "That must have been awful for you."
"It is za vorst pain I vill ever know."
"How are you coping now, since so much time has passed?"
"Time or no, zis vorld is torture vithout 'er, but I live as your laws instruct to avoid such a fate for myself . . . It vos my final promise to 'er."
Ovana must have been extraordinary, to leave such a lasting impression. Hermione wondered what their bond had been like, how it would feel to love so purely and fully — only to lose it. For a brief moment, she nearly forgot what he was.
The way he spoke of love was like that of a Shakespearean sonnet. No monster could experience emotions that way, she was sure of it.
Having softened to him, she asked, "What about family?"
"My family 'as abandoned me," Yav answered.
"Abandoned you?"
"I am an embarrassment to zem, for following your laws," he explained. "Zey say it is against our nature — but I promised my Ovana, and zare is nuzzing I vould not do for 'er. I vould rip out the tongues of my sisters and cut off the testicles of my bruzzers, zen feed it to them whole, if it vould bring 'er back . . ."
Hermione watched him with idle interest as his words faded into the thick air. Still, his mouth moved, but he was only an echo in the distance. The atmosphere was static — near-frozen in time.
Ovana was given the Bath of Sun.
Yav's tongue lashed against his fangs. She should have heard the story he continued to tell, but suddenly, his canines were much smaller. His lips were pink and full, his face longer but less gaunt, sporting a new hint of color. Platinum locks were combed over neatly, and his crimson eyes dulled to grey, underlined by the dark rings of illness and fatigue. He was tied to a cross, the poison sun rising in the east —
"My lady?"
Hermione jumped in her seat. She blinked away the hallucination, her cheeks blooming with warmth as Yav the Blood-Hungry tilted his head with curiosity.
"Yes — erm, sorry," she stammered. "I er — do you mind repeating that?"
"I vos inquiring if I could 'ave an increased ration of potion," he said. "Are you all right, dear girl?"
"Yes, I'm fine," Hermione answered at once. "And er — yes, if you're struggling with thirst, an increase in your ration would be my recommendation."
She swallowed hard and added his request to her notes. Clearly, she was still adjusting to the night shift.
A stack of books landed with a thud. Dust clouded the air.
Hermione had found sanctuary at the Ministry Library, especially at the corner table in the Species Law section. It was a world away from the department office, a place where she could work without the unwanted distractions of Corner and McLaggen's constant bickering.
She seized a book from atop the pile.
After discovering it nestled between the tomes of the less-explored shelves, she had grown quite eager to read it. The title itself was disgruntling — a beacon of archaic law and a long history of the Ministry's legislative bias. Emblazoned in silver, it read, To Rule Demons: A Guide to the Legal Matters of Vampires, Goblins, and Werewolves.
The picture only made it worse.
A rather offensive depiction of each being had been masterfully painted there, likely by one of the era's esteemed magical illustrators, considering there were so few in 1794. The faded colors portrayed a werewolf gnawing on the arm of what appeared to be a child; a goblin was swimming in gold, bearing exaggerated fangs; then, there was the vampire. Naked and ferocious, it dangled the head of a screaming woman just above its unhinged jaw. Wings sprouted from its back, tongue lolling outward to savor the woman's garnet drops of blood.
Little had changed since the eighteenth century. That image was what so many in the Wizarding World still saw, the types of speciesist remarks she'd heard even from the mouth of one of her own best friends. She supposed that's why they never worked out, and why he was likely canoodling with Pansy Parkinson that very second.
Maybe Pansy would cosign his ignorant remarks, but Hermione most certainly would not.
She opened the book. The horrors did not end with the tattered cover.
Torturing the Untorturable. By Way of Force. Imprisonment. The table of contents was swarming with disturbing chapter titles, all penned by a wretched wizard named Gillead Bogwallow. Once upon a time, he'd founded the Being Division — Hermione recalled seeing his portrait hung in the division's office.
She half-considered marching there and setting it on fire.
"Hard at work, I see."
Hermione jumped at the unexpected voice. It was the very one she'd been hoping to escape.
"What d'you want, McLaggen?"
The wizard took the seat beside her without so much as asking her permission. "Just saying hi to my favorite coworker." He plucked a book from her pile and flicked through the pages. "Really getting your hands dirty with the blood-suckers, aren't you?"
She glared at him. "That term is offensive."
"Don't see why." McLaggen returned the book and shrugged. "No more offensive than saying we're meat-and-plant-eaters, really."
"Yes. It is."
He leaned in and whispered, "Good thing none of them are here then."
"They don't have to be here," Hermione snapped. "They're my clients. It's my job to ensure they're respected within magical society, whether they are present or not . . ." She buried her nose in her book once more, hoping he would take the hint. "Since they used to be yours, I thought you might have the same attitude."
"Oh, c'mon, Granger, you can drop the act. Maybe you had to do this whole song and dance for the elves, but they're different. Elves are likeable. Vampires, well . . ." He blew air from his mouth and shook his head. "Much tougher sell, aren't they?"
"They need representation the same as anyone else."
McLaggen snorted. "They need to be locked up. You'll figure it out the more time you spend with them . . . Actually, it'd be a pretty easy job if you took that route, yeah? Let me know if you do, I might ask Caldwell to swap back."
"I will not be locking anyone up," Hermione said darkly.
" Relax — it's just a joke. Wouldn't want to offend our fanged friends or anything . . ." He slapped the table. "Anyway, a couple of us were going to go get drinks in a bit. Fancy coming along?"
"I'll be working," Hermione replied, her tone clipped. "Night shift, remember?"
"Why are you here right now then? It's barely four."
"I needed to do some research. My nights have been a bit too meeting-heavy to have the time."
"Ah yeah, all the compliance sessions." His lip curled. "Those are right fun."
"I don't mind them," Hermione lied.
"You can admit it, Granger, they're misery."
Hermione didn't respond.
McLaggen let out a resolved sigh and stood, finally seeming to catch onto her glaring social cues. "Well, if you change your mind and want to cut out early, we'll be at the Leaky. Should be a good time. I reckon you could just let your clients know that you won't be in."
Hermione looked up at him. "Is that something you did often?"
"If you can't make it, you can't mark them out of compliance. It's the law," he posited. "If anything, you're doing them a favor, saving them the trip. Brimble can send their potions by owl."
Hermione couldn't believe what she was hearing. She would not be doing that.
"Good to know," she said evenly.
"Anyway, I ought to be going. Got some paperwork to finish up before I head out to the pub. Elf business."
"Sounds important."
"Sure is." He winked. "I'll see you later, Hermione."
He then strutted away, disappearing into the labyrinth of bookcases, though his awful cologne lingered. Hermione exhaled.
"Prat."
With no desire to stoke her anger, she set aside Bogwollow's disgraceful text and snatched the book McLaggen had been leafing through. The title page was already more promising than the swill she'd first read, featuring an old vampiric sigil and intricate cursive. Maroon ink shone beneath the torchlight of the library.
A HISTORY OF VAMPYRISM
No author was listed.
That wasn't terribly unusual for such texts. Many older writings were penned only to be passed down through the family of whomever authored it, a reference book for the eyes meant to read it, and nothing more. Hoping for something of interest, she flipped the page. There was no table of contents, nor page numbers, only a large Roman numeral and delicate script.
I
Neither living nor dead, the Vampyre is a God of the waking world. He may only walk by light of the Moon, as the Sun is baneful to His skin. This has earned Him the noble title of the Lord of Night. There is no greater Nocturnos known to Humankind.
The Lord is a predator. He feeds from the pulsing veins of His Human prey, stalking them by use of impeccable eyesight, speed, and sense of smell. He kills most of those He feeds upon, but He also has the power to bless lucky few with The Vampyre's Gift . . .
Hermione turned several of the vellum pages. Being a Muggle-born apparently hadn't limited her basic understanding of the species.
III
Due to their eternal life, Vampyres are stronger when they do not walk alone. For many centuries, Vampyres that understood this chose to work in Covens to share their prey. In recent years, however, fewer choose this path. Risk is high during times of the Vampyre Hunt. Many Covens have been known to fall.
While Covenry has its dangers, He who chooses a mate will thrive even when Hunters roam.
Vampyre mates, contrary to most humanesque species, can sense each other even from afar. A Vampyre does not need to call upon His mate if He is distressed. His mate will sense Him with Her divine intuition, just as He senses Her. This is especially useful during times of the Hunt.
The Blood of a Vampyre's mate also has extraordinary healing properties.
In times of great thirst or injury, mates have been known to feed from one another. A Vampyre without a mate will have no such living potion, and is therefore more likely to suffer in His immortality. In some cases, a mateless Vampyre may even desiccate from blood-thirst.
Hermione frowned. Suddenly, the story of Ovana was much more tragic than she thought.
Taking a mate was a common practice among the species — this she knew — but she had not grasped the gravity of what it meant to them. Worse yet, she hadn't grasped the gravity of what it meant to lose them.
She thought of Malfoy — drowning in hellfire as the sun melted away his skin, his eyes, leaving only his teeth and bones.
That drink with McLaggen didn't seem like such a bad idea anymore.
