Cormac McLaggen had been right about one thing. Hermione would never admit it out loud, of course — especially not to him — but as the midnight hour drew ever nearer, she thought it to herself.
Vampires were less likeable than house-elves.
It was a fleeting, unimportant notion. No matter their social appeal, they still deserved her complete devotion to their cases. Unfortunately, they didn't always make it easy.
There was Brother Paul, who still believed in the Christian God, though he hadn't seen any evidence of him in all seven-hundred of his immortal years. The monk writhed and gnashed his teeth between reciting psalms, often reminding Hermione that witches went to Hell.
"You will burn for your sins," he would say.
Hermione chose not to argue with him.
The Adamses were more polite. Once Muggles, the family of three still hadn't come to terms with their unlucky circumstances, despite being vampires for over two decades. The boy was infected on a school trip in the late '70s. His parents, against their better judgment, asked him to turn them too — a choice they later regretted, and which led to constant bickering. In a way, the normalcy of it was a bit comical.
Her least favorite client was Gorgora the Hideous, who spoke in tongues when she was angry, and her favorite client was Pearl von Hinten, an American flapper who thrived on glitz and glamor. She was fascinating and worldly, carrying a Mid-Atlantic accent and encrusting herself in glittering diamonds, sporting extravagant gowns, and wearing her hair in a bright blonde bob that reminded Hermione of Jean Harlow. She was infected on holiday in 1926. She hadn't left Europe since.
After their first session, Hermione thought every encounter with Pearl would be sublime — a trip back to Old Hollywood she'd never experience on her own. In fact, she thought Pearl's sessions would be the only ones she'd enjoy at all.
She was wrong.
". . . and I used to love this blood bar in Berlin," Pearl gushed. "It was shut down a few years back, but my beau and I used to go all the time, back in the fifties . . ." She sighed dramatically. "I've been a bit depressed since I lost him. He was perfect, you know. Tall, handsome. Related to Dracula, so I knew he came from good stock . . . There's just not much you can do when a man has a stake . . ."
"You just don't want a black mark on your perfect record."
Pearl's ringlets faded, morphing into an impeccable swoop of platinum. Her jaw grew squarer, her nose pointier. Silver eyes bore into Hermione's.
"Then we're in for a rather long silence, aren't we?"
"Hermione?"
Hermione jolted out of her reverie.
Pearl tilted her head. "Are you all right, dear?"
"Yes," Hermione had said, forcing a smile. "I'm fine."
It was the second incident that week. No matter how much she wanted to, she just couldn't shake Malfoy.
Maybe it was the strangeness of it all. The man she once knew as a spiteful, spoiled little cretin had been attacked in Knockturn Alley, just weeks before. He was newly infected, a pure-blood who had little regard for the humanity of vampires, and therefore, little regard for himself.
It was only natural Hermione would think of him during her other sessions. She'd known him in his previous life, after all. Malfoy was different from the others. There was self-loathing and fear, fury and denial — not to mention their long and confusing history.
Perhaps he wasn't willing to admit it, but he needed her help, and she was going to give it to him.
Malfoy glared at her from across the room. Hermione opened his file.
"You're looking well," she said — and she meant it. He looked less tired, less sunken. Color had returned to him, if only a little, and the circles beneath his eyes weren't nearly as pronounced. She laced her fingers. "How are the Blood-Replenishing Potions? Are they keeping you full?"
"They're fine," mumbled Malfoy.
"Good." She made note of his response. "If you do happen to run out between visits, you can owl me and we'll look into sending you more. These first stages of the transition tend to be the hardest."
Malfoy's lip curled, but he said nothing.
"Speaking of that," Hermione started, "how have you been adjusting?"
"How do you think?" he spat.
Had he been any other client, she might have mentioned his lack of cooperation in her report — but somehow, it didn't seem fair. Between his early-stage infection and their notorious childhood rivalry, he had every reason to be difficult.
Frankly, she half-expected him to stop complying at all.
"Based on your tone, I'm gathering you're still frustrated."
Malfoy leaned forward, the vein in his neck protruding as the metallic sound of his shackles cut through the air. Contempt emanated from him.
"Is this how it's going to be every week? You patronizing me for an hour while I'm stuck here as your captive audience?"
"It's not meant to be patronizing. It's a question about your feelings, which we will be discussing each session," Hermione replied sternly. "Working through these emotions is important — it ensures you don't do anything rash."
"Like what? Attack schoolchildren?" he denigrated. "Go on a killing spree in London? Because you can come in here with your little file and your stupid Muggle quill, but that doesn't mean you have any idea what's going on in my head."
"You're right, I don't have any idea," Hermione concurred. "As I've said before, this experience is entirely personal to you."
"At least we agree on something, then."
"I think you'd be surprised how much we agree on."
"Right. Because we have so much in common, you and I," he mocked. "Two peas in a fucking pod."
"That's not what I said. We don't have to be alike to share similar thoughts on matters, Malfoy, you're smart enough to know that." She plucked an errant orange hair from her robes, obviously the work of her cat, Crookshanks. "For example, I think we can both agree you're having trouble connecting with your new identity. Is that right?"
Malfoy sucked his teeth. "Somehow I doubt that question is on your form."
"Not explicitly, but it'll help me frame what we talk about today."
"I told you before, I'm only answering what I have to."
"Fine." Hermione crossed her legs. "A required question, then. What symptoms have affected you most this week?"
"Can't say I'm too fond of the whole drinking blood thing," he sputtered.
"Fair. What else?"
"Am I out of compliance if I don't answer?"
"That depends," replied Hermione, "have you done anything illegal?"
He clenched his jaw. "Define illegal."
Hermione hesitated; it was an uncomfortable conversation for the both of them, considering his history. "With your condition in mind, the Ministry's primary concern is offending against a witch, wizard, or Muggle. Blood theft is also a known issue — as we discussed during our last session." She cleared her throat. "However, if there's any other activity you've not been tried for, it's best you tell me now. It illustrates transparency."
"I've got a broom that's not sky-legal. Going to chuck me in Azkaban for that, are you?"
"Obviously not, I mean crimes with victims."
"I'm not a bloody animal," he ground out. "I haven't attacked anyone. I stay in my wing at the manor, I told you before."
"What about your trips to the potion cupboard?" asked Hermione.
"I keep my rations in my bedroom."
"Good," she said, scribbling down his claim. "That's really good, Malfoy. It's precisely what the department wants to see — especially for a new vampire. You're still learning to control your urges at this stage, so the fact you —"
Malfoy inhaled sharply. She'd struck a nerve.
"That bothered you, me mentioning your urges," she said.
"I'm not bothered," he protested.
Hermione sighed. "Look, I know we've . . . had our differences, but right now, I suspect you don't have anyone to talk to about what you're going through. Your transition is painful and taboo, and you probably feel completely alone — but I'm here to listen. I won't judge you, even if you think something is embarrassing or —"
"I don't need a sales pitch, Granger, I know exactly why you're here."
"I'm not sure you do," Hermione rebutted. "No matter what's happened in the past or what the Ministry thinks of your kind, I'm here to support you. That's my job, and I take my work very seriously . . . You've known me long enough to know that's true."
He stared at her, skepticism written all over his face as he shifted in his chains. Hermione suspected she would feel the same, had their roles been reversed.
"Do you remember what I said six years ago? At your trial?" she asked.
He didn't respond.
"I told the Wizengamot you deserved a second chance."
"I remember," he muttered.
"And do you know why I said that?"
"I'm sure you're going to tell me," he muttered.
Hermione leaned in. "I said it because I believed it. I still do."
He ground his teeth together. "So what's your point?"
"My point is: I will fight for you, but you have to show up for these sessions — not just physically, but mentally and emotionally, too. That's the only way you'll deal with everything you're feeling right now."
She waited for a cutting retort. It never came.
"So let me ask you again," she continued softly, "why did it bother you when I referred to your urges?"
"Because I shouldn't have any urges."
"But you do," Hermione deduced.
"Obviously," he hissed.
"What was your first one?"
"Excuse me?"
"Your first urge," Hermione said. Her tone was as nonchalant as she could manage. "After you were bitten. What was it?"
Malfoy sized her up, silver eyes narrowed with suspicion. "Does it matter?"
"It does if it's been bothering you," Hermione answered.
"Telling you isn't going to change it, though, is it?"
"No, but getting it off your chest may help you cope with it," said Hermione. "That's what I'm here for: to help you cope."
Malfoy sat still for a moment, working his jaw in that way he always did when he was mulling something over in that ever-whirring brain of his. Even in school he'd been like that, always thinking about something. Always stuck in his head.
Hermione could relate to that — probably more than anyone.
"D'you remember Theodore Nott?" he suddenly asked, his tone low and his gaze averted.
The recollection was vague. The Slytherin was brunette, with large teeth and sunken, haunted eyes. Forgettable in every way, except for the fact he could see the thestrals in their fifth year at Hogwarts. That, she remembered.
She also recalled that his father was a Death Eater, the same as Malfoy's. It would make sense for them to have a history.
"Yes."
"He married a girl from Durmstrang two years ago," he said. "They made me their son's godfather."
"That's quite an honor."
He ran his tongue over his teeth. "Yeah."
Hermione gave him an expectant look. "Does this relate to the question I asked you a moment ago?"
The room fell silent. She thought she lost him again.
Finally, he spoke.
"Theodore brought him to my family manor a few weeks ago. That's when I — that's when it happened."
Hermione gasped. She couldn't help it.
"You didn't."
"No, I didn't," he snarled. "But I bloody wanted to. The whole time, I was thinking about picking him up and bleeding him dry. What kind of fucking monster would —" He stopped. "Whatever. I sent them away and it's done with."
Hermione took a shaky breath. To help her clients was to hear their horror stories — to work with them to process their trauma, and Malfoy had plenty of it to unpack. Probably more than others.
"Vampires gravitate towards children's blood," she explained carefully. "Their bloodstreams have fewer toxins than those of adults . . . You only felt the way nature intended for you to feel — what's important is that you stopped yourself."
Solemnity blanketed his features. "I could've killed him."
"But you didn't," Hermione pointed out quickly. "Malfoy, that's good. That was an impressive feat of self-control, especially for a new vampire."
"I wanted to drink my two-year-old godson's blood," he growled. "You call that self-control?"
The words were rattling to hear aloud, but what she had said was true: Children's blood, to vampires, was a nutrient-rich delicacy — something akin to vintage wine or filet mignon.
"I work with a lot of vampires," she said, "and most of them wouldn't have been able to stop themselves in your shoes. Don't be so hard on yourself, okay? You did the right thing."
Malfoy's lip twitched. He then glanced at her unmoving hands.
"Shouldn't you be writing all this down?"
"Some things are better between us, I think."
He narrowed his eyes at that.
"Speaking of which," she went on, "I want to circle back to an earlier point I made — about talking to someone."
"That's what we're doing now, isn't it?" Malfoy drawled.
"Yes, we are — and that's great. But as we established, I can never fully understand your experience. There are, however, people that can."
"If you're trying to put me in some kind of blood-sucker support group —"
"No," Hermione interjected. "Nothing of the sort."
"Then what's your point?"
She did her best to keep her composure. Discussing Malfoy's personal intimate relationships was not on her shortlist of things she wanted to do. Alas, it was necessary.
"Well, as you probably know by now, most vampires take mates at some point in their lives."
He wrinkled his nose. That was precisely what Hermione wanted to do too, but for professionalism's sake, she staved off the impulse. The quicker they got through this, the better.
"I know. You probably don't want to discuss this with me — and that's okay — but as a new vampire, you need to know that eventually, you're going to want to take one for yourself."
"There's no way in —"
"And when you do, it will be perfectly natural and I encourage you to explore it. Actually, it will be quite good for you. Vampire mates are extraordinary support systems for one another. They can sense when you're distressed — plus their blood is medicinal, which means —"
"You're telling me to find some freak to make into my girlfriend," Malfoy snarled. "Fat fucking chance."
"You don't have to have one just yet, you still have a lot to work through," Hermione explained. "But as your representative, I must tell you that it will be important in the future."
"I already told you. I'm not doing it. Not now, not ever."
"Malfoy, vampires without mates are more likely to be depressed —"
"Being a blood-sucker's depressing enough on its own.
"— more likely to be found by vampire hunters. They can even die of thirst — well, technically it's called desiccation, but —"
"I don't want to shack up with some filthy neck-biter," he growled. "The last thing the world needs is for me and some other abomination to reproduce."
"An abomination. Is that how you see yourself?"
"How else am I supposed to see myself?" he scoffed. "I have to drink blood — just to stay alive. Seem normal to you, does it?"
"Normal doesn't —"
"I wanted to murder a two-year-old."
"Which you didn't do, might I remind you," Hermione said firmly. "You're suffering from a condition you have no control over. That doesn't make you an abomination. In fact, you have an unusual amount of self-control for someone in your shoes."
"A lot of talk for someone that has me in chains," Malfoy growled.
Hermione opened her mouth to argue, but she couldn't. The hypocrisy had to be deafening. The problem was: It was a catch-22.
If she unchained him, he could kill her faster than she could stop him. Every bit of malice he'd been holding onto since they were children could explode into something with devastating consequences — for the both of them. On the other hand, if she didn't unchain him, what she was preaching meant nothing. All the stigma he knew would be amplified — and she could be responsible for his internalized sanguivoriphobia forevermore.
Humanizing the inhuman was an exhausting job.
Her eyes shot towards the doors. There Millicent stood, her back to the glass panels, ready to barge in — or report anything questionable — at any moment. Hermione swallowed hard. Her knuckles were going white from gripping her clipboard.
After a moment, Malfoy scoffed. "That's what I thought."
She'd done it. Her hesitation proved him right — proved that he was an abomination, that he did have to hang his head in shame.
Draco Malfoy was a lot of things, but so was she. He was foul and selfish and crass, but Hermione Granger was determined and righteous. She was a beacon of hope for house-elves, and now, she was supposed to be a beacon of hope for vampires — for him.
She ripped her wand out from her sleeve.
"Dimmitio!"
The chains flew off him, the clatter of goblin silver reverberating off the walls as they fell to the ground. Malfoy drew his eyebrows together in perplexity. He looked up at her.
She trained her breathing to remain steady, dark eyes fixed on his. She could not show a single iota of fear — it would completely negate her point.
Not three meters away from her was a vampire, free from chains, unpunishable by most magic. There was nothing stopping him from sprinting across the room and draining her every ounce of blood. Even if Millicent noticed, it would be much too late.
Those piercing, silver eyes studied her for far too long. They could only belong to an apex predator — and that's exactly what Malfoy was. A predator.
And she was easy prey.
He crossed his arms. "How much longer do we have?"
Hermione gulped and peeked at her watch. "Twelve minutes."
"Think you can stand being in here with me for that long?"
"Why wouldn't I?" she said evenly.
He rolled his eyes, seemingly annoyed. If Hermione didn't know better, she'd swear he didn't want to drink her blood at all, and that he was simply being the Draco Malfoy she'd known since her time at Hogwarts — the same boy that would charm her hair into knots just to get a rise out of her.
Maybe her blood was too dirty for him. It should've been a reassuring thought.
It wasn't.
"I suppose we'll just wait out the clock, then," he muttered.
"Is that what you want?" Hermione asked. She refused to give in to his childish games. He wanted to make her uncomfortable, to prove she didn't trust him. She wasn't going to give him the satisfaction.
He barked a mirthless laugh. "None of this is what I want."
"I know — but sometimes we can't choose what we are."
There was no snide response, no cutting remark meant to mock her personhood.
Right then, they were just two people — a Mudblood and a vampire — counting down the minutes.
