A/N: Geesh, sorry for the long gap, the world has been rather draining lately. It's been a nightmare to focus on anything with the whole world on the edge of a possible full on war outbreak. Thanks as always for your patience and time lovely readers, I do always appreciate it. I've got a very beautiful and haunting instrumental track that would pair well listening to this chapter once you reach the halfway point. If you want to feel a little spooky queue up the track A Blackened Heart by Peter Grundy. May want to have a light on if you're reading at night though! ;) This chapter follows into a dream world after Hermione falls asleep in the last chapters end, it explores further into the vampire mythos that will start appearing more throughout the story.

Chapter Five / Dead Of The Night

Brittle teacups and black tea leaves.

Cubes of sugar and chilled cream.

The sounds of feet running around the floor below.

Morning wake up calls banging on the door to get up for breakfast.

Warm embraces and the smell of the kitchen lively with baking food.

The way it felt to inhabit spaces surrounded with the people she loved.

She dreamed of all the things and all the moments that made her feel at home. If she just tried hard enough maybe it could feel real enough to touch. It had been days since she last dreamt of anything so peaceful so when the moment came she cherished it with a dull ache in her chest. Walking through the footsteps of her past she watched her dream self hustle down the stairs barefoot towards the call of fresh biscuits wafting through the air. If only she'd walked a little slower down the stairs, taken in everything and made the memory longer. It couldn't be changed now, but she tucked the thought away for future use. When she entered the kitchen she was overwhelmed with dozens of dishes all considerably plated and waiting for someone to sit and enjoy. Eggs prepared in at least five different ways, sausages and gravy, beans and toast. She could tell the others had haphazardly picked and sorted things they wanted and walked off from the kitchens stuffing their faces instead of sitting to eat. She could almost imagine Molly huffing and puffing and fretting over everyone rushing themselves instead of taking a moment to sit with each other. Molly had the age and the knowledge of living through one war already to know that these moments were far more precious than they may seem. Those just facing this war for the first time in their lives knew it was an honest truth, but they didn't want to linger on the thought long enough to really know they may never see each other again someday, maybe even the next day.

As her dream self sat quietly and ate with appreciation for the home cooked meal, the dream her wondered if the others had that exact worry themselves. She wondered if they sat in this same kitchen now too worried to eat and picking at their food and trying to understand what went wrong. What could have happened to her and where she was now. If they sat awake at nights in their bed atop the sheets ready to go at any moment, but afraid that she was already dead. She genuinely hoped they could feel that she was still alive, that she was still holding out strong waiting for the day she'd be swept up in their arms again being drowned in a dozen hugs and tender cheek kisses and swelling with joy filled tears. Holding out would be worth it alone for that moment of feeling so loved and missed and being back in a house that felt like a home because of the people inside of it. She could still remember the smell of the Weasley's home that was embedded into all their sweaters, a scent that was steeped with pure love. And of course, the way Harry's glasses frames would tickle the side of her face when reaching in for a hug. Little things she always knew she was taking for granted but was glad she noticed just enough to remember them in this moment.

Her dream self brushed through her and wandered towards the living room searching for everyone. No one was around but the sunlight filtered into the library with a shimmering dusty glow so inviting she found herself drifting towards the bookshelves and began gliding her fingertips over the bindings. The aroma of the old pages and the burnt down candle on the writing table were just out of her grasp, she could picture in her mind how they should smell, but there was nothing. Just like the bindings on the books, she could remember how it felt to press against the divots and the ribbed linen but there was no sensation when she watched herself repeat the actions. It was a hollow pleasure, knowing the things you loved were right there and you could see yourself experiencing it, but you could not actually sense it. As she focused closer on the books she realized the names on the bindings were swirling and unreadable, the names were there but were not able to be decoded. The illusions of the dream started to set in more and more unrealistically. Glancing over at her dream self she saw herself curled up on a plush green velvet settee intently reading a book without knowing that she was being watched in the future. Realization started to dawn on her that she remembered this moment, she remembered reading this book. It was a book she'd found hidden behind another tome and it was a Black family heirloom journal from an ancestor. She remembered looking around at the room cautiously to make sure she was still alone even though she knew no one would care. Reading a journal just felt so personal, so intimate, no matter whose it was.

Fluttering over the shoulder of her dream self the pages this time were readable, albeit a little hazy around the edges. Certain words and sections blurred a bit, simply because the exact lines weren't committed to her memory. She couldn't make out the name in the front pages when she first read it either, it had been aged and worn from constant use. The ink bled through and was destroyed by some sort of dark liquid. Having been so accustomed to it now, her transparent form shuddered at the clarity of knowing it was old and dried out blood.

At first, hunting them was just for fun. The thrill of chasing into the dark night until the morn with the danger of one of them being just around the corner was so enticing. I've never felt such a feeling before. I know one day I may not return from my hunts but I'd wager it would be worth it. Their victims look so gruesome after but so many tales prove that many willingly walk into their arms for that final moment. I lay awake some nights pondering what it must be that they feel that makes them crave death so willingly. Is it like a siren's call? Some sound that only those nearby can hear calling to them like a heavenly tune? Maybe even it's just the intoxicating need to reach out and touch danger directly. I know I feel that when I sit around the dark alleys in the still of night just waiting. Waiting and following them night after night. It feels so powerful to hunt something so dangerous. It's like testing the limits of humanity, stalking them through the shadows even though the shadows are their domain, the one thing that should be under their control. I can feel the hairs on my neck rise just recalling that feeling. It was like the time I did my first spell and felt my wand bend and answer to the magic inside of me. That sweet delicious feeling of having something so strong inside of me. I've seen them before in my observations, before capture, using some sort of thrall on their victims. Watching them beckon over some fool with no idea what's happening and within minutes they've completely surrendered. It's the most enchanting thing I've ever witnessed. Being able to influence someone so wholly that even their body cannot betray them. The imperius is the closest to it of the spells I've learned in my training but even it has its limits in how it factures the mind. Not to mention a willful enough foe can resist and break through its mental binds. But the thrall? By Gods, it's so all encompassing. I've seen them court women who return willingly night after night until they no longer even need to use it. They twirl under the everlasting gas lamps with their skirts billowing so invitingly to the creatures as they glide from the shadows towards them. Not a single fear nor a single worry that their life is dangling so precariously in the balance. It would be the ultimate weapon.

Cousin tells me they have some of them locked up in their cellars, he caught a peek at one the other evening before his mother caught him. His reaction was far less enthusiastic than my own, admittedly, but he's always been of the weaker sorts. Quite a pity considering he comes from such fine stock. He provided me plenty of useful information though at the least. Apparently, their body parts can be worth a good penny on the markets. His father has been dismembering them after his hunting's and selling off the parts worth the most money. The parts not worth much are simply thrown back into the cellars to keep the ones still captured in line. It seems a thin line to walk though, I would have thought to myself that it would only incite a desire to overturn their captor. Isolation seems a much more driving force in breaking the spirit of any creature or person. Or so it has been in my experience.

It gave me the most splendid idea though! Why should I waste valuable goods by letting them turn to ash in the sun when I can farm them for the ungodly amounts of money they can profit me? How absolutely childish of me to only think initially of the cheap profit. Perhaps I should have paid more attention when father would prattle on about the family empire. I could easily make well over a year's salary with just a few months of selling off the parts. I must admit it does make me quite giddy to picture how rapturous it will feel collecting the parts as well. Father has a marvelous collection of tools just going to waste since he retired from his practice. I wonder if their fangs regrow after so long or if they're just gone after being pulled? It would be a shame if they could only be collected once from each one. I'm not sure if the duller teeth would be worth as much as the frontal sharp ones. Aesthetically, I am sure the frontal teeth are worth much more. The blood I imagine though must be the real winner. It will either way make for the perfect way to test my theories on isolation being the better way to subdue them. That would make its own valuable knowledge to have, I could even use it in other exploits. I must admit the blood has been at the back of mind since I first started and what other practicalities it could be used for.

There was an article I found in the back pages of an esoteric paper that claimed their blood could be used to restore youth. I've yet to find any concrete old magic rituals worth pursuing in them but there were some very interesting articles in the back sale pages. Some sort of cream that didn't even require magic, it purified and tightened your skin with each use. It would make sense considering the blood seems to be the source that preserves their body, but it will require further testing once I have a proper lab created. Some women really do go through the most bizarre rituals for beauty, but who am I to complain if it profits me. They could be rubbing swine tallow on themselves for all I care. The longevity effects of the blood is something that I do care about though. What if there is a way to use it without having to be turned? It sounds far-fetched but the world of the vampires and their origins are so scarce as it is that we really don't know. I have a feeling any that do know and remained in the realm of the warm blooded kept that secret to themselves. How ridiculously selfish. I will have to do more research on this…could there truly be a way to turn with just the blood itself? There's no way it's that simple…[illegible]...venom? Perhaps the venom in the bite is the key. I will have to wait before getting to pull the teeth, a shame. Starting tomorrow…

The pages all started to return to a haze like the books on the shelf. Hermione could feel herself growing more and more tired even through the dream. Her sleep cycle was quickly turning and folding into another phase with a dreamless quiet abyss. Feeling herself collapse inward into her own mind she struggled to focus her eyes harder on the pages but it was all for nothing as her exhaustion won out. The solitude of empty silence enveloped her like a warm embrace and nestled her into its hold, dragging her down into its depths. As she felt herself floating into the ether she remembered all her favourite things once more. Warm biscuits from her mothers Sunday brunches and cups of steamed milk before bed. Remembering her mother standing above her at the table pouring the milk from the teapot into their matching mugs they painted at an art shop together when she was a child. With the darkness edging closer the cups in her memories overflowed onto the blue gingham tablecloth running into her lap with a scorching heat. The warmth was suddenly overbearing and smothering. Her mothers face frozen in a smile and staring forward but her eyes blank with no light behind them. Soon the milk from the spout turned black and poured out upon the floor filling the grout and staining her mothers white cotton shoes. Before she could even scream everything snapped and there was nothing but unconsciousness.