Chapter 3

Hermione Fucking Granger

He stomped down the stairs of the ministry towards the only outdoor exit. He needed air.

He knew it had been a mistake to work in her office. But he thought she wouldn't be there. With the muggle world falling to shit surely there was a million other things she could have been doing then prancing into work with a bloody baby in tow. He thought of her face, defeated and lost. How the almighty fall. She hadn't really changed that much, he thought. She could still be that same girl, laughing with the rest of the Gryffindors in the great hall at some stupid joke that Irish calamity Seamus had told. That girl that would steal herself away to a dimly lit corner of the library, reading some old book that hadn't been checked out in decades.

He remembered watching her once when had first started Hogwarts. He stood on a small pile of books so he could peek over a shelf at her, sitting alone and engrossed in her Potions homework. She was scribbling mad at the end of her parchment, an essay that easily extended Draco's three-fold.

That's a Mudblood

His father had told him all about them, but she hadn't been what he had expected. She was normal looking, entirely plain. Nothing special, or unusual. He was disappointed. He wanted the monster in his father's stories, not this mousy little girl that sat before him. He rose his wand carefully and concentrated. Slowly, a goblet of water that sat on her desk slid towards her. When it was close enough he flicked his wand and the goblet tipped, soaking through her parchment. Devastated she tried to smear it away, but only smudged the ink more into the paper. She bit her lip hard and Draco could tell she wanted to cry. He sneered and hopped of the books and left, the sound of quiet sobs starting up behind him. That was the night he had decided that Mudblood's weren't the thing of nightmares like his father had said. They were meek, talentless, pathetic.

He took a fag from his pocket and lit it with a swish of his wand. He leaned back against the wall and took a long drag. He dropped his head back and closed her eyes.

He thought of her again, walking through the office door. Of how weak and small her body had looked, gripping onto that baby with everything that she had. A small unfamiliar feeling had tugged at Draco when she walked in, seeing her stand there shattered –

Forget it.

It didn't matter now. He'd left her office and there was no way he was going back. He probably wouldn't even need to speak to her again. He was working as an 'advisor' for the Auror Office, and she worked in The Department of Mysteries. In a few days' time, he would probably be back under house arrest. Still, it had woken him up somehow to see her. A relic of an age gone by. Part of a scab on a wound that wouldn't heal.

He walked out further into the sun and squinted into the day light. Draco suddenly realised that a black three piece suit was perhaps not the best attired for a scorching day in August. He rolled up his leaves and undid his top button and breathed in the humidity. He found himself a bench a little down the way and sat for a moment, watching some pigeons faff in the middle of the main road. The rest of the world was still. It was like he was waiting for a director to shout 'Action!' Everything was like a photograph. The cars were frozen, most with doors still open. The glass towers loomed over everything, colossal and cold feeling. Everything empty. The city had died with everything else.

In such stillness, Draco found he could be anything but. He stood up again, stretching his long legs and carried on down the road. He took one last pull of his cigarette and threw it down the opening of an alley. He watched it arch and fall, finally landing by a pile of rubbish. He went to walk on but something caught his eye.

The alley was dark, mostly hidden from the sun thanks to the two tall buildings on either side. Some light came from behind the other end of the alley, gated off by an iron fence it cast dusty lines against the cement and brickwork. The alley was filled with bin liners, skips and general tat that accumulated over time; stuffed toys, mouldy and matted, and old pushchair with a broken wheel, an inside out umbrella with its lining torn - and the silhouette of a man lying motionless on the floor.

Draco stepped forward cautiously. He paused at the mouth of the alley for only a second before delving closer.

The tramp was in his late forties, he had a beard that was already greying, and his finger tips and nails were yellowed from years of nicotine abuse. His eyes were closed and his mouth slightly open. His beard and clothes were clotted with blood as black and sticky as tar. Draco felt sick, but an equal sense of curiosity pulled him in closer. He pulled out a handkerchief from his top pocket and put it over his mouth and nose. He couldn't decide if it was the smell of death that made him wretch, or the tramps native stench. Draco was surprised to find there were no flies around the corpse. Draco guessed that he must have been dead for a few days, perhaps one of the first to become infected. This was the first time he had seen first-hand the carnage of the virus. He had obviously expected it to have been abhorrent, but the scene before him was more apocalyptic. The Minister had been right, this was definitely something dark. He kneeled down. On closer inspection he could see that the inside of the mouth was putrid, black and gloopy, still filled with blood. Draco's eyes wondered over the hands. The fingernails were cracked and split, as though he had been clawing at something, probably in some desperate attempt to crawl away in his final moments – possible down to the alley. Hiding away to die like an animal.

Poor Bastard

Although disgusted, Draco pitied the fate of the man lying beneath his feet. It had been slow, painful and he had been alone.

A shuffle down the alley bought Draco to attention. Silently, he rose to his feet and stepped backwards for a better view. From the rubbish a small black Labrador emerged. It was old, greying and his tongue panted heavily in the summer heat. He whined softly walking forward and resting in the armpit of the tramp. The dog nudged the muggle gently with his nose, and whined again.

'He's no good to you now,' Draco said.

The dog looked at him solemnly as though he could understand. Draco felt uncomfortable, awkward somehow, and decided to go back to the Ministry. He stood up slowly and wiped down his knees. He turned to leave but his eyes caught a glimpse of an empty water bowl between the brick wall and the tramp. Subconsciously he wiped his own neck, sweating in the midday sun. He caught eyes with the dog who locked at him longingly.

What am I doing?

He sighed at himself, and went forward to pick it up. Draco had always been a sucker for animals, he had always preferred them over people. They didn't lie, cheat or steal. They were not deceptive. He bent as carefully as he could and swore under his breath. It was an awkward angle and he found himself arching over the dead muggle. He dared not look down. He leaned closer catching the bowl with his fingertips but still just out of reach –

'arghhhh'

So quiet someone else might not have heard it. Soft and low, but there. A voice. A breath. Slowly Draco's head looked down.

'Fucking hell!'

The tramp's eyes were open. They were grey, flat, blind but strangely appeared to be looking directly at him. It's black mouth had opened and looked like it was trying to speak. Primitive noises escaped it, bubbling and sputtering the congealed blood that had settled in there. Draco scuttled away. The tramps head followed him, its mouth still moving, it's teeth now gnashing. Putrid black spilled' from its mouth and puddled onto the floor. The tramp's hands began to scratch at the floor, broken nails splitting against the concrete, it's whole body violently jerking. Joints bent in unholy angles, and Draco thought he could almost hear bones crack. The dog had moved away and was barking loudly at the man.

'Hello?'

Draco stayed as still as he could. His right hand had pulled out his wand and he held it out at arms length pointed straight at the tramp. He couldn't make out the words the tramp was saying, if they were words at all. The dog began to growl lowly setting itself closer with front legs down, ready to pounce. The tramp turned it's attention to the dog and began to rise. Draco watched in awe. It was like watching a baby animal lean to walk. The arms and legs were slow to respond, and it took a few attempts for the tramp to fully stand on his feet. The tramp was unsteady and swayed as though he was drunk. The dog's growls grew louder and it bared it's teeth.

Draco found himself frozen to the spot. But he was focused. His wand arm held steady and his breathing was even. His mind ticked over the explanations, logical reasons for the scene he was watching unfold. But everything felt wrong. The jarring movement, the animalistic tendencies reminded Draco of something he had seen many years ago when he was a boy. Of a nightmare that had haunted him throughout his whole childhood, locked deep in his father's dungeon. He shook his head to clear his thoughts. The tramp was reaching out towards the dog, it shuffled forward until it had the dog backed up against the wall.

'Leave it alone!' Draco shouted but the tramp didn't stop. His rigid fingers grasped at its fur.

'Stupify.' He yelled. A shot of scarlet flew over towards the tramp, but ricocheted right off. Draco tried again and again but the spells just rebelled. The tramps hands finally found purchase and it sank to its knee's dragging the dog towards it. Draco could do nothing but stare in revolution as the tramp ripped into the dog. The dog screamed and yelped but Draco stood where he was. He watched as fur was torn away, and heard the skin being shredded open. The tramp had buried it's face into the flowing river of blood and guts and gnawed through flesh and bone. Blood spewed in all directions, catching Draco's face. The tramp's eyes were frenzied, the irises darting left and right rapidly until they suddenly they stopped dead, and fixated once again on Draco. Dropping the still whining dog the tramp rose once again. Cartilage and suet dripped down the it's chin. Its bloody wrangled fingers outstretched, it came towards him. Behind Draco the alley was gated, the only exit was in front of him – blocked by the ever-nearing tramp.

Draco looked around him. If magic wouldn't work he was going to have to use something else. An old wooden chair with three legs lay discarded against the wall. He picked it up and split a leg over his knee, brandishing the improvised stake he lunged forward.

It didn't take much effort to puncture the tramp through the stomach. More black tar oozed from the wound, covering Draco's hand. The smell was paralyzingly putrid, but Draco held the wood in place.

But the tramp did not slow. He carried on walking as though he hadn't noticed it, so forcibly that the splintered wood began to rupture through to the other side of its back. Draco blinked away the sweat that was getting in the way of his vision. He could hear his heartbeat against his eardrums. This close he could see the reality of the tramp's eyes. They were dead. He had always been dead. Glazed over and milky, sunken into the skull and putrefying. Everything about him was decaying, rotting away. There was no more blood pouring from the wound – because there was no heartbeat. There was no rise and fall of his chest because there was no breath. Its blackened teeth chomped at him, bits of gristle coming loose and spattering in his face. Draco wanted to be sick.

Draco wrestled with him but found that the tramp had astonishing strength. Although fumbling and awkward, the tramp put everything he had into every movement. All of his weight pushed onto Draco, slowly dragging him down. The tramp clawed at him relentlessly and although Draco could hold him at bay he was quickly becoming tired. But the tramp showed no signs of slowing.

Suddenly a flash of purple whizzed past Draco's face. He felt the heat and magic against his skin as it passed him, and tried to lean around the tramp to see who it had come from. George Weasley stood at the mouth of the alley way, his wand up he shot spell after spell at the tramp. They all rebelled.

'Magic doesn't work!' George yelled to Draco. Running towards him.

'You don't fucking say!' said Draco shouted back through gritted teeth.

George grabbed the tramp by the shoulders and pulled him back, Draco grabbed onto the wood and used the motion to draw it out of the tramp's stomach. He pulled it back and as hard as he could thrust it straight through the tramps eye. It stopped, went limp and fell to the floor, like someone had suddenly cut a puppets strings. When the body had sunk Draco was face to face with George. Both of their faces were blood spattered, their clothes soiled.

'What the hell is going on?' George said, wiping the blood from his face with the back of his hand. He looked at the corpse of the man to the mangled dog in the corner.

'Did you do this Malfoy?' George kept a good grip on his wand. His hands shook with adrenaline.

'No.' Draco replied. He shot a trade mark look at George.

Saved by a fucking Weasley. I'll never live this down.

'It attacked me.' Draco suddenly lashed out and gave it a hard kick and spat at it for good measure. He was livid. Disgusted. Yet somewhere deep inside of him – very interested.

Draco took off his ruined jacket and threw it over the tramp's face. He rubbed his wand on his trousers and cast over it.

'Winguardium Leviosa'

The tramp levitated slowly. Blood and tendrils hung in the air around him, George turned around to wretch.

'So – when it's dead magic works again – interesting.' Draco mumbled to himself. He flicked his wand and the tramp began to float down the alley back toward the road.

'What the hell are you doing?' said Fred, still bent over trying not to vomit.

Draco took one last look at the alley. How easy it would have been to just have walked past, not to look. But the discovery had been made now. There was no going back.

'Come along Weasel' Said Draco turning and walking away. 'We need to show this to the Minister.'

Author's notes* Again I hope you didn't mind my drivel too much! If you have anything to comment please go ahead! This is my first ever horror/gore fic, (my first anything really) but it's a genre I really wanted to give a go. I don;t feel like I've really grasped it yet but practice makes perfect (or reasonably tolerable) right?