It was Thursday — and in the earliest hours of morning, Malfoy was due for his compliance session.

However, as the previous week had shown, a scheduled session did not mean much to him. In fact, Hermione had been anxious since the night before, dreading the fact that she may have to report him for noncompliance. Already, she had gone out on too many limbs. In order to remain in the Ministry's good graces, he would need to be in attendance.

Otherwise, a demerit awaited.

It was the last thing he needed so early in his transition. The Malfoy name was sure to draw eyes as soon as she submitted the paperwork, and if he continued the behavior, the Wizengamot would not be lenient.

Worse yet, another absence meant he wasn't getting his Blood-Replenishing Potions; the implications of that made her sick.

"Miss Granger?"

Brother Paul's voice tugged her back into the present. Judging by the scribbles all over her clipboard, she'd been fidgeting with her ballpoint for quite a while.

"Yes?" she said.

"I asked if you think it a good idea," he repeated.

"Sorry — if what's a good idea?"

"The Association of Christian Vampires."

It was a ridiculous idea, of course. The monk had been speaking of it for nearly fifty-five minutes, according to her watch, and he had clearly bored her beyond her ability to pay attention. Religion was not common among vampires — at least not religion of Abrahamic origin.

Covens were rare to begin with, but when they did band together, it was not out of group ideology or a desire for peace.

It was to hunt.

"I think it's brilliant," she lied.

Brother Paul grinned, his fangs gleaming beneath the enchanted light as he basked in her approval. She knew it was important to build a sense of trust and honesty with her clients, but she hardly had the energy to tell him it would be a fruitless effort. Too much was on her mind. It wasn't like he'd listen to her anyway.

"Excellent. I will pursue this before the next full moon." He leaned in. "Tis bad luck to let a moon cycle complete before chasing a new idea. Darfan the Long-Eared learnt that the hard way, you know."

Hermione did not know who Darfan the Long-Eared was, nor did she know anything about luck and moon cycles; one of the many troubles of working with vampires was that there was a substantial communication gap between her and her centuries-old clientele.

She glanced at her watch. Only two minutes remained before she was free of the monk — and two minutes closer to her meeting with Malfoy.

I'll stake him myself if he doesn't show, she thought.

"I think a uniform would serve us well, do you agree?" Brother Paul went on. "Perhaps red — like the cardinales. Such a vibrant color is close to God, wouldn't you say?"

"It must be," Hermione said, trying to hide the ennui in her tone.

He nodded. "Yes, cardinale red, then. We will wear it with pride, as a symbol to our eternal servitude to our Lord . . ."

Brother Paul continued his rambling, but Hermione wasn't listening. Her attention was fixed on her lap where her hands rested, watching the second hand of her watch, counting down each sharp tick.

". . . and if I am to be burned —"

"Time's up!"

She closed Brother Paul's file with haste and stood. The vampire frowned.

"How time does fly when one is immortal," he sighed. "Thank you, Miss Granger, for meeting with me today. I wish you many blessings."

"Thanks," Hermione replied, without so much as meeting his eyes. She tucked the manila folder under her arm. "I'll see you next week?"

"Yes, yes, I will be here. I am always grateful to commune with you."

Hermione didn't respond to him before crossing the room and rapping on a windowed door. Bulstrode cracked it open.

"He's ready to go," Hermione said briskly.

"Seems like you are too. Right on the dot today."

"Sorry, I'm just a bit busy — I've been rushing about since I got in . . ." She gestured Brother Paul. "Can you make sure he gets his Blood-Replenishing Potions? It's the same amount as always, Brimble should have him on record."

"I know how it works, Granger," Bulstrode said, bemused. She arched a thick eyebrow. "You all right?"

"Completely fine. Thanks, Millicent."

Hermione hurried past her, trying — and failing — to tamp down her anxiety. There was only one hour left.

One hour until Malfoy either showed — or he didn't.

The holding room beckoned Hermione.

The clock had struck the hour, meaning there was no more time to prepare, no more time to stress, no more time to think — there was also no sign of Millicent.

Hermione took a shaky breath and approached the doors, her heart stuttering in her chest all the while. If Bulstrode wasn't there, that meant there was a good chance Malfoy wasn't either. Visions of a black demerit streaked her thoughts. His file would be tainted for a decade after that, and if he had offended, it would be much worse.

Channeling every iota of her courage, she peered into one of the windows.

She let out a sigh of relief.

Both Bulstrode and Malfoy were inside the room, the former securing the chains of the latter.

Hermione staved off the urge to scold him for his previous absence and flung open the unlocked door. Their session could not begin while Millicent was still present. Fortunately, she made quick work of fastening the many locks.

"He's all yours," she sniffed, backing away. Malfoy's mouth was pulled into a sneer, but she paid him no attention. "Sorry about the late start. He only got here about two minutes ago."

"It's fine, thank you."

Hermione seated herself and folded her legs, her focus lingering on the other witch as she strode towards the exit. Finally, Bulstrode slipped out one of the doors, quietly clicking it shut behind her.

"It's good to see you," Hermione said.

Malfoy scoffed.

Rattling chains slithered like snakes as he shifted in his chair, and Hermione had the sudden urge to free him, just as she had before. Yet, if he hadn't fed, he was dangerous. Plus, she had sworn she was done breaking rules for him.

Former schoolmate or not, he would receive the same treatment as everyone else.

"How have the last couple of weeks been?" she asked carefully, though she suspected she knew the answer.

He looked haggard, with deep, dark hollows beneath his glimmering silver eyes. Droplets of sweat were carving rivulets in his gaunt cheeks, pooling in the deep crevices there. Most alarming of all was his frame — his waist narrower than even Harry's, when they were camping in the Forest of Dean.

Vampirism was eating him alive.

"How do you think?" he spat.

"Well, from your body language, I'd say you look uncomfortable," Hermione retorted. She cleared her throat. "In fact, you appear to be on the edge of famine."

"Millicent just gave me a potion, I'm fine."

"One potion can't make up for being underfed for a fortnight."

"I told you before: I had my own stores at home."

"And based on your appearance, you've not been taking them." She grimaced at her own wording. "No offense."

"Yeah, it sounded like a compliment," he muttered.

"My point is that you're undernourished." Treading lightly got nowhere with Malfoy — Hermione had to consider that, even when she knew she was going to sound harsh. "We need to address that."

"Address what?"

"Your intake," she answered simply.

He made a face. "Are you my mum now? Telling me to clear my dinner plate before I can leave the table?"

Again, he was trying to bait her into an argument. Hermione refused to fall for it, though she had to admire his persistence. No matter how many times she didn't bite, he kept trying.

"How many potions have you drank over the last two weeks?" she asked.

He shrugged.

"Clearly, you're rationing them, but I need to know the extent of it for my report."

"Your report," he repeated. "Is the Ministry going to arrest me for not taking my potions, then? Like I'm some sort of mad St. Mungo's patient?"

"The law requires you to take your potions for a number of reasons. What I'm most concerned about is your health."

"And why would you care about my health?"

"It's my job to care," Hermione said quickly.

He watched her with narrowed eyes. Finally, he answered.

"I drink them when I have to."

"Well, it's not even close to enough. You're far too thin . . ." She shook her head as she penned a note. "Again, I'm not insulting you, really, I just — you need to understand how important it is that you focus on your overall wellness . . . As difficult as this is, there are people that love you."

He rolled his eyes.

"Have you thought about them?" Hermione pressed.

"I've hardly had the capacity to get all sappy, Granger. If you haven't noticed, I've been a bit preoccupied lately."

"Maybe this is a new tool for you, then," she suggested. "Studies show relationship goals can help new vampires cope — and I'm not talking about the mate thing. I mean relationships with your friends and family."

He let out a mirthless laugh. "Relationship goals? I'm a fucking blood-sucker. My friends and family will be long-gone as soon as they know."

"Why do you think that?"

"Because my circles aren't exactly tolerant of my kind," he hissed.

"What about your mother?"

"My father will ban me from the manor once he finds out. We'll be forced to meet in secret."

Knowing Lucius Malfoy, he was probably right. Hermione decided to try a different approach.

"You had friends you were close with," she said. "You don't think you'll reconnect with them once you've completed your transition?"

"My friends would Avada me faster than they can say Mudblood."

Hermione bristled at the word, but decided it wasn't the time to challenge him about its use. There were more pressing matters.

" I would be sad if something happened to you."

"You don't need to blow sparks up my arse. Merlin."

"I'm not blowing sparks." She furrowed her brow. "Do you actually think I'd want you dead?"

He scoffed. "Wouldn't you?"

Hermione's face fell. "Draco, I've never wished harm on you."

"You slapped me in third year!"

"Okay, maybe I wished harm on you, then," she conceded, "but what we're talking about is actual death. A painful one, at that. And I've never wanted that for you. I begged the Wizengamot to keep you out of Azkaban for a reason."

"So you get off on being morally superior. That doesn't mean you're happy I'm alive."

"Is that what you —" Hermione closed her eyes. "Fine. Don't believe me. But at least listen to me: You have to take your potions — especially right now. Your body needs an immense amount of energy to get through your transitional phase. Drink too little, and you dessicate." She clicked her pen. "Now, how many phials have you been taking per day?

Malfoy cracked his neck. "Usually half."

"Half a phial?"

He nodded, his eyes roving around the wall to his right, avoiding her judgmental gaze at all costs.

"You're not going to do that anymore," Hermione said firmly. "You are going to take them as instructed and you will be here every week — or else I'll be forced to give you a demerit."

His head snapped in her direction, pools of silver boring into her. "Why don't you just pop into the manor and feed it to me in a bottle, then?" he snarled. "Would that satisfy you?"

"You're frustrated."

"Of course I'm fucking frustrated, how would you like having to drink blood potions every fucking day? It's unnatural!"

Hermione raised her eyebrows. "Would you prefer the alternative? That's natural."

He glared at her. "Don't patronize me, Granger."

"I'm not," she replied. "It's a perfectly valid question. If you're not willing to take your potions, it's my job to analyze why and pinpoint a method that works for you — one that keeps others safe. "

"I already told you: I'm drinking them when I need them."

"And I'm telling you that half a phial a day is not enough — which I believe you fully understand." Once more, she took in his disheveled appearance. "Honestly, Malfoy, do you like feeling the way you do now? You have to be miserable."

"Wouldn't you be?" he asked seriously. "Actually, I'll tell you what. Come over here and let me give you a nice, big bite. You can try this whole vampire thing on for size and see if your tune changes."

Hermione softened. He was right: It was easy to tell him what to do. Not only was he struggling with the transition itself, but also with the archaic values that had been instilled in him since he was just a boy. Most magical folk loathed vampires — and blood purists loathed them more than anyone.

It had to be jarring to suddenly be one.

Unfortunately, that meant she would have to protect him from himself.

"It's okay to be upset," she reassured him. "This is an enormous change, and you wouldn't be the first new vampire that struggles to manage their condition . . . Unfortunately, if you choose not to manage it, I'll have no choice but to assign you to an indefinite hold."

"What?" Malfoy asked, incredulous.

"You mentioned St. Mungo's earlier. I get that you were joking, but it's a real possibility if nothing changes."

"St. Mungo's. So you're telling me I can show up here like I'm supposed to; talk to you — like I'm supposed to; and you still can drop me in the bloody Janus Thickey Ward like some nutter?"

"I'd prefer to avoid it," Hermione pointed out, "and it wouldn't be the Janus Thickey Ward. Vampires have their own wing now."

"As if that's any better!" he exclaimed, leaning forward. "God, being a fucking fangie is bad enough! Now you're pinning me as mad too!"

Hermione pinched the bridge of her nose. "Holds are reserved for extreme instances of poor self-care or cases in which you're an immediate risk to yourself. They're rare, and not at all specific to vamp —"

"And who decides if I'm a risk to myself? You?"

"It is my job," Hermione said.

"Then maybe you ought to consider switching careers," Malfoy spat, "because you're giving a piss-poor performance."

Hermione decided to ignore his insults. Arguing was not an effective use of their time.

"Tell me why you won't take the potions," she said, peering down at his open file. "We provide a safe, victim-free method to ensure that you stay healthy. You're choosing not to take it and I'd like to know your reasoning."

"I've not been hungry," he grit out.

"There's no sense in lying. Something is bothering you. Tell me what it is."

"The only thing bothering me right now is you. "

Hermione scribbled a quick note in her report. "You're deflecting again. You've made quite a habit of that."

"Is that your professional opinion?"

"Yes, and I'd like to dig into why you do it."

"And I'd like to dig a tunnel out of this fucking room, but unfortunately, my old housemate has chained me to this chair," Malfoy chided.

Hermione ignored him.

"The first six months of transitioning are easily the worst," she started, "and most vampires don't feel fully comfortable in their skin for five years or longer. That will be a difficult journey if you don't start challenging your coping mechanisms."

"I don't have any coping mechanisms, " he contended.

Hermione sighed. "Look, your feelings are common, Malfoy. So is your combativeness — it's all part of the process. Unfortunately, part of this new version of yourself is also drinking your potions, and I cannot stress to you enough how important it is that you do. I've told you what happens if you don't . . . So every week, you're going to come here to replenish your stores, whether you're feeling compelled to or not . . . For now, at least."

"For now," Malfoy echoed.

Hermione nodded, deciding she would rather not divulge her legislative plans in their session. Her growing list of proposals could take years to come to fruition, and she suspected most of them would be voted down and forced through appeals processes several times over. Anything encouraging vampires to commune in public spaces was questionable to begin with, considering their history of attacks, and to let them loose in apothecaries amidst shelves of blood? The very idea was sure to raise some eyebrows.

Her ambitions prickled her tongue, but she held true to her conscience. False hope was the last thing Malfoy needed. He was too fragile, too breakable.

"Elaborate, Granger, a nod doesn't tell me what you're implying here."

"I'm not implying anything," Hermione said. "Things change with time, and as a vampire, you will obviously outlive me and whatever adjustments the Ministry makes to the program."

"You couldn't lie your way out of a rucksack. You're trying to say something. Tell me what it is."

"I'm really not —"

"I won't be killing anyone, if that's what you're getting at," he interjected.

"I'm not worried you're going to offend," said Hermione — and that was the truth. She wasn't — not if he became compliant. "But if you do, you need to report it to me. I can't help you with something like that unless you tell me."

"It won't happen, so I won't need to tell you anything."

"Good." She flipped a leaf of parchment — his list of ever-growing symptoms was much longer than those of her other clients. "Then you plan to stop rationing your potions?"

Malfoy was silent.

"The odds of offending go up when you're hungry — blood famine causes confusion and aggression."

He sucked in his already-gaunt cheeks; his bones could cut diamonds. "I wouldn't do that."

"But you could. If instinct took over . . ." Hermione closed her eyes. "Malfoy, you must manage this condition."

He swallowed.

"You do understand that, right?" she asserted.

"I don't want to do what other ones do," he admitted softly. "I can't let myself do that."

"I know," Hermione replied, her tone just as soft. He sounded as though he could shatter at any moment. Given the state of him, perhaps he already had. "This is the new you — and it's scary, I understand that. But to avoid certain acts, your potions are a must. So for the foreseeable future, no more missed appointments, okay? And take the required amount."

He sniffed, his attention fixed on the floor.

"Fine."

"You understand me, then?"

"I said fine ," he snarled. "I'm not keen on killing anyone, don't you think I've hurt enough people?"

Hermione's heart clenched. She choked on the question, unsure if it was rhetorical — if he wanted to unravel the twisted thread of their contentious history. If perhaps, it was that very history that was holding him back, that kept him from drinking his potions or showing up for his previous compliance session.

She opened her mouth to reply.

The clock struck three.