"Hermione!" Ron leapt off a stool and abandoned a cup of tea and a copy of The Daily Prophet on her kitchen island, running up to her before she could take three steps into her flat.

"Oh my god, Ronald!" she breathed with sudden relief, followed by supreme irritation as he held her by her shoulders and scrutinized her from every angle. After the night she'd had, If Hermione had any expectations about who was in her flat when she opened her door, her ex-fiance had been low on her list of people she wanted to deal with.

His haggard face morphed into relief as she struggled out of his grasp. "Everyone's been so worried. Your clothes… what happened?"

"I twisted my ankle on the way home. I just need a minute to change." Hermione shrugged out of his grasp and slipped past him into her bedroom and closed the door firmly behind her. She tore off her ruined work clothes and spun around in a circle, trying to find something to put on that would make her feel more in control… or at least something that would help her convince Ron that she hadn't lost her mind.

A pair of baggy sweatpants and an oversized jumper from the night before lay on her bed. Hermione threw on her lounging-on-the-sofa outfit and finger-combed her hair, trying to make herself more presentable in the mirror.

It's Ron, she thought. He's worried about me, that's all this is. She would not lose all the progress she'd made towards her independence after one terrible night. Even if she wanted to, she couldn't tell him about the warehouse. The Ministry, and specifically, Ministry Aurors couldn't know. Not yet. Hell, she was there, and she had no clue what had happened either.

Passing the mirror, she adjusted the jumper's high neckline and made sure the makeup still masked her darkened veins. She didn't need him to freak out over her appearance and make rash decisions about her well-being. That was her job. Later, after she convinced him to leave for the night.

His muffled voice came through the door, strained and pleading. "Hermione, are you sure you're alright?"

She opened the bedroom door, met by deep concern. The thought of confronting him with the fact that he shouldn't still be using the spare key to her flat got filed away with 'other things to take care of later', and she brushed past him into the living area. Hermione ignored his discarded Ministry robe on her couch, setting herself to straightening up her already tidy flat.

Ron followed her around the island, waving a crumpled note. "Your boss said to give this to you, since you never showed up for work."

A sudden pressure built behind her eyes. "I was working!" she retorted. The full day at the office with the pile of parchment work her assistant called 'Monday problems', the non-meeting, her disheveled condition, and the long walk home added their own pins and needles to her skull. It was too late for coffee, but she plugged in the electric kettle and flipped it on out of spite.

"With that sketchy agency, and for knuts on the Galleon, from what I've heard," Ron said in a way that meant he didn't approve.

Ron swore up and down that he would respect her personal space, giving her time to sort out what she was capable of. But no sooner had she believed everything to be settled, than he'd pull another 'I'm worried about you' card from his deck of 'Let's Save Hermione Granger' cards. Tired of all the games, she watched him unplug the kettle and cast a heating charm on it. Then he had the nerve to take the tin of decaf Chai tea out of the cupboard.

He set the tin on the counter and faced her, a pound of seriousness pressing into his features. "I trust you with my life, you know that, but there's been disturbing activity in Muggle London. People have gone missing. The entire Auror department is on alert."

Hermione's hand hovered over her mug. "When did Ministry personnel take an interest in London's non-wizarding issues?"

"We got reports… complaints, actually. Muggle friends and family are being attacked. Some have gone missing. We're all getting briefed on the details tomorrow morning, but the talk is that an unknown non-Muggle entity is targeting Muggles connected to Ministry personnel. I heard that some are suggesting a lockdown on the Statute of Secrecy. That maybe wizards need to take a step back… to protect themselves and their families."

"Isn't that overdoing it? We just fought a war started by intolerance. How can they think that isolation is the answer to everything?" Hermione envisioned all of her equality work going up in a cloud of panic and overreaction. Two years ago, Squibs and Muggle-borns wore targets on their backs for simply existing. She had been one of those targets. Everyone should have learned by now that hiding their heads in the sand from each other's differences never worked in anyone's favor.

"That's just the panic talk around the cooler. The Minister is saying we should look into it. Try to figure out what's going on. They're Muggles, Hermione. They've got nothing to protect themselves against the unknown. When you didn't show…" He stepped into her space, reaching for the tin.

She bumped him aside with her hip and braced the tin between the counter and her torso so she could pop it open with one hand. "I'm supposed to be regaining my independence. You promised you would support me in that."

He ran a hand through his hair and let her struggle with the mesh strainer. "Yeah, but it's bloody hard supporting you when nobody knows where you are."

That was the point, Hermione thought fiercely as she left the tea on the counter to steep. She dumped the broken shoes out of her purse and forced her hand to resist tracing a tidying spell in the air. Across the room, she could sense Ron clench his jaw and remain silent as she purposefully picked up the shoes and set them neatly by the door. It had taken a long string of unhelpful therapists before Hermione accepted that she'd have to live without her magic. Ron was still working through the fact that she wanted to live without his magic, too.

"They're targeting Muggles, you said. No one except your family and my boss knows about my lost magic. I'm not a target."

Ron opened his mouth, ready to argue, but he snapped it shut and stayed silent. Neither of them had put a name to what she was now. She'd been a Muggle-born with magic. Now what was she? Just a Muggle? A Squib? Did they even have a name for someone who used to be magical?

"At least I can sleep tonight knowing you're safe."

Hermione didn't know whether to be grateful or irritated at his concern. Wanting to show that he was the one who understood and loved her through all her changes, Ron had relented to her terms of being on her own - most of them. Being supportive and being suffocating were two different things, and in all the time she'd known him, Ron hadn't learned the difference.

"If we were married…" he started.

Hermione cut him off. "We're not. We're not even dating." She followed with that last bit to keep Ron from falling back on the "we could be" scenario.

She didn't mean to be hurtful, but trying to reestablish her independence daily, with every little thing, was exhausting. So many of his words were peppered with an overextended invitation to intrude on her life. It was why, after being released from the hospital, she turned down Ron's suggestion to move in with him.

"Look," he said, "all I wanted was to know where you were, alright? You didn't answer my owl yesterday, and today you didn't show up at the Ministry. It'd be easier if you didn't disappear for a whole day."

He went over to the couch and collapsed into it, throwing a worn hand over his face. Hermione had grown accustomed to seeing him overwhelmed, overworked, and still willing to do whatever it took to keep her in one piece. Though the endearing qualities had worn off ages ago, part of what he did was still admirable. The rest of it was infuriating.

She revisited her tea and dumped the strainer into the bin. "You said 'a whole day'. What do you mean I was never at the Ministry? When did you send the owl?"

Ron mumbled something into his arm, which sounded like he'd sent several messages throughout the day. That couldn't be right. She should have gotten those owls at her office. Even though she'd thrown their personal relationship into the rubbish bin, she still considered him her closest friend. They'd been together for so long, and he knew her better than anyone. She would have answered his messages straight away, if only to prevent… she looked back at her ex-fiance, sunk into the couch cushions like he belonged there… this.

She'd even agreed to go to dinner with him tomorrow night. Because he had been giving her space like she'd asked, or at least he'd been trying. And he'd promised that they wouldn't talk about magic at all.

But she'd had a curse of a night. She needed to figure out what had gone wrong at the meeting, and friend or not, she couldn't involve an Auror. "Look Ron, I need to make a phone call and take a shower. Let's talk about it tomorrow."

He sighed heavily from the couch. "We don't have to talk about it. You've made your point."

The bitter tea scalded her tongue, and she abandoned it on the counter, leaving Ron to sulk by himself in the living room. She went to her bedroom and closed the door, and her stomach rumbled uncomfortably as Ron's words sunk in.

"...attacks in Muggle London…"

"...disappear for a whole day…"

An insistent tapping brought her attention to the window where a tawny owl perched on the ledge outside. She opened the window, and he squawked, hopping onto her writing desk and ruffling his brown and white speckled feathers. A collection of tiny rolled up pieces of parchment hung from his legs. She untied them and skimmed each message. Two were from Ron, asking why she hadn't shown up for work, and one was from her boss.

Alabastor's loopy Kurrent script ran all of his m's and n's together in a string of Ministry attendance policy and the consequences for infraction, insisting that she 'please report in as soon as possible', underlined three times.

Her answering machine (courtesy of Dr. Metzker) was flashing, too. Hermione pressed the button and listened to the three Agency messages, pre-recorded, the same voice, the same timbre.

"Please confirm your appointment…"

"We look forward to working with you…"

"If you'd like to reschedule your missed appointment…"

That couldn't be correct. Her appointment was tomorrow. She shrugged off her suit and turned on the shower, staring into the rushing water.

Images flashed behind her eyelids.

stumbling through the dark…

falling to the ground...

Hands… teeth…

Hermione stumbled against the shower door as a sudden wave of exhaustion washed over her. Every muscle felt like a broom had pummeled her. As she let the rest of her clothing fall to the floor, her full-length reflection caused her to mis-step onto her twisted ankle. Scrapes and bruises covered her upper arms and thighs, and scattered purple dots ran along her neck and shoulders.

Was that really her?

The hot spray hit her back, searing wounds she hadn't seen on her back.

Fangs.

The image burst into her mind, suddenly and without warning. How had she forgotten about the fangs? Under the showerhead, she retraced her steps through soap and shampoo.

She'd gone to the warehouse. Knocked on the door. Her mind was a mess with the rest of it.

Falling… scraping… screaming… glistening white incisors hovering above her…

Waking up on the cold floor…

Exiting the shower, she addressed the mirror again, examining her shoulders, the front side and back of her neck, across her stomach, even along her legs. The purple dots running in pairs all over her body looked like stings from a swarm of billywigs.

Wrapping her hair in a towel, Hermione climbed back into her baggy clothes and opened her bedroom door. A sudden bout of nausea took her by surprise and had her clutching the door frame.

"Ron? Are you still out there? I think I need …"

The empty couch and missing robe answered her with silence. He must have finally gone home, a discarded copy of the Daily Prophet left in his place.

After checking that he was gone, Hermione picked up the phone and dialed. After four rings, she got the answering machine and waited impatiently for the beep. Then she rapid-fired her message as if she was in a debate brawl in front of the Wizengamot.

"Dr. Metzker? It's Hermione Granger. Look, I know it's late, but I need to talk to you straight away. It's about the meeting you set up. I have…" Her words halted.

What did she have? Bites and bruises. Nausea. Memory loss.

"... questions."

She finished by rattling off her pager number and let the phone fall back into its cradle.

Hermione gazed around the empty flat she had gotten used to calling 'home'. Bookcases from the 'put it together yourself' store filled an entire wall, with every title arranged alphabetically by subject, just the way she liked it. Her couch had exactly three throw pillows: one for her back, one to prop her neck when she was reading, and one to go under her knees. The kitchen was just the right size. The cupboard contained her favorite crisps. Everything was tidy.

Except for the torn piece of paper on her kitchen counter.

Ron's scrawl was all over it: "Waited for an hour before coming over. Dinner's in the fridge." She flipped the paper over and noticed that it was a receipt from her favorite restaurant. The one where she had agreed to meet Ron tomorrow.

She felt lightheaded. She should eat.

Hermione opened the refrigerator and found a take away bag. Her stomach sank to a new low, urgently insisting against putting anything into her mouth.

Why would he go to the restaurant a day early?

Oh, no. That couldn't be.

Hermione scrambled back to the couch and picked up The Daily Prophet, bringing it to the kitchen. She ignored the front-page article announcing her groundbreaking proposal for "other being equality' and scanned the top margin.

Big block letters proclaimed the date. Hermione read it over multiple times, just to be sure.

This was Tuesday's paper.

The restaurant receipt matched the date in the paper. She was supposed to meet Ron on Tuesday.

Her appointment was also scheduled for Tuesday, which, according to the messages, she'd skived off.

Judging by her boss's curt notes, she had missed meetings.

Hermione never missed meetings.

Had she really been gone an entire day?

Ron's reactions made sense now. The frantic questions. The disappointment. He had every right to be upset with her. She'd been gone a whole day and had given him no explanations.

She had no explanations for herself, either.

The only thing she could visualize in the time between knocking on the warehouse door and waking up on the floor were fangs. Long, sharp, and glistening. Coming straight at her.

Had there been vampires?

No. It had to be something else. Vampires didn't attack wizards. It simply wasn't done because… because… Hermione didn't know the answer to this. She probably should. The details she'd learned in school were scant, but the person was supposed to know immediately that they had been turned.

Unlike almost every other known magical entity, the Ministry did not regulate vampires, except to warn people away from them. They were completely absent from Wizarding Law documents, except for one treaty that she knew of. Hermione made a mental note to look through the Ministry's records in the morning, just to confirm.

But even vampires didn't explain her darkening veins… maybe that was a side-effect of an illness. She'd heard the flu was going around. Hermione dug around in her cabinet and scanned the label on the bottle, noting that it said to take 'just enough'. She didn't know what that meant, so she took a single dose and hoped for the best.

Her feet padded through the flat on autopilot, plugging in the kettle, setting the automatic coffee timer, and locking up. The effects of the potion were already working, numbing her sore muscles and easing the sting from the scrapes on her skin. Hermione flopped onto her bed and stared at the ceiling, willing sleep to come. Despite having the flat to herself at last, her thoughts kept drifting back to Ron.

He had every right to be worried when he'd shown up to her empty flat this morning, and even more concerned when she'd stood him up at the restaurant for a dinner she'd agreed to. If Ron had gone missing for more than a few hours, she'd have torn down every wall between them to find out what had happened, whether or not they were together. She felt horrible for how she'd treated him, when all he wanted was to know that she was alright.

Despite their disagreements, she missed him. She missed his quirky jokes and his off-brand fashion sense. She even missed his ability to make an argument out of nothing and how he swept disagreements under the rug after they'd run their course. He was determined to help her. Loyal to a fault. No matter how much she pushed him away, his hopeful face showed up on her doorstep every morning to get her through the Ministry's charmed entrance.

Restlessness needled at her, churned around her gut and pounded inside her head, breaking through the potion's masking abilities, stirring up her anxiety. Now, of all times, she wasn't in the mood to be overcome by some nameless Boggart plucking away her sanity.

Her therapist had told her that if she put a name to her feelings, they could no longer hide in the dark, and become more tangible, a thing to be overcome and conquered.

She sat up in bed, finding the word for the relentless gnawing feeling at last.

Hunger.