DISCLAIMER: if you came here to read Dramione fluff, back out now. There is nothing fluffly or romantic about this story. It's a blatant, unapologetic examination of why this ship (for me) won't ever sail. However, it's also not a ship-bashing fic, so if you're looking for that, you might also want to go elsewhere. This story contains vampires. Though none of it is overtly excessive, there is blood and violence and sex. There are some situations where the characters are thinking that they might not want to live through the night. Consider yourself warned, and please take the Mature rating seriously.

I subscribe to the Mad-Eye Moody philosophy of writing: "Constant Improvement". I would love to hear any thoughts you would like to share, even (and especially) if they didn't hit right.

Monday night at a quarter till seven, Hermione Granger struggled to pull out her wallet while her left hand hung limply at her side. The taxi slowed, jostling her in the back seat as it turned off the main road and onto uneven pavement, headlights piercing the darkness of the warehouse district.

As far as Mondays went, her Ministry workload had been typical. She'd gone through the motions of filing petitions, answering correspondence, and reviewing the files for her big meeting. The publicity her Wednesday proposal would bring, the light it would shed on the underrepresented beings of the Magical World, was designed to give an extra push to next week's vote.

Tonight, she was pushing herself even farther. Not for votes. This was personal.

As she shoved her hand into a bulky handbag slung over her shoulder, the sleeve of her coat bunched up at the elbow, revealing ugly black streaks along her forearm that ended at a gnarled, useless thing of a hand. The driver's eyes suddenly shifted away from the mirror—he'd seen it.

She instinctively pulled the sleeve over her damaged arm and continued to fish around in her bag as the cab pulled to a stop at the end of the freight dock. That was the problem with her cursed handicap, even in the Muggle world, she felt like she was constantly performing escape routines. Every successful move earned her points for her wits and one-handed dexterity. Each failure caused her to rely on the generosity of strangers, taking another hit to her pride.

The driver's eyes flickered back to the mirror and away again, as if to ask what the hell was taking her so long. Welcome to the show, she thought. Tonight's performance: getting out of a Muggle cab.

Her therapist had described these late-night clients as "shy" and "marginalized by the Ministry", two things that Hermione loved to fix. Through Dr. Metzker, she'd accepted the side job at the Freedom Wings Agency for the Underrepresented, thinking that it'd compliment her Ministry position. She would be able to reach so many more people who needed her help.

"I told them how good you are at what you do," Dr. Metzker had said.

Yes, Hermione was very good at what she did. She'd drafted the legislation that required fair pay for house-elves. Even after her magic faded and her wand hand became a useless appendage, her proposal on equal employment opportunities for werewolves was the current topic on the Wizengamot floor.

Sheer will kept the year-long struggle to regain her magic a secret from the public. Now that she'd stopped fighting the inevitable, she only had to accept her condition and move on. Only her closest friends, her boss, and the assistant he hired to cover for her knew the magic had abandoned her for good.

It didn't stop her from fighting. Far from it. Now, she had an even greater reason to petition for the people who needed to be seen for their worth, not their inconveniences.

The taxi's engine revved, causing her wallet to slip under a bag of crisps in her bag.

"Come on, come on, come on," she muttered under her breath. "You can do this!" Finally, she caught the wallet in her fist and flipped it open. She glanced up at the dashboard where the running cab fare flashed on the digital meter. She didn't have enough cash to cover it, but that's what cards were for.

And now for my next trick…

She leaned forward with the purse in her lap and swore again when the charge card slipped out of her fingers and fell between the seat and the floor. Her body strained against the seatbelt as she tried to reach it. Instinctively, she whispered, "Accio card".

Nothing happened. She kept forgetting… she kept trying... as if her brain refused to fully process the finality of her loss.

Are you feeling overwhelmed today, Ms. Granger? Often, big adjustments take longer than you want them to.

Thank you for the validation, Dr. Metzker, but I need to get out of this cab tonight.

Right. Focus. Her body wasn't broken—it was different. Reaching and grunting, she finally grasped the edge of the card with the tips of her fingers and lifted it triumphantly into the air.

"Here it is!" she said in an exaggerated, chirpy tone while handing it over to the driver, who sighed heavily and swiped it with all the patience of a whistling kettle. The machine chirped back, and Hermione retrieved her card, stuffed it into the open bag—not back in her wallet because that would take too long—and began the next task: exiting the vehicle.

The door latch popped open on the first try, and she squeezed her purse to her left side with her bad arm so it wouldn't fall back into the car while she climbed out of the backseat, claiming her minor victory.

The taxi driver grumbled, "You could have asked for help instead of wasting my time."

I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry…

Ms. Granger, I have to be frank with you. If we are going to continue working together, you have to stop apologizing for who you are.

Right, Dr. Metzker. You are so right about that.

Hermione pushed her self-deprecating thoughts aside and replaced them with practical observations. Logically, the taxi driver earned his wages by the minute, so what did it matter if he waited a few ticks longer for his fare?

Merlin, that sounded pathetic, like she was giving excuses for herself. She hated making other people feel like they had to make time for her. But over the past year, Hermione had dropped a long string of magical therapists who had all said the same thing.

Graciously accept the help offered, be grateful for the little things… It all sounded genuine and honorable, but after all the speeches of 'digging deep' and 'facing reality', Hermione was left with the hollow realization that she had become nothing more than a burden to everyone around her.

Dr. Metzker had been different, demanding in their first session that Hermione fight for her autonomy, no matter what it took. The world didn't owe her anything, of course. But she shouldn't have to surrender her dignity for the privilege of existing, either.

Her large bag slipped clumsily and plummeted, along with her self-worth, onto the pavement. Hermione huffed and straightened her entirely impractical Muggle business outfit in the red glow of the taxi's tail lights, hoisting the bag to her aching shoulder. Logically, it would have been safer to bring someone with her to the vacant warehouse, or side-along Apparate with a trusted friend instead of calling a cab. But part of this exercise, Dr. Metzker had explained, was proving to herself that she could lead an independent life.

She got out of the taxi on her own—that ought to count for something.

The large brick factory building from London's industrial past looked like it owned the whole dock. It was aAn imposing three story structure, andit was the closest to the water, while all the other buildings seemed to crowd around it like smaller, neglected children. Around the corner, she found a sliding metal door with bits of olive paint clinging to the frame. A plaque below the peephole read, "Warehouse #3".

The night was quiet enough to hear water lapping against docks, mere feet away from where she stood. Nothing moved except for the hair prickling away from her neck.

Nerves. Hermione replaced her unease with the practiced greeting she would use for her clients. Dr. Metzker insisted she had to stop thinking of herself as the only one trapped between two worlds. Whoever these people were, they would get her full attention. Nothing perturbed Hermione Granger more than being forced to view one's differences as a weakness.

She knocked on the warehouse door resolutely. "Hello? Is anyone in there?"

The metal door slid aside, revealing a narrow opening into blackness. Hermione stepped inside the cool space, wishing that she could light her wand… no, scratch that. As she made a mental note to add a small torch to her bag, her attention shifted to a small pool of light where a stubborn streetlamp had banished the darkness through the broken skylight.

A lithe, feminine figure stepped out of the shadows holding a candle. Her face hovered behind long tresses that flowed past her shoulders. A feeling of vague recognition crossed Hermione's mind, but she couldn't place where she'd seen the woman.

The flash of familiarity vanished.

No, she'd never met this woman before.

"I'm sorry I'm late," Hermione said in her most professional tone. "The cabs don't seem to want to come this way. I had to call three before I could get a ride…" She trailed off as the woman in front of her continued to give her a measured, unblinking stare.

"You're just in time," the thin woman said, her husky voice matching the surrounding shadows.

Relieved that she was indeed in the right location, Hermione nodded. "My name..."

"We know who you are. They tell me you are the expert at making room within the Ministry for people who don't belong."

"Well, I wouldn't put it like…" Hermione again found herself unable to finish speaking under the woman's unyielding gaze.

"Come closer," the woman said, marking a path with the sweep of her hand.

Hermione ventured further into the warehouse, fully aware of the ominous shadows around her. Three, maybe four shapes moved to her left, and another cluster of indistinguishable forms wavered on her right. She did not know how far the room spread out beyond her view, or how many others hid from her sight.

She assumed an authoritative posture and addressed the unknown assembly. "Everyone deserves a chance for equal representation," she began. That was her platform, and she was going to stand by it. "If I knew who you were, I would have prepared better documentation for you."

"If you knew who we were," the woman said carefully, "you wouldn't have come." She smiled, and Hermione saw a flash of pointed white teeth.

Fangs.

She shouldn't stare, but the mesmerizing glare from the woman's dark eyes rooted Hermione to the floor. Her mind raced, trying to fit the pieces together. Vampires had no protections under Wizarding law. They weren't even classified as 'human'. If this woman was seeking representation within the Ministry of Magic, Hermione would have a tough fight on her hands.

She flinched as a loud 'clang' echoed through the space. Someone had closed the warehouse door. The surrounding emptiness seemed to move, crowding around her. Certain that someone was right behind her, Hermione spun around and met only darkness. She jerked her arm away from something that brushed her side, and suddenly she couldn't move at all. Invisible hands grabbed at her hair… wrapped around her arms… ran down her legs.

"Wait!" she cried out. "Let me go!"

A sharp sting on the back of her neck threw her off balance, and her tight Muggle skirt did nothing to keep her from toppling to the ground. Hermione yelped as something pierced the skin on her arms, legs… everywhere.

"No! What are you…" Her throat constricted, and then released a strangled scream as they swarmed around her. "This is a mistake… I was sent to help you! Why…"

"Oh, but you are helping," came the silken voice from somewhere above her. "You are exactly what we need."

Even in her compromising position, Hermione's brain backtracked through the events that had led her to this place, to these monsters. She'd accepted the assignment, stupidly complying with their request to come alone. Blindly believing that she would be fine without backup.

Cold crept into her, along with the terrible realization that no one knew where she was. Paralyzed, she could only stare at the broken skylight and hope that someone, somewhere could hear her screams.

Please, someone. Anyone…

Hermione's eyes pinched together as pain flooded her system, and her mind reeled. Her mouth was open. She was exhaling, but she no longer heard her own voice. Another sharp stab of pain forced her eyelids to fly open, and she was met with the face of the woman who had lured her in.

"We cannot do anything for the pain," the thin woman said calmly above Hermione's prone form on the floor, "but do not worry. Tomorrow, you won't remember a thing."