The echo of fist against steel reverberated through the dark alley, darker now that another streetlight had popped, busted by people probably wanting their after-hours business to remain out of the spotlight. The waters of the Thames loomed nearby, lapping at the side of the pilings. A sliver of moon lit the way to her destination.

Hermione sank her teeth into the plastic of the second bag and sucked it dry. The human blood from Mediwitch Greengrass settled her stomach.

Her humanity, though…

She shoved that thought where it couldn't reach her. Hermione only had room in her mind for one moral crisis at a time, remembering in vivid detail what she'd done to those vampires. And before that, the glint in Draco's eyes after what she'd done with him.

Guilt ate her up inside. Or was it hunger? Even moments after draining the blood bag, her body was already craving more.

Her blood was running cold. Everything around her smelled different, more intense. Questions ran tightening circles around her mind, pulling her shoulders into knots impossible to shrug off. The first time she stood here, she thought she had been taking a giant step towards her newly fought-for-and-won independence and credibility. Now all she wanted was the ability to have her sorry, unfulfilling life back.

It wouldn't be so bad to live with a disability. She still had another hand. She still had her intelligence. She could find people… Muggles… to appreciate what she had left.

Whatever she thought she had gained, Hermione knew that hanging on to this dream of getting her magic back would kill her. Or someone else would.

No matter, it all ended tonight.

She banged on the door, harder this time.

"Let me in!" she shouted.

The door opened to the same woman in the same outfit.

Hermione stepped in, re-seeing the warehouse. The dim light wasn't so dim - bodies shrouded in black - at least twenty of them, crowded in the shadows wearing rags and robes and refuse. Dark eyes with invisible features stared at her with increasing agitation. They moved like a fog across the floor, getting nearer, but remaining out of the yellow glow of the broken skylight.

"Undo what you did to me!" she demanded.

The woman smiled, showing her fangs without caution. "Why would we undo it? You have been remade."

Hermione's memory of the attack came back to her in full force. She specifically remembered the terror and the helplessness of lying on the floor, unable to move. Her human instinct told her to run. A new part of her reminded her what had happened in the back alley of the pub.

This time, she had power.

"Turn me back!" she commanded.

The woman came closer to her, eyes wide.

Hermione thought she had done it, that she was controlling this woman like Burns had controlled her at their first meeting. The woman stopped right in front of her, and the air around them went still.

The woman's face softened. "Look at the Newling, discovering her abilities," she chided. Then she laughed.

The room laughed with her, echoing through the open space. Hermione looked around in the dim light that didn't seem so dim anymore. She could make out faces. Features. Some of them, she recognized. From where? One face in particular came into focus… wasn't that the woman that had been with Neville?

"Emilia, is that you?"

The responding snarl contorted the familiar face into a ghoulish caricature, and Hermione backed away, spinning as the woman brushed her arm.

"Look how much you've gained. Night vision. Speed. Strength. Why would you ever want to go back to what you were? Cursed with no magic. No hope. A husk of your old self, stripped of everything that made you special?"

Hermione was speechless. Those were the familiar words she'd used to describe herself in her first session with her therapist. They felt hollow being thrown back at her now. "How did you…"

"Because I'm a good listener." The woman's features shifted, and suddenly, it became clear why the woman had seemed so familiar. A different face came into focus. Hermione was face to face with her therapist.

"Dr. Metzker?"

The woman laughed again, and Hermione reeled back in horror. Disbelief. This was the woman who she had trusted for months. The woman who had encouraged her to find her own path. Distance herself from her old life and cut ties with the friends and family who no longer understood her. Hermione realized that all of the self-isolation had been pre-meditated, a systematic plan to isolate her from everyone who ever cared about her.

"But you… I trusted you to fix me, to make me stronger."

"So I did. Dr. Metzker was a mask. Do you want to see the real me?"

Dr. Metzker's face contorted again. When it was done changing, nothing about the benevolent therapist was left. There were fangs, sharp cheek bones, sunken eyes, and a deep, hungry longing.

"You needed a new life, and we needed someone who understood us, someone who would fight for us. That's what you do."

"Burns said you'd turn me back."

The vampire paused at the name, and then recovered her composure. "Burns, and the Council are an outdated aristocracy. The Ministry of Magic, however, is ripe for change. Their guilty collective conscience wants to right the wrongs of their society. Well, isn't that nice." Metzker chuckled dryly, and the room joined in with what sounded like agreeable chuffing. "They conveniently raised you up as their figurehead for rights and equality. We've been watching your high-profile career with great interest. And now that you have a full understanding of who we are and are irreversibly bound to our plight, I'm sure your Ministry will listen."

"I don't want any part of your coven. Turn me back."

"Did you bring the Portkey?"

"No. I would never help you."

"We'll see about that."

The room swarmed. They were fast. And annoyingly smug. They looked like they were going to attack her,

and she chanced to use her magic, which was disastrous, and

there was blood everywhere and she craved it.

They were completely undisturbed by it - they were all over her, writhing and sinewy corpse-like things that should repulse her, somehow familiar in their half-distorted faces.

She felt their teeth on her, the pull of their greedy mouths, and then just as quickly as they had swarmed, she felt them disengage and fall away to the dark corners of the warehouse, leaving her on the floor, alone.

She heard moans and groans. Aching cries.

"Finish her!" Metzker ordered, but none of them came forward.

"Fine, I'll do it myself!"

But Metzker never had the chance. Hermione had had enough of being a victim. She gathered up the strength within her to roll onto her hands and knees and lunge forward, baring her own teeth. She caught Metzker off guard and off balance, grabbing her around the waist and throwing her to the ground. Claws scratched across her back as she sank her teeth into Metzker's thigh.

Her jaw clamped down uncontrollably, and there was pain - somewhere on her back… with an arm, she pushed the side of Metzker's head away from her, even as the old Hermione was screaming for her to stop, don't do it.

Metzker was also screaming.

Then Hermione got a taste of vibrant clarity. She felt it. Smelled it. Tasted it.

At first it felt good. Things inside her shifted. Morphed. Grew and shrank.

And then it felt like nothing.

Something crashed, incandescent light spilled through the darkness from outside, but she was paralyzed as her body made the final changes. Her heart stopped beating.

She didn't even feel it when her body met the floor.

Hermione lay there, not breathing, not anything. Waiting for the fade to black. Waiting for it all to end. She watched the writhing dance of shadows around her - contorting - screaming - as if they forgot all about her. Acrid scent of smoke and flesh filled the air.

Heads rolled. Bodies went up in flames.

Her own insides were on fire. The release she was expecting was torn away from her, and all she wanted to do was die too.

Agony filled her in a sudden rush. Searing pain. White and hot and behind her eyelids and through every limb.

She didn't care about existing anymore. All she wanted was for the pain to leave her alone. She wanted to leave the pain. Even if it meant disappearing forever.

Thick-tread lace-up boots stopped by her head.

Kill me. Kill me, now.

And then they disappeared.