Chapter 27: Hermione

In the Flesh

Content Warning:
Canon-typical violence (bloody broken nose described, light bodily harm). If this triggers you, skip the "Nine months earlier" section.

"But who can remember pain, once it's over? All that remains of it is a shadow, not in the mind even, in the flesh. Pain marks you, but too deep to see. Out of sight, out of mind." ― Margaret Atwood,The Handmaid's Tale

Thursday, July 26, 2007
Diagon Alley

The shops of Diagon Alley were closing one by one, their enchanted signs tucking themselves away. A few remaining shoppers hurried along, eager to get home before nightfall.

As Hermione walked, hood up to conceal her face, she steeled herself to return to the White Wyvern for a long night of waiting and watching.

The pub was a den of filth, filled with the dregs of magical society—dark wizards, witches, and more sinister magical beings. She was sure she had spotted a vampire or two the night before, which unnerved her more than she cared to admit. It was rare for vampires to fraternize with wizards and other magical beings; she knew that more than anyone.

Hermione had remained outside the White Wyvern so far, observing under the cover of a disguise and a Notice-Me-Not Charm from a distance. She had begun to recognize some of the regulars and was slowly piecing together the patterns of the pub's patrons. The stakeout was tedious, but she found a strange comfort in the relative peacefulness of staying up through the night, even if she had started to miss the sun.

It was undoubtedly better than mail inspection duty.

Tonight, however, Hermione was running two hours early. She struggled to sleep during the day, her mind too restless, and she had decided to leave Grimmauld Place while the sun was still low in the sky. As she strolled down Diagon Alley, she wandered past the main turn into Knockturn. Her feet carried her further down the street, almost to the very end, where smaller offshoot alleys branched off into the distance.

Before she realized it, she was standing in front of a familiar sight that caused her to stop in her tracks.

The magical plant shop brought back a rush of memories. She had visited near daily during the two years she lived above it. The shop was closed now, its windows dark, but a delicate enchanted flower in a white ceramic pot was in the center window display. The petals glowed softly, opening and closing with a rhythm that mimicked breathing. Hermione found herself smiling as she admired it, remembering how she used to stop and watch the shop's displays on her way home from work.

A voice behind her broke the quiet. "Hermione?"

She turned, startled, and found herself face-to-face with Terry Boot.

Hermione's heart began to race, and she stood silent, gobsmacked before him. They hadn't spoken alone or directly since their painful breakup in October, and Hermione had gone to great lengths to avoid him since. Seeing him now, so suddenly and outside the Ministry, threw her off balance.

"Terry," she eventually greeted him, trying to keep her voice steady. "Hello."

Terry looked much the same as she remembered—tall, with his short dark hair neatly combed to the side. He had a round face that he always kept clean-shaven, though this evening, the beginnings of stubble were visible on his cheeks. Hermione kept her eyes trained on the divot in his chin.

Terry held a paper bag of groceries in his arms. He smiled at her, though it didn't quite reach his eyes.

Terry spoke, his tone tentative, "I was just heading home. Would you like to join me for a cup of tea? I've really wanted to talk to you, Hermione."

Hermione hesitated, her first instinct to refuse. But something in Terry's voice made her pause. "I'm on my way to a stakeout," she said, glancing at the darkening sky. "But … I suppose I have a little time."

Terry nodded with a small, relieved smile as he led the way up the narrow staircase to the second-floor flat they had once shared. The door creaked slightly as he unlocked it with his wand and pushed it open, and Hermione stepped inside, her eyes sweeping over the familiar living room.

It was almost exactly as she had left it. The plush white couch she had picked out, the Persian rug they had chosen together, and the crystal chandelier in the entryway were still there. But the bookshelves, which had once been filled with her collection, were mostly empty now.

Her gaze lingered on the photographs on the wall, noticing the newer additions—Terry with his mom; Terry and his dad in front of the Empire State Building. She felt a pang of something she couldn't quite identify when she saw the picture of them on the beach in Sicily, the one major holiday they had taken together last summer. They had also planned to visit New York together—before.

Terry placed the groceries on the counter in the tiny galley kitchen and began preparing tea as Hermione continued to take in the room. She couldn't help but comment, "I wasn't sure if you still lived here."

Terry glanced back at her, though she couldn't see his face. "I love this flat," he said, as if that explained everything.

If the situation had been reversed—if Terry had been the one to dump and leave Hermione—she would never have been able to stay in this place filled with memories of him. But she kept that thought to herself.

It made sense for him, she supposed. Terry knew what he liked, and once he liked something, he did not waver. He liked his coffee black, his eggs scrambled, his shoes dark brown and polished, his robes lint-free and pressed each morning with a careful charm. He liked eagle feather quills, but only the ones sold at Scrivenshaft's. He liked Muggle science fiction novels once Hermione had introduced him to Asimov.

He liked Hermione—once. She had liked him. Loved him, in fact.

A few minutes later, Terry finished the tea and sat opposite her on the couch. The silence between them felt heavy. Hermione sipped her tea, which Terry had prepared exactly as she liked—one spoonful of honey. The warmth of the liquid did little to ease the tension she felt.

Finally, Hermione broke the silence, her impatience getting the better of her. "What did you want to talk about, Terry?"

He looked at her, expression serious. "I haven't stopped thinking about what happened, Hermione. I wanted to apologize. I am so sorry for my part in getting you captured. I was wrong."

Hermione felt a surge of anger at the words, old wounds reopening. "I remember you being very certain that it wasn't your fault," she said, her voice sharp as a knife.

Terry winced, his gaze dropping to the floor. "I know. I was wrong then, too."

Nine months earlier—

The last of the bound and gagged vampires were being ushered out of the dilapidated suburban house.

Hermione stood in the driveway, watching as the Aurors led the vampires away, hoods pulled low over their ashen faces.

Hermione did not enjoy watching any magical being—including Class X Non-Creature Part Humans—imprisoned. But there was still a sort of satisfaction running through her. It had been a grueling investigation. Muggles had been turning up to local hospitals severely drained of blood for months, clearly the work of an unregistered coven. The DMLE had no leads, and as "a last resort," they finally contacted the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures for help. Hermione shook her head in exasperation; if Harry had been the lead Auror on this case, he would have immediately brought Hermione in on it.

Hermione had worked with the Society for the Tolerance of Vampires and Eric Worple, whom she had met at Slughorn's Christmas Party years ago. Worple had, in turn, brought his vampire companion Sanguini, who had located the desperate and disorganized coven within three days.

Terry stood a few feet away, scribbling furiously on a Muggle clipboard, his brow furrowed in concentration. He was in his element, coordinating the operation's final stages and ensuring every detail was accounted for. Hermione smiled. She loved it when Terry was focused and meticulous.

He looked up briefly as she approached, his expression distracted. "I can go complete the final sweep inside," Hermione said, trying to catch his attention.

"Thank you, love," Terry mumbled, his eyes already back on his notes. His quill scratched across the parchment as the last of the Aurors disapparated.

The air inside the house was thick with decay and old blood. The wallpaper was slashed, peeling, and pockmarked with evidence of the months the vampires had spent hiding here.

They called themselves the Arrow Coven, though they were barely a coven as it was. They had no leader. The only thing the vampires in this house shared was a mutual enjoyment of throwing sharp objects at the wall.

Darts and knives were hardly arrows, but Hermione had not had the chance to make that point in conversation—yet.

Hermione's gaze swept the rooms on the first floor. Her wand was raised, casting light over the boarded-up windows and the dark stains on the walls.

She moved cautiously upstairs, her feet cautious on the creaking steps. The second floor was worse—the windows were boarded up so tightly that no light penetrated the darkness. The rooms were eerily quiet; the only sound was her breathing. The beds were unmade, their sheets filthy and torn, and the floors littered with debris. She could almost see the vampires hiding during the daylight hours, waiting for nightfall to emerge and hunt.

Finally, she descended into the basement, where the darkness thickened around her. The Aurors had removed a lot of debris and evidence from here, but the remnants of the vampires' presence lingered—the loose wooden panels and the dirty blankets tossed carelessly aside. Hermione moved slowly, examining the walls, looking for any sign that they had missed something.

And then, she heard it—the sound of breathing, loud and ragged, coming from behind her.

Hermione's heart stopped, a cold wave of fear washing over her. Before she could react, something struck her hard between the shoulder blades, sending her crashing into the wall. The impact was brutal, her nose smashing against the cold, unyielding concrete. She felt a sharp pain and then the warmth of blood running down her face.

Dazed and disoriented, Hermione tried to regain her bearings, but the world around her spun.

Before she could recover, a vampire was on her, tackling her to the filthy ground and snatching her wand from her hand. The room swirled in a dizzying blur of darkness and pain. She fought back, her body instinctively trying to resist, using Muggle self-defense techniques she had learned long ago. But the vampire—a thin and bony woman dressed in a tattered black dress—was unnaturally strong.

Despite her gaunt appearance, she quickly overpowered Hermione, pinning her to the floor.

The vampire's bony knees dug into Hermione's forearms, immobilizing her. Hermione's chest heaved with panicked breaths, her mind racing for a way out. She tried to speak, but the pain in her nose and the taste of blood in her throat made it difficult.

The vampire leaned in close, her breath cold against Hermione's skin, and inhaled deeply, savoring the scent of her blood. A twisted smile curled on the vampire's lips as she dragged a long finger across Hermione's face and then licked the blood off of it.

"You're all alone now," the vampire whispered, her voice soft, almost pitying. "Your friends are gone. The sun will rise soon, but I think I'll keep you. All my coven left, and I will be lonely." There was a note of madness in her voice, an unstable edge that sent a fresh wave of fear through Hermione. She had a thick accent that Hermione couldn't place.

"What's your name?" Hermione asked, contorting her face into a pathetic smile.

"Darla," the creature replied, looking down at Hermione suspiciously.

"I'm Hermione. I … like your dress." A lie. It was barely a garment, the hem tattered and filthy. Hermione's only thought was to keep the creature talking until Terry came inside.

"I like your wand." Darla was caressing the carved vines running along Hermione's wand, even bringing the stick to her nose to sniff. "It's pretty."

"Oh, thank you," Hermione replied, trying to muster up some cheer. "I do like the way it looks. I didn't get to choose it myself, but I was quite happy. The wand chooses the witch, they say."Keep talking, keep talking, keep talking. "How did you come to live here?"

"I lived in Budapest for eighty years," Darla said, sadness evident in her voice. "But hunting got hard, so my sisters and I came here."

"An immigrant," Hermione replied. Her nose throbbed, and she was having trouble concentrating—and breathing. "That sounds very hard. I've never been to Budapest, but I hear the bridges over the Danube are lovely. How are you liking England?"

"It's cloudy. I like it."

"Ideal!" Hermione managed to reply. "Nothing like a British cloud."

"We're still hungry. Hungrier here than at home."

"I can help with that," Hermione offered. Her voice was nasally, and she coughed to clear some blood from the back of her throat. "The Guidelines for the Treatment of Non-Wizard Part-Humans state that the Ministry can offer blood to vampires in need. I've been working on setting up a formal sanctuary space and blood dispensary. It all falls under the maintenance of the Statute of Secrecy."

"Boring."

"Well, if you're hungry, it's an option. At the very least, there will be daytime shelter—"

"My sisters and I don't like this house," Darla said, ignoring Hermione's words. "The other vampires were boring. All they liked to do was throw sharp things at the wall. … I'm glad they're gone. My sisters, though. I miss them."

Hermione nodded as Darla spoke. "I'm very close with my loved ones, too. My parents live in Australia, but I visit them at Christmastime. Lovely time of year there. It's warm and sunny—but of course, the clouds are my favorite. And the—nighttime. Your sisters are just fine, by the way. We could reunite you, and then you could start a new coven together."

Where was Terry?

"You like the nighttime," Darla said, black eyes wide.

"Of course. Charming. I've actually always been a morning person. Easier to get things done in the early hours without people to distract you—but the night has its advantages."

Darla's face contorted into a smile, and Hermione was horrified when Darla tore open her own wrist with her fangs. "You can be my sister," she murmured, almost tenderly, as she pressed the bleeding wound to Hermione's mouth. "I'm hungry first, though."

"Darla, I don't think that's a good idea," Hermione sputtered through clenched teeth, turning her head away.

"Why?" Darla asked, the blood dripping profusely from her wrist onto Hermione's neck.

"My boss—friends too—will be mad. Not your fault, of course," she rushed to add at the dark look in Darla's eyes. "That's just how they are. I think … it would be better to talk to them first. Make sure everyone understands, you know?"

"No one understands vampires," Darla replied, her accent thick and long.

"Don't I know it," Hermione readily agreed. She coughed a bit and took a long breath through her mouth. "Not just vampires. Goblins, werewolves, dwarfs, fairies, giants—you name it. In the Muggle world we call it racism, or prejudice more generally. But I do think racism applies, especially when we are considering part-human or humanoid beings. You're just like me if not for the blood and—and everything. I'd love to know more. What was becoming a vampire like for you?"

Darla leaned back and quirked her head. Hermione focused on breathing. Where was Terry?

"It was a dark and stormy night …"

Hermione almost cried in relief as Darla told her story. By the time she finished, Terry would be done outside and come in to do a last once-over and find them. Surely? But if he had already left … no. He wouldn't do that.

She breathed, and she listened, and she made the appropriate sounds. Darla had experienced a tough life—or afterlife, as it were. She was living in the sewers alone on Margaret Island in Budapest, feeding at night on drunk tourists to avoid detection. Meeting her two sisters had been the highlight of the last fifty years—and they had made the long trek to England over months together. By the end of her tale, Hermione was revolutionized more than she had already been—why should Darla suffer for who she was? She had not killed anyone amd actively tried to minimize her presence in the world.

Yes, it was a relief that Darla had not killed anyone. … Perhaps she would reconsider the "make you my sister" idea, which Hermione was too actively in pain to contemplate appropriately.

"What a story—you should write a book!" Hermione jumped at the moment Darla had finished talking. "I have a vampire friend, Sanguini. He's from Italy. Anyway, he wrote a book with his friend Eric. It was a great best-seller. Lots of interest among the public for these stories, you know. Vampires are so under-represented, especially firsthand accounts. Would you be interested?"

"What?"

"Writing a book. Would you be interested? I don't know any publishers personally, but I'm quite—well, I'm quite famous, to be honest. I'm not bragging, it's just a fact of my life. I have connections and friends, and I'm sure I could get you a book deal in days. I know just who to owl."

"I'm bored. I need to find dinner. But … I will think," Darla nodded, and then her black eyes pierced into Hermione's. "You will stay."

Darla took the wound at her wrist and again pressed it into Hermione's lips. Hermione whimpered, turning her head away, but the vampire was relentless, forcing her jaw open with a bony hand. A few drops of the vampire's cold, metallic blood dripped into Hermione's mouth, and she felt a wave of nausea roll through her. Her vision began to blur, darkness creeping in at the edges as an overwhelming fatigue washed over her.

She tried to fight it, tried to stay conscious, but the world around her was fading fast. The last thing she saw before everything went black was Darla's pale, emaciated face looming over her.

When Hermione next awoke, she was no longer in the basement.

The first thing she noticed was the pain—a deep, throbbing ache in her nose that made it hard to breathe. She blinked, trying to clear her vision, and realized she was tied to a bed, her limbs stretched to their limits and bound tightly to the bedposts.

The room was dark, the only light coming from the faint glow of the moon through the cracks in the boarded-up windows. Panic set in as she realized she had no idea how much time had passed. It could have been hours—or days. She had no way of knowing if anyone was even looking for her.

Terry would have noticed she did not return to their flat, though—of coursehe would have. Hermione's stomach churned at the moonlight, though. It had been close to sunrise when they were clearing the scene. Had it been a full day? Or only minutes?

A floorboard creaked somewhere in the house, and Hermione's breath caught in her throat. Darla was a nice enough vampire—much more personable than Sanguini, in her opinion, though that was a low bar to clear—but Hermione was not interested in joining the undead.

The door creaked open, and Darla stepped inside.

"We're both awake now," Darla whispered, her voice soft, almost gentle. She moved closer, her figure a shadowy silhouette in the dim light. "I had dinner already, but I'm still hungry. Some of your blood will do, I think," she said, her tone conversational, as if they were discussing what to have for dinner.

Well—Hermione supposed that was the case for Darla.

She tried, "I can help with that if you just untie my hands—"

"—just a taste, my sister Hermione."

Darla's eyes were wild, and Hermione decided at that moment that Sanguini was preferable indeed. Hermione tried to pull away, but there was nowhere to go. The vampire's fangs grazed her skin, sharp and deadly, and then pierced her flesh.

The pain was intense at first, a sharp stab that caused Hermione to cry out. And then it became dull. Hermione could hear Darla's gulps, close as she was to Hermione's ear.

But also, as the minutes passed, Hermione began to forget about her worries. A wave of peace and almost euphoria washed over her, and the pain from her broken limbs eased away. It nearly felt like she was floating on the ocean, like she was soaring through the air.

A sound rang out in the distance, perhaps a crash or a thump, but Hermione didn't think anything of it. She felt too good, even though she wouldn't say no to a blanket. However, Darla was concerned about it, so she ripped her fangs from Hermione's neck.

She thought she heard her name, but that would be silly. And anyway—what was her name? It didn't matter.

Hermione was so tired, and her eyes began to drift closed. Then, several bright flashes of light startled her, and she whimpered at how the light hurt her eyes.

Someone was there, but everything around her was blurry.

"She's here!"

Who was there? Whoever it was, Hermione wished that they would be quiet because her head had just started to hurt again. She tried to return to the euphoria from moments earlier, but it was out of her reach. Instead, she thought she would close her eyes and get some sleep.

The last thing she saw before falling unconscious was a familiar pair of bespectacled green eyes.

Present day—
The Flat of Terry Boot, Diagon Alley

Terry's eyes were openly anguished as he pleaded with her.

"You should have stayed," Hermione told him, her voice rising with emotion. "You were the site manager, Terry. You were responsible for making sure everything was secure at the crime scene, for making sure everyone was out. But you left. You sent the Auror guards home, and you left me there." The last word came out like a croak as she fought down the pain of her memory.

Hermione had said all of this to Terry before.

It felt like no time had passed. The memory of that night came flooding back—Darla, the basement, the desperation. And then the betrayal she had felt when it wasHarry, not Terry, who had come to her rescue. She should not have gone into the house alone, but he should not have left her, and Terry's mistake was much easier to blame.

"And then," Hermione continued, "You went out to get drunk with Zac and didn't notice that I hadn't come home." She looked around at the flat. This had been her home.

Terry's face crumpled with regret, his hands trembling slightly as he set his cup on the table.

"You're right," he said, his voice strained. "I did the wrong thing! It's the biggest regret of my life."

Terry's eyes were full of pain as he stood from his place on the couch and moved to kneel in front of her, taking her hands in his. "You've always been too good for me. You were Deputy Head, and I was just a nothing DMLE manager. I felt inadequate. I thought if I did my job perfectly, I could make up for it. And then, I didn't."

"I didn't care what your job was," Hermione told him—again. They had said this all before. It felt like she was reliving her own life in a Pensieve.

Hermione stared down at him, the sharp lines of his jaw, the pleading look in his warm brown eyes. For a moment, she saw the man she had once loved. A wave of conflicting emotions washed over her—anger, hurt, but also the remnants of affection.

She let his apology sink in.

Hermione knew she was not blameless. She had gone in alone, and when she had been released from St. Mungo's two days after being rescued, she had faced an inquiry and a reprimand for her actions. It had been one of the lowest points of her career.

She had been so focused on her own advancement and on proving herself at the Ministry. … Had she pushed Terry away?

It almost didn't matter now. She had broken up with him—quickly, angrily, stuffing all her belongings into her beaded bag and showing up in tears at Harry's doorstep all within thirty minutes. Ever since, Hermione had continued rushing things, making mistakes, and throwing herself into her career to the point of failure—was her leave of absence now not proof enough of that?

Terry's voice broke through her thoughts, "I am so sorry, Hermione. I'm so, so sorry."

Hermione felt something inside her soften. A tear slipped down Terry's cheek, and Hermione felt her eyes well up. Maybe it was time to let it go.

Taking a deep breath, Hermione squeezed Terry's hands and whispered, "I forgive you, Terry."

The words felt like a release, a burden lifting off her shoulders. Terry looked up at her, his eyes wide with gratitude, and for the first time in months, she felt a sense of peace. He thanked her repeatedly, his voice trembling with emotion, and as she stood up, he pulled her into a tight embrace.

She could feel his steady and reassuring heartbeat against her chest, and for the first time in a long while, she let herself relax.

When Terry kissed the top of her head, she felt a warmth spread through her, melting away the last remnants of her anger. She tilted her head to meet his gaze, and something shifted between them. The tension in the air grew thicker. It was all so familiar. They had been in this position before, countless times.

He leaned in, hesitant, waiting for her to pull away, but she didn't. Instead, she let herself be drawn in by the familiarity of this situation, the place where they were—and him.

Their lips met in a gentle kiss, and for a moment, it seemed like nothing had changed. The world outside the flat, the pain, and the anger all faded away, leaving only the two of them.

Terry was ravenous in his touches, and Hermione let him kiss her with abandon. Before too long, he began to talk. He murmured to her between each kiss. He whispered her name reverently. "Hermione. … So beautiful. … Missed you. … Love you."

And Hermione should have stopped him there because that was not what this was for her. He said he loved her, and she did not love him now—not like she had. That concern was too distant for her to act upon, though, especially while Terry's hands were winding deliciously into her scalp.

But then Terry brought his lips down and kissed the side of her neck—

—and that felt wrong.

She gasped, released his hand, kicked at his legs, and hissed, "Stop. No. Get off."

Terry, bewildered, took several steps away.

Hermione gasped and gasped and could not find her breath.

Her neck tingled, almost stinging. Perhaps it was the conversation they had or her state of emotion, but when Terry's lips had touched that place—the exact spot where poor, desperate Darla had almost bled her dry—she could not cope.

This all felt wrong, and Hermione needed to leave. She wanted to cry, but she was short of breath.

"This was a mistake," she managed to say, her voice hoarse.

Terry smartly kept away from Hermione. He asked, "Are you okay?"

She was not, but Hermione ignored the question and said, "I need to go."

She stood and began to gather herself, blindly looking around for anything she might have forgotten.

"Hermione—"

"I'm fine," she cut him off. "I'm just—we shouldn't have done this." Hermione checked for her wand and found it. She held it tightly like a lifeline and momentarily forgot where the door was.

She found the door, but she also found Terry, who was looking at her, discouraged and perhaps a bit scared.

"Terry…" She faltered. "Thank you for apologizing. I—I forgive you. I do. But I can't do this again. I won't be with you."

He looked crestfallen as if she had just announced a death—and in a way, she had, because Hermione had changed a lot in the last nine months, but she would not change in this.

Hermione left, and she did not look back, not at the home they had once built together, and not at him.

Hermione made it to the apparition point and used the last dregs of her composure to send herself home. She arrived in the sitting room of Grimmauld Place and fell to her knees, letting out a choked breath.

"Hermione? Hermione," came Harry's voice, alarmed with shock, and she looked up, startled. Harry had been by the fireplace and was covered in soot as though he had just arrived through the Floo.

She let out a sob next, unable to hold it in.

"Hermione! What's wrong? Are you hurt?" Harry rushed over to her, joining her on the ground, touching her shoulders to see if she was in pain.

Hermione grabbed the front of his robes and pulled him close, and Harry wrapped his arms around her. She had not cried in ages—months, at least. Harry held her firm and allowed her to cry into his chest. He rubbed gentle circles on her back and said, "It's okay."

Later, after Hermione had calmed down—after Harry had forced her to sit down and drink half of a steaming cup of tea—Hermione told him everything.

Harry listened and nodded. When she described Terry's apology, he looked angry but didn't react. When Hermione finished her story, he nodded and said, "It's done."

It was done.

Hermione sighed in relief and sipped her tea, taking comfort in the warmth of the liquid and the hard edges of the porcelain. They sat quietly for a while, and Hermione did not feel judged. Still, she did feel the lingering embarrassment of having pathetically allowed her ex-boyfriend to kiss her.

Eventually, Harry also spoke.

"If we're sharing, I've wanted to tell you something. … I think I like blokes. I like witches still, but … yes. I think I like blokes."

Hermione looked at him, eyebrows raised as she processed the information. It was a shock, but not as much as one would think. Harry was still Harry—he had never been more Harry to her than at this moment. Because she had shared something vulnerable with him, and he decided to do so in return.

"Okay," she said, placing her tea on the table. "I think Terry is single—"

"Oh, piss off."

Up Next: Draco's confrontation & the return of Potterwatch.