"A truly captivating lesson today, Miss Granger," Professor Brindlemore remarked, her voice uncharacteristically warm. A flicker of admiration softened the sharp edges of her tone. "The first years are completely entranced by you."
"Thank you, Professor," Hermione responded, barely concealing her surprise. Brindlemore was not one to dispense praise lightly. Usually, a terse nod or, on particularly gratifying occasions, the ghost of a smile sufficed to acknowledge competence.
As she methodically packed away her belongings, Hermione replayed the words she had rehearsed countless times in her mind. Her fingers trembled slightly as she gripped the worn leather of her bag. "Professor?" she asked, willing her voice to remain steady. Brindlemore hummed in acknowledgement without looking up. "I wondered if you might have a moment to talk?" she paused. "About my research project?"
Brindlemore finally glanced at her, sharp eyes assessing. "Ah yes," she said, fingers tapping idly against the wooden desk. "Blood curses, was it?"
"Yes," Hermione nodded. "Well actually, it's evolved a little. I've been deeply engrossed in Professor Faulkner's research."
Brindlemore's lips twitched in what might have been approval. "He is quite the luminary, isn't he?"
"Indeed," Hermione agreed. "I have started looking into the relationship between blood curses and ancestral rituals."
Professor Brindlemore stiffened. "I see."
"Professor…" Hermione started slowly. She needed to get to the point quickly if she had any chance of continuing this conversation. "A friend of mine mentioned that he learned about your case in a study."
Draco Malfoy – a friend. The thought felt foreign, almost laughable – and yet, it was true.
Brindlemore gave a soft, unexpected chuckle. "Would this friend happen to be Draco Malfoy?" Hermione nodded carefully. "Horace Slughorn mentioned that he's an exquisite potioneer. I'm not surprised he was invited to that healer workshop."
Hermione straightened, relieved that Brindlemore hadn't immediately dismissed her. "So, you know they teach your case there?"
"Of course!" Brindlemore replied genuinely. "They have my permission to. It's a rare case, I know. But you never know when knowledge of it might prove useful. The young ones should learn about it, don't you agree?"
"Most definitely," Hermione smiled. "Then you wouldn't mind me asking you about it?"
"Not at all," Brindlemore said, taking a seat at her desk and gesturing to the one opposite. Almost too excitedly, Hermione rifled through her bag to retrieve her notebook and quill before sitting in the offered chair. "Where would you like to begin?"
Hermione exhaled, reminding herself to remain composed to prevent arousing suspicion. "I hope to focus my research on the variablility of typical and atypical responses of cursed wounds to external stimuli."
"Sounds fascinating," Brindlemore observed. "Well, everything I know about that time, I learned from my parents," Brindlemore explained. "Thankfully, I was too young to remember it. But hopefully I can still be of assistance."
"Of course," Hermione responded. "Malf – Draco told me that you were cut with a piece of glass imbued with an ancestral ritual."
Brindlemore's fingers absently brushed over the faintly glowing scar on her cheek. "That is correct," she confirmed. "My grandfather – my father's, father was a cruel man. Not unlike those death eaters who so avidly believed in pureblood supremacy."
A chill ran through Hermione as she listened. "I see."
"My parents hid my existence from him for as long as they could," she continued. "But it didn't last. When he discovered that his son had conceived a child with a Muggle born witch, he was furious. But by the time I was born, he was playing innocent and spoke at lengths on his desire to meet me. The day my parents relented, her turned on them. And on me."
Hermione's breath caught, her stomach twisting at the horror of it. The image of an innocent infant being attacked by her own grandfather, simply because she was born a half-blood, was too monstrous to fathom. "Do you know what the glass was from?" Hermione inquired.
"A mirror," Brindlemore answered. "Cursed decades before I was born."
Silence hung between them before Hermione carefully proceeded. "I was hoping you could describe how the wound behaved before it was healed."
"Horrifically, from what I was told." Brindlemore's scar flickered ominously, as though responding to the memory. "It would reopen every time I cried."
Hermione's fingers clenched around her quill. The similarities to her own case were undeniable. "Before you were healed, did anything work to manage the effects of the curse?"
Brindlemore thought for a moment. "My parents exhausted every remedy. I was given countless doses of strange healing potions and I am sure they went through dozens of bottles of dittany. But it was always a temporary fix."
Hermione's heart sank. "And you never had any strange or unusual reactions to anything?" she questioned. "Or… anyone?"
Brindlemore's brow furrowed. "I don't believe so."
Hermione's shoulders dropped. She allowed herself only a moments disappointment before pressing on. "How long did it take for you to be healed?" Hermione inquired.
"Hmm," Brindlemore hummed thoughtfully. "I believe it was about six months after the attack that my parents contacted Professor Faulkner. He was a young potioneer at the time but quite the expert in treating unusual afflictions."
"I hadn't released the potion was his invention," Hermione noted.
"It was," Brindlemore nodded once. "He saved my life." Hermione smiled empathetically. "It took another six months or so of trailing various methods. And as with any new antidote, he was never certain if anything he did would work – or worse, harm me further."
"That must have been terrifying," Hermione acknowledged.
"Indeed," Brindlemore agreed. "And he felt like a failure when the scar didn't go away."
"A failure?" Hermione echoed.
"He felt like he should have done more," Brindlemore explained. "When we met, years later, I made sure to tell him that he did more than enough. All my symptoms disappeared – what I am left with is a reminder of my survival." Brindlemore's fingers grazed her check gently.
"Professor," Hermione asked softly. "The potion that healed you. Has it been used since?"
"Yes," Brindlemore nodded. "A few times, I believe."
"And the results have been the same as yours each time?" Hermione asked hopefully.
Brindlemore thought for a moment. "All but one," she answered carefully.
"One?"
"In my early years as Professor Faulkner's apprentice, we worked with a young boy who had been wounded by a sewing needle. The family were certain it was imbued with an ancestral ritual. So certain, in fact – they refused to allow us to analyse the needle first."
"How strange," Hermione observed.
"Yes, it was," Brindlemore agreed. "When the boy took the potion, he appeared to be healed at first. But he returned just days later with renewed symptoms – even worse than the initial ones."
"What happened to him?" Hermione asked, not sure if she even wanted to know the answer.
"We continued to offer out help," Brindlemore explained. "But the boy's parents refused to let us analyse the needle so we didn't even know where to begin." Brindlemore inhaled slowly, as though holding back tears. "By the time the Wizengamot got involved… the boy was dead."
Hermione gasped softly, her own scar burning beneath her sleeve in fear. Professor Brindlemore rose from her desk abruptly. "Well, Miss Granger. I hope this conversation has been enlightening."
Hermione shuffled quickly to her feet, worried about having upset her. "Thank you, Professor," she said genuinely. "It certainly has been."
Rather unsurprisingly, Hermione found sleep elusive that night. Her mind buzzed with the weight of new revelations and though exhaustion gnawed at her as usual, she was far too restless to surrender to slumber. Every thought spiralled back to Brindlemore's case, intertwining with her own and the urgency to reach a resolution pressed upon her like a heavy fog.
She had shared her findings with the Slytherin boys, her voice firm with certainty that her affliction mirrored Brindlemore's almost perfectly. But they remained steadfast in their insistence – they needed to analyse the dagger before even considering the antidote. It was a necessary precaution but the delay only fueled Hermione's anxiety.
After much persuasion, she had convinced Malfoy to give her the potion recipe from his healer workshop. She reasoned that having a head start in sourcing ingredients would be prudent, given the high likelihood of needing to brew it.
So, beneath the cool silver glow of the moon, Hermione sat at her desk, hunched over stacks of parchment, her quill dancing feverishly across the pages. She meticulously noted every detail about analysing cursed objects, determined to be overprepared for the procedure they planned for the weekend. When there was nothing left to write, she shifted her attention to the potion recipe, scanning each ingredient with calculated precision.
Her stomach twisted. The list contained rare, nearly unrecognisable components, some of which could only be purchased by those over eighteen. And while the three of them were of age, no reputable shop would sell such volatile ingredients to a Hogwarts student.
Absentmindedly, Hermione scratched at her forearm, the raised scar brushing against the soft green fabric of her tartan pyjamas. Each unfamiliar ingredient heightened her unease, the weight of it pressing against her ribcage, constricting her breath. Then, she reached the final item on the list.
Blood of the afflictor.
Her body went cold and for a moment, she forgot how to breath. The words burned into her consciousness, searing through her composure and leaving only raw, unfiltered dread in their wake. Her arm burned familiarly as the letters began to split anew.
Blood.
Bellatrix's blood.
She didn't have Bellatrix's blood. And she couldn't get Bellatrix's blood.
Before she even registered the movement, she was at her bedroom door, the potion recipe clenched so tightly in her fist that the edges curled inward. The common room was shrouded in darkness, save for the dying embers of the fireplace casting flickering shadows along the stone walls. Theo was snoring softly in the corner.
Hermione's frantic gaze landed on Malfoy's door and before she could second-guess herself, she was pushing it open, stepping inside and shutting it quietly behind her.
"Malfoy?" she whispered urgently, pressing her back against the door. She bit her lip, swallowing back the lump in her throat as the threat of tears loomed closer.
He was asleep but his face was screwed up as though he was having a nightmare. Hermione assumed, that much like her – his sleep was rarely peaceful. "Malfoy," she tried again, louder this time. He stirred, eyes fluttering open and squinting as he attempted to make out the scene before him.
"Granger?" he murmured.
"This is bad," she choked out, crossing the room in an instant. "Very bad."
"What's bad?" Malfoy replied, sitting up and allowing the blankets to pool around his waist. His chest was bare, the pale skin illuminated by moonlight, revealing a jagged scar that stretched from his left shoulder to his right him, surrounded by a constellation of smaller but equally violent looking ones. Hermione's gaze lingered for a fraction too long before she thrust the parchment towards him.
"This," she said, voice shaking.
Malfoy glanced over the recipe questioningly, still blinking sleep from his eyes. "I mean, a few of these ingredients are going to be a little tricky to get," he admitted. "But not impossible."
"Not impossible?" Hermione responded incredulously. "We need Bellatrix's blood, Malfoy! That sounds pretty impossible to me."
"What?" He sat up straighter, his confusion evident.
"There!" She jabbed a trembling finger at the last ingredient. As she did, a small spatter of crimson bloomed on the parchment.
Malfoy's gaze snapped to her arm. "Granger, you're bleeding again," he noted, tossing the parchment aside as he reached for her.
Hermione snatched her arm away and looked at him frantically. "I on't care," she snapped, her breath ragged, tears now slipping freely down her cheeks.
Malfoy threw the blanket back and stood but Hermione stepped away. "Granger, you need to calm down," he said calmly. "Let me help you."
Hermione huffed frustratedly, cradling her arm against her chest. Her eyes flicked back to his bed at the parchment which had been tossed aimlessly aside. Malfoy moved to step towards her again but she flinched away from him again.
"Granger," he said slowly. "You have nothing to worry about. It doesn't have to be Bellatrix's blood." Hermione's eyes softened but remained fearful. "It can be the blood of any ancestor of the afflictor."
Hermione's breathing slowed as she processed the information. "So, Black blood," she said slowly.
Malfoy nodded. "My blood."
He took another careful step towards her, relieved when she didn't flinch away. Carefully, he took her arm and peeled it away from her chest, wrapping his hand around it. Hermione let out a relieved sob, grateful that he had already thought this through. A minute passed before she looked down at her arm, still clutched in Malfoy's hand. He had raised her sleeve, revealing the blood staining her skin. It was pooling ominously around his fingers, taking longer than usual to react. When Hermione looked up, she caught Malfoy's eyes staring down at her arm, concern written over his features. He too seemed aware of the fact that it was taking too long. Another minute past.
"What's wrong?" he asked, his voice barely audible.
"I don't know," Hermione responded honestly. "I think I might be getting worse."
Silence fell over the room as the pair watched blood continue to seep from the thin letters. After another minute, Malfoy stepped closer and puller her arm towards him. He hesitated for only a moment before carefully leaning down and placing his lips to her skin. A small gasp left Hermione's lips as she comprehended the scene in front of her. Malfoy continued to place soft kisses across the length of the wound. And to Hermione's relief, it responded.
When Malfoy was confident that all the letters were knit closed, he gently pulled away. Hermione looked up at him thankfully. His eyes searched her, unsure how to proceed. Slowly, she raised her other arm to his face. Her hand trembled for a moment next to his cheek before she placed her fingers to his jaw, allowing her thumb to trail over his lips in an attempt to rid them of her blood. Malfoy raised his hand and moved to place it on top of Hermione's. But instead, it found her cheek. And then, he leaned in, capturing her lips with his own.
Hermione inhaled sharply against his lips, the warmth of his touch searing into her skin. Malfoy's fingers tightened against her cheek, his thumb grazing just beneath her ear as he deepened this kiss, slow and hesitant, as though waiting for her to pull away. But she didn't. Instead, her hands found his bare chest, fingers splaying against the expanse of scarred skin. She stepped closer, pressing herself against him as he pulled her in. The space between them dissolved, her breath mingling with his in the dark room. His lips moved with surprising gentleness, the taste of iron fading from their lips as the blood was was kissed away.
When they finally parted, Malfoy rested his forehead against hers, their breath coming in shallow pants. They remained like that for a moment before Hermione pulled away, her hands slipping from his chest. "Good night," she breathed as she stepped away from him and turned towards the door.