Alohamora
September.
In the east, the sun had begun to set. It sunk behind the crooked silhouette of rooftops and smoking chimney pots, until suddenly, plunging Diagon Alley into evening blue.
“…bodies found, drained of blood…”
Hermione paced the bedroom, lost in thought. Gawain Robards’ gravelly voice echoed in her mind, looping like the crime scene photographs he’d handed her a week ago—photos that had already turned her life upside down.
“…we require the expertise of the Magical Creatures Department, and you are the obvious choice. It won’t be easy, but you and Harry work best together…”
Since receiving the secret Case File in Robards’ cramped office, they had—just as she expected—thrown themselves into the investigation.
While Hermione meticulously researched dangerous creatures, Harry focused on the Muggle victims.
But this was no ordinary case.
“…forensic bite analysis has failed to identify the species… extensive fatal wounds suggest dismemberment—almost as if they were torn apart…”
Reluctantly, Hermione had to agree. Nowhere in the tomes, guides, or grimoires she’d scoured was there anything like this.
Not werewolves. Not the basilisk. Not even the fanged Puffskein. None bore that same distinctive set of double upper canines—or the sheer ferocity of these attacks.
And that was saying something.
Hermione turned to the window, her thoughts still distant, to find that evening had settled over Diagon Alley.
Below, the first leaves of autumn skittered across the cobblestones. Witches and wizards bustled between glowing shopfronts, their pointed hats bobbing as they walked, cloaks rippling in the crisp breeze.
Only now did Hermione realise that The Leaky Cauldron was leaky in more than just name. A chilly draft seeped through the cracks in the windowpane, ghosting against her cheek.
Incendio
A burst of orange flame erupted in the fireplace, casting flickering light across the room and chasing away the chill. The warmth settled on her skin, but it barely registered.
As Hermione turned from the window, she took in the chaos she’d created since arriving at her rented room in The Leaky Cauldron.
Hermione’s worn clothes, half-eaten food, and empty coffee cups lay scattered among ripped parchment, feather quills, and the stack of leather-bound books she’d been poring over.
She used to be tidy—she still thought she was. But in the past few years, self-care had become an afterthought, chores a luxury she no longer had time for.
“I’d think protecting endangered creatures is a bit more important than picking out curtains, Ron.” She’d told him that—many times, in so many ways.
They had been living together at The Burrow, cramped in an extension atop Ron’s childhood room. When Hermione joined the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures, he was supportive—until he learned she’d been assigned to the Beast Division.
The long hours. The injuries. The never-ending work.
For a while, they made it work—stealing moments between her exhaustion and endless shifts.
Then when she came home with Robards’ case file, drenched in horror and bloodshed, Ron had finally had enough.
“It’s what I signed up for, Ron. I don’t know how many times I have to say it. So what if it’s dangerous? It’s not like I haven’t handled worse. Me, you, Harry—we survived worse. A few scratches and bruises are part of the job. And frankly, it’s worth it.”
“So you keep saying.” His voice was flat. “The job comes first. I get it. Protecting creatures comes first. Before everything. Before—”
“Before who, Ron? You?”
“You, actually, Hermione.”
Her face burned, but he pressed on. “We had a plan. Things we were going to do together… We even talked about having kids, for Merlin’s sake.”
“The Ministry has excellent maternity leave,” she shot back. “I already looked into it. Full pay, benefits—”
“What if I don’t want the mother of my child coming home covered in injuries?” he exploded, turning redder than her. “Putting herself—and our baby—at risk? Would you put protecting creatures before our own child?”
The next morning, Ron stood by the door, an old battered suitcase in one hand, the other gripping the handle.
“I’m going to Romania. Charlie says there’s a job at the Dragon Facility. Just mucking out pens, nothing special… but it’ll give me time. Time to think. Figure out where I go from here.” He laughed awkwardly.
Hermione’s eyes caught on the collar of his navy bomber jacket—tucked in wrong. She wanted to step forward, fix it, straighten him up. Like she always did.
But she didn’t move.
And so, he left.
Despite The Burrow always feeling like home—after all, she’d spent most of her adult life there—Hermione couldn’t shake the feeling that it was his. Even Molly’s insistence couldn’t convince her to stay.
So, she packed what little she had into her beaded bag and left for The Leaky Cauldron.
Hermione dug through the mess of parchment and empty cups, unearthing a half-eaten pumpkin pastry. She forced down dry mouthfuls before sinking into the high-backed chair by the fire.
Resigned, as she had a hundred times before, she picked up the crime scene photographs.
Robards’ voice followed, clearer than ever in her mind.
“Four victims. Four separate attacks. Each found in a back alley across London, each partially dismembered. The wound patterns, timing, and method all point to a single offender.”
“What have the Muggle—I mean, the Metropolitan Police—discovered so far?” Harry had asked.
“According to our insider, they haven’t connected the attacks. They’re blaming stray dog attacks—mostly banned breeds. But we know better.” Robards’ voice lowered slightly. “Keep this quiet, Potter. Only tell those who need to know. No point in alarming wizarding or Muggle society unless absolutely necessary.”
“What do you mean by the timing of the attacks?”
“The first murder was just under three weeks ago. The second, a week later. But the last two? Both in the past seven days. And always after nightfall.”
It never got easier. Every time she looked at the photos, her stomach twisted—but she forced herself to study them. She had a duty, no matter what Ron had said. And truthfully, she felt privileged to do it.
Though, she wished she hadn’t eaten first.
Hermione held the photo up to the flickering firelight. At first, it was just a mass of shimmering red—drenched, gleaming. But as she looked closer, shapes emerged.
Hair.
A limb.
An eye.
~*~
“Ready?”
Harry leaned against the bar, grinning, the firelight flickering in his round glasses. His chestnut hair was as messy as ever, and a glass of Berry Ocky Rot wine rested in his hand.
“Can I get you anything, Miss Granger?” Tom called from behind the bar as Hermione strode toward them, weaving through scattered stools.
“No, thank you, Tom.” She barely caught her breath before frowning at Harry. “Why are you drinking? We’re on a schedule.”
“Hermione, you do remember Apparition exists, right?” Harry interrupted, smirking. “Destination, determination, deliber—”
“Yes, yes, I know—but you seem to have forgotten the ridiculous number of wards protecting the place. The whole suburb’s locked down against stray magic. And apparently—according to you—the only Apparition point is some creepy, godforsaken avenue inside Highgate Cemetery. A cemetery, Harry! And then we have to walk ten minutes—”
“Alright, alright! I get it, keep your hair on. I’ll drink faster.”
“No, Harry—”
Too late. He tipped the glass back and downed the wine in one go, spilling streaks of burgundy down the corners of his mouth.
Hermione sighed as he smacked the glass onto the bar with exaggerated flair, wiping his lips on his sleeve.
“All done,” he hiccupped. “Come on, Happy.”
She sighed again—but this time, with a smirk—as they stepped from the warmth of The Leaky Cauldron into the cold, cobbled courtyard.
Diagon Alley was empty now. The witches and wizards from earlier had vanished, retreating to their warm homes, their creature comforts, their friends and family…
She turned to Harry. “Got everything?”
He tugged open his Barbour jacket, revealing a rough-stitched pocket in the lining. His mokeskin pouch—Hagrid’s gift from his sixteenth birthday—was sewn inside, the stitching crude but sturdy.
He opened it and rummaged through. “Hmm… Wand, garlic, lollipops…” He glanced up. “You have the photographs, right?”
She handed over the brown envelope she’d slipped them into, and Harry stuffed it into the pouch.
“Hold on tight,” he said, playfully grabbing the back of Hermione’s collar before yanking them both into the suffocating pull of Apparition.
~*~
Their footsteps echoed against the earthen floor, swallowed by the dark passageway.
Above, a gaping ceiling exposed the night sky—silvery clouds drifting across the inky blue. The moon had yet to rise, but to the south, city lights cast a golden haze against the horizon.
Hermione hesitated, peering ahead into the suffocating dark. "Would it kill them to put in some lights?" she muttered. "You know, make it a little more… welcoming? If that’s even possible."
She flicked her wand.
Lumos
A ghostly blue light flared at the tip, stretching eerie shadows down the passageway. Stone walls flanked the path, lined with evenly spaced black doors.
“Ever consider that might be intentional?”
“What do you mean?!” She swept her wand over the path, its glow revealing cracks in the stone walls, where wild vines and untamed foliage clawed through the gaps.
"Well, it’s not like they want Ministry folk wandering around. My guess? They left one Apparition point open so they can’t be accused of shutting themselves off completely."
They pressed on, emerging from the gloomy avenue into the cemetery’s main courtyard.
A sunken arena—roofless, circular—spread before them, its centre marked by a low, squat structure. The stone walls loomed, lined with those same black doors from the avenue.
Crypts.
“You might have a point…” Hermione exhaled, glancing around the silent, yawning space. “And now that we’re here, I have to ask—are we being complete idiots?”
She turned to Harry. “Wandering through a graveyard. At night. While a violent killer’s on the loose.”
“It was your idea, Hermione!”
The night before, Ginny had been happily minding her own business—frying meatballs on the gas stove with a self-stirring spoon, flipping through Seeker Weekly.
Then, without warning, Hermione’s head erupted in the kitchen fireplace, wreathed in green flames.
“VAMPIRES!”
Seeker Weekly flew from Ginny’s hands as the self-stirring spoon knocked over the frying pan. Hot oil splashed onto the gas flame—
WHOOSH!
A fireball exploded toward the ceiling, searing through the air—then vanished as fast as it came.
“Oh… Sorry, Gins! But vampires!” She said excitedly. “Blood-draining, nighttime attacks—it has to be! I’ve been so focused on Beasts that I didn’t even consider them. It’s the only thing that makes sense.”
Ginny, still ducking from nearly being incinerated, whipped around, eyes blazing.
“What. The. HELL. Are you talking about?!”
“Oh, yes, sorry. Secret case and all that. Is Harry there?”
Right on cue, Harry burst into the kitchen, wand raised, eyes wild.
“WHO’S THERE?!”
“It’s just me!” Hermione yelped. “Sorry for the commotion, but listen—I’ve been thinking, and I really think we ought to look into vampires.”
Ginny stalked out of the kitchen, throwing her hands in the air as Harry let his arms slump to his sides.
“Hermione, we ruled out vampires.” He spoke cautiously, crouching to collect fallen meatballs. “They don’t attack like this.”
At first, vampires had been on their suspect list—along with a slew of others—but after some research, they were quickly dismissed.
“You said it yourself.” He continued, “They’re always… discreet.”
“I know, but think about it—process of elimination. Vampires are the only creatures that fit. The only outlier is the double fangs.” She arched a green eyebrow. “And as for the attacks? Maybe they’ve just been forbidden from behaving this way. That doesn’t mean they can’t.”
Harry tossed the last of the furry meatballs into the bin, then dropped into a wooden dining chair by the fire, elbows on his knees. He let out a long, weary sigh.
Hermione seized the silence.
“Look, when I was at The Ministry this morning, I checked the Vampire Registry. No new vampires have been made in years. Don’t you think that’s a little… odd?”
"I guess… but that would mean an old vampire just randomly decided to go on a killing spree."
"Unless they stopped reporting new vampires altogether."
Harry frowned. "Why would they risk that? It’s practically impossible to cover up—and the consequences are brutal."
Unregistered vampires faced one fate if caught—Azkaban. Forever.
She sighed. “Ugh… I don’t know.” Her eyes fluttered shut in the green flames, her head dipping for just a moment—then snapping back up.
“Actually… I think I know someone who might. Harry, do you still keep in touch with Eldred Worple?”
Harry recoiled. “Worple? God, no. You know what he wants from me. I’d rather eat Bubotuber pus than be anywhere near that bloke.”
“Oh yes, your biography,” Hermione teased as Harry groaned, planting his head in his hands.
He’d first met Eldred Worple at the Slug Club Christmas Party back at Hogwarts—a brief encounter that ended with Harry spotting Hermione in the crowd and using her as a human shield to escape Worple’s relentless pitch.
“But he also wrote Blood Brothers: My Life Amongst the Vampires…” Her head dipped forward. “If we happen to drop in on him, he might have some useful information.”
“Ah, yes. A surprise visit to a wizard who wants to sell my deepest secrets—who also happens to live in a nest of vampires? Brilliant. What are we waiting for?”
“Which one is it?” Hermione swept her wand light over the crypt doors, scanning the inscriptions. “I’d really rather not pick the wrong one.”
“Look for a rune—though what it looks like, I have no idea.”
She shot him a glare. “How do you know this and I don’t?”
Harry smirked. “Perks of being an Auror. You get access to certain classified knowledge.” He gestured vaguely. “Secret entrances happen to be one of them.”
After Hermione insisted they speak to Eldred Worple, Harry warned her how difficult he’d be to reach—vampires lived beyond the grasp of both Wizarding and Muggle society. She’d waved him off, already knowing that. But when it came to getting in—well, that was an Auror’s job.
Scoffing at Harry’s smirk, Hermione kept scanning the crypts as they crept along the winding path. Then, under the glow of Lumos, something shimmered on the stone wall—a carved circle, bisected by a star’s beam.
"Harry, I think I’ve found it," Hermione said, rushing toward the crypt—only to stop short at the thick spiderwebs veiling the entrance.
"That’s odd… doesn’t look like it’s been used in ages." She swept her wand through the webs, watching as silvery strands clung to the tip. "Maybe it’s abandoned?"
Harry stepped toward the rune. "Only one way to find out."
Alohamora
They fell silent, the wind whispering through the trees—until a heavy clunk echoed from the door. With a low groan, it creaked open, revealing a dimly torch-lit corridor beyond.
"Well, at least there’s some light," Hermione muttered, though she kept Lumos glowing at her wand’s tip.
"Very welcoming," Harry muttered, stepping into the dank tunnel.
Hermione said nothing as she followed, trying not to breathe in the stench of dirt and mildew. Behind them, the heavy door slammed shut.
"We really are idiots, aren’t we?" she said tightly.
"Maybe a bit," Harry admitted. They quickened their pace, torches flickering as they passed.
"But… don’t vampires only drink from…?" He gulped. "Muggles?"
"Well… technically, each vampire is assigned a human companion," Hermione said, hesitating on the word. "A Familiar. They're only allowed to take a set amount of blood per night."
"And if they don’t?" Harry asked. "The Vampire Office swoops in and carts them off to Azkaban?"
"Correct," Hermione replied. She exhaled, almost relieved. "And luckily for us, vampires can’t use Compulsion on witches and wizards. That only works on Muggles."
"Compulsion?" Harry asked as they turned a shadowy corner.
"You know, Vampiric Mind Control." Hermione shot him a look. "Harry, did you even listen during Lupin’s Defense Against the Dark Arts lessons? The vampire essay?"
"Right, well, I was a bit preoccupied being hunted by Voldemort, Hermione."
The torch flames flickered violently as Harry spoke the name. They exchanged a glance before instinctively quickening their pace.
"It’s draftier here," Harry noted. "We must be near the exit."
“I hope so…” Hermione murmured, then, sensing Harry’s unease, she brightened—more for herself than for him. “But anyway, thankfully, vampires are very well-behaved. Especially after the 1749 Statute of Secrecy Breach.”
“Oh yeah… that one.” Harry nodded, clearly clueless. Then he pointed ahead. “Look—the way out.”
Her wandlight illuminated an old wooden door in the distance. Without hesitation, they abandoned speed-walking and broke into a run, not stopping until they burst through—straight into a vast, brilliantly lit chamber.
"A church?” Hermione murmured, stepping forward.
The door had led them straight onto the chancel, where golden candelabras still burned upon the altar. To their left, rows of mahogany pews lined the aisle, while towering ivory-white columns braced the vaulted ceiling like the ribs of some ancient beast, lanterns flickering between them.
"Why a church?" she muttered. "Everyone knows vampires can’t enter churches.”
"This passage isn’t for vampires, remember?" Harry said, scanning the room. "It’s for us. The wards keep Muggles out, not them."
They wove through the dark pews toward the main doors, Hermione’s gaze drifting to the towering stained glass windows. Each panel glowed faintly, depicting solemn saints, watchful angels, and leering demons.
“I really should’ve known this.”
Harry shrugged. “Why would you? When was the last time someone from the Magical Creatures Department needed to visit Highgate?” He smirked. “Well… until now.”
The doors creaked open.
Across the deserted road, Eldred Worple’s house loomed—five stories of red brick and shuttered sash windows, half-hidden behind a row of towering pines. Their dark limbs swayed in the wind, flickering like black flames against the night sky.
“Yes…” Hermione murmured, scanning the shifting shadows, half-expecting a vampire’s gaze to be locked on her already. “And hopefully, I won’t need to again.”