The Witching Hour
“Harry Potter?” Eldred gasped, his voice muffled behind the barely opened door. A bespectacled eye pressed to the tiny gap, darting between Harry and Hermione. “…Are you finally here to discuss my writing services?”
“No,” Harry said flatly.
Hermione shot him a warning look, raising a hand slightly—keep him sweet, she had reminded him last night.
Harry forced a tight smile. “…Not just yet, Eldred. Still not quite old enough.” He let out an awkward laugh. “Actually, we’re here on Auror business. And my colleague, Hermione Granger—you remember Hermione, from Hogwarts?—is with the Regulation of Dangerous Creatures Department.”
“Auror and Dangerous Creatures department…?” Eldred echoed, eyeing them warily. Without warning, he slammed the door, sending a gust of air that whipped their hair back.
“Great start,” Harry muttered.
“You should’ve said yes!” Hermione hissed. “He would’ve let us right in.”
Before Harry could reply, a series of pops and whizzes erupted from inside. The door flew open, revealing Eldred in a tweed jacket and olive-green corduroys, arms spread wide.
“Welcome, welcome, Harry Potter and Hermione Granger,” Eldred boomed with the flair of a circus ringmaster. “Please, come in.” He stepped aside, gesturing into the hallway. “Mind your step!”
Harry and Hermione exchanged a quick look and stepped over the threshold.
The narrow corridor was lavishly decorated: gold-gilded frames and thick tapestries covered the walls, while threadbare rugs lay haphazardly on the floor. Soft golden orbs glowed from black wall-mounted platforms, illuminating a sweeping staircase that coiled to the building’s roof.
“Ah, the famous Harry Potter in my own home—goodness!” Eldred exclaimed, swiftly shutting the door. He ushered them down the narrow hallway. “Now, how might I assist you in your endeavors?”
Harry cleared his throat. “Well, Mr. Worple—”
“Call me Eldred,” he cut in, rubbing his hands with glee.
“All right—Eldred.” Harry gave a tight smile. “We’re here because—”
A flash of white blurred down the spiral staircase and halted inches from Harry. He and Hermione instinctively reached for their wands. The pale figure hovered in the gap between them and Eldred, blocking the path.
“Sanguini,” Eldred whispered.
Sanguini swept his burgundy velvet cape wide, eclipsing Eldred from view. Though his hair was meticulously combed back, one black lock hung over blood-red eyes. Gaunt and ashen, his face twisted into a violent snarl, revealing two gleaming fangs.
Eldred cleared his throat. “This is—”
“I heard,” Sanguini drawled, baring his fangs.
Hermione noticed Harry’s hand slip inside his jacket, likely checking the garlic bulb in his Mokeskin pouch. Stepping forward, she said, “Sanguini—delighted to meet you. We’re investigating a series of Muggle murders and hoped Eldred could offer his…specialised expertise.”
Sanguini’s gaze trailed from Hermione’s wool peacoat to her blue jeans and Converse. His lip curled in a nearly imperceptible sneer before he swept aside, cape billowing. Hermione exhaled a breath she hadn’t realised she was holding and glanced at her outfit. Maybe I should’ve worn black jeans…
“You believe these murders to have been committed by a vampire?” Sanguini announced, snapping her out of her thoughts.
“We don’t know who did it,” she replied honestly.
“People, people…” Eldred said, regaining his composure. “This is no conversation for the hallway. Shall we move to the drawing room? Sanguini—have Elizabeth bring some refreshments. Would Butterbeer suffice?” He nodded at them enthusiastically.
“No thanks,” Hermione said at the exact moment Harry asked, “Have you got any Berry Ocky Rot wine?”
Eldred beamed. “Yes, Harry, of course! And you’re sure you don’t want anything, Ms. Granger?”
“Quite sure, thank you,” Hermione replied, glaring at Harry. Sanguini just rolled his eyes and vanished down a dim corridor.
The drawing room, like the entrance hall, was lavishly decorated. Sculptures, ornaments, and instruments lay half-concealed in the dim light, perched on antique furniture and scattered rugs. Floor-to-ceiling bookcases—blocking the tall windows Hermione had noticed outside—were crammed with ancient tomes, some so brittle they looked ready to crumble into dust.
At Eldred’s prompting, they settled on two low settees beside the fireplace. Instead of flames, a Quaffle-sized globe glowed softly in the grate.
“Vampires aren’t fond of real fires,” Eldred explained, noticing Hermione’s curiosity. “Not that they need one—they don’t feel the cold like us mere mortals!”
Harry slumped onto the settee beside Eldred while Hermione remained standing.
“Mr. Worple,” she began, “I hate to rush, but this case is urgent.” She shot Harry a sharp look. “We’re not accusing vampires; we only hoped you could advise us.”
“Yes, yes, of course,” Eldred replied, folding his hands in his lap. “And please, call me Eldred. Those Hogwarts days are… long gone. Now, how can I help?”
An elderly woman entered just then, Sanguini trailing behind like a shadow.
“Elizabeth…” Hermione murmured, recalling Eldred’s earlier mention. “Your Familiar?” she asked Sanguini, remembering his registry file paired with a Muggle named Elizabeth Hatton.
“Yes,” he answered dully.
Elizabeth set a tray of three silver goblets on the coffee table, her expression as empty as her silence. Hermione watched her retreat, noting the drawn, sorrowful look in the woman’s eyes.
Harry eyed the three goblets of deep red liquid and reached for one without hesitation.
“Tut tut,” Sanguini scolded, snatching the cup from Harry’s hand. “That one is not for you.” He sipped lightly, watching as Harry’s cheeks flushed. Harry hastily took a goblet of Ocky Rot wine instead and slouched into the settee, face hidden behind the drink. Meanwhile, Sanguini drifted toward the piano and began to play a gentle, tinkling tune.
Hermione shuddered. “Eldred,” she began, impatience creeping into her voice, “have you noticed anything unusual in the vampire community these past few weeks? Anything at all out of the ordinary?”
“No,” he said, shrugging. “Nothing comes to mind. It’s never particularly lively around here anyway…” He added a playful wink.
“Yes… right. Harry—would you pass Eldred the photographs?”
Harry retrieved a brown envelope from his jacket and handed it to Eldred, who accepted it skeptically. Hermione began to pace.
“Without revealing too many details,” Hermione said, “four Muggles were found dead in the city—each drained of blood.”
Eldred studied the photographs, hand pressed to his mouth in horror. Harry and Hermione recognized the look all too well.
“Would a vampire be capable of this?” Harry asked gently.
For a moment, Eldred remained silent, flipping through the images: a body bag unzipping, a flickering strip light illuminating a mangled limb. At last, a low sound rumbled in his throat.
“I… I don’t know,” he stammered. “We haven’t seen attacks like this for centuries.”
“So it’s possible?” Harry asked, sounding surprised.
The piano fell silent. Sanguini appeared at Eldred’s shoulder, plucking the photos from his hand. He scanned them at inhuman speed until he froze at a shot of a disemboweled torso. Hermione thought she saw a dark flicker behind his red irises—a sign of disgust…or hunger?
“You would be the first to know if a vampire committed this kind of Feed,” Sanguini said, pinning her with a glare. Hermione sensed anger simmering beneath his calm facade. She felt a flicker of defiance—tired of his theatrics—and replied curtly:
“Only if they’re on the Registry. The Trace wouldn’t pick it up otherwise.”
“The Trace?” Harry repeated, puzzled.
Hermione let out a weary sigh. “Yes, Harry—”
Eldred cut them off, shoulders sagging as he stared at the photos. “The teeth marks aren’t the same,” he murmured. “There are…too many teeth.”
“All vampires entering England are on the Registry,” Sanguini growled, baring those gleaming fangs again. “Tell me: why would anyone risk an eternity in Azkaban for… a little disembowelment fun? You could stay on the Continent for that.” He flung the photos onto the coffee table, cape snapping behind him.
esolving to ignore his last remark, Hermione pressed on. “Then why haven’t any new vampires been registered for years?”
His expression turned deathly still. “Are you deliberately playing stupid now, Ms… what was it… Granger?” he snarled.
“I beg your pardon?”
A new voice, low and mocking, drifted across the room. “She’s not playing stupid—she is stupid.”
Harry sprang off the sofa to stand at Hermione’s side. Both drew their wands and aimed them toward the source of the voice. From a far, shadowy corner emerged a slight woman with a curtain of silver hair, lethal intent radiating from her every step.
“Very stupid indeed,” said the woman, her English clipped with an Eastern European lilt—though Hermione couldn’t guess the country.
“Who are you?” Harry demanded, wand raised. Despite Hermione’s usual lectures, she trusted him completely when things got dicey.
Sauntering closer, her heels clicking on the floor, the woman smirked. “Ah, the Boy Who Lived. You just can’t keep out of trouble, can you?”
“Could we—lower the wands, please?” Eldred blurted, mopping sweat from his thinning hairline. “It’s making me nervous.”
“My name is Harry Potter,” he said, lowering his wand. “I work in the Auror Department at the Ministry. My colleague, Hermione Granger, is with the Beast Division of the Regulation of Magical Creatures.” Gently resting his hand on Hermione’s arm, he lowered her wand too. “Please—who are you?”
She smirked. “Exactly my point: you can’t stay out of trouble, can you? The Registry should tell you who I am and why I’m here—unless, of course, someone isn’t doing their job properly.”
Hermione bristled. “We’re investigating four murders, all innocent Muggles. If you have information, you must share it.”
“You’re years too late,” the woman snarled, stamping her foot. The floorboards beneath the rug splintered. “It was only a matter of time before something like this happened—and I’m not sorry for you wizards. Not at all!”
Everyone except Sanguini clamped their hands over their ears as her voice rattled the paintings and shook the books on the shelves. Dust billowed through the air, settling gently on their shoulders.
In that instant, Hermione—and Harry—spotted a familiar emotion in her eyes: grief.
Then she vanished.
Eldred spoke softly, “Harry…I’m sorry, but I think you and Ms. Granger should leave.”
~*~
The moon rose high like a bloated skull behind the church spire. A biting breeze carried off the last traces of summer, sending a chill through Harry and Hermione.
They didn’t linger. Eldred had politely but firmly shown them out, and they now hurried across the deserted road.
“I think I get why this passage goes through a church—it’s an escape,” Hermione muttered as they climbed the stone steps to the heavy wooden doors. They creaked open, revealing candles and lanterns glowing in the warm light. “At least they can’t get in here.”
Harry strode beside her, only half listening, as they made for the vestry. “I feel like all we got were more questions.”
“I know,” Hermione sighed. “Lupin never mentioned how frustratingly cryptic vampires can be. After that, I’m certain they’re involved somehow… and don’t even get me started on that woman.”
They headed back into the tunnel, side by side.
“At least Eldred confirmed vampires can attack like that,” Harry sighed. “You won’t believe how relieved I am that they can’t use mind control on wizards.” He shuddered.
“But did you see Elizabeth?” Hermione asked. “It was like she didn’t even notice us. There’s no limit on Muggle Compulsion.”
“After seeing her, maybe there should be,” Harry muttered.
They emerged from the tunnel without bothering to cast Lumos, too preoccupied for light. Moments later, they Apparated to Diagon Alley, leaving the shivering ivy and the pitch-black silence behind, at the realm of the dead.
~*~
“It’s past midnight,” Harry said as they landed in the cobbled courtyard of The Leaky Cauldron. “Happy birthday, Hermione.” With a grin, he dug into his Mokeskin pouch and pulled out a small, ribbon-wrapped box. “Twenty-three—practically ancient!” He wobbled the box, the navy paper and curled ribbons bobbing comically.
“No, I am not!” Hermione exclaimed, taking the gift. “Thank you, Harry.” She laughed, a genuine sound in the stillness. “I almost forgot it was my birthday. It’s all been so… chaotic.” For a moment, her smile faded as her thoughts wandered to Ron.
On her last birthday, Ron had made her favorite meal: chicken and ham pie. With his less demanding schedule at Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes, Ron had discovered a passion for cooking. He’d spent hours mixing, rolling, mashing, boiling, and baking—only to sit anxiously afterward, waiting for her to return from the Ministry.
By the time she got home, the pie was stone cold. Ron had fallen asleep in a dining chair, mouth open, snoring softly, the hours-old pie sitting untouched on the table.
Hermione shook the memory away as Harry placed a hand on her shoulder. “I know,” he said gently. “It’s different without him.”
“He left you too…” she murmured, so quietly that Harry almost didn’t hear it. “It’s okay,” she added quickly, then turned her attention to the gift. Harry took the hint and let her unwrap it.
“I would’ve given it to you earlier, but I didn’t want it going off in Highgate.”
Inside the box was a golden device. Holding it up to the light of a gas streetlamp, Hermione saw a small sculpture of a bat, folded wings wrapped around its body, hanging from the tip of a wire stand. Its tiny golden face looked peaceful, as if it were fast asleep.
“It’s a vampire detector,” Harry explained. “If a vampire’s nearby, it wakes up to let you know. After seeing how fast and quiet those two were, I understand why it exists.” He gave a slight shudder.
“Aww, it’s adorable!” Hermione squealed, poking the sleeping bat gently.
“Yeah, cute—when it’s asleep. Let’s hope it stays that way,” Harry said with a nervous smile.
~*~
Dead tired, Hermione dragged herself to the rented room at The Leaky Cauldron.
The room was dimly lit by the flickering fire in the hearth. Hermione placed her wand and the bat atop a precarious stack of books beside her armchair. Sinking into the cushions, she felt her eyelids droop almost immediately.
The Leaky Cauldron was steeped in quiet. Its other occupants slept soundly, perhaps dreaming of bubbling potions and baby mooncalves. The fire crackled warmly at her side, yet Hermione’s mind refused to settle. Thoughts turned and snagged, grinding against one another like stubborn gears. It was the Witching Hour, after all—her favorite time to study.
“There are no distractions or interruptions,” she had told Ron one late night when he’d asked her to come to bed. But no one asked her that anymore.
So, despite the comforting warmth of the room—which seemed almost enchanted to draw one into a deep, restful sleep—and despite her aching body’s plea for rest, she hoisted the enormous tome titled Guidelines for the Treatment of Non-Wizard Part-Humans onto her lap and turned to section twelve.
She didn’t know how much time passed before the words began to blur and her head drooped toward her lap. Suddenly, a whirring, mechanical noise pierced her drowsiness.
Hermione bolted upright, swatting at her hair, groggy and half-imagining metal mosquitoes or stinging insects. When she finally managed to grab the buzzing thing, she opened her hand and stared. As the fire glinted off the golden sheen of its surface, it vibrated its wings.
The bat.
WHOOOSHHH…
The flames snuffed out as an icy wind swept through the hearth, plunging the room into darkness.
Fighting exhaustion and panic, her heart drumming like the wings of a Billywig, Hermione pulled herself from the armchair to grope blindly for her wand. Just as the tip of her fingers touched the spine of the book where her wand lay, the heavy tome, which she had (rather inconveniently) forgotten about, slipped from her lap and slammed onto her toes.
“Arghhh!” She yelped, stumbling forward and knocking over the precarious stack of books. She fell to the floor in a heap, gasping, her ragged breaths the only sound. Then, from the shadows, a voice spoke—a voice unlike anything she had ever heard.
“Help me,”
The words flared up Hermione’s spine, licking against each vertebra, the voice like molten coals. Trapped between the heavy books and the hardwood floor, she twisted toward the source, eyes straining in the dark.
Within the shadowy silhouette of a body, two glowing eyes stared down at Hermione. Like sharp shards of grey ice, they glittered as he moved closer toward her. These—these were the eyes of hunger, she realised. But as his eyes fixed on hers, she forgot what she had thought, had forgotten everything. Her brain and body ignited, as a million nerve endings awakened under her skin.
The figure stepped into a shaft of cold moonlight, and finally, she saw him. The broad shoulders, the shock of white-blond hair, the towering height—but always, the eyes—blazing, desperate.
“Hermione,”