Hungry Monsters
How Hermione arrived in the alleyway behind St Mungo’s, looking with horror upon Hannah Abbott’s mutilated body, she could barely recall. All she could remember was an enormous commotion at The Leaky Cauldron—everyone shouting over everyone else—and then rushing to the courtyard to Apparate to the crime scene with them all in tow.
“We don’t know yet the exact time the attack occurred,” Gawain Robards said. The moon hung behind him, casting its white light onto the black of his hair; onto the wet cobblestones; onto the pool of blood. “Nurse Clearwater only found the body after discovering Mrs. Augusta Longbottom wandering out of the alley, damn near delirious.”
The body. Hermione could not yet fathom this clinical language. She had studied beside Hannah—had eaten, aged, lived.
“What were they doing out here anyway?” Ginny asked. Despite not being a part of the investigation, Ginny, Luna and Padma had refused to stay behind. Hermione did not have the heart or logic to deny them—she and Harry were no longer the only wizards involved now that Hannah had died. “Who in their right mind wanders stinking, freezing alleyways in London in the dark?” Ginny’s voice quavered. Despite her anger, tears rolled down her face, staining her flushed cheeks.
“They were probably visiting Neville’s parents,” Harry said quietly as he watched Luna and the Auror Proudfoot working a Repello Muggletum charm about the crime scene, assuring to keep muggles well away. “At St Mungo’s. Before coming to Hermione’s birthday.”
Hermione’s stomach churned. While she had been getting drunk and eating cake, her friends had been attacked. Most likely by the very creature she had been duty-bound to eradicate. Frozen wind picked up her hair, whipping it against her cold face. All she could smell was pollution, blood and fear.
“No one could’ve predicted this,” Padma soothed as if she could read her mind. But Hermione thought differently.
“No, but I should have.” She drew in a shaky breath. “Robards, would you allow me to approach Hannah’s body? I need to collect a… a sample. Some of her blood. I might, somehow—though I have no idea how—be able to separate—”
Robards held up his hand. “You need not explain yourself to me, Ms Granger. I trust you will proceed in good faith—while keeping Ms Abbott’s dignity intact.”
“Right.” Hermione nodded once. At that moment, there was nothing she wished to do less. But, as far as Hermione was concerned, what she wanted was no longer relevant, and for a brief second, she could not recall the last time when it was. But that thought faded as quickly as it had appeared as she stepped forward, breaking away from the group and moving through the gloom towards the body.
Hannah lay pushed against the soot-stained stone wall of an old building, still in the position in which she had fallen. A gas lamp affixed to the wall hummed darkly, casting its yellow light onto her body.
How many people had Hermione seen die? Cedric, Dumbledore, Fred, Dobby. Even Harry for some agonising moments. And now, Hannah Abbott had joined that list. How many more people were to be added to it? How many people must die before she would begin to break?
“I need a vial. Or a jar. Anything to hold the… the sample.” Hermione shouted as she turned, calling back to Harry, Ginny and Padma, only to find them beside her.
“We’re right here with you, Hermione,” Harry said, and she remembered that it was not only she who had lost people, her friends had too. And they were still here, with her.
“What? Like we’d let you do this by yourself? Not happening.” Ginny added, gripping Padma’s hand.
“I’m coming too,” Luna said as she joined them. She always had such a matter-of-fact demeanour about death, as morbid as it was. “I thought that bag of yours had every type of jar you could ever need,”
The beaded bag.
Hermione’s heart leapt into her throat as she patted herself down, desperately hoping she had not left it at the inn, forgotten in the chaos. But she sighed in relief as she felt its strap at her shoulder. “Thank Merlin,” she muttered as she pulled out an empty vial, identical to the one she had used on Draco, after rooting around in the bag’s dark abyss.
As the group continued to move toward Hannah’s body, the true picture of her brutal murder became clearer. Seeing her friends die over and over again, seeing those magical photographs of the attacked muggles over and over again, did nothing to prepare Hermione for the sight of Hannah. Her body was twisted, her torso having been almost completely emptied of its organs. Her hip jutted up awkwardly, angled toward the sky. And her neck... It had been torn apart, her blood-stained head hanging loosely against her shoulder.
Bile rapidly rose within Hermione’s throat. She only hoped Hannah’s death had come swiftly. As Hermione knelt, careful not to press her knees into the bloody cobblestones, she pulled out her wand. Her fingers felt frozen as she struggled to uncork the vial.
“Here, let me help.” Harry crouched, reaching out to take the vial between Hermione’s fingers. Unlike hers, his hands were steady. He had seen death—had lived it—and he had not broken, had he?
Wingardium Leviosa
Flicking her wand gently, the blood began to rise from Hannah’s wounds. Red and sinewy, it clambered over itself like water in zero gravity before collecting into the glass vial until Harry’s steady hand faltered, a thick crimson droplet landing on his knuckle.
“Oh, sorry! Sorry, Harry—” Hermione rushed.
“It’s fine, look, it was my fault, see—” Harry slipped the now corked vial into his mokeskin pocket and wiped his knuckle on his jacket. “Look, it’s gone. No harm done.”
“No,” she blubbed. “No, it was my fault,” and before she could help it, tears poured from her closed eyes.
A pair of hands gripped her shoulders, lifting her from her knees. Ginny, Padma, Luna, Harry and Hermione held each other close, their bodies heaving and shuddering as they wept.
~*~
“Can anyone tell me what the fuck is going on here?” John Dawlish hissed, not quietly enough. He had advanced on Harry and Hermione as they walked through Ward 49 at St Mungo’s hospital. After they had conjured a sheet to cover Hannah’s body and levitated her to the Morgue within St Mungos, they knew it was imperative to interview Mrs Longbottom—even if nothing she says makes sense.
“Robards tells me that you—an inexperienced Auror—and a Magizoologist are solely responsible for a classified investigation? One which has now left a missing wizard and a dead witch on our hands?”
“Seeing as it’s classified, Dawlish, I won’t be able to tell you any more than you already know,” Harry said impatiently. Dark hollows lined his eyes as he pushed past, heading toward the curtain which hid Mrs Augusta Longbottom from view. Dawlish, as he was an Auror, had volunteered to escort Augusta to St Mungo’s after she had begun ranting and raving about things nobody could discern.
Dawlish cast his eyes to Hermione, his face twisted in disgust. “And yet she is? What use is a Magizoologist when it comes to cold-blooded murder?”
What use indeed, Hermione thought. Drawn to the commotion, innocent visitors and patients in Ward 49 could not help but turn and watch, and that’s when Hermione and Harry saw them: Frank and Alice Longbottom, Neville’s parents. They had been admitted to the ward for years, after being tortured to the point of madness by Voldermort’s Death Eaters. They did not seem to pay much attention to the argument, but there were moments when they glanced over, locking eyes with Harry and Hermione. And now Augusta was here, and Neville missing. She failed to see how it could get any worse.
Harry’s usually bright green eyes darken. “I think you’d better leave now, Dawlish.” Harry stood directly before him, looking down at his wiry hair. “Robards wouldn’t want to know that a fellow Auror is obstructing a classified investigation again.”
“How dare... I was fully absolved of any wrongdoing after numerous Ministry members came to my defence—” he flustered. “But then you wouldn’t understand that. Children these days have no respect for their superiors,”
Anger flared within Hermione, finally helping her to find her voice. “I thought Harry told you to leave, Dawlish? Or do you just love it in the hospital that much?”
“Excuse me?” He blinked, seemingly surprised that she had spoken at all.
“Well, it’s not the first time you have been in St Mungo’s because of Augusta Longbottom, is it?” Hermione said after recalling how Augusta had put Dawlish in the hospital after a failed arrest attempt during Voldemort’s infiltration of The Ministry of Magic.
“No respect,” he spat, “Monsters roam our streets, and The Ministry only stand idly by, like they always have done. But I won’t,” He spun on his heel and stormed out of the ward.
“Pigs, the lot of them,” Harry said as he yanked aside the curtain, not before stalling at the sight of Mrs Augusta Longbottom sprawled on the bed.
“Pig.” She mouthed silently. Hermione had only ever seen Augusta Longbottom immaculate—dressed in her stuffed vulture hat and bright red handbag—but in the bed, in the hospital gown and with her hair untamed about her head, she seemed like a completely different person. “Pig. Pig. Pig.” She chanted.
“Who is a pig, Mrs Longbottom?” Hermione said as she rushed to the bedside.
“He is, he is. Greedy, greedy pig—” Her expression was strange and distant, staring fixedly ahead.
“He?” Hermione said, frowning and gesturing to Harry. “Do you mean a man, Mrs Longbottom?”
“A m... A mmmm,” she faltered, her lips wrapped between her teeth, unable to get the word out.
“It’s like she’s been hypnotised,” Harry whispered, “Or Confunded,”
Suddenly, Augusta’s pale and waxen face reminded Hermione of another she had seen—Elizabeth, Sanguini’s Familiar. “Or, perhaps, Compulsion,” Hermione whispered back.
“I thought that wizards couldn’t be compulsed…?”
“I’m not sure what to think anymore, Harry,”
Augusta continued struggling to speak until her breath became ragged and her eyes grew wide, “A MMMONSTER! ” she screamed.
~*~
There was a moment where, as Hermione slid down the silk rope into the centre of her beaded bag, she thought the extendable charm placed upon it had somehow failed. It felt like she was falling forever, plunging into a freezing black void, until she landed with a thud on the floor, Harry almost dropping on top of her.
“Celestine!” Hermione called into the darkness, pulling herself from the ground, but there was no response. Losing her beloved one-eyed mooncalf, which she had cared for since it was an injured calfling, at the end of this monumentally awful birthday might actually be the thing to push Hermione over the edge. “Celestine, where are you?”
Incendio
Harry shouted; his wand erect. The brass lamps hanging low from the vaulted ceiling erupted into orange flame, bringing light back to the room.
“Baaaa,” Celestine called from her small pen, smiling pleasantly at the sight of Hermione, completely unfazed by the change that had fallen about the room.
“What the hell happened in h… Malfoy.” Hermione spun on her heel, searching for Draco, but she did not have to look far.
As usual, he was sitting, perched on the edge of the travel bed. Though now he was bent forward with his elbows on his knees, his face pushed into his hands.
“Why were all the lights off?” She huffed. “And how did you even do that? I have them warded!”
“Warded?” Harry asked. “Hermione tells me you can’t do magic, yet you’ve overridden a ward? Just what the hell is going on, Malfoy?” Hermione had made sure to inform Harry of everything that had happened with Draco—his loss of magic, the Protego Totalum charm, the Dementor’s Kiss spell… She was determined to stick to The Plan, no matter what happened to throw them off course.
Draco smeared his hands over his face, rubbing irritably. His broad shoulders flexed under his black t-shirt, revealing that scar at his neck again.
“If you had any idea of the day we’ve had so far, you’d be a little more agreeable,” Hermione spoke, her voice sounding like, at any moment, she would burst into tears again.
He sighed before finally speaking, his voice muffled by the palms of his hands. “They just turned off. I don’t know how.”
“Oh, it must’ve been Celestine, then.” She erupted sarcastically. “Never done anything like that in three years but decides to today. Right. I get it, Malfoy.” She turned and dropped her whole weight into a chair. Crookshanks leapt into her lap, somehow knowing she must’ve needed the comfort. She stroked his fur absentmindedly. “What’s the matter with you now, anyway?”
Draco was silent, only pulling his hands away from his face to reveal it to be starkly pale.
“I told you that you should’ve eaten. The spell I did on you is incredibly draining. And you haven’t eaten since you got here almost 24 hours ago. You must be really hungry by now.”
Harry grunted in agreement—he knew that feeling after having his soul sucked on by a dementor.
Draco sneered, reaching to the floor to retrieve the blood-replenishing potion. He uncorked and took a swig.
Harry frowned as he stepped forward—that darkness falling over his eyes again. “Why do I get the feeling there’s something you’re keeping from us, Malfoy?” He gripped his wand tighter.
Hermione, distracted by Crookshanks who was now purring pleasantly on her lap as she stroked his fur, failed to notice Harry’s poorly veiled anger. “I suppose there’s something we need to tell you too, Malfoy,” she began solemnly, “Today, Hannah Abbott was found… dead.”
He froze, staring ahead, avoiding Harry and Hermione’s eyes.
“Killed, we believe, by that creature Harry and I are trying to find. And Neville Longbottom is missing,” she croaked. “It’s possible that it was the creature that may have also attacked you. But somehow, you got away.” Harry and Hermione now realised that Draco could not have killed those muggles since he had been locked away in Hermione’s bag when Hannah was attacked. However, that did not exempt him completely.
“Where were you when you were bitten, Malfoy? No games.” Harry said evenly.
The corked blood-replenishing potion dropped to the floor, the bottle sounding now almost empty. Draco groaned, rubbing his hands over his face again. That annoying pang of sympathy tolled in Hermione’s chest as she saw Draco’s hands trembling slightly.
“What alleyway did it happen in?” She asked, her voice softer than Draco must’ve been used to.
“Alleyway?” he whispered, confused.
“Everyone… All the victims were attacked in alleyways in London. We just assumed that you also were…” She trailed off.
“There was no alleyway. Not that I can remember. And it was not in London, I can tell you that much.”
Hermione recalled how Draco was covered in mud when he arrived. How far had he travelled before he got to her?
“Then where was it, Malfoy,” Harry said sharply.
“How many times do I have to tell you? I don’t remember. I have no idea where I was.” His voice rumbled, no better at masking his anger than Harry was, “I just remember… running. Running through fields, across towns and…”
“You ran into London?” Hermione blurted.
“It can’t have been far. I made it to London in one night. Maybe just the outskirts,”
“And when was that? The bite is almost healed, Malfoy. It must’ve been weeks ago.”
“Weeks?” He frowned, now seeming genuinely confused, “I thought it had only been a day, or two… I didn’t realise how long…”
“How did you even get into Diagon Alley without magic?”
“I just… I just did, okay. And then I sss… sawyou in the courtyard with Harry. I had no choice but to ask you for help.” He put his head in his hands again. “Parts are missing… I can only remember moments, fragments—”
“The bite has probably affected your thinking. You really should eat, you know.” She got up from the chair and opened the drawer filled with chocolate frogs. She pulled out a few and handed them to Draco and Harry.
“I’m not hungry,” Draco said flatly. Harry, on the other hand, had already torn open the box and was wolfing down the frog in one swallow. He spun the Hesphaestus Gore trading card between his fingers.
“Whatever,” Hermione sighed, “I’ve had enough of… everything. I have work to do.” She marched back to her potion station and began preparing the solution in which Draco’s and Hannah’s samples would be immersed. “Harry, could you pass me Hannah’s sample? I have no idea how I will extract the magical signature from it. Whatever I manage to get out will undoubtedly be weak; if I can extract anything at all.”
Harry ambled over, pulling the crimson red vial from his mokeskin pocket and placing it in its holder on the cramped workstation. “What else do you need?”
"Could you pass me that jar of powdered Jobberknoll feathers? It should help the potion hold on to the memory of the signature," she explained, her voice carrying on as Harry and Hermione bent over their work, their heads bopping together; both piled high with messy brown hair. "…Oh yes, the Moondew drops are required to reveal subtle details—"
Unbeknownst to them both, Draco continued to fidget restlessly behind them, his shoulders tensing and his hands dragging across his head repeatedly, his hair becoming almost as wild as theirs.
“Where did you get this boomslang skin from?” Harry asked.
“It’s quite a funny story, actually—” Hermione twittered on.
Draco got up and paced silently between the cages and tanks, his hands moving from his ears, nose and mouth.
“Ah, unicorn hair—that was Hannah’s wand core, was it not? Expensive, but it might help enhance her blood sample—”
"Blood," Draco whispered as he paced, but they did not hear—his voice lost beneath the bubbling of the potion, the clatter of jars, and the hum of their chatter.
“Let’s give this a try,” Hermione said finally as she picked up the sample of Hannah’s blood, uncorking it with a loud pop.
“Oh, fuck.” Draco groaned loudly behind them. Hermione’s body flushed at the sound of it—something about it sounded so… she did not know what.
They turned to find Draco standing tall, his figure blotting a lantern light. As he stepped toward them, moving out of the shadows, his sharp, white-blond hair jutted upward like jagged spikes—mirroring his face—all sharp angles, coldness, and nightmare.
As he frowned, his eyes began to glow supernaturally bright, white and silvery—luminous as the moon. They snapped onto Hermione, staring incredulously as her heart began to sing.
“Hungry?” His voice was guttural yet silken, like a god or monster of old, speaking to her bones. “No, I am not hungry,” he purred, prowling toward her. As his frown warped, twisting into a bitter grin, thick crimson blood oozed between his lips. Hermione stood transfixed as four terrible fangs broke through his gums, elongating and gleaming like violent ivory stakes. “I am STARVING!”