Bathory's Bloode's
It was as if the rest of the world had faded; only his voice and the energy that thrummed through her remained. Every part of her was alight—awakened, wanting—hanging onto the thread of his voice like a puppet on a string. All he had to do was to ask, and she would surrender.
Until the line was severed: an enormous gust of wind had rushed in, blowing him backwards and slamming him into the wall.
“Merlin’s beard!” Harry shouted through the chorus of screaming creatures. The speed at which Draco had advanced had given Harry no time to react. He had moved as a blur, rushing toward Hermione faster than any creature he had seen before—even quicker than Sanguini had flown down the stairs at Eldred’s property—before being thrust backwards, the fabric of the beaded bag billowing and glittering around him. “That Protego spell works a charm. Literally,” Harry said as he turned toward Hermione with his mouth agape, forever in awe of her powerful magic, only to find her staggering forward. Her eyes were glazed, and her hand slack, with Hannah’s blood almost spilling from the vial onto the floor. “Hermione!”
Harry lunged, catching her and the vial just in time. After settling Hermione into a chair, his fingers trembled as he re-corked the vial and placed it back in its holder. If they’d lost it now, after everything they’d gone through to get it, he didn’t know what they’d do.
“Are you alright?” Harry asked softly, gripping her shoulder.
No, she was not alright. “Yes,” She lied, her voice barely above a whisper. She had that same strange, distant look in her eye that Elizabeth and Mrs Augusta Longbottom had, but Harry didn’t notice.
“You’re exhausted,” Harry said, “You’ve been working too hard.”
Hermione shook her head weakly. “No, I haven’t—” She murmured, forcing herself to sit upright. Her face was flushed, and though Harry had missed it, Hermione hadn’t. Her chest tightened as she began to realise that this wasn’t just exhaustion. It was Draco. Somehow, it was always Draco.
Draco had also been knocked out—the force of the Protego Charm spinning him so intensely that his dizziness had become akin to Hermione’s. He turned to face them, dazed and still sitting on the floor. Blood dripped from the tips of his fangs as they shrank. He wiped his mouth, the blood smearing along his jaw.
From beneath his brow, his eyes flicked up to hers. They were dimmer, though some light still shone behind them. They widened, and Hermione detected something in him that she never thought him capable of before: shame.
He coughed and spluttered into his hand, shielding his teeth from view. “I’m sorry,” he choked.
Hermione watched him through lidded eyes. “What are you?”
But he said nothing. He only looked to the floor, his expression glowering.
“Well, he’s a vampire, isn’t he?” Harry interjected his hand still on Hermione’s shoulder. “A vampire on steroids.”
“A vampire?” Draco frowned. “Have you been reading too many scary stories before bed, Potter?” Whatever flicker of regret that briefly crossed Draco’s face had already been burned up and extinguished. The regular cruelty and bitterness remained.
“Then why did you lose your mind the moment Hermione uncorked that vial of blood? Oh, and the small matter of those fangs hanging out of your fucking mouth?” Harry erupted. Hermione could tell that Harry, too, was exhausted. His patience was gone.
Draco felt his canines, which were now to their regular size. “Fangs?” he questioned. He pulled his hand away and saw blood staining his fingertips. “I… I would know if I was…”
“But… You can’t remember anything, can you?” Hermione said solemnly, not looking at them. It was clear, now, that Draco really couldn’t remember what had happened to him. Most of it, at least.
“No,” he breathed, “I can’t be—”
But, surely, he could. There was only the anomaly of the double fangs and that his eyes were not red; they were grey—ice grey—and after how Sanguini and Liliana reacted back at Eldred’s home, Hermione knew there was more to this than she currently understood. A mutation in the vampire gene, perhaps. Caused by something—or someone.
“Can you walk in the sun?” Harry asked plainly.
Draco blinked. “What are you getting at, Potter?”
“You know exactly what I’m getting at.” Harry snapped, his green eyes piercing. “Vampires can’t walk in the sun. So I’ll ask again. Can you walk in the sun?”
“I… I don’t,” Draco stammered. His gaze darted frantically as if he was searching his memory for answers. His fists braced against his temples, pressing against them as if he was trying to break his mind open, “I slept... I slept rough to hide, to hide from muggles—in the daytime—”
Draco slept rough? Hermione could hardly believe her ears.
“So, you don’t know.” Harry replied angrily.
“Obviously I can walk in the sun!” Draco spat.
Harry tilted his head. “Well, it’s night outside right now—not that we would let you out anyway—so we can’t prove it that way. So, that only leaves one option,” Harry shrugged.
“Don’t you dare,” Draco hissed. But his eyes grew wide as Harry pulled the wand from his mokeskin pocket and pointed it at Draco.
“Harry, wait!” Hermione started, but it was too late.
Lumos Solem
A beam of bright yellow light blasted from the tip of Harry’s wand, burning to the back of Hermione’s retina. Hermione shielded her eyes as the room lit up like a sun. Through the solar haze, she could almost make out the shape of Draco, still on the floor with his arms lifted, shielding his face. It was the smell that hit her first. Burning flesh. And then she saw it: his wrists and palms blistering and burning, the flesh on his bones beginning to char.
“Stop!” Hermione shouted as she stood before rushing over to them as the light vanished.
No one moved. The only sound was Celestine yelping and growling from her pen, the smell of his burning skin still lingering in the air.
Draco groaned as he pulled himself onto his knees, turning over his wrists to reveal the fractured skin, charred like molten coals. He sucked in air through his teeth as he analysed the wounds. The pain must’ve been immense.
“I’m… I’m sorry, Malfoy.” Harry choked out, his wand hanging limp at his side. Though he had called Draco a vampire—taunted him with it, almost—it was clear that he had not quite believed it.
Draco didn’t look at them; he only sat there, trembling.
The truth they’d refused to believe was written in his wounds.
Draco was a vampire.
For a long moment, they were silent. Frozen by the terrible knowledge that Draco was changed forever—until the impossible started to happen. The charred edges of his wounds began to shimmer faintly—like embers flickering in the dark—only this glow was not warm like a fire; it was cold like frost settling upon volcanic rock. Gradually, the skin knit itself back together, smoothing and regenerating the scorched skin, returning it to its pale, marble-like perfection in a matter of seconds. Only little grey patches remained, like ashen stepping stones, trailing from his elbow to his palm.
Hermione gasped, her hand flying to her mouth. In all her years studying magic, creatures and medicine, she had never seen anything like this. “It’s… it’s healed,”
Draco, seemingly unimpressed by his own ability, tore to his feet in one fluid motion—towering over Harry. “You could’ve killed—” he snarled, until realising the irony in his words—he was already dead.
Hermione stared at Draco. It was true: he was a vampire, which meant he haddied. And he couldn’t even remember it happening. Despite how much she hated him, despite all the pain he had caused, she couldn’t stop that pang of sympathy from ringing in her chest. “I think you better go, Harry.”
Harry hesitated, his wand still loose in his hand. “I was only trying to—”
“I know.” She interrupted, her tone colder than she meant. It had been a long, horrible birthday. The horror of what had occurred was beyond anything she could ever put into words. “I’ll deal with it.”
Harry hung his head, not daring to look at either of them. “Yeah,” he said hoarsely as he reached for the rope which hung from the ceiling. “I’m sorry, Hermione.” With a sudden jerk, he vanished into the black void above, leaving only silence behind.
Draco hadn’t moved. Still frozen in place where he had confronted Harry, he suddenly turned away from her. Stiffly, he returned to the fabric wall he had crashed into, straightening it absent-mindedly.
“Look, Malfoy,” She croaked, breaking through the heavy quiet, “Tomorrow I will get you some… blood. Human blood.”
Draco stopped. His whole body tensed, coiling like a spring. “No,”
“No,” she said quickly, her words tumbling between her lips, “Not like that. There’s a place… I know of. Where you can purchase it. Legally.”
His head turned slightly, just enough for her to catch the sharp angle of his jaw, tight with tension.
“I read about it,” She clarified.
“Obviously.” He muttered, his head snapping back to the wall again. Slowly, he turned, returning to the travel bed. He perched on the edge, his long legs stretching out, his shoulders slumped.
“But it won’t be until after nightfall.” She said tightly. Never in a million years did she ever think this would happen—that Draco would become a vampire, and that it would fall to her to control the damage. But she carried on—like she always did. “Until then, I have some reserve Blood-Replenishing Potion. That seems to help… a bit.”
Draco didn’t answer. He didn’t even look at her. He only stared blankly ahead, his gaze fixed onto something unseen as if he was looking into a long tunnel—one with no end.
~*~
After a heavy and dreamless sleep in her rented room at The Leaky Cauldron, Hermione returned to the beaded bag, carefully adding Hannah’s blood sample to the potion, this time ensuring to cast an Impervius Charm to block the scent from Draco’s detection.
Draco hadn’t moved. He stayed within the travel bed, his face turned to the wall, hidden within the shadows. Occasionally, he took swigs from what little remained of the Blood-Replenishing Potion, but mostly laid still—his chest never rising, his eyes sealed shut. Hermione had to remind herself that he was still alive—whatever that word meant for him, now.
Once the potion was finally set to develop, she returned to her usual routine. Scourgify, Tergeo, Evanesco. It was the weekly cleaning of the creature enclosures and their health check-up. As she cooed and fussed over them, them tippy-tapping in response upon the examination table, Draco ignored her. But even in his silence, she could almost feel the density of his thoughts, churning over and over, as if a terrible storm was brewing in the distance.
There was little she could think of to say to reassure him—and there was even less desire to do so. Some claimed that becoming a vampire was a fate worse than death—an eternity at the mercy of their thirst—and she could not help but think, after everything he had done, that perhaps he had deserved it.
By the time Harry and Hermione reached Highgate, night had fallen onto the Cemetery like a shroud. They marched quickly through the damp tunnel into the Church before emerging onto Highgate Highstreet.
It was Vampire Hours. The boutiques and emporiums lining the Highstreet were open, their shop signs creaking softly in the cold autumn breeze. A few vampires in black cloaks glided along the pavement, silent and shadowlike, their Familiars trailing beside them.
It was dark: only a few golden orbs dimly lit the pavement, and though Harry and Hermione had the protection of The Ministry and The Trace, a chill still crept up her spine when a vampire lingered its crimson, hungry gaze on her for a moment too long. The Trace, it seemed, did little to stop their natural impulses, too.
She gripped her wand tight and moved closer to Harry. “How is it going with finding Neville?” she asked, trying to keep her voice steady. It was still a little awkward with Harry after what had happened the night before—Harry almost turning Draco into dust with a Sun Spell—but she was determined to clear the air before reaching their destination.
“I began a Discovery Charm for him,” Harry said. He had spent most of that day working at The Ministry to find Neville, regardless of how hopeless it seemed.
“Is that when you take one of their belongings and use it to search their location? I thought that was a forbidden spell,”
“Auror’s privileges,” Harry grinned. “Anyway, it rarely works. Most dark wizards hide themselves behind wards and things. But it’s always worth a shot. And we’re using his wand, which is probably the most powerful item for it.” Neville’s wand had been found at the crime scene. It seemed he had dropped it in the chaos before being taken by who—or what—killed Hannah.
“And how are you… doing?” She wanted to kick herself. She never was very good at this sort of thing. But Harry, thankfully, knew what she was trying to say.
“Look, Hermione, about yesterday—”
“It’s okay, honestly. You don’t need to explain yourself.”
“But, I do. It wasn’t okay what I did, and I regret…” he sighed, “It’s hard. He brings back memories, you know? And how you’ve not been right ever since he arrived,”
“I have been working too hard.” She admitted, “You’re right. I’m going to slow down, I promise.” She could not yet tell Harry what she suspected—that Draco was inadvertently using Compulsion on her. That it was him that caused her fainting spells, pulling her under his control, without either of them realising it. There was not a shred of a chance that Harry would let him near her again, and as Draco was the key to solving these murders, losing him wasn’t an option.
Besides, she thought grimly, she had already figured it out. As Draco spent the entire day glued to the bed, his eyes sealed shut, she had not once felt that dizzying pull—as it was with them that he bewitched her—those grey, haunted eyes. She vowed never to look into them again. “And I have Malfoy under control. Without his father and his magic, he has nothing.”
“I just hate him, Hermione.”
“I know. Me too.”
Just everywhere he goes, terrible things follow—”
“I know, I know. But…” She rubbed her hands together, trying to bring warmth back to them, “we have to put that aside. Put our feelings aside. So that we can focus on the investigation.”
“I can’t do that as well as you. You’re so skilled at it, and I…” Over the years, there had been countless occasions when Harry allowed his emotions to overpower him. Although he had made progress in many areas, Hermione knew he had not outgrown that aspect of his personality, yet.
“We need him, Harry. He’s the closest thing we’ve got to catching this killer on the loose.” She sighed, “Maybe you should leave Draco up to me from now on. You know I am protected through the Protego Charm. And you’ve got so much to do, with finding Neville,”
“Yeah,” Harry agreed, sullen, “You’re probably right.”
They walked on until they reached their morbid destination. A strange, narrow shop, tucked into an eave. Its large wooden sign jutted from the black brick wall, swinging in the wind. Written in Old English script, read: Bathory’s Bloode’s, Blood Merchant.
“This is the place,” Hermione whispered. Above the door was etched a familiar symbol—the one Harry and Hermione had seen on the ground of The Vampire Registry, as well as the entrance into Highgate: a star breaking through the moon.
The bell above the door tinkled as they entered, and the scent of incense—sandalwood and patchouli—stung Hermione’s nostrils. At the foot of the door stood a spindly, spiral staircase. Cautiously, they descended, their shoes clattering on the wooden steps, until they entered a dark, cave-like cellar. The ceiling was a stone dome, and lining the walls were row upon row of sparkling green wine bottles, each adorned with ornate labels.
“Who’s that,” A voice croaked. Out of the shadows, a vendor emerged, rising clumsily from behind the counter. He stumbled toward them, squinting. “Who are you?” he spat. His clothes were rumpled, and his uncut hair hung limply about his sagging jowls. His piercing red eyes flitted between them suspiciously. He was a vampire, of course.
Hermione opened her mouth, about to announce they were paying customers when his expression morphed, opening into wonder. “Hell, you’re Harry Potter,” the vampire said.
Harry sighed. They had barely wanted to be noticed on this trip to Highgate, let alone recognised. But then, there was little chance of that ever happening these days. Harry chose not to confirm and instead smiled weakly. “And your name?” Since being constantly recognised, Harry had learned that the best way to reverse the discomfort was to ask for their name back.
“Frederick Bathory,” The vampire said, puffing his chest, “fourth-time descendent of the Great Noblewoman, Erzsebet Bathori,” though this vampire did not seem to mind. Hermione was reminded of how vampires tended to take the surnames of those who had turned them—their Masters—but only those who had been turned willingly. “And your young lady friend?” he said coyly.
“Ms. Granger.” She replied bluntly, avoiding his gaze. He gave her the creeps.
“Wonderful.” His red eyes darted over their bodies again, “Don’t usually get wizards in here, buying blood.”
Having been caught short one too many times, Harry and Hermione had already decided on their excuse before arriving at Highgate.
“Christmas gift.” Hermione said evenly, “For a friend of ours. Vampire, of course.”
“Yes. Of course,” he said, raising an eyebrow, “My. How thoughtful. Though, I should warn you: as it’s September, the blood might be a little coagulated by Christmas time.”
“I thought they were enchanted with wolfsbane? To keep them fresh?” Hermione had read that, unlike muggle wine, the bottles were valued for their newness, rather than age.
“Ah, human blood is a very… delicate element,” He spoke, his voice becoming smooth and almost lyrical. “Many Potioneers over the centuries have attempted to preserve it, to prolong its integrity, but nothing ever quite does,” He pondered, sighing. “Anyway, if it does start to coagulate, heat to the temperature of 37°C—the temperature of the human body, of course—and that should help.” He gestured toward a shelf of bottles. “Now. These here only came in yesterday. They’re fresh from the vein, almost.”
“Right,” Harry’s voice cracked.
“Or perhaps, for a mighty gift, you prefer our signature bottle, Vestalis? Priceless, this stuff. The blood of six virgins—blended to increase its potency,”
Hermione wanted to gag. “No, thank you. We would like to purchase three bottles from your… new range. The fresh ones.” She worked excellently at hiding her disgust. “How much are they?”
“You don’t think he’d prefer Equine Express?” Harry grinned, picking up the bottle of horse blood.
“No, Harry. It must be… fresh.”
“You two. Again.” A deep voice drawled.
Harry and Hermione spun around to find Sanguini standing at the foot of the stairs, dressed in black, his face burning in rage. They hadn’t even heard the door tingle when he came in.
“Sanguini.” Hermione nodded, curtseying a little. Her face flushed. He was, quite literally, the last person they wanted to find them here.
“The Ministry and their fools,” He seethed.
“The Ministry?” The vendor piped up. “By, this is Harry Potter!”
“You’re cavorting with the opposition, Fred.” Sanguini stalked past before grabbing a bottle from a shelf and slamming it onto the counter. Smokey Sins was emblazoned on the label.
“Excuse me?” Hermione’s voice was high-pitched.
“You heard me. The Vampires don’t want you here. I don’t want you here.” Sanguini handed a thin piece of paper to the vendor, and upon it was that symbol of the star and moon again. It seemed to follow them everywhere. Hermione narrowed her eyes, but Fred snatched it before she could get a better look.
“We have a job to do, Sanguini,” Harry said finally, “We’re not going to get in your way.” His voice hardened, “Unless, we need to.”
“Oh, but you are already in my way,” He barged past, his shoulder bashing into Harry, until speeding up the spiral staircase, the bell ringing loudly as he left.
“I suppose that is not your vampire friend?” The vendor smirked, gathering the three bottles from the shelf for Hermione. “One hundred galleons, please.”
Harry and Hermione both raised their eyebrows. The blood was expensive.
“Each,” Fred added smoothly.
“That’s not cheap,” Harry muttered.
“No,” Hermione replied, rooting around in her beaded bag for the currency. “It is not.”