A Well-Organised Death

Hermione wondered whether she should add Blood Courier to her CV alongside Vampire Babysitter. If she’d known that taking this job four years ago would lead her to gruesome murder investigations and endless hours stuck with Draco Malfoy—of all people—she might have reconsidered. But admitting that would mean Ron had been right—and she’d sooner deliver blood all night long than give Ron the satisfaction of an I told you so.

Draco hadn’t moved. He was still horizontal in the bed, as he had been for days now. Hermione fought the urge to accuse him of sulking—his life had just been changed forever, after all.

A grey cloud seemed to hover around him, obscuring him from view. All she could see was his boots hanging off the foot of the bed and his white hair, illuminated in the shadows. At any other time, with any other person, this could’ve been seen as intimate; seeing someone this vulnerable. But this was not another time and not another person. This was now, and this was Draco. Petulant, pathetic, borderline evil Draco.

She dropped the bottles noisily onto a pile of tomes. Now that most of her time was to be devoted to researching vampires and supervising Draco, she had hauled the books back into the beaded bag, along with the armchair from her room at The Leaky Cauldron.

The clanging bottles forced Draco to acknowledge her presence, and slowly he dragged himself upright, moving his large, lumbering body to the edge of the bed. When he turned toward her, Hermione’s breath hitched. He was deathly pale—almost translucent.

“You look awful,” she blurted.

Draco kissed his teeth in response, his dark eyes hidden beneath his brow.

Hermione knew vampires needed blood—real blood, at least once a night. Going longer than 24 hours without food would make anyone hungry, and Draco had been without for… how many days? Four, five? And after everything she had learned about vampires, they did not handle hunger well at all. How on earth had he even made it this far?

“Malfoy,” She began, “You haven’t already… fed on anyone? Perhaps by accident?”

“Fed on someone?” he seethed, “I might be terrible, Granger but I would not… I don’t even know how—”

“No, I was just asking. Just in case.”

“In case of what? That there are more dead muggles out there for you to find?” He said as if he couldn’t care less.

“No,” she huffed, “it’s a reasonable question. Hunger can do… strange things to a vampire.”

“You have no idea,” he groaned—so quietly she could barely hear him.

Hermione didn’t respond and instead pulled the bottles from the bag, setting them on the examination table. Each was labelled “Fresh Fancy” in an inky blue script. The blood sloshed inside, thick and viscous, almost looking black through the green glass.

His hand flew to his mouth. For a moment, Hermione thought that his fangs would distend again, just like they had when she uncorked Hannah’s blood sample. Instead, his eyes shuttered and his shoulders heaved. He had gagged.

It was not the reaction Hermione had expected, least of all from Draco. She would’ve bet gold on him enjoying drinking human blood—luxuriating in it as if it were priceless champagne and he was a connoisseur. It seemed like such a Slytherin thing to do.

Draco rose quickly from the bed, wavering on his feet. His boots stomped on the ground as he stormed about the room, and Hermione felt her blood pressure rise.

“Malfoy, when vampires go too long without human blood, they get very sick…” She implored, “They start to desiccate. The flesh turns to stone—”

“You’re not helping,” he growled, still pacing back and forth.

“They stay in that state for centuries, feeling everything—”

“Yes, all the pain, all the memories. I know what happens, Granger,” he snapped, “Don’t remind me.”

“But you have to drink it. There’s no other choice,”

His hair stuck out sideways, the result of running his fingers through it a thousand frantic times. He looked deranged as he gestured violently to the bottles, still sitting innocently atop the pile of books, “And that’s real… real human blood?”

“That’s what it says on the label.”

“Hasn’t anyone come up with anything better yet? What sort of luddites are they,” His face was twisted in rage.

“It’s the best I can do Malfoy,” She growled, “I went through quite a bit of trouble to get this for you. I’d appreciate it if you didn’t turn your nose up at it.” Hermione snatched a goblet and corkscrew from her potion station before slamming the goblet on the examination table. She then seized a bottle and began screwing the opener into the cork.

“What are you doing?” he snapped.

“Opening it.”

“Give it here,” he swept across the room in one great stride, his lithe body blurring with the speed. He snatched the bottle and the opener from her hands but then froze mid-motion. He stood there, fingers twitching, before dropping them onto the examination table.

“This is ridiculous,” he snarled, throwing himself onto the desk chair.

Hermione stalked off, dropping herself into the armchair opposite, crossing her arms. “I’m sure you’ve drunk worse things,” she spat.

“Without question.” He replied blandly, staring at the bottle as it glinted under the lamplight. “What if… after I drink this… I am beyond saving?” He shook his head, correcting himself, “I mean, what if this… condition I am in, cannot be reversed?”

“There is no cure for vampirism, Malfoy. Surely, you knew that?” She laughed bitterly.

“There’s nothing that can be done?”

The cogs in Hermione’s brain wheeled. That was the whole reason why he had come to her, wasn’t it? Just tell me what bit me and fix it, was what he had said. If Draco knew there was no cure, would he try to leave? She could not allow that. “Well…” she began, already beginning to feel terribly guilty, “there could be some reference material in one of these tomes I am yet to get through,”—she had already read them all numerous times—“but obviously, it won’t be easy.”

“Are you lying to me?” He flicked his grey eyes to hers, but quickly, she looked away.

“Of course not.”

He said nothing, but she could feel his dark, brooding stare, studying her. It made the nerves on the back of her neck prickle like static.

“Oh, for Merlin’s sake, I promise,” she erupted.

Draco turned his gaze back to the bottle of blood. The seconds beat past thickly. “You can leave now.”

“Leave? This is my room!”

“Surely you’ve got better things to do than watch me?”

“I need to observe, Malfoy.” Another thing she had not told him was that, for almost the entire time he had been under her watch, she had been writing a report.

Accio Operation Doublefang

A bound folder of parchment flew into her hand, and Hermione smirked. Considering Draco was seemingly a previously undiscovered creature, it had fallen to Hermione to document the findings. She had already begun writing numerous notes, detailing the abnormalities, his lack of memory, his testy behaviour—

“Doublefang?” he murmured, “That’s appalling.”

Her smirk fell. “Well, let me know if you come up with anything more original.” She picked up her quill and began scribbling in unintelligible writing.

“I’d rather you not observe me like a fucking animal, Granger.”

“But I need to.” She said bluntly. What Draco preferred was irrelevant, much like what anyone preferred. The investigation—as always—came first. But since Hermione was now coming to learn how to best communicate with Draco, she took a different approach, “It will help with finding a cure,”

“Right,”

Pushing down that pang of guilt which smarted in her gut, Hermione continued with her notes; her quill scratching noisily across the parchment. Yesterday Draco had been desperate to drink, now he looked like he couldn’t imagine anything worse. “Well, get on with it,”

“I am,” he growled.

“Maybe it’ll be easier if you uncork it. The smell might… It might help.”

His lips twisted. He continued to stare at the bottle until suddenly, he erupted. “Fuck this,” he spat. With unnerving, violent precision, he drove the opener into the cork. Hermione flinched. In one sharp jerk, and as though it was something he had already done a thousand times, he yanked the cork free, the metallic scent of blood erupting into the air.

And then, everything changed.

That cold light behind his eyes ignited—like moonlight breaking over a dark horizon. Draco inhaled sharply as two glittering points appeared between his lips. He lifted his hand to his mouth to find his fangs growing larger—engorging as the scent of blood saturated the air.

Where his body had been rigid with distress, it was now languid, with an easy grace. Power rolled off Draco in waves, and Hermione could almost feel it undulating like the dark sea lapping against the shore.

She had ceased breathing, her quill poised above the parchment. She was meant to be taking notes, and yet… a creeping realisation took root. She wasn’t just observing, she was captivated. Perhaps this was why she had started working for The Ministry, after all.

With great deliberation, Draco lifted the bottle to the goblet and poured, the red stream catching in a glint of lamplight. The lights began to flicker, dimming and brightening in uneven bursts while Draco poured; a small pool forming at the bottom of the goblet.

An unknown wind passed through the fabric walls, howling softly about her, as he brought the cup to his lips. Hermione felt her hair lifting, tracing lightly against her skin.

He closed his eyes and swallowed.

The wind fell, and the lights stayed. The seconds passed, pulled as taut as the quill between her fingers—until Draco fell back to the chair and moaned.

A squeak escaped Hermione’s throat. Now this definitely was intimate. Her thighs clenched tightly together as she wracked her brain for something to write—

The subject is… her quill twiddled between her fingers, aroused? No, that won’t do. Stimulated. She wanted to scream.

“Uh,” he moaned again, jerking his hips forward and running a hand through his hair. Hermione, still gripping her quill and parchment, burned all over.

Draco rolled his head back as a thin rivulet of blood escaped his lips, trailing over his jaw and neck, stark against his marble skin.

She cleared her throat, the sound tight. She hadn’t realised her bum was perched on the edge of the seat. “And… how do you feel?” Her voice was inadvertently husky.

His eyelids lifted lazily, revealing eyes still glowing with silver light. He stared at her for a long moment before answering, his voice dark.

“Alive.”

It was unwelcome news to learn that Hannah Abbott’s funeral would be held at Godric’s Hollow. Neither Harry nor Hermione had set foot in that cemetery since their first and only visit many years ago. Wading through darkness and snow to find Harry’s parents’ gravestones was a memory she’d rather forget. Not to mention finding Nagini wearing the dead Bathida Bagshot like a coat.

But when Hermione arrived with Harry and Ginny that morning for the funeral, she barely recognised the place. It was a warm autumn day; the sky a vibrant cerulean blue. The swaying oak trees were burnished orange and gold, hanging low over the mossy gravestones.

Scattered across the cemetery were small groups of witches and wizards, all dressed in long wool capes of emerald, purple and royal blue. Hermione recognised most of them: Lee Jordan, Katie Bell, Susan Bones. Even some of their old professors were there. It was like some morbid Hogwarts reunion. Draco didn’t seem to care one bit about how he couldn’t make it. In fact, he had barely batted an eye when Hermione had told him of Hannah’s death. She wondered if he cared about anything at all—apart from himself, of course.

“How’s The Plan going?” Luna asked as she skipped beside them, dressed in bright yellow. Apparently, she had not forgotten about the plan, despite Harry’s request.

“It’s, uh… a work in progress,” Hermione said. She had no idea what they were to do if the results from the potion and Harry’s searching spell came up with nothing. And there was still the matter of finding out what Liliana Moroi—Eldred’s vampire roomie—had meant about them being years too late… Their trails were running dim, and she knew it.

“All the best plans are works in progress,” she replied cheerfully, “Which I suppose makes them not so much as plans, but more like suggestions from the universe,”

Hermione wanted to heartily disagree. Plans required preparation and careful execution. But perhaps it was not the time nor the place to discuss the merits of dedicated strategy versus messages from the universe.

“The universe needs to start shouting a bit louder,” Ginny interjected, “So we don’t keep ending up in situations like this,”

“Don’t worry Gin’s, it’s not the end of the world,” she replied while patting Ginny on the shoulder, “We will get to see Hannah again one day,”

“That’s not…” Ginny began, but sighed and shook her head instead, “Whatever,”

The foursome approached a small group gathered beneath an ancient oak tree, speaking in hushed tones. As Hermione drew closer, the beaded bag bashing into her knees as it was hidden beneath her cape of pale blue, she began to recognise a few familiar faces. But as the group parted, her breath caught. A tall figure with flaming orange hair came into view.

It was Ron.

“How are you doing?” Ron asked as the rest of the group drifted slowly away—an obviously calculated effort on their part.

They stood awkwardly in the dew-covered grass, their faces both flushed red. Hermione glanced at him, taking in the familiar features that hadn’t changed: his freckled skin, and the golden highlights in his floppy hair brought out by the autumn sun. His deep green cape was tied tightly about his neck. This was the season that suited him the most.

“I’m alright,” she replied, turning her gaze away.

“Horrible about Hannah,” Ron said after a pause. “Harry told me you were there. Not when it happened, I mean… after.”

“Yeah.” Hermione smiled sadly, “I thought you were in Romania?”

“Not yet… had to sort a few things out first.” She frowned, and he quickly added, “I stayed at George’s for a bit after I… left. But then Mum told me you’d left The Burrow, so I went back there. Just for now.”

To know that Ron—a person who had always been her source of comfort, friendship, and love, the very things she so desperately needed now—was only an Apparition away at the home they had shared for years frightened her far more than it reassured her. He had left. He had chosen to walk away, so what could she do? He didn’t want her.

“‘Mione,” he started, but she cut him off.

“We should go over,” she gestured to the crowd that had begun to gather about the hole that was to be Hannah’s grave.

“Oh… Alright,” he croaked.

Mistress McGonagall’s voice shook as she led the ceremony. A headstone already marked the grave, bearing two names etched into the stone:

Hannah was to be buried beside her mother, who had been brutally murdered by Voldemort’s Death Eaters nearly a decade ago. Hermione remembered the day all too well—how Hannah had been pulled from their Herbology class with no explanation. The memory hit her like a fresh wound, and a sob rose in her throat. She clutched Ginny’s hand tightly, who held back even tighter.

Hermione actively avoided walking beside Ron when the ceremony was over, despite how the group naturally seemed to orient itself to place them together. She couldn’t believe that he had been in England the entire time she had been going through hell. And he hadn’t even sent her a birthday message. But that was beside the point, now.

Hermione wedged herself between Harry and Ginny as they walked towards the gate of Godric’s Hollow.

“Any luck with Neville’s wand?” she asked discreetly.

“Nothing,” he replied, frustrated. “There’s nothing. Even when they have the strongest wards, you still get something. It’s almost like he’s…” he trailed off, unwilling to finish the sentence with the word that hung between them: dead. “Ginny’s been helping me, but we might need your help soon, too. If you can pull yourself away from that bag,” he teased, managing a small grin.

“Hey, I’ve been making some progress!” She said defensively, though a rude image bloomed in Hermione’s mind: Draco pushing his hips forward as blood trickled down his neck. And that dark moan... Heat flared between her hips. “Sort of,” She clutched the bag tightly under her cape. “The potion should be ready soon. You’ll be there when I extract it, won’t you?”

“Uhhh… Maybe.” Harry squinted.

“I know I asked you to stay away, but, it really would be helpful…” she said desperately, “If he starts being annoying I’ll just blast a bit of sunlight at him,”

Harry grinned for real now. “I’ll think about it,” But before she could press him further, a shadow fell, blotting out the sun.

Looming over them, an enormous winged creature took flight. It was ghostly, the light shining dimly through it as it glided silently into the sky. Hermione had heard that the cemetery was haunted—but she hadn’t truly believed it.

“It’s Robard’s patronus!” Harry shouted.

The spectral hawk opened its beak as it hovered above them. Instead of a piercing cry, a gravelly voice boomed from its mouth, reverberating across the cemetery as if it were a great speakerphone. It had a message:

“Azkaban Breakout. High Alert. Antonin Dolohov Escaped. High Alert…”