The Real Hogwarts Champion
“You’ve got some serious explaining to do, Malfoy,” Harry shouted.
“Harry, I’ll deal with this,” Hermione said, barging past him. “You’ve got some serious explaining to do, Malfoy. Why has Gregory Goyle’s signature been found inside Hannah Abbotts?”
Draco rose quickly from the bed, towering over her, “I don’t have a fucking clue what you’re talking about,”
“He doesn’t remember shit, Hermione. Even if he did know, there’s not a chance he’d tell us,” Harry snorted.
“The potion has separated all the magical signatures present in Hannah’s system,” she said slowly as if Draco was stupid, “Gregory Goyle’s is INSIDE hers,”
“Maybe he fucked her, I don’t know—” He said with a crooked grin, staring down at Hermione, but fixedly, she looked past him.
“It doesn’t work like that,” she growled, “He’s your number one crony, isn’t he? How could both of you seem to be involved in this mess?”
“Your guess is as good as mine,” he seethed, pushing out his jaw. “And tell me, Granger, just how you seem to know so certainly that signature is Goyle’s?”
“Well,” Hermione faltered—she knew that signature was Goyle’s because she had seen it before, back at Hogwarts. That same glob of green snot had appeared in the Polyjuice Potion she had brewed to transform Harry and Ron into Crabbe and Goyle—with the sole intent of tricking Malfoy. But was now really the time to explain that to him? She exhaled sharply. “I just know. Okay?”
“Spoken like a true expert,” he said bitterly.
“Do you think this is some kind of joke, Malfoy?” Harry snapped, “Hannah’s dead. Neville’s gone. And now your lackey’s magical signature is in the middle of all this? Start talking, or I swear—”
“I don’t know a damned thing,” He said, and Hermione could see it was not only rage that twisted his face but confusion, too. “One minute, I’m neck deep in work, and the next, I have no magic, running in the dark, starving… and now apparently Goyle…” he shook his head, “But sure, let’s all pretend I’m involved because that’s just the obvious conclusion.”
“Obvious conclusion? It is the conclusion, Malfoy. You are involved, and I know it.” Harry spat.
“Right, because I’d choose to shack up with the Gryffindor dream team if I was directly involved. Makes perfect sense, Potter.” He set the goblet down a little too hard, the sound echoing.
“No, but you suspected, didn’t you?” Hermione said. “That’s why you begged us not to take you to St Mungo’s or directly to The Ministry. Perhaps you didn’t know it was Goyle—maybe you thought it was someone else. But you knew there’s more to this than you could remember.”
Draco was silent for a moment. He looked at the goblet, almost empty, on the examination table. “I didn’t know,” he said slowly.
“Exactly.” Hermione crossed her arms. “Where is he? Where’s Goyle?” she demanded.
“I’ve not seen Goyle since everything ended. Years ago,” Hermione and Harry exchanged dubious glances, but Draco continued, “—I lost track of everyone after the war.” he admitted, his voice hollow.
“If you’re lying, we’ll find out. And if you’re protecting him—”
“I’m not protecting anyone,” he seethed, “The war wasn’t exactly fun for me either—”
“Then help us. Prove you’re not the same coward you were back at Hogwarts.” Harry said.
Draco’s jaw tightened, “Fine,” he replied, his voice as soft as a feather, “The sooner this is over, the better. What do you need me to do?”
Hermione’s gaze softened just a fraction. “We start by finding Goyle.”
~*~
Mauraders Map. Sneakoscope. Golden Snitch. Harry rummaged through his desk drawer at The Ministry Headquarters on Level Two. It was perhaps the safest place to store all his most precious possessions—since the Headquarters seemed to withstand any attack, just like an ancient mountain withstands the storm.
“It’s here, somewhere—”
“I would like to know why you’d even keep such a thing,” Hermione stood awkwardly with her arms crossed in Harry’s cubicle, the beaded bag hanging loosely by her knee. The Office was completely empty, as every available Auror had been called to find Dolohov. Still, the pair whispered.
“Dunno.” He shrugged, pulling out the tiny object from the drawer. A bit of fluff was stuck to the back. “I guess it makes me laugh. Besides, it’s got Cedric’s name on it, too. Can’t really bring myself to throw it…”
Hermione took the object, gingerly wiping it on her jacket. She turned the badge over to read ‘Potter Stinks’ in luminous green font. She ran her thumb over it, and magically, the lettering changed. ‘Support Cedric Diggory, The Real Hogwarts Champion’ was in red.She sighed.
Just like Neville’s wand was currently used in Harry’s Discovery Spell to locate him, they required an object once owned by Gregory Goyle.
“I don’t even have anything of my own right now—let alone anything from that knucklehead,” Draco had said, “Everything is back at my father’s Manor, in Wiltshire,” Hermione noted to herself how they would need to do something about that soon. But what, she had no idea.
Finally, after seemingly endless bickering, they came to learn that the Potter Stinks badges had been created by Gregory Goyle—under the juvenile instruction of Draco, of course.
“It won’t be very good, but it’s better than nothing,” Harry said.
“Right, well, let’s set up the spell in my bag—with Neville’s wand as well,” Hermione said, snatching the map from Harry’s desk just as Neville’s wand rolled dangerously close to the edge. “That way, I can keep an eye on both of them in case anything shows up—”
“With Malfoy in the room?” Harry erupted in disbelief, “Not a chance. He’ll probably mess with it.”
“He’ll do no such thing.” Hermione’s tone was firm as she shoved the map and wand into her beaded bag, “I’ll reinforce it with the same Protego Charm I used on myself.” She didn’t even look up as she brushed past him toward the door, dismissing his concern.
Harry followed behind, groaning and dragging a hand through his messy hair. “I don’t want to be around him anymore, Hermione. And…” He pushed open the heavy doors and moved closer so that his whisper was even more discreet, “I’ve been thinking about what Shacklebolt said yesterday—about reporting anything unusual. Well, this is unusual, Hermione.”
“It’s two totally different circumstances, Harry,” she replied, her arms swinging thoroughly as she walked.
“Is it, though? It’s obvious—Malfoy and Goyle have been up to some weird shit. Experimenting with vampire powers, or something. And somewhere along the line, he fucked up and lost some of his memory. And now it looks like Goyle ran off too and killed Hannah.”
Hermione looked around, scanning for eavesdroppers. “Well… Yes, that does seem to be the case. But what’s that got to do with Dolohov? A dark wizard who has already escaped twice before,” she slammed her hand on the elevator button.
Harry sighed. “I don’t know. But, I just… I don’t trust him, Hermione. Never have, never will.” They stepped into the elevator, relieved to find it empty, and the doors sealed shut. Harry went on, “And, if he’s a vampire, doesn’t he need to be registered? Are we breaking some law—harbouring a fugitive?”
“Well, technically, he’s not actually a true vampire—”
Harry rolled his eyes. “Oh, come off it.”
“I do not want to jeopardise this just because of some old feud,”
“Some old feud that almost got all of us killed,”
“But it didn’t. Harry,” Hermione said firmly, “Me working with Malfoy has gotten us this far. We’ve found out what the killer is, and even possibly who. If he is involved but has lost his memory, so what? We can use him to find out what the hell has gone on, and the only person who’s made an idiot of themselves is Malfoy.”
“I really hope that’s the case, Hermione. Because whenever Malfoy’s involved, someone always gets hurt. And it never seems to be him.”
The elevator pinged as the door slid open, and a tall, grey-haired man stood at the centre.
“Ah, children. I had been hoping to run into you two,”
~*~
The tiny harpsichord played its tinkling muzak from the corner of the room as Amos Diggory led them into The Vampire Relations Office. He had all but insisted that they heed his request for a little chat—if they could relieve themselves momentarily from their busy schedule, which Harry had clarified was extremely tight. Amos positioned himself before the heavy desk, backed by that large oil painting of a baleful-looking man, which Hermione now recognised as Hephaestus Gore.
He gestured to the two plush seats opposite—where newly turned vampires and their masters usually waited while being registered—but Harry and Hermione did not sit. Instead, they stood impatiently: Hermione with her arms crossed and Harry with one hand in his pocket, his glasses perched at the end of his nose.
“Very well,” Amos said, dignified. “I wasn’t sure whether to call you in at all.” He rubbed his hands together, “But when I heard that you—Harry Potter and Hermione Granger—had been spotted in Highgate of all places… well. You can imagine my concern.”
Hermione’s heart constricted. She glanced at Harry, who looked somehow paler than Draco.
“Now,” Amos continued, his voice concerned yet warm, “why ever would a witch and a wizard need to purchase human blood?”
Hermione lifted her chin. “A gift.”
“Who on earth would appreciate such a gift?”
“A vampire, obviously,” Harry said, his eyes shadowed. After everything that had happened between Harry and the Diggory family, their relationship was strained, at best.
“How could it be that two, respectable Ministry employees are associating with a vampire?” He asked, incredulous, “What vampire do you know well enough to purchase blood for?”
Hermione wondered if she should say Sanguini—even though their relationship was anything but friendly, but Harry spoke first. “And that’s your business… why?”
“As the Chief Registrar of Vampiric Affairs, it is my duty to understand all vampiric activity,” Amos replied, his hand pressing against his chest.
“I thought you worked within The Office of Misinformation,” Hermione asked.
“It is a dual role,” He said, his hand still pressed to his chest, “but, please do not take this as a slight—I am merely asking this question because I seek to protect you. Highgate is an incredibly dangerous place—”
“Even with enough rules and wards to rival Azkaban?” Harry said, “Not that means much these days,”
“Even then. You see, vampires...” He sighed, “Vampires cannot be trusted. Their nature is to lie, to ravage, to desecrate… That is why there must be so many rules. Left to their own devices, well—it has happened before, and it almost cost us everything,”
“The 1749 Statute of Secrecy Breach,” Hermione said robotically.
“Correct, Ms Granger. I see that you’ve done your homework,”
“What’s that?” Harry said, who, obviously, had not.
“We studied it at Hogwarts, Harry. In 1749, a rather violent vampire went on a rampage in London—killing many muggles. It almost exposed the entire wizarding world. After that, new legislation had to be introduced, so that ‘each wizarding governing body will be responsible for the concealment, care and control of all magical beasts, beings, and spirits dwelling within its territory's borders’” she quoted, “It’s why the vampires now live in Highgate. Not only for muggle protection but for wizards—and vampires,”
It’s all we can do. Their hunger controls them—they can’t even help themselves." Amos looked like he had aged decades since Hermione had last seen him. His posture sagged, and his entire presence seemed frayed at the edges. He leaned toward the desk, weary. "They don’t realise their privilege. They have familiars—which is an incredibly tolerant allowance for The Ministry. Not only that, we provide for them. Every vampire receives a token, granting them a bottle of blood each week—free of charge, out of our own generosity."
Hermione recalled Sanguini handing the blood merchant Fred Bathory a small piece of paper in exchange for his bottle of Smokey Sins. She had thought that perhaps they had some secret deal, some under-the-counter trade, but now she realised she had been wrong.
“I didn’t know that,” Hermione said, confused. “And I’ve read almost every piece of information currently available on vampires,”
“You’re interested in the subject, then?” Amos smiled softly, “Perhaps due to your… friend?”
“I like to be knowledgeable on all subjects,” Hermione said, her chin raised again.
“Indeed you do,” he agreed.
“So, it’s a ration, then,” Harry said.
“Ration?” Amos replied, shocked, “Oh no, one can buy as many bottles of blood as they wish. These tokens are given freely by The Ministry,”
“Hmm, I suppose that’s useful when the blood costs an arm and a leg,” Harry said and Hermione stiffened at the exacting analogy.
“Where do you think this blood comes from, Harry?” Amos asked, and for a moment, Hermione genuinely wondered how the blood was obtained—“It’s an extremely precious resource, and the price must reflect that,”
“I guess this must be why the vampires hate The Ministry so much,” Harry said. “All the rules—”
“Vampires hate everything. They are monsters, and monsters require leashes,” Amos replied quickly, before stilling. He took a breath before speaking more calmly, “Harry, what has happened between us… is all water under the bridge. I’ve had many years to contemplate the past, and I have come to realise it is exactly just that—the past.”
Hermione’s initial reaction of not trusting Amos began to quell, and she felt Harry’s demeanour change, too.
“When I heard that two of my Cedric’s young buddies had been spotted in Highgate, of all places, it brought it all back again.” His eyes became glassy as he continued, “I felt it was my duty, not only as the Vampiric Relations Officer but also as a father, to ensure that you are not needlessly putting yourself in danger,”
Harry seemed to falter at this rare display of sincerity, so Hermione took the reins. “I appreciate the sentiment, Mr Diggory, but I am a Magizoologist, and Harry is an Auror. We are more than prepared to face such dangers. We have trained for years to get to this point,”
“Of course,” Amos bowed frantically, “Oh, I know. I know you are prepared. I apologise for overstepping,” he wiped his eye, “It’s only that the safety of young witches and wizards is paramount to me—especially with the state that The Ministry is currently in, with Dolohov’s escape,”
“And Harry is going to do what he can with finding Dolohov, too—”
“Ahh.” Amos let out a long sigh, his lips curling into a sad smile. “It really is just like Cedric. Always trying to do the right thing. Even when the odds were against him.” Now Hermione really felt awful. His smile faltered. “He was too trusting, though. Too willing to believe the best in people.”
Silence thickened between them. Hermione, like Harry, suddenly found herself too guilt-ridden to reply. She picked at her fingernails and looked to the floor.
Amos went on. “If I cannot be your confidant—for now—then at least let me offer some advice about your… friend. You think you’re in control, but these… creatures? They don’t care about right and wrong. They don’t care about anything.” He straightened, his gaze locking with Hermione, “And they have a tendency to bite the hand that feeds,”