Vinculum
“Do you have any idea how much this hovel shakes while you’re out there, plodding around?” Draco purred, lazily gripping a goblet of blood.
“Do you have any idea how much I don’t care?” Hermione snapped, though a traitorous part of her brain whispered: I don’t plod… do I? “I’m out there because I’m trying to get this sorted. Once you’re done sulking in that bed you’re always in, you can always help.” She pressed her lips together—she hadn’t meant to let that one slip—but she refused to feel bad about it. She was getting tired of feeling bad all the time.
Draco looked as if she had just hexed him. “What, exactly, can I even do? Hold your hand? I have no magic.”
Hermione unfurled the map onto the examination table, placing Neville Longbottom’s wand and the Potter Stinks badge onto it. The map spanned the entirety of London, including the outskirts. Each street, station, and avenue was labelled with meticulous detail.
“I don’t know,” she huffed. “Tidy? Feed the animals? Something.”
Draco grimaced. “I’d rather feed myself, thank you.” He took a slow drink.
"I’ll get this set up, and then I really have to go," Harry said. He had delayed assisting the Auror team for as long as possible and couldn’t push it further. Robards may have assigned him to this special case—but Kingsley hadn’t.
Guiding Hermione through the spellwork, Harry helped enchant the wand and badge so that if either Neville or Goyle entered London, the objects would reveal their location. At first, it seemed as if the items themselves were rejecting the enchantment—the magic bouncing off them and ricocheting around the room—but after what felt like hours, and much wrist flicking, they finally made it stick.
“I thought this was forbidden magic,” Draco said.
“You ask that quite often for someone who breaks a lot of rules,” Hermione replied.
Draco grinned, flashing his teeth. “I like to know when I’m breaking them. It adds to the thrill, of course.”
Hermione huffed, but before she could retort, Harry cut in, ignoring Draco’s prying questions and irritating quips. “I’ve got Neville’s tracker already linked to my wand. If it goes off, it’ll light up like a Lumos charm, and I’ll know he’s appeared on the map.”
“It could be weeks before anything shows up,” Hermione sighed.
“I doubt it,” Harry said. “Goyle has attacked someone at least once a week since he started—and it’s only getting more frequent. Hannah’s was a few days ago. We need to keep an eye on it.”
“I’ve yet to see clear evidence that it’s actually Goyle,” Draco murmured. “We’re just chasing whims and fantasies.”
“Of course you’d say that,” Harry said, rolling his eyes. He slipped his wand back into his Mokeskin pocket and shrugged on his coat, ready to leave.
“Well, if it’s not Goyle, then the real monster is free to kill whoever it wants,” Draco replied frankly.
It was true. If Goyle wasn’t the one out there killing Muggles and witches, they were wasting their time. And the longer they wasted it, the greater the chance of another murder. Hermione tried not to think too hard about that as she set to work, gathering the mess accumulated over the past few days of intense spell-casting and potioning.
“And,” Draco went on, “though I don’t remember much, I’m sure I’d remember if Goyle had been around when I was…” Hermione wondered if he was about to say killed. “…when whatever happened to me, happened.”
“Well, that might be a bit concerning to me, Malfoy—if I happened to believe a word you say,” Harry said as he walked toward the silken lilac rope hanging from the ceiling. He gripped it, frowning at Draco.
Draco frowned back, pouting. “Then I guess there’s no point in me speaking, is there?”
Harry cocked his head and smiled. “I guess not.” He yanked on the rope and it tore him upward, launching him into the black void at the centre of the roof—his brown boots being the last to vanish with a loud pop.
“Prick,” Draco muttered, his voice echoing into the goblet he was drinking from.
“Erm, excuse me?” Hermione started, “I heard that.”
“I know,” Draco drawled.
Hermione clicked her tongue and tidied—noisily, just to irritate Draco. Potion bottles clattered as she shoved them onto the shelves, and plumes of dust rose as her broom swept up the stray hay from Celestine’s pen. She was about to thump the pillow next to Draco’s head, preparing to mutter something like lazy git under her breath—until she saw them.
Two bottles labelled Fresh Fancy sat beside his boot, completely empty.
“What on earth… Where has all the blood gone?”
“Well, where do you think it’s gone?” he asked sarcastically, still holding the goblet, with one leg draped over the other like some old, opulent king.
She gasped, infuriated. “Don’t tell me you’ve drank it all already?”
Draco picked up an empty bottle and shook it. Not even a single droplet was left. “Looks that way,”
“You’ve got to be joking.” Hermione shoved her curls back, exhaling sharply. “Do you know how much work it took to get that? And now I have to go back to Highgate. Alone, since Harry can’t keep fobbing off Kingsley. And Amos will find out, and he’ll be disappointed, and I’ll feel terrible for lying—”
Draco smirked. “Granger, relax—”
She ignored him. “I expected those bottles to last at least a week or two. Not two days!”
“I’m getting the blood.”
She stilled. “You’re not leaving this bag.”
“What?” Draco’s smirk vanished. “The deal was that I help you find this killer, and you cure me. There was nothing about locking me up in here like one of your little fucked up pets—” He gestured at the wall of aquariums and cages, where magical creatures sat behind glass and bars, each too damaged or vulnerable to be free.
“You’re too sick to leave.”
Draco stared at her, stunned. “I get to decide that, not you.”
“You are under my care. My responsibility. You only just stopped looking half-dead,”
“Mmm, funny that,” he said with zero humour. “You act like you get a say in what I do. You don’t. I am leaving to get what I need, and you will let me.”
“And risk you running off? With Goyle, perhaps?” she crossed her arms.
“So that’s what this is about—not about me being too sick, but because you don’t think I’ll stick to my end of the agreement. Talk about projection, Granger,”
“What?” Her voice was high-pitched. “I am sticking to my end.” Had he already figured out that a cure was impossible?
“Not if you keep me trapped in this sad sack of a bag. Do you understand? I will lose my mind.”
“More so, you mean.”
“Granger,” he growled deeply, “I am not fucking around.” The lights in the room began to flicker.
“Stop doing that!” The lights stilled. “You don’t even know how and where to get the blood.” She exclaimed.
“Bathory’s Bloode’s, number 46, Highgate Highstreet.”
Hermione’s jaw fell open. “How do you know that?”
“I pay attention,” he drawled. “That, and it’s written on the back of the bottle. Besides, I need to go to Gringotts. This I.O.U. business won’t do.”
“I’m quite able to part with the Galleons, Malfoy. Thank you very much.” Though the cost of those three bottles barely made a dent in her savings, it wouldn’t last forever. As much as she hated to admit it, Draco needed to start paying. She just hadn’t expected it to be so soon.
He snorted. “I don’t do pointless debts, Granger. Least of all to you.” He brushed some dust from his black t-shirt, the sweeping having kicked it into the air. “I also need clothes. If I’m going to help you track down somebody I used to call a friend, I’d rather not do it looking like I just crawled out of a grave.”
“What if someone figures out you’re a vampire? Or… whatever it is you are. You’ll get in trouble for not registering immediately—”
“Enough, Granger.” He growled. “I’m leaving. I will get what I need, and then you will cure me.” He ran a hand through his hair, “I’ve been stuck in here for days—‘sulking,’ according to you—lying in that bed while you make all the decisions. But I have a life to return to. Work. Responsibilities. Now that I don’t feel like utter hell, I can’t afford to sit around waiting any longer.”
Hermione wracked her brain for a solution—how could she let Draco leave the bag without giving him a chance to escape?
Suddenly, Amos Diggory’s voice entered her mind. They are monsters—and monsters require leashes.
A slow grin crept across her face.
~*~
“Absolutely fucking not,” Draco boomed.
“It’s a simple spell, really,”
“I will not be leashed like some wild animal,”
“It is not a leash—” Hermione started, despite that little traitorous voice in the back of her mind whispering again: it isssss. “Per se… More like… a tether,” She smiled.
“It is a violation,” he said, a frightening rumble coming from his chest. A dull light flickered behind his eyes.
“Malfoy.” She said firmly, looking away in case those eyes grabbed her and sucked her under. “It is a safeguard. It’s the only way I can trust you won’t abscond,”
“Has it not occurred to you yet, that if I wanted to leave, I already would have?”
She scoffed. “I’d like to see you try. There are just as many wards on this thing than Azkaban,” she faltered, knowing how those wards had been recently breached.
Draco smirked and she knew he had thought the very same thing.
She continued anyway. “The way I captured you with the bag tells it that you are a creature, not an accomplice. Therefore, you can ding this rope all you like,” She gestured to the rope that hung from the ceiling, “you’re not going anywhere.”
His tall frame moved around her so swiftly that she could only see the blurred black outlines of his clothes. “Creature,” he reiterated, circling her, “Is that all I am now?”
Her heart began to accelerate. “Says the one circling me? You’ll trigger the Protego charm if you’re not careful,”
He scoffed. “You want me nowhere near you but tethered to you as well? You’re sending me mixed signals, Granger.”
The image of Draco leaning back in the chair—moaning—forced its way into her mind again. Blood rushed through her body. “Stop circling me, Malfoy.”
“If I didn’t know any better, I’d think you’re afraid of me,” Could he hear her heart beating? Smell her fear in the air? She had read some vampires had that ability, but those were very old.
She stomped her foot down inadvertently. “Afraid for you. The fact is, Malfoy, you are dangerous.” She kept her eyes on his pacing boots, “This leash—I mean… tether… not only ensures that you will stick to your end of the agreement, but it also ensures that you do not attack random citizens. Whether you intend to, or not.” She recalled how Highgate not only protected citizens from vampires but protected vampires from themselves, too. “It is for your protection as much as theirs, lest you want to end up like Goyle.”
He stilled, speaking quietly, “I’m nothing like Goyle.”
“Well, unfortunately, you have a pretty big thing in common with him. Enough for me to not want you anywhere near the public without strict conditions.”
“One minute you’re saying I’m too sick to leave, and another you’re telling me I’m too much of a threat? And here I thought Griffindors were all about equality and… lofty ideals, but instead, you’re treating me as if I’m some second-class species?”
It wasn’t lost on Hermione the irony of a former pureblood elitist, now being magically restrained by the very person he once considered beneath him—a mudblood.
“And what would you do in my situation? From what I’ve seen from you in the past, a tether would be the least awful thing you’d do—”
“I’m well aware of what you think of me,” He looked down, shaking his head. He sighed, and after a moment, he looked back toward her, his head cocking to the side. “I’m just surprised that you’d stoop to it.”
She pursed her lips. “Well, get used to it, Malfoy. We both want this to be over with, and this is the quickest way to get it done.” She pulled her wand from her pocket.
“Do I get a dog collar, too? Black with silver spikes, please. If you will be so kind.”
“It’s invisible.” She blushed, “The tether spell works by creating an invisible rope from me to you. It’ll prevent you from going too far off, and allow me to pull you back with my wand.”
“I’m beginning to think you’ve got a thing for ropes, Granger.” He said darkly.
“I do not,” she replied quickly, “They’re just… useful,” she fiddled with her wand. “for when dealing with… unpredictable beasts.”
He smirked. “Oh?” Finally, he moved away from her and dropped himself into the armchair, legs crossed. “I guess I need to remind you that vampires are classified as beings, not beasts?”
Since being caught up in the nightmare of the muggle murders, the discussion with Amos, and the difficulty of the vampires, Hermione had forgotten that fact. They had advocated to be considered a “being”, not a “beast”. And here she was, asking to put one on a lead. She shook her head. Now was not the time for thoughts of ethics or morality—people had died, and there was no other option but to take these measures—as extreme as they were. Besides, this was Draco. If locking him up for eternity meant keeping Muggles and wizards alive, she’d throw away the key herself.
“Yes.” She lied, “I am aware. Though, you’re not a true vampire, are you?”
His eyes darkened. “Go on, then. If you want to treat me like an animal, I’ll bite.”
It was not relief that spread through Hermione, but a quiet satisfaction that her plans were still in motion. She pointed her wand toward the air, locking her gaze on him. “Good. Now, sit still.”
“Already with the dog commands?” A twisted smile curled on his lips. “Do the damned spell. Let’s see which one of us regrets it first."
She didn’t think twice. Her arm sliced through the air.
Vinculum
Magic cracked like a whip. A shimmering, iridescent rope lashed from the tip of her wand, snapping toward Draco. It looped over his head like a lasso, his jaw jerking forward an inch as the tether latched onto his throat.
Draco was devoid of emotion—as blank as the void inside a Dementor’s hood. "Shall I bark now?"
For a fleeting moment, Hermione wondered if she’d taken it too far. But it was too late now for that. She squared her shoulders. "Shut up, Malfoy. Let me check that it worked."
She twitched the wand slightly with her wrist.
One second, Draco was in the armchair. The next, he was ripped from it—neck first. His tall, hard body shot toward her, barrelling across the room as if he were magnetised to her command, just as a wand obeys its owner.
Hermione let out a yelp before he crashed into her—sending them both tumbling to the floor in a tangled, breathless heap.
Draco rolled off her, grunting.
“Fucking Merlin, Granger, release the tension a bit, will you?” he snapped, shoving himself upright.
Hermione barely had time to register his words before she felt the warm, wet drip against her lips; the pain in her face.
Blood. Her blood.
It gushed from her nose in thick, hot rivers, coating her mouth, her chin—too much, all at once.
Before Draco even looked at her, his shoulders froze—his whole body as rigid as unmoving stone. Hermione realised, with creeping horror, that he must have smelled it first.
Scented her blood.
Slowly, his head turned toward her—his eyes burning with that strange icy light. He barely looked human. And a low, guttural sound rumbled from his chest. No, it was clear—Draco was not a true vampire. Whatever he was surely fell under the category of Beast.
“Oh—” she whimpered.
Those cold, moonlit eyes locked onto hers, and there was no choice but to fall.
Everything blurred, dissolving into shadow. Silver tendrils climbed at the edges of her vision—twisting, coiling, possessing. The only sound was the slow, thunderous pulse of her blood—until a dark voice spoke.
So. Hungry.
The voice was not her own. It was deeper, smoother—somehow more demanding. It rumbled through her, penetrating and unravelling her mind. She felt herself becoming unmoored.
So. Sweet.
It spoke again. Those silver tendrils caressed her skin. She could almost feel them winding around her: her arms; her waist; her neck. It was hunting, and there was no escape—none that she wanted, anyway.
Just. A. Taste.
The voice whispered desperately.
And then, darkness.
That voice—along with the silver tendrils—vanished. Ripped away and severed. A roar shook within the walls as Draco slammed into them, spinning like a cursed Sneakoscope.
Hermione gasped awake. Blackness had swallowed everything. The shrieks and squawks of her magical creatures filled the void, their panic pressing in from all sides. She lay motionless, breath shallow, the cold floor under her, as her scattered thoughts slowly assembled themselves again.
Vinculum. Blood. Protego.
Draco had triggered the Protego charm—again.
She pushed herself upright, fingers scrabbling for her wand. Warm blood dripped from her nose, trickling onto her bottom lip. She wiped at it, but it only smeared further, soaking into her sleeves and clothes. It had gotten everywhere.
Episkey. Scourgify. Incendio.
She had royally fucked up. Her breath was frantic as her wand glittered in the darkness, casting spells. Healing, cleaning, burning away every last trace. Only then did she dare turn the lights back on.
The room was still until, somewhere beside her, fabric rustled. The scrape of boots sounded against the ground and Hermione’s heart quickened. His breath was deep, hollow—but his cold voice was clear, as it cut through the quiet.
“Granger—” he growled, “Never. Do that. Again.”