One Thousand Galleons
Evening had barely begun, yet darkness already swallowed Diagon Alley. Heavy clouds smothered the sky, blotting out the stars, while the scent of rain hung thick in the air. A damp chill clung to everything—but despite it, the streets still buzzed with life.
Street lamps and shop windows glowed with warm, golden light, illuminating the crowds of witches and wizards bustling between them. Outside Flourish and Blotts, tables overflowed with books, their pages fluttering in the breeze. Inside Rosa Lee’s, teacups and pots clattered together, and at The Apothecary, a kaleidoscope of potion bottles glittered in the window, casting their rainbow colours onto the cobblestones.
Hermione tried to focus on the lively scene, but the cold bit through her coat, making her shiver. But, the real reason for her discomfort had nothing to do with the weather.
It was still awkward after what had happened earlier—Draco’s bloodlust roaring to life at the scent of her broken, bleeding nose.
She couldn’t yet face the reality of it—couldn’t yet face the words that had rippled through her mind while under the grip of his Compulsion.
So sweet.
Just a taste.
Draco couldn’t have thought those things about her—Hermione—of all people. That was impossible. So she forced herself to believe she had imagined it—her own mind unravelling under the stress.
When she had pulled on her coat and Converse for their trip to Diagon Alley, they barely shared a word. Draco had nothing to gather—he was already wearing everything he owned. Instead, with his back turned to her, he drank from his goblet, systematically draining the last dregs of his bottled blood.
Unfortunately, actually getting Draco out of the beaded bag had been another problem entirely. Just as two people could Apparate together—clinging to each other as they warped through time and space—Hermione would have to hold onto him.
"Your hand, please." She kept her voice flat, though she had spent the last half hour rehearsing various phrases over and over again in her mind. She had no idea how he would react. His behaviour always baffled her—always seemed to be the antithesis of whatever she would do.
He barely batted an eye as he extended his smooth, frozen hand.
She seized it before she could think twice. But as their fingers intertwined—his cool skin pressing against her warmth—a dark electricity surged through her palm, bleeding into her veins. It tore up her arm, coiling in her chest, feeling more like pain than pleasure.
Hermione took a steadying breath before yanking the rope, pulling them into her room at The Leaky Cauldron.
Draco all but threw her hand away from him once they arrived. From the corner of her eye, she saw him wipe his palm against his thigh, and her lips set into a thin line.
Once they stepped out of the dark courtyard into the street, he inhaled deeply. It was the first time he had been outside since he had appeared in her bedroom almost a week ago.
The world around them remained oblivious to what had happened between them. Groups of witches and wizards ambled past, talking and laughing. It was as if her life had split in two—one part anchored in the normal wizarding world, the other buried in the depths of a cloth bag, trapped with a beast. Or a few.
"You’ll catch your death in just a T-shirt," she muttered, pulling her purple scarf tighter around her neck.
Vapor curled from her lips as she spoke. Draco’s breath left nothing behind. More proof that he was no longer human. No longer truly alive.
"Feels like a warm summer day to me, Granger." He smirked, but there was no laughter in his eyes.
"Well, you stand out without a coat. And that’s the last thing we need."
With a flick of her wand, a cloak dropped over his shoulders, ensconcing him in inky black fabric. It was one of hers, and the hem barely brushed past his knees. She pressed her lips together, stifling a laugh.
Draco glanced down, then back at her, deadpan. "Hilarious."
He strode ahead, his back straight, the cloak swirling around his thighs. Hermione had to double her pace to keep up with his wide stride. He would’ve easily vanished into the crowd if not for his height—if not for the way his white hair glowed like a Lumos charm.
Ahead, Gringotts loomed like a crooked monolith.
"Do not utter a word while we’re in here. Leave the talking to me." He said, staring at the doors and the two goblins that flanked the entrance.
"I wasn’t planning on saying anything, Malfoy. I do have some idea of what I’m doing, you know."
"Ah, yes—because your little escapades with Tweedledum and Tweedledee always went so smoothly, didn’t they?"
"Merlin," she huffed. "You’re feeling better, aren’t you?" Sarcasm dripped from her voice. "I think I preferred you too sick to move.”
Draco stilled. He turned to her, his face dark, “You wouldn’t have liked me half as much if I got any worse. Trust me, Granger.”
Draco stormed ahead, flinging the doors open before the goblins could even try to hold them for him. Hermione huffed and barged in after him.
Gringotts Bank looked the same as ever—opulent, enormous, slightly menacing. Oddly similar to Draco, she thought. His boots echoed against the marble floor, and every goblin eye in the room seemed to track his movement.
"Master Malfoy," the head goblin announced before they even reached the counter. "A pleasure."
His eyes gleamed, and Hermione realised—for him, it genuinely was a pleasure to see Draco.
The goblin’s gaze flicked to Draco’s clothing, lingering on the cloak, far too small for his wide frame. "A withdrawal, perhaps?" He grinned.
~*~
The goblin had no issue opening Vault 776 for Draco despite him having no key. Hermione suspected Draco must pay him a bribe of some sort. The goblin was simply too amiable—especially to someone like him.
With a sweep of his finger, goblin magic ripped across the door.
Hermione had planned not to look inside. It was an unspoken rule—one simply didn’t peer into another wizard’s vault. She certainly wouldn’t want Draco looking into hers. Yet, as the heavy door groaned open, it was impossible to miss.
Bronze Knuts, silver Sickles, and gold Galleons lay in towering heaps, glittering under the dim vault light. There must have been thousands.
Draco didn’t hesitate. Without so much as a glance at her, he strode inside. Meanwhile, Hermione took a careful step back from the doorway, folding her arms as she lingered beside the goblin.
She knew that the Malfoys were exceedingly wealthy, as they regularly made it obvious to the entire wizarding world. She had just never visualised quite how rich they truly were.
“Where are you,” Draco hissed through the door. “Get in here, Granger.”
“Me?” Hermione hissed back, glancing at the goblin—who still had on that sly grin. “I can’t go in there,”
“I’m not waiting forever,” he growled.
Awkwardly, Hermione skittered into the vault. Draco barely acknowledged her, already snatching a black velvet pouch from a hook on the wall. He began pouring in handfuls of coins—hundreds of them. No matter how much he added, the pouch never filled. It had to be magically extended, like Harry’s Mokeskin pocket.
Hermione’s eyes widened, doll-like. "What are you doing?"
He didn’t answer. Instead, he strode toward her, a fistful of glittering Galleons in hand. "Open that damn bag of yours."
“But this is too much!"
His tall frame blocked the light as he tumbled the coins into her beaded bag. He leaned in, growling, "I am ensuring I get my cure, Granger. As soon as humanly possible."
She gasped, her eyes sweeping over the vault. It wasn’t just coins—there were objects, too. Personal ones. Draco’s Nimbus 2001 hung on the wall above a towering pile of leather-bound journals. Scattered among the gold were old rings, watches, and ornate goblets. He grabbed a golden goblet and tossed it into her bag.
“But wouldn’t Lucius mind? Taking all this money?"
"Lucius?" Draco snapped. He let out a short laugh. "This vault is mine. It has nothing to do with my father." He all but spat the last word. His gaze darkened. "And I’d rather you keep its existence a secret—if you can help yourself."
Hermione debated asking what he did for work. She couldn’t think of many jobs that would earn this much at his age—unless he was involved in something illegal.
"This isn’t… dirty money, is it?"
Draco didn’t even look up. "Define dirty money." He kept tossing coins into her bag.
"Money gained through illegal means," she said, growing agitated.
He scoffed. "You really do think I’m a right bastard, don’t you?"
"Your words, not mine."
"No, Granger. It’s not dirty money, as you so eloquently put it." He had seemingly finished dousing Hermione with money and cinched the bag’s cords tight. "Though, if you think about it, you’d be hard-pressed to find any money in the wizarding world that isn’t tainted by a little corruption." He turned and added a few extra dozens of coins into his own pouch before cinching that closed, too.
Hermione rolled her eyes. Her job wasn’t corrupt. Working for the Ministry had to be one of the least shady ways to earn money… these days, at least. “You would think something as negative as that.”
"Realistic, you mean?" he grumbled. He dropped the velvet pouch into the inside pocket of the cloak and fastened it shut. "Let’s go—now that you’ve taken enough of my gold."
“I didn’t take it!” She shrieked to the back of his head. He was already halfway out the door, smirking at the goblin.
~*~
Hermione vowed to herself that she would use only what was needed for Draco’s care—not a sickle more. He wasn’t the only one who despised unnecessary debts.
As they exited Gringotts, stuffed to the gills with enough galleons to buy out all the bottles in Bathory’s Bloode’s ten times over, Hermione turned toward Twilfitt & Tattings—the next stop on their shopping trip.
“You go to the Apothecary while I get the clothes,” Draco said blandly. “The Blood-Replenishing Potion needs to be replaced. And get anything else you think you’ll need. Even if it’s just an idea—I don’t care.”
Hermione crossed her arms. She was not used to being the one taking the orders.
“Can’t put a price on health, now, can we?” He winked. “Unless you want to watch the tailor measure me up,”
“Ugh.” She grimaced. “Do not be foul, Malfoy.”
Hermione was about to turn on her heel and head towards the Apothecary, but then she remembered. This was Draco. She sighed. “Unfortunately, Malfoy… I will need to come with you.”
His face fell. “You can’t be serious. The godforsaken lead not enough for you?”
“I’m not letting you out of my sight, especially with other people getting close to you. What if the tailor pricks their finger on a needle?”
“They don’t use needles.” He said flatly.
“Falls over and scrapes their knee?”
“You’re insane.”
“After what happened earlier, I am not taking any chances.”
He stepped closer, bending down until only inches separated them. Shadows pooled in the hollows of his face. "You think you can stop me if something happens?" he whispered. "You think that little leash is enough?"
Hermione’s heart skipped. She averted her gaze. "The Protego Charm—" she warned quickly, her voice low. The last thing they needed was a scene.
He leered back, dragging himself away slowly, his breath cold against her skin. His grey eyes flicked past her, scanning the crowd. "Oh, look. There’s your boyfriend."
"I don’t have a—" she snapped, until she saw him.
Ron. Walking with Seamus Finnigan and Dean Thomas, talking animatedly, laughter spilling into the air. It had been too long since she’d heard a real laugh from anyone—let alone Ron.
"Oh." She returned to Draco, but he was already gone—sauntering toward Twilfitt & Tattings, ducking his head on the way in.
Ron hadn’t seen her. And for one brief, selfish moment, Hermione felt the urge to approach him. Just for a chat—that was all. A reminder of normalcy, of something familiar.
But reality pulled her back like a leash. Draco was a threat to everyone around him, and it was her responsibility to keep him under control.
With a quiet sigh, she marched after him.
~*~
"Master Malfoy, how you have grown," an absurdly upper-class voice drawled.
The moment Hermione stepped into Twilfitt & Tattings, she wanted to turn right back around. Shops like this—opulent, exclusive, quietly unwelcoming—had always put her on edge. She had never even set foot inside before, preferring the practicality of Muggle stores in central London. And knowing Ron was still out there, wandering Diagon Alley, only made her itch to leave even more.
Yet, as the scent of amber and dragonhide filled her lungs, and she took in the rolls of fabric stacked along the wall—forest green velvet, violet Acromantula silk, ultramarine goblin-spun wool—some part of her began to ease into the surroundings.
To her left, at the counter, an enchanted sewing machine swallowed fabric and spun out immaculate garments. To her right, headless mannequins stood draped in luxurious robes and gowns—the pinnacle of wizarding fashion. At the centre was a podium, where Draco was already mounting—seeming more like a marble statue from a museum than ever before.
"I make sure to eat my vegetables, Tatting," Draco drawled. "Just the usual. Three of everything."
"Of course," Tatting replied, eyes gleaming. Tatting seemed just as delighted as the goblin to see Draco. Did he pay him a bribe too? Tatting glanced at Hermione, and his nose wrinkled slightly at the sight of her.
She didn’t exactly blend in here. Grey peacoat, bootcut jeans, Converse, and a vibrant purple scarf—hand-knitted by Molly Weasley last Christmas. A far cry from the shop’s usual clientele.
"She’s with me," Draco added lazily.
Tatting’s sneer vanished in an instant. "Wonderful," he said, all forced brightness. "And what would the lady like to purchase?"
"Nothing for me, thank you."
His sneer crept back, just barely. "Very well."
Hermione bit back an eye roll. He should consider himself lucky she was even here—even if she wore Muggle street clothes. And if Draco suddenly got the urge to drain him dry, maybe she wouldn’t be so quick to use the Vinculum tether.
Tatting was nearly as tall as Draco, only half his width. He flitted around him like an oversized Bowtruckle, wielding an enchanted tape measure that snapped and whipped through the air, eagerly taking measurements.
Fabric floated around him, moving like a shadow, draping over Draco’s limbs and torso—constructing outfits that fit better than a dragonhide glove.
The richness of the black fabric seemed to enhance his features: his refined nose, and those grey eyes.
He looked almost otherworldly. Beautiful, even. But then again, he was sort of a vampire, Hermione supposed. That and his mouth was shut for once.
His legs parted as the measuring tape rolled up his inner thigh, and Hermione darted her eyes away.
Having no idea where to look, she focused on the sewing machine as it diligently stitched together Draco’s new wardrobe—black trousers, black jumpers, black shirts. That was until it began crafting a pair of black boxers—sewn from Acromantula silk. She suppressed a gasp, snapping her head away faster than a Snitch in a storm.
She kept her gaze fixed on the window after that—watching as the bustle of Diagon Alley slowly quieted. The dark cloud that had hung above them had finally broken, and rain poured against the leaded window pane, the pitter-patter sounding into the quiet boutique.
As the fitting neared its end, she finally allowed herself a breath of relief. To his credit, Draco had managed not to kill anyone. Even when the tailor stepped a little too close for Hermione’s comfort, his eyes didn’t so much as flicker with hunger. Maybe I didn’t need to force myself along, she thought. He seems to be handling himself just fine.
Draco stood on the platform, dressed in immaculate, perfectly tailored clothing, as Tatting summoned a gold-framed mirror. It floated across the boutique, gliding to a stop before him.
And the moment it appeared, Hermione’s heart froze.
Draco had no reflection.
Her eyes widened. No, that couldn’t be right.
But it was.
Tatting stood before the mirror, gesturing toward an empty space—the spot where Draco should have been.
"And what does the young lady think of Master Malfoy’s ensemble?" Tatting turned to Hermione expectantly, still oblivious to the fact that Draco was invisible to the eyes of the mirror.
“Shit.” Hermione’s stomach plummeted. "Uhhh—no, not that—" she blurted as she launched onto the podium, her trainers thudding against the wooden steps. She grabbed Draco and yanked him out of the mirror’s view.
"Granger," Draco hissed under his breath, his hair thoroughly dishevelled from nearly being knocked off the podium. "What the fuck are you doing?"
She ignored him. "I meant to say… shhh…azam!" Hermione blurted, snatching a piece of his cloak between her fingers as if deeply fascinated. "Wow, Tatting… is this… Yeti yarn?"
Tatting blinked rapidly. "Oh—why, yes, Madame,” He straightened his posture, smoothing down his waistcoat. "You have an excellent eye."
"The mirror, Malfoy," Hermione hissed while Tatting was busy soliloquizing about the exquisite nature of Yeti wool.
Draco caught on instantly. His gaze flicked to the mirror—where only Hermione stood, fingers delicately brushing over the fabric of his cloak. Which, somehow, was invisible too.
"…Hans, a truly spectacular Yeti, provides our very own personal weaver with his monthly shearings—"
Draco moved fast, whipping the cloak from Hermione’s grasp. "Tatting, thank you. That will be everything."
"Oh," he said, looking momentarily stunned. "Very well."
With a snap of his fingers, Draco’s new clothing vanished, replaced by the rumpled outfit he’d worn upon arrival—including Hermione’s too-short cloak. Another snap and three sleek black paper bags appeared on the counter, no doubt containing his freshly folded purchases.
Tatting didn’t even mention the price. Draco simply dropped a pile of coins onto the counter without a word—a sum that very much looked like it included a generous tip. Or perhaps, that was the bribe, Hermione thought.
"Well, that’s useful, isn’t it? No fucking reflection?" Draco huffed as they stepped out of the shop, squinting against the rain.
Hermione flicked her wand, summoning a fuchsia umbrella that unfurled with a pop. "Vampire trait. I can’t believe I forgot."
"And I thought I was the one with the shit memory." His voice was all venom. "Any other little vampire tricks I should know about, Granger? Or would you rather I keep discovering them mid-fucking crisis?"
Hermione glared at him from beneath the pink canopy. “It’s Vampire Basics 101, Malfoy. We learned that at Hogwarts. You’re probably just pissed you can’t admire yourself in the mirror anymore.”
His eyes flashed. "What?" he replied incredulously. "I wasn’t even thinking about—" He cut himself off, teeth clenched. "And here I thought you were desperate to save your little Muggles. Nearly gave the whole game up, Granger."
The words hit sharper than she expected. She had thought she was getting used to his little jabs, but that one lodged itself somewhere deep. She snapped her mouth shut.
Rain dripped from his now sodden hair onto his face. "I’m about ready for this to be fucking over." He looked away, over her head, and flexed his jaw. “Let’s get the blood before some other idiot figures out what’s going on and I end up on the front page of the Daily Prophet."
This time, Hermione didn’t ask permission. She grabbed his hand—the same dark energy still coiling against her palm, still sinking into her skin—and Apparated them straight to Highgate Cemetery.
~*~
The canopy of leaves stretched overhead, shielding them from the rain. All was still in the cemetery—only the soft, rhythmic drip of raindrops against broad leaves and the distant hum of Muggle cars broke the silence.
They stood there for a moment, Hermione’s eyes adjusting to the darkness—until Draco let out a sharp, cold breath and abruptly dropped her hand.
She heard his boots scrape against the damp earth as he strode ahead. Obviously, his vampiric eyes had adjusted first—if they even needed to adjust at all.
Hermione thought back to the last time she had arrived at Highgate Cemetery. She had wondered then if wandering the realm of the dead while a killer was on the loose was a terrible idea—if she might become the victim of a vampire attack.
And yet here she was. Walking beside one. Willingly. Sort of.
"You’re meant to be following me, Malfoy." She pushed ahead, knocking the paper bags from Twilfitt & Tatting against his shins and nearly tripping over the wild vegetation creeping between the crumbling crypts. Blinking rapidly, she forced her eyes to adjust to the darkness. Her wand was already in use as an umbrella, making Lumos impossible—but she didn’t let that stop her.
He said nothing as she led him through the dark, rainy pathways. Nothing as they approached the crypt door with its mystifying symbol engraved above, nothing as she whispered Alohomora.
It was only when the door dragged itself open and the fiery beacons flickered in response, that he finally spoke.
"You’re leading me on, aren’t you?"
Hermione’s heart skipped. "What?"
Draco’s eyes flicked around, unimpressed. "This can’t be the way in.”
She exhaled sharply. “I’m afraid it is."
The flickering beacons cast an orange glow across Draco’s face, the firelight catching in his grey eyes. He hesitated. "In there? With the fire and everything?"
Hermione remembered what Eldred had told her—vampires didn’t like fire. Another trait Draco had apparently inherited. She made a mental note to add it to her ever-growing Doublefang report. And then, to her own amusement, a sick little thrill ran through her.
"Scared, Malfoy?" She arched an eyebrow from underneath the pink umbrella.
"No." He stammered. "Obviously, I am not fucking scared."
"Looks like you are."
Draco’s head snapped toward her, and in the dim light, a cold, silvery shimmer flickered behind his eyes. "Fuck you, Granger." Then he shoved past her, barreling into the tunnel.
Suppressing a grin, she snapped her umbrella closed and ran after him.
Draco was already far ahead, his cape billowing as the beacons shuddered in his wake. They were nearly at the door when a realisation struck Hermione like a lightning bolt.
"Oh. Oops." She skidded to a stop, panting, pressing her fingers to her lips. "I forgot something… a little important."
Draco thrust the door open, revealing the church’s interior—all gold and pale ivory, gleaming in the candlelight.
"What now?" he growled, shoving his wet hair back from his face. Hermione was starting to realise he did that whenever he was told no.
"Vampires can’t enter churches."
Draco scoffed. "I can enter wherever I damn well like."
"No, I mean they literally can’t. There are old wards on them—you won’t be able to walk through.”
He snorted. "We’ll see about that."
Extending his arm, he shoved his hand through the doorway—or, at least, tried to.
A shimmering, iridescent barrier pushed back, resisting him.
"Fucking thing," he grunted, pressing his fist harder against it. The light rippled like water around a stone, holding firm.
"You won’t get in, Malfoy. We’ll have to turn around and… figure something else out."
The truth was, that Hermione had no idea how they were supposed to get into Highgate. Draco might be able to pass through the outer wards like the other vampires, but she wouldn’t. And even with the Vinculum tether, she wasn’t willing to risk him going that far without her.
Draco scoffed. "I’m not a true vampire, though, am I? Take this.” He shoved the paper bags holding his clothes into her fist.
Before she could respond, he turned and slammed his shoulder into the barrier. The ward bounced like a flubberworm.
"Get out of the way, Granger," he snapped, rolling his shoulders back. "Don’t want you hurting yourself again, do we?"
"What are you playing at? You can’t break through a ward—"
A sharp, splintering crack rendered the air.
Hermione barely had time to register what had happened before Draco shot forward like a black arrow, the force of his movement sending dust spiralling from the shattered barrier.
“Malfoy—” she yelled, but he was already gone.
Heart pounding, she tore after him, her hurried footsteps echoing through the cavernous church. The golden glow of candlelight blurred as she raced past empty pews, and the stained windows.
She threw herself through the church doors, expecting to find chaos, alarms, something—
But Draco was just standing there in the rain, dusting himself off like he’d stepped through a bit of cobweb.
Hermione all but stumbled down the stone steps. “How did you… and you ran so fast...” Draco had some serious speed.
Draco smirked. “Not a true vampire, am I?"
She gasped. “That’s how you broke through Harry’s Stupefy spell, wasn’t it? And how you keep turning off the lights in my bag…" The realisation sent a chill through her. "You can tear through wards,”
Hermione swallowed. If he could break through them… then Goyle might be able to, as well. And that thought terrified her.
"Well, that church ward was disappointingly easy," Draco muttered.
Hermione glared at him as rain fell onto her curls—his smugness grating on her skin. “You knew? And didn’t tell me?" She shoved the paper bags back into his hand.
He shrugged. "I suspected. I don’t have to tell you every thought that enters my mind."
Hermione’s stomach twisted. The wards on her bag, the Protego Charm, the Vinculum—could he break through those, too? "Well, you should if it’s about potential powers!" she snapped. "I need to know everything, Malfoy. I told you that already."
Spinning on her heel, she flicked her wand, ejecting the pink umbrella once more, and strode down Highgate Street toward Bathory’s Bloode’s.
Draco stormed past, walking just ahead of her. He spun around and paced backwards, his boots splashed through pavement puddles. "You’re just annoyed you didn’t figure it out first." He smirked.
Hermione scoffed. "I am not." She picked up the pace. He always had to be ahead—even in walking. "It’s in your best interest to tell me these things," she pressed. "It might help me find your cure."
"If I’d told you and it wasn’t true, I’d have wasted time. And we’re already doing enough of that." He turned and sped up again, forcing Hermione to practically jog to keep up. "Besides," Draco added smoothly, “It’s not like you told me all your discoveries, is it?”
Hermione didn’t have much to say to that. She tilted her head slightly but kept her chin high, striding forward despite the cold seeping through her soaked trainers.
Up ahead, Highgate felt like an entirely different world compared to the vibrance of Diagon Alley. The street was dark, the dim lamps barely piercing the gloom, and only a handful of vampires lingered in the shadows.
Draco let out a quiet sneer, surveying the hollow high street with clear disdain. "Is this it? Rather dismal."
"It’s still evening. I’m sure it’s much busier later into the night."
Draco scoffed. "I suppose everyone must be at Bathory’s Bloode’s—if it’s the only place to get blo—" He caught himself. "Food." His lip curled. "One bottle barely lasts a day."
Hermione faltered, breathless from keeping up with his pace. "Well, vampires also have their… Familiars. A human they can drink from. Only a small amount, daily. But I imagine it’s much more powerful than bottled blood and lasts longer—"
"Familiars are… humans?" He spoke, disbelieving. "I thought they were—like animals. Pets or something—" He turned away quickly, but not before Hermione caught it—a faint bloom of peachy colour on his cheek. He had blushed. His jaw clenched, and when he spoke again, his voice was like a blade. "Centuries of evolution, and this is what they’ve got to show for it?" He spat. "Primitive bastards."
"Shhh," Hermione warned, eyes flicking to a couple gliding past, both cloaked in black. She quickened her pace, still trying to keep up with Draco, but as she passed, a pair of violent red eyes locked onto her from beneath a dark hood.
Draco slowed—fractionally. Just enough to let them walk side by side. "You were planning on coming here alone?"
"Well, someone had to."
"I’m starting to think you have a death wish, Granger."
They walked on in silence, the pitter-patter of rain—now fading to a drizzle—tapping softly against her umbrella. Draco drove her insane—truly, completely insane. And yet, despite that, despite everything… she had never felt safer in her entire life. Not a single vampire would dare cross her with him at her side.
And soon enough, they had arrived at Bathory’s Bloode’s.
"I’ll handle the bottles. You stay back from the counter," Hermione instructed.
Draco muttered to the air, "Sit, stay, roll over. No wonder you’re a Magizoologist."
Hermione only scowled as she yanked the door open, the tiny bell tinkling overhead.
Down the spiral steps they went, the shop growing cooler with each turn. Draco’s boots made almost no sound, and by the time they reached the bottom, he had already slipped into the shadows, vanishing behind towering rows of green bottles, each one filled with blood.
"Aaahhh…" Fred Bathory’s voice was a slow, rasping croak, slithering up Hermione’s spine. "It’s you." He grinned, sharp and knowing, his red eyes crawling over her—around her—until his expression soured. "No Mr. Potter today?" He tutted, shaking his head. "Shame."
"Good evening, Mr. Bathory," Hermione said politely, wasting no time. "I’d like to purchase… ten bottles of Fresh Fancy, please."
Bathory’s grin stretched wider. "My, my, Ms. Granger! Ten bottles? This vampire must be a very good friend to you indeed."
With a grunt, he heaved himself off his stool and bustled about the shop, muttering strange little noises as he bent and reached—pulling bottles from the shelves and stacking them into a cardboard box.
Hermione kept her chin high, willing her heart to stop hammering against her ribs. Though Draco had seemingly vanished into thin air, she could still feel him. Feel his energy—his eyes, watching her.
With an exaggerated huff, Bathory plopped the box onto the counter, the bottles clanking together loudly. For a vampire, he was oddly out of shape. Then he smirked. "Two thousand Galleons, please."
"What?" Hermione blinked. "That’s twice as much as last time. And that was expensive enough."
Bathory spread his hands in mock sympathy. "Inflation, Ms. Granger. Inflation. It’s out of my—" He stopped mid-word. His red eyes went wide.
That feeling she had—that dark, oppressive feeling of being watched—somehow multiplied at the tip of her spine. A shadow had fallen about her, cloaking her—pressing against the counter, as a cool breeze ghosted over the back of her neck.
"May you repeat that?" Draco’s voice was smooth. Pleasant, even.
He stood behind her—boring into Bathory with a stare like a blade twisting into bone.
Bathory swallowed hard. "Two… Two thousa—" His jaw worked erratically, the words refusing to form.
Draco tilted his head, voice smoother than silk. "One thousand, was it? I think that’s what you said." Suddenly, Hermione recognised the timbre of that voice. He was using Compulsion.
Her vision wavered, and balance teetered—whether from the heavy air around her or Draco’s voice itself, she couldn’t tell. The world seemed to pulse in time with Draco’s words.
Then—a firm grip on her lower back, steadying her.
"One thousand?" Draco prompted again, his tone light.
Bathory looked pale, even for a vampire. "Two… One… One thousand…" He stammered, "One thousand Galleons."
"That’s what I thought," Draco said coolly, his voice slipping back into its usual cadence.
His hand swiftly vanished from her back.
"One thousand Galleons it is."
He dropped the coins onto the counter with an effortless clink, then, without so much as a strain, scooped up the box of bottles in one arm and strode toward the spiral staircase, leading them back onto the street.
“I’m not letting some foul degenerate get in my way,” he muttered, and Hermione’s eyebrows flew to her hairline. But she said nothing.
The journey back to Diagon Alley was quiet—though Hermione’s mind was anything but.
Draco had discovered an ability to break through wards—something clearly unique to his vampiric mutation. And as if that weren’t enough, he apparently knew about Compulsion and knew how to use it. Not just on Muggles, like regular vampires, but on witches, wizards, and even his own kind.
What else had he figured out that she hadn’t? Or worse, what else was there that they both did not yet know?
As they returned to the beaded bag—Draco, thankfully, stepping inside without argument—Hermione made a mental note: she would have to reinforce everything. The wards on her bag, the Protego, the Vinculum—all of it. And somehow, she would need to bring up Compulsion without falling victim to it.
But then, just as their feet softly landed back inside the comfort and safety of her bag, her stomach lurched.
A tiny, rattling click-click-click filled the air.
The Potter Stinks badge was spinning wildly on the map.