No More Secrets
“He came out of nowhere. We couldn’t stop him,” Dean Thomas spoke, his face raw against the chilly air. “I’ve never seen anything like it. Goyle moved so fast, and I—” he faltered. Involuntarily, his hands flew to his face, shielding it from view.
“There’s nothing you could’ve done,” Harry replied gently, though the cracking in his voice betrayed his attempt at reassurance. “He’s beyond us now.”
Diagon Alley, now clear of smoke and chaos, stretched before Hermione a picture of damage and disarray. Broken glass littered the ground, while shop signs, walls, and doors were puckered with fracture marks: the imprint of deflected spells.
Aurors and vendors moved through the wreckage, murmuring Repairo and Scourgify charms as they worked. Despite the distant popping and crackling of magic, a heavy silence clung to the air. It wasn’t just the quiet of destruction; it was apprehension. A fear of what the future might hold, not just for them, but for all of wizarding society.
The war that had consumed Harry and Hermione’s youth, though years in the past, remained fresh in everyone’s minds, like a wound that refused to heal.
They had believed it was over. Despite the pain in their hearts, they had thought war would never return. Voldemort was dead, taking with him the Pure-Blood ideology and his reign of terror to the grave.
In the aftermath, undeniable change had come. Wizarding society had vowed never to let such evil infiltrate their world again, swearing to preserve peace for the good of all.
But then came the news: Dolohov, one of Voldemort’s most devoted followers, had somehow escaped Azkaban. And now, a strange monster had torn through the streets, attacking at will.
There was an unspoken feeling—a sense of impending dread—that these weren’t just isolated incidents.
It was a warning, and they would do well to heed its call.
The group huddled close, speaking in hushed tones beside Madam Malkin’s Robes for All Occasions, where the attack had occurred.
The crime scene had been cordoned off, and only a shallow pool of blood remained, dark against the cobblestones.
During the battle, she had been desperate to find any victims amongst the thick smoke that clouded her vision.
Now, she could scarcely bring herself to look at that stain—that evidence of terror—gleaming under the moonlight.
She had seen enough of blood.
Once Gregory Goyle had torn free from Hermione’s imprisonment—ripping through the integrity of the bag, and with it, all hope of bringing him to justice—it needed urgent repairs, with no second to spare.
Like a ship battered by a storm, and Hermione its captain, she leapt into action.
Her arm cut through the air, casting charm after charm, stitching, healing, sealing the rift that had let Diagon Alley spill in. The walls fluttered, folding like a collapsing tent, but Draco held them firm as she worked.
Bracing against the strain, he used his height to hold the fabric at bay, keeping it from collapsing in on them completely.
Sparkling purple thread wove through the seams, rejoining the walls, sealing them both and all her creatures back into the safety of the enclosed bag.
The entire time, her mind screamed with visions of Ron—lying still, bloody, bitten—and in the most gut-wrenching moments, dead.
She would know if he were dead, she told herself. She would feel it in her body, her soul. Wouldn’t she?
She worked at a terrifying speed, focusing on the bag’s main structure. Everything else would have to wait.
It was a miracle that none of the animal enclosures had been damaged in the fight, though the creatures were undoubtedly frightened and shaken.
Hermione was too preoccupied to spare a thought for Draco, or the fact that, though Goyle had dealt the final blow, Draco’s recklessness had nearly destroyed her bag forever.
Once the walls no longer threatened to collapse, Hermione leapt from it into Diagon Alley, without so much of a nod to him. To have to wait any longer felt like an agony she could no longer bear.
Harry, red-faced and exhausted, had just Apparated back to the street. He had seen Goyle break free from her bag and had chased him relentlessly—though he’d had about as much chance of catching a falling star.
“Ron—where’s Ron?” Hermione breathed, hoisting the beaded bag onto her shoulder. Her chest was so tight that her words barely escaped as a whisper.
Harry, still struggling for breath, watched her with unreadable eyes. “Follow me.”
~*~
It took everything in Hermione to hold herself together when she saw Ron. She gripped Harry’s shoulder for support, her fingers digging in as she leaned against him.
No one could see her face, hidden beneath the shadows of her disheveled curls, but she had gone deathly pale.
“I just wish we had seen Goyle sooner,” Dean continued, finally lowering his hands from his face. It was clear he had swallowed back tears. “Then we might’ve stopped him before he… attacked.”
She could almost smell the blood on the ground—metallic, salty.
“What were you doing when Goyle appeared?” Harry asked, slipping into Auror mode despite the emotion tightening his voice.
“We were going… going to The White Wyvern,” Ron said, his voice unsteady. “And Seamus made this noise. And suddenly, Goyle was there. Massive, he was. Just massive.”
Ron stood beside Dean, distress etched deep into his features.
Hermione had been so relieved to find Ron alive that she nearly seized him—ready to pull him into a hug so tight she might never let go. But the moment his eyes met hers, his expression was twisted into something that looked so much like disgust that her body froze.
Then, the realisation struck her like a hex: it wasn’t Ron that had been attacked.
It was Seamus Finnigan.
Cold horror curled through her, sinking deep, its icy fingers twisting into her bones—a feeling becoming far too familiar these days.
Ron kept his gaze fixed on Harry, seemingly unable to look at her. Hermione, though, couldn’t tear her eyes away. Unblinking, breath shallow, she watched as he recounted the event, his cheeks flaring red.
“We tried everything to get him off Seamus. He only let go when I distracted him. His teeth…” Ron blinked, dazed. “Then Harry Apparated in, and Goyle blundered around like an idiot. The smoke was everywhere—we could barely see.”
“Goyle almost grabbed Ron,” Dean interjected, eyes wide. “But he used a Depulso Charm on himself to dodge out of the way. It was nuts.”
Ron stared at the ground, still avoiding Hermione’s gaze. “What happened to Goyle?” He murmured, changing the subject. “I mean… why is he like that?”
“He’s a Dilacrian,” Hermione rasped. If Ron wanted to avoid her, fine. But she had work to do. “A kind of vampire.”
Finally, Ron met her gaze, astonishment written all over his face.
“Dilacrian?” Harry burst out. “We definitely didn’t learn about that at Hogwarts.”
“No, we didn’t,” Hermione admitted. “I’ve never heard of them before. In fact, I think it’s a completely new breed of creature.”
“Merlin’s beard,” Ron gasped.
“Well, he’s got away with it, hasn’t he,” Harry said. “How did he get out of your bag, Hermione? I thought you had that thing locked down.”
“Dilacrians… can break through wards. And magic.”
“Well, that’s just great.” Harry kicked at the ground. “That explains how he fought off my spells—without a wand in sight.” He sighed, clearly agitated by how the investigation was panning out. “We need to go, Hermione. To see Seamus. Shacklebolt already took him.”
“See him?” Hermione echoed, horrified. She didn’t think she could bear seeing another friend dead. But it was inevitable—she would have to examine his body for the investigation.
“Yeah, at St. Mungo’s. Creature-Induced Injuries Ward.” He said darkly, raising an eyebrow.
Hermione could hardly believe it. Somehow, Seamus had survived—but with what injuries, she couldn’t begin to imagine. “He’s alive?”
“Barely,” Harry replied, anger simmering in his voice. “If Ron and Dean hadn’t been there, it would’ve been a lot worse.”
Ron, embarrassed, looked away from Hermione again—but she was too lost in thought to notice.
“Wait.” Hermione’s breath hitched. If Seamus had survived, could he turn into a Dilacrian, too?
She snapped her gaze back to Harry. “We need to see Seamus. Now.”
~*~
Seamus Finnigan lay motionless in the hospital bed, his face barely recognisable beneath layers of bruises and swelling. His eyelids, fat and purple, were nearly swollen shut. Scratches crisscrossed his skin—a desperate map of his struggle against Gregory’s iron grip. Thick white bandages wrapped his throat, concealing wounds that, Hermione knew, should have killed him.
She took a moment to absorb the sight.
Draco’s bite had already healed by the time he arrived in her room. His body repaired itself at an unnatural speed while Seamus lay here, battered and near death. If nothing else, it was proof of a Dilacrian’s terrifying resilience.
She’d left her beaded bag behind in her room at The Leaky Cauldron—its defenses too weak to keep Draco from tearing loose at the scent of blood. Especially now, after realising what had set him off before: Hannah’s body, disemboweled and rotting.
He had smelled her decaying blood filtering through the bag’s wards.
But, thankfully, the sharp tang of healing herbs and potions filled the cubicle, masking any trace of bodily fluids. Cold light bounced off the white sheets, and Hermione could only hope that her and Harry’s damp street clothes wouldn’t disrupt the sterile environment. Beyond the curtain, healers moved with efficiency, their presence making her feel somehow even more unwelcome.
But she had work to do.
Without hesitation, she stepped forward, scanning Seamus’s body—prodding, poking, prying open his mouth and eyes in search of any sign of vampiric transformation.
He looked normal. Ragged, barely clinging to life. But human. There was none of that strange, unearthly aura that emitted from Draco. Or from Gregory, for that matter.
“Would we even be able to tell if Seamus has been turned?” Harry asked, scratching his head with the tip of his wand.
“I’m not sure,” she admitted, still checking Seamus as if some hidden indicator might reveal itself. “I have no idea what the initial signs are. At least, not exactly. And currently, I don’t know what it takes for a Dilacrian to be created. It might be different from normal vampires.”
If only Draco could remember what had happened to him, then she would know.
Harry glanced over his shoulder cautiously, lowering his voice. “How does that happen?”
“Well…” she hesitated. “It’s a process. A person can only become one if they have vampire blood in their system before they die. It contains a compound that triggers the transformation—but only after death. A vampire cannot be born if they don’t die first.”
“Sounds… gross,” Harry muttered, spinning his wand between his fingers as he eyed Seamus warily.
“Indeed.” Hermione pulled back, but her gaze lingered. “If he were a Dilacrian, the injuries should have healed by now. Like they did for Malfoy. Either way, we should keep an eye on him.”
Harry fell silent, shifting awkwardly on his feet. His fingers tightened around his wand, as if remembering the moment he’d viciously cast the Sun Charm—how Draco’s flesh had burned, blistered—only to mend itself seconds later.
“Hermione…” He flicked his wand, casting a nonverbal silencing spell, sealing their conversation from anyone beyond the curtain. “How did you know not to look into Goyle’s eyes?”
She stilled.
The question had been coming—she’d known it since the moment Goyle took control of Harry’s mind. But knowing didn’t make it any easier to face.
Harry’s jaw tensed. “How did you know he could do that… that thing to my brain—like he completely took over.” Even remembering it made his expression cloud over. He shook his head. “What did you call it? Compulsion. Vampiric Compulsion.”
She sighed, bracing herself. “Goyle can use Compulsion on wizards… because of the kind of vampire he is.”
Harry didn’t blink. “Yeah, I kinda figured that, afterward… But how did you know?” His voice was steady. It was obvious: he already knew the answer. He just wanted to hear her say it.
“Because Malfoy can.” She admitted.
Silence stretched between them. Harry dropped his gaze to the floor, scuffing his shoe against the tile. His next words came quieter. “Did he use it on you?”
“No—no…” Hermione shook her head quickly. “Not… properly, anyway.”
Harry’s head snapped up. “Not properly?” the words louder than he probably meant.
“See, this is exactly why I didn’t want to tell you.” She hissed. “You’re blowing it up—turning it into something it’s not—”
“Hermione, this is serious. He could’ve made you do anything. Anything.”
“Like what?” she snapped, her voice rising. “Nothing happened because nothing could happen! The Protego charm—”
“Oh, you mean the magic spell these so-called Dilacrians can break through?” Harry shot back. “Yeah, that doesn’t mean much anymore, Hermione.”
“Malfoy is nowhere near as strong as Goyle.” The memory of Draco breaking through her ward—her ward—to seize Goyle by the throat flashed through her mind. She shoved it away. “He’s too weak to do what Goyle did. And it’s pretty obvious he doesn’t want to.”
Harry let out a humourless laugh. “Oh, so you trust him now?”
“I trust his need for a cure. And I doubt he’d jeopardise that. He’s his own number one priority, remember?”
Harry’s eyes darkened. “Oh, I remember, Hermione. That’s exactly why I’m saying this.” He took a step closer, his voice low. “And you know what? The fact that you—on purpose—didn’t tell me he could use Compulsion on you? Well, that’s just… fucking sad.”
His face turned solemn, and he looked away, back to Seamus, who lay oblivious in the bed.
“Sad?” She echoed, her voice shaking. Anger poured through her veins. “I had to. It was the only way to solve the investigation. To find the killer. When people like you can’t help but get in my way.”
Harry’s head snapped toward her, his mouth parting in shock. “What?” His face twisted. “People that care, you mean? Some things are more important than investigations, Hermione. Like your safety.”
She scoffed. “My safety has been at risk more times than I can count. It’s irrelevant to me at this point. In fact, it’s a bloody nuisance.” She folded her arms.
Harry’s jaw clenched. Slowly, he pulled back, his gaze dropping to the stark white bedsheets. Silence thickened between them, heavy and suffocating.
Hermione’s chest rose and fell sharply as she fought to steady her breathing, her pulse pounding in her ears.
He sighed, his voice rough and strained. “I’m sorry, Hermione.” He still wouldn’t look at her. “I can’t help but feel responsible for that.”
Her face twisted, but she didn’t answer.
Softly, he said, “You shouldn’t have had to go through what you did at Hogwarts.”
Her jaw tightened. “I don’t care, Harry. Don’t you get it? No one seems to get it.”
“But I care!” He all but shouted. His head snapped toward her, eyes burning. “Look at Seamus.” His voice cracked, but he pushed on. “Could you imagine what it would do to me? To Ron? If this had been you?”
She didn’t answer. Instead, she looked at Seamus—at his broken, bloodied face. He would recover, but with what scars, she had no idea. And it could have been worse. So much worse.
“What if it was Ron, lying here?” He added, his brow stitched in concern. “Or even me? Would you care then?”
Hermione’s breath caught.
Harry hadn’t known about Compulsion. He hadn’t known he could be taken. That ignorance had left him vulnerable—helpless.
She had been so desperate to solve the murders—so obsessed with seeing it through—that she had nearly made the most catastrophic mistake of her life.
If she hadn’t been there when Goyle attacked, what would have happened?
She couldn’t bring herself to imagine it. The devastation that could have occured.
A tight, painful knot formed in her throat as a tear slipped free before she could stop it. She sniffed sharply, swiping it away with the edge of her finger.
“I don’t blame you, Hermione,” Harry murmured, watching her with soft eyes. “I just wish you’d done it another way.”
Her chest hitched. “I’m sorry,” she whispered, her voice trembling.
Harry stepped forward, wrapping her in a tight hug. She pressed into his jacket, gripping the fabric as she swallowed back another sob.
“It’s going to be OK,” he murmured against her hair. “I’m not going to stop you. We’ll find a way to protect ourselves from the Compulsion. And we’ll find a damn cure while we’re at it.”
Hermione’s stomach twisted. That task felt impossible now. But she nodded anyway, her lips trembling, glittering with fallen tears. She let out a deep, unsteady sigh.
Harry pulled back, his hands firm on her arms. He searched her face. “And no more secrets?” he smiled, though it didn’t reach his eyes.
“No more secrets,” she repeated.