A Well-Organised Death

Turkish Midnight coffee, powdered Honeyduke’s dark chocolate, whipped Mooncalf cream, a drizzle of nutmeg and cinnamon syrup, and finally—curls of moonlit-white chocolate, glimmering like stardust, scattered on top.

Hermione rarely indulged in The Leaky Cauldron’s famous Moonlit Mocha Delight, but after her conversation with Shacklebolt and the exhaustion which dragged at her bones, the magical elixir felt more like a necessity than a treat.

She took a long sip, the thick cream leaving a ghostly moustache on her upper lip. Another long night awaited—research, vampires, Malfoy—but not before allowing herself just five minutes of peace.

Settling into an armchair at the inn beside the roaring fire, she let the warmth seep into her skin. The flames crackled and sputtered as the low hum of gossiping wizards and clinking silverware buzzed around her. The scent of pumpkin pastries and roast hog curled through the air, making her stomach rumble, but food was the last thing on her mind. Her thoughts kept circling back to what Shacklebolt had said.

Keep this up, Ms. Granger, and there may be a way further up for you.

Her heart gave a small, startled leap. It had been so long since she had felt true happiness that she had almost forgotten what it was like. But there it was, unfurling inside her—small, quiet—but real.

For the first time, she could see it—the polished brass nameplate on her office door, stacks of important documents awaiting her signature, her decisions shaping the future of the Ministry. All those nights bent over books, all those dreams she’d barely let herself hope for… they were finally within reach.

She let out a slow breath and sank deeper into the armchair, its cushions moulding around her like a cloud. But then, that doubt crept in.

It’s only right to do everything you can.

She had told him that. And she had meant it—for better or worse. Her intentions had been in the right place, hadn’t they? She hadn’t meant for anyone to potentially get hurt. She had done everything she could to stop people from getting hurt.

She sighed and licked at the cream piled atop her mug. The thing was almost as big as her head.

Draco would never let himself feel this much guilt. Annoying, frustrating Draco. He would sneer, toss out some cruel, sarcastic remark, and carry on as if nothing had ever happened. She tutted to herself.

And yet… she couldn’t shake the feeling that his temper had cooled, if only slightly. And in odd moments, it almost felt like they were—Merlin help her—working together. As best as they could manage, anyway. And, she had to admit, it was useful having someone around who could do the things her magic couldn’t. Even if he was, without a doubt, one of the most infuriating men she had ever met.

The firelight flickered across the rim of her mug. Outside the window, the golden hues of the evening had darkened, fading into the quiet indigo of dusk. Soon, it would be nighttime.

She told herself she would go to her rented room soon. Return to the beaded bag and get to work. Just as soon as she finished her drink…

“Time, Ms. Granger,” Tom the Landlord murmured, wiping a cloth along the bar.

Her eyes snapped open.

The inn had shifted around her. The lamps had dimmed, casting long, wavering shadows into the corners of the room. The low hum of conversation had vanished—she and Tom being the only people remaining there.

She had fallen asleep.

“Oh, for ffff—sake,” she hissed, nearly swearing at herself.

She jolted upright, yanking herself from the chair and scrambling for her bag. The barely touched Moonlit Mocha Delight sat abandoned on the table, cream melting into swirls.

“Sorry, Tom!” she called over her shoulder, making a beeline for the stairs.

“Sorry, Malfoy.” She rushed into the beaded bag, grabbing the rope to keep herself from tumbling forward. “I fell asleep. By accident—” she added quickly before he could get a word in. “The fireplace… it always seems to do that. I think it must be enchanted.”

She spun on her heel, scanning the space, her routine automatic—checking enclosures, counting creatures, ensuring everything was as it should be.

“I hope I didn’t miss anything import—”

The words died in her throat.

From the shadows of the travel bed, a pair of unholy, glowing eyes locked onto hers. They moved forward, the dim light catching on sharp angles and an expression colder than ice.

Draco.

Her heart kicked against her ribs, hammering out of rhythm.

His gaze flicked from her to the examination table; to the thick stack of parchment placed neatly at its centre.

The Doublefang Report. it was obvious; he had read it.

Every detail of the Dilacrian—every known feature, every trait—was there. What had started as a simple record had almost become a labour of love for Hermione, an obsession with logging every occurrence, ensuring each fact was correct—grounded in logic and cold academic indifference.

Draco’s jaw flexed. “And you say I’m the one who doesn’t share?” he growled.

She willed her heartbeat to steady. Just when she thought they were working it out. She wasn’t ready for this. For him.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about, Malfoy.” She kept her tone flat. “You already know everything.”

Well, almost everything. Nowhere in that report had she mentioned the way his stare made her feel. The way it made her blood sing. That, she still could barely admit to herself.

Draco tilted his head, studying her. Slowly. Deliberately. “I guess there’s one way to find out if you’re lying.”

Hermione’s brow furrowed. “Excuse me?” she whispered.

Draco’s smirk sharpened, amusement flickering in his eyes. “Well, let’s see, shall we?”

He moved before she could respond—not toward her, but toward the examination table. In one swift motion, he snatched up the Doublefang Report, rifling through the pages at an almost inhuman speed. His fingers stilled at Section 49.

Clearing his throat, he began to read, voice crisp, his pronunciation perfect:

“Vampiric Compulsion (also known as Vampiric Mind Control) is a cognitive manipulation ability that enables the wielder to override a subject’s will through sustained eye contact and subtle vocal modulation, inducing a trance-like state.

Unlike traditional Compulsion, which is typically limited to Muggle subjects, Dilacrians possess the ability to exert control over Witches, Wizards, and even Original Vampires. It remains unverified whether this ability extends to other Dilacrians. Further observation is required to determine its efficacy in such cases.”

With a loud bang, he slammed the report onto the table. His head snapped up to hers, unblinking.

“Dilacrians possess the ability to exert control over Witches, Wizards, and even Original Vampires?” His voice cut through her like a blade. “Funny—you never mentioned that.”

Heat crawled up Hermione’s neck, her cheeks burning. Despite the very real danger, all she could focus on was the mortifying fact that he had read her work.

“I… I thought you knew.” She croaked.

Draco’s smirk deepened. “Oh, trust me, Granger. You’d know if I knew.”

The words landed like a spark to dry tinder. Suddenly, Hermione wasn’t tired anymore. Anger surged through her, hot and immediate. “Oh, because you’d use it on me, would you?”

His nostrils flared, but the smirk stayed fixed. He started pacing, his eyes flicking between her and the report. “And that’s exactly why you kept it from me, isn’t it? After everything—” He cut himself off, exhaling sharply. “You’re more prejudiced than I thought.”

Hermione’s face burned. “Coming from you? A Malfoy, preaching against prejudice?” She folded her arms. “Read the room.”

Draco stopped pacing. His expression flickered—just for a second—before he turned away. “And I paid for that,” he muttered. “Trust me.”

She frowned. What? She had no idea what he was talking about.

Before she could ask, he faced her again, his voice edged with frustration. “Don’t you think that’s something I should know, Granger? The dangers of not knowing—”

“I thought you knew,” she shot back, stretching out every word. “Remember Fred Bathory? At Bathory Bloode’s? You used it then—to get him to drop the price on those bottles.”

Draco frowned. “No… I—” He blinked, shaking his head. “I was just… convincing.”

“No, you idiot.” She seethed. “You were using Compulsion.”

Draco’s jaw tightened, but she pushed forward, her pulse quickening.

“Your voice… it changes.” She swallowed. Maybe I should stop talking. But the words kept spilling out. “It… softens…”

Draco ran both hands through his hair, gripping it. “Oh, fucking hell,” he cried, voice tight. “What if I had—”

“You didn’t, okay?” She cut him off. She was exhausted—by the conversation. By everything. “You didn’t do anything.”

A low rumble emanated from Draco’s chest.

Hermione stalked toward Celestine’s pen, snatching up her broom. Hay littered the floor, and she swept it up—too aggressively.

“After you conveniently failed to mention you could break through wards, I figured this was just another thing you kept from me.” She bristled. “And in case you’ve forgotten—while you’ve been lounging in my bag, playing dress-up,” her gaze flicked over him, “and sneaking through my report, I’ve been a little busy.”

The memory of finding the badge spinning across the map after their trip to Diagon Alley and Highgate flashed in her mind—followed by Goyle’s capture and subsequent escape, the repair of her bag, Seamus’s bloodied face, the meeting with Robards and Shacklebolt, and the theft of the books from the Ministry. She willfully left out the memory of taking a nap, though. That had been beyond her control, of course.

With everything that had happened, she hadn’t had a single moment spare to bring up Draco’s Compulsion abilities—especially not for a conversation this delicate. Or this dangerous.

“Sneaking?” he roared. “If anyone has a right to know what’s in that report, it’s me.” He strode toward her, closing the space between them in just a few steps. “That’s it, Granger. No more secrets. No more covert operations. Whatever you know, I know.”

Hermione flung the broom onto the floor with a sharp clatter, her stance unyielding. “Ditto, Malfoy.”

For the briefest moment, moonlight flickered behind his grey eyes, an unnatural glow threading through them.

Hermione felt the surge of power skim across her skin, and she almost melted into it—despite herself. Despite everything. Here we go.

“You’re doing it.” Her voice was steady. Her pulse was anything but.

Draco blinked. And just like that, the glow vanished. His voice dropped, low and tense. “What?”

“Compulsion.” She swallowed. “You began to use it.”

His jaw flexed, but he kept his eyes locked on hers, his expression blank. Hermione knew she should break the contact—knew it was dangerous to let him hold her gaze.

He could do anything.

His Compulsion gave him entry into her mind, even her body—but still, she couldn’t bring herself to look away.

Deep inside, she knew this moment had been inevitable. Eventually, he would have to learn.

The moment stretched between them, pulled taut with tension, and gradually, Draco’s expression darkened—as if he could hear the words she refused to say aloud.

Try me.

Slowly, deliberately, a thread of silver bled into his irises, swirling—flickering like cold fire.

Hermione sucked in a sharp breath.

She had never let herself watch before—never allowed herself to truly see it. To see how the silver thread laced around his pupil, like a shark circling in dark waters.

Slowly, it roamed, until the trailing threads, to Hermione’s astonishment, began to extend—breaching the gap between them.

Real or illusion—she had no clue. The silver thread stretched outward, reaching for her, tracing over her skin like a whisper of static.

And before she could stop herself—before she could even think—it seized her, tighter than an iron grip, and sank in.

It coiled through her, squeezing her limbs, her ribs, her bones.

He didn’t speak. Didn’t move. Barely even breathed.

There was only the thread of Compulsion—pouring into her, searching, stretching, testing the limits of its hold.

Her mouth parted, and a sharp gasp slipped free. It felt like she, too, was being stretched—like something deep inside her had been waiting for this all along.

He was everywhere—his mind, his touch, his scent—wrapping around her, pulling her under. Every part of her responded to every part of him.

They were two magnets, opposite forces caught between resistance and inevitability—pushing, pulling, straining.

Until suddenly, it was ripped away.

The thread of Compulsion snapped as Draco tore his gaze from her, the unnatural glow in his eyes flickering out like it had never been there at all.

Hermione wavered, unsteady, as if something inside her had been severed along with it.

And written all over Draco’s face was an emotion that Hermione could only recognise as regret. He turned away, his back facing her. His voice was rough, uneven. “So that’s what that is.”

But the sensation still clung to her, humming beneath her skin, refusing to fade. She sank into the desk chair, pressing her palms against her thighs, grounding herself. “Yes.” Her voice was quiet. “That’s what that is.”

Draco moved slowly toward a half-drunk goblet on the floor. “And why—” He picked it up, taking a long draught, and swallowed. He spoke slowly. “—you always avoid my eyes.”

Hermione shifted, uncomfortable. She hadn’t realised he’d noticed. “Yes.”

She could only see the profile of his face, his features looking as if they had been carved from stone. “I just thought it was because you were lying to me.”

She let out a long sigh. She hadn’t known just how much of an Erumpent’s ear she had made of this investigation, despite what Shacklebolt said.

“I know I haven’t handled this… the way I should have.” She traced the sharp lines of his face. “But that’s not going to happen anymore, Malfoy.”

His eyes flicked toward her, but he still didn’t meet her gaze. It seemed he had now learned the danger of it, too.

“Both of us,” she said firmly. “We’re going to do things properly from now on.” She nodded once as if the words would convince herself as much as they would him.

He swirled the goblet in his hand, watching the liquid spiral. As usual, she felt she had no idea what he was thinking. “Whatever you say, Granger.”

"Dilacrian…” Eldred Worple rolled the word over his tongue, pipe wedged between his lips. "I know the word."

A wisp of smoke curled toward the ceiling.

The private office Hermione had rented on the ground floor of The Leaky Cauldron provided the neutral ground needed for a conversation as delicate—and dangerous—as this.

The windows were hidden behind heavy curtains. The fire had been snuffed out. Only a single lamp hung from the vaulted ceiling, casting its dim glow over the large table where Eldred, Hermione, Harry, and Draco sat—too close for comfort.

It had been hell to get here.

"You don’t have anything to worry about," Draco had drawled. "Other than everything being ruined and all hell breaking loose if this goes wrong."

“Everything is going to be fine,” Harry had cut in. “We have nothing to hide, nothing to prove. All we want is answers.”

"Oh, only the possibility of me being apprehended and shipped off to Azkaban if word gets out I’m the same thing as Goyle. Nothing too bad," Draco had said dryly.

Harry smirked. "I don’t see a problem there."

Since vowing to do things properly, they had arranged this meeting—laying everything on the table. Eldred would provide his expertise, possibly even point them toward a cure. In return, they would be transparent. They would allow him into the secret knowledge of Dilacrians and, by extension, Draco’s condition.

“Well, if you get shipped off to Azkaban, I wouldn’t be far behind.” Hermione’s voice had softened. “Harbouring an unregistered vampire is also an offence.”

Draco’s jaw had tensed. "I’ve never met a more idiotic bunch than Gryffindors."

"No one’s getting shipped off anywhere," Harry had said firmly. "You aren’t a true vampire, so you don’t need to register." He turned to Hermione. "That’s what you told me, isn’t it?"

Hermione had hesitated. “Yes…” she’d said carefully. The truth was, when she’d said that, she hadn’t known for sure. She had just refused to face the alternative—that Draco might be taken away. That they might lose their only lead on the murderer.

Harry had given a decisive nod. “There’s no law requiring Dilacrians to register. So there’s nothing to worry about. And if they do insist you register, you’ll do it. Won’t you?"

Draco had gone quiet. When his eyes had flicked to Hermione, something dark lurked beneath them. "What’s one more rope around my neck?"

Hermione and Draco, after nearly an entire night combing through the stolen books from the Vampire Relations Office, had come up empty-handed. It was the same tired rhetoric—vampires were dangerous, they needed to be contained, they couldn’t be trusted. Hermione was bored of it. She needed something real. Something Eldred might know but had never put into print.

And so, for the past twenty minutes, she had laid everything out—Gregory Goyle, the dark abilities he and Draco possessed, and their search for answers. And all the while, Eldred had barely spoken, only listening in silence, occasionally puffing his pipe and casting curious glances at Draco.

“It is Latin. Dilacrian…” Eldred murmured. “To tear to pieces. To tear apart…”

“You’ve heard the word, then?” Draco cocked his head, watching him carefully.

Hermione couldn’t help but notice how deliberately he avoided Eldred’s gaze.

“Yes… but never in the context of vampires. Or… at least, blood-drinkers.” Eldred cast him another inquisitive glance.

“Have you heard of Beings that can break through magic?” Harry asked.

Eldred shook his head. “No. Not Beings… Only creatures. Lethifolds. Phoenixes. Dragons. Things like that.” He took another drag from his pipe, watching the smoke curl between them. “They can resist magic. But no—no Being. Nothing that infects humans. Nothing that transforms them, the way a vampire does.”

"And how would one reverse that transformation?" Hermione asked tentatively. “Bring them back to the state they were before they became a vampire.”

Eldred blinked. “A cure?” His eyes glinted with something close to wonder. “Oh, Ms. Granger. There is no cure for vampirism.”

Her heart sank. She had known—of course she had known—but having it confirmed in Eldred’s quiet, assured voice made it feel like a door slamming shut.

"But what if we made one?" Draco’s voice was sharp. "Created a potion or… something. Anything that would reverse it."

Eldred exhaled. "You wouldn’t be the first to try." He tapped the ash from his pipe, watching it fall into the dim light. "Wizards have tried. They’ve all failed. It’s impossible."

"What were their methods?" Hermione pressed. "If only vampire blood is needed to transform, there must be some sort of counter-curse… an anti-venom—“

“Necromancy, Ms. Granger.” Eldred’s voice cut through hers, sharp as a blade. "You’re not just curing an affliction. You’re trying to bring someone back from the dead—“

“I don’t care about that.” Draco cut him off, his voice cold. Unflinching.

Hermione jumped. He didn’t care he was dead?

Draco carried on, his jaw tightening. “Is there a way to bring magic back to a wizard that has been changed?”

Eldred’s face paled. His small eyes darted frantically—scanning decades of memories, searching for an answer. His frown deepened. Then emptied. “I… I don’t know.”

“What about removing their need for blood? Their fangs—” Hermione added, her mind flashing straight to Gregory Goyle.

Draco flicked her a glance from beneath his brow but said nothing.

Eldred’s eyes seemed to turn glassy. "I haven’t… heard of anything that can do that.” His voice was hollow.

Hermione let out a shaky sigh.

"Well, Dilacrians and vampires are different, aren’t they?" Harry said. "A mutated version. If they’ve already evolved to break through magic and developed a double set of fangs… maybe they could evolve again."

“Evolve to have magic?” Her voice was barely above a whisper. Gregory Goyle—already a monster, already unstoppable—with magic? The thought turned her stomach.

Harry gave a firm nod. "And to evolve out of needing blood."

Hermione tapped her lip, her mind racing. “If we could break a vampire and Dilacrian’s compositions down to their base elements… isolate their unique compounds… then we could see how the mutation evolved—"

"Maybe even reverse engineer it," Harry added. "Not to enhance Goyle’s abilities—but to strip them away.”

"Yes!" She leaned forward, excitement sparking. “It would take time. Months, maybe. But if we had samples, if we could—" She hesitated. The words had left her mouth before she had fully thought them through. “Eldred, where can we get some vampire blood?"

The second the question landed, the atmosphere in the room changed. Hermione stilled and Eldred’s face darkened.

"Vampire blood?" he echoed, his voice oddly quiet. His pipe hung loosely between his fingers. "Nobody asks for vampire blood."

Of course. She had been so caught up, she had forgotten. Vampire blood wasn’t just rare—it was impossible. It wasn’t an ingredient. It wasn’t taken.

It was given.

Eldred shook his head, looking down. “It is sacred… Highly intimate… And please,” he went on, “for the love of all things unholy, mention nothing of this to Sanguini. I do not think he could tolerate it.”

Hermione swallowed. "I’m sorry, I didn’t realise—"

"Of course you didn’t.” Eldred's voice was clipped. “How could you know? Vampires are private creatures. I assume you’ve noticed.”

She had. Too well. Finding the right information about vampires had been like pulling teeth. And now—even he seemed unwilling to part with more.

"So that’s it, then?" Draco’s voice cut through the silence like a blade. As they had batted ideas back and forth, he had been quietly watching. Observing. “Vampires are private, so fuck everyone else?” He leaned forward, bracing his forearms on the table. “Everything has a price. If we need vampire blood, there’s a way to get it.”

Eldred’s eyes narrowed, his curiosity in Draco shifting—souring into something closer to disdain. “You will never find vampire blood on the market.” His tone was clipped. “Only in the most secret ceremonies is it spilled—to bring life to another. And only after decades of devotion.”

Draco scoffed. “I guess Dilacrians don’t work that way.” His lip curled. “Because that part seems to have skipped me.”

“What kind of ceremonies?” Harry asked politely before Draco could make it worse.

Eldred ran a hand through his hair, exhaling slowly. He looked uncomfortable—but because it was Harry who asked, obviously, he answered. “It’s a ritual. A well-organised death…” He hesitated, then continued. “When the Familiar is ready to… begin the journey, a blood-exchanging ritual is performed. The Familiar feeds the vampire, and the vampire feeds the Familiar…” He took a slow drag from his pipe, letting the smoke pour from between his lips. “And then, the Familiar… has their mortal death.”

Hermione’s brow furrowed. None of this was in the tomes she had read. Over and over, the same unsettling truth kept surfacing—what she had studied about vampires didn’t match what Eldred and Sanguini told them. One side spoke of monsters and hunger. The other spoke of ceremony and intimacy. Her books had always been a lifeline. An anchor to understanding the world. And now? Now, she didn’t know what to think.

"And then they register at the Ministry," she said, more to herself than anyone else.

"Well, not before they claim their Familiar… and consume their blood, of course," Eldred muttered. "Without that, they can’t complete their transformation."

A cold chill penetrated the room, sliding down her spine. “What do you mean… complete their transformation?” She whispered, her throat tight.

She wasn’t sure if it was her own voice that had thinned or if the air itself had grown heavier. Across the table, she could feel it—Draco, Harry, both utterly still, their bodies locked in place as if one wrong breath might shatter the moment entirely.

Eldred took his time, tapping the ash from his pipe, and watching it fall into the pool of dim light on the table. “A vampire without a Familiar is… incomplete. Their powers are weaker, and their emotions are unstable. Not to mention the severe memory loss. Over time, they begin to fray—heightened aggression, an imbalance in their instincts.”

She felt Draco’s gaze flick to her—its cold energy almost searing her skin.

But Eldred continued, his voice quieter than before. “For a vampire to reach their full power… to become whole… they have to drink blood. Directly from the vein.”