The Dark Arts
The meeting unravelled shortly after Eldred revealed the truth: Draco hadn’t completed his transition into a Dilacrian. That was the missing piece—the reason for the memory loss, the instability, the weakness compared to Goyle. And now, they knew how to finish the transformation.
He had to drink blood—directly from the vein.
Cold crept into the room, rising from the floor and curling around Hermione’s legs. Frost bloomed across the furniture, and tiny icicles began to form along the edges of chairs and shelves. Hermione began to shiver.
Draco, meanwhile, didn’t move. His body was rigid, muscles drawn tight beneath his clothes. Obviously, the cold was from him—that same strange power that met her the night he reappeared in her life.
And when she saw his face, her breath caught. His expression was so dark it was as if his eyes had completely vanished into shadow. Only the sharp edges of his face caught the light—frozen, fixed, furious.
She swallowed, then cleared her throat. “I think it’s time we… wrapped this up," she said, voice tight, already tugging her beaded bag open and holding it out toward Draco—silently begging him to get in.
But he didn’t move. He just stared ahead, his jaw clenched, looking like a cauldron of poison threatening to boil over.
"I think you’re right," Harry said, clearly picking up on the same thing. "Eldred, let me show you out. I need to get back to the Ministry anyway—word is Dolohov has been spotted in the Midlands."
"Oh… that’s good," Hermione murmured, though all her attention stayed locked on Draco.
"That would be lovely, Harry," Eldred said as he stood, clearly oblivious to the tension humming in the room. He gave a full-body shiver. "Tom really needs to fix the heating in here—most uncomfortable," he muttered, tugging his tweed jacket tighter as he left.
Harry lingered a moment longer, his eyes meeting Hermione’s across the room. Whatever passed between them was wordless—but clear enough.
You’ll be alright?
She nodded once—firm, even if she didn’t feel it—and to her relief, Harry let it be. He gave her a last glance before slipping out the door, leaving them alone.
The silence that followed roared against her eardrums.
She drew in a slow breath. “It’s going to be okay,” she said quietly—softer than she ever spoke to him.
Draco didn’t look at her. "Don’t patronise me." He snapped up from the chair, his body suddenly charged—electric with tension. It looked as if he were about to break. “Nor yourself."
Hermione lowered the beaded bag, her arms falling to her sides, defeated.
He paced forward, moving away from her, facing the wall. “There’s no getting around this one, Granger.” His voice was harsh.
Hermione didn’t want to admit it, but he was right. She had no idea how they could get around Draco needing blood from the vein. All they had was the bottled supply from Bathory’s Bloode’s—and no matter how fresh it was, it couldn’t replace the real thing: blood that was alive, pumping through the body of a Familiar—hot and willing.
Draco would probably never retrieve the memories of his transformation without it. And knowing how Dilacrians were created could be instrumental in finding that cure.
“There’s no fucking whimsical solution to this like you’re used to,” he gritted out, his voice bitter. “That’s rarely the case with me.”
“That’s not true—” Hermione cut in quickly, waving his words off. “What if… what if I asked Eldred how vampires arrange a Familiar? Maybe there are… I don’t know. Agreements. Systems. Something.”
Even as she said it, she could feel the awkwardness creeping in—like she was talking about something far more intimate than she could comprehend.
Draco stopped pacing and turned toward her, slipping his hands into his pockets.
“Oh, right. Sure. Networks. Local meetups,” he muttered sarcastically, seizing a hand back and dragging it through his hair. “Maybe there’s a Dark Arts section in the Daily Prophet.” He pitched his voice into a mocking tone: “Hungry Blood-Sucking Monster Seeks Nightly Meal. Requirements: Must Be Alive.” He scoffed, plunging the hand back into his pocket again.
“I don’t know, Malfoy,” Hermione snapped, “At least I’m trying to come up with a solution.” She rubbed her arms, the chill starting to settle deep into her skin. “There has to be something… someone—”
She faltered on the last word.
She’d read that being a Familiar was said to feel like ecstasy—that a Muggle could become addicted to a vampire’s venom the same way they might to a drug. Secreted from the tips of their fangs, the venom would trail through the bloodstream, keeping the Familiar hooked—literally and figuratively.
As if they would need it, though. The vampiric Compulsion would’ve been enough. And Hermione knew how that felt.
“There’s no one,” he muttered.
Hermione blinked. Was there really not a single person in Draco Malfoy’s life who would do that for him? Then she remembered what he’d said: I lost track of everyone after the war.
Maybe he hadn’t been exaggerating.
“There’s not even one person you can trust?” she asked, remembering back to Hogwarts, where many people would’ve done that for Draco. Goyle, one of them.
Draco let out a low, humourless laugh. “Hmm. Like who?” He turned to face her fully, head tilted. “You volunteering?”
Hermione froze. Her blood turned to ice.
His mouth twisted into a bitter curve. “See? Didn’t think so.”
A flicker of moonlight caught in his eyes. He blinked, then turned away. “I’m fucked,” he muttered, stretching out, dragging his hands through his hair again, “Completelyfucked.”
Hermione sank into the chair he’d just vacated. Her whole body felt heavy—like she was sinking into something she couldn’t climb out of. “You shouldn’t make jokes like that,” she said quietly, though it felt like she’d shouted.
Draco stilled. He didn’t argue, his eyes still fixed on the wall. “I know.”
Hermione could feel the chill in the room beginning to recede. The frost was melting, the tiny icicles dripping droplets lazily onto the floor.
“The last person…” he started to say before shaking his head. “This is nothing to do with you.” He said softly, though it was through gritted teeth. “I just can’t help but feel… like I’ve been set up to fail. Always.”
Hermione’s chest tightened. That, she understood—all too well.
Every time she’d tried to move forward, something had stood in her way. Another obstacle she had to bend around and twist herself to overcome, and every time she did, a little piece of her chipped away—lost in the name of progress.
She looked at Draco—really looked—and realised he’d lost a lot, too. Probably more than he’d ever admit.
“You just have to keep going,” she said quietly. It was the only thing she knew how to do. “Stopping is never really an option, is it?”
“No,” he muttered bitterly. “It isn’t.”
He let out a sharp breath. For a moment, the silence settled between them—until Draco broke it, his voice suddenly sharp and decisive.
“I’m not drinking anyone’s fucking blood,” he said. “Because I don’t need to. We’re going to get this cure. Now.”
He spun on his heel, that anger burning back to the surface, morphing into dedicated focus.
“Worple says there’s no vampire blood on the market? Well, he doesn’t know who I do.”
~*~
Of all the places in magical London, Knockturn Alley was the one Hermione liked the least. The heavy, damp air, the meandering, twisting alleyways, the less-than-savoury characters drifting in and out of shadowed doorways. She avoided the place like it was Dragon Pox—and that was just during the day.
The night was another beast entirely.
The waning moon hung low in the night sky—but she could barely see it. Crooked, climbing buildings closed in from all sides, their blackened paint and tar-stained windows swallowing the little light. Gas lamps hummed low, casting everything in a faint, sickening green hue.
In the distance, witches, wizards—and Merlin knows what else—droned loudly. The clinking of pints and raucous laughter echoed down the alleyway, bouncing off the walls. It was Friday night, and somewhere nearby, a pub was in full swing—probably the White Wyvern, where Ron, Dean, and Seamus had been headed the other night.
Before Goyle got to them.
Hermione took a deep breath, the smoky air catching her throat. She refused to feel intimidated. She had been in worse places than this and in worse situations, too. It couldn’t be that dangerous, could it? If it were, the Ministry would have shut it down.
But even Draco seemed on edge.
“Don’t stray from me, Granger,” he hissed.
“I’m fine,” she snapped back—willing her hammering heart to settle.
Somewhere behind them, a woman—who sounded suspiciously like a hag—let out an almighty cackle.
Unconsciously, they drifted closer together, their steps falling into sync. His cloak rippled in the heavy night air, the edge brushing against hers, soft as a whisper, as if inviting her into its sweep.
“Now, come here.” He ordered, coming to a stop.
“What—?” Hermione stilled, momentarily stunned by the idea of being pulled under his cloak—into him.
“Toward Mulpepper’s.” He reached into his inner pocket and began to pull on a pair of dragonhide gloves.
She looked up. What appeared to be a tiny and rather unwelcoming house tucked within a row of meandering terrace buildings was, in fact, a shop. Above the crooked door hung a sign in curling script: Mr Mulpepper’s Apothecary.
“But… that’s on Diagon Alley…”
A bulbous, dust-smeared window bulged beside the entrance, nearly blacked out by the sheer number of strange, vaguely disturbing ingredients crammed into the display. Ground Bundimun eyes, hellebore, and even strands of prismatic unicorn fur were piled among others Hermione couldn’t identify—much to her astonishment. But it made sense: most of the things on sale were linked to the Dark Arts.
Draco side-stepped toward her, eyes fixed on the shop ahead. In the murky light, his face and hair looked almost colourless. He leaned in.
“Mulpepper has more than one shop,” he murmured near her ear, so close she could feel the shape of the words against her skin. “Though most wizards have no idea this one exists.”
She shivered. “But… why?”
“Money, obviously. Why else?” He pulled out another pair of dragonhide gloves, handing them to her. “You’ll need these,”
He turned to face her, the beginnings of a smirk pulling at his lips—until it faltered.
For a moment, he just stared. His expression shifted, something unguarded flickering across it—surprise, maybe even awe—before it vanished, replaced by the familiar cool mask.
“Your hair is enormous.” He said flatly.
“Oh!” Hermione gasped. She lifted her arms, pressing both hands to her curls, which had managed to double in size. “It’s the damn damp.”
She pulled out her wand and began muttering a quick string of Dehumidifying Charms—but Draco held out the gloves, willing her to take them.
“Don’t,” he said quickly, before correcting his tone. “It’s more… intimidating this way. And right now, you need it.” He scoffed.
What’s that meant to mean?
Without waiting for a response, he turned and pushed the door open, sauntering in as if he owned the place.
There was barely enough space to move inside Mr Mulpepper’s Apothecary. The walls were packed with the strange and unusual—bundles of dried plants, cloudy vials, shards of minerals, insect wings, feathers, fangs, and bones. The air was thick with the bitter tang of tannins and mugwort.
Draco ducked as he stepped inside, narrowly avoiding a bundle of dusty nightshade brushing his hair. Hermione followed close behind, her eyes adjusting to the dim, amber light.
She slipped on her gloves as their eyes moved together, scanning the cluttered shelves, until Draco’s gaze caught on a black door tucked behind the counter. He stared at it a moment too long.
Hermione followed his line of sight. “What is it?” she asked quietly.
His jaw flexed. “Nothing.”
He turned away—but his attention snagged again, this time on a small, hunched man shuffling along the shelves, stocking them with more grim-looking goods.
“Long time no see, Mulpepper,” Draco drawled.
At the sound of his voice, Mr Mulpepper snapped upright. His face soured immediately.
He looked Draco up and down, gaze narrowing behind the spectacles perched on the end of his crooked nose. It dragged over his height, his presence—his cold, dangerous stillness.
“What have you done?” Mulpepper asked, voice thin and suspicious.
Some people didn’t notice that the change in Draco was supernatural. Mulpepper clearly did.
“What was done to me, you mean?” Draco replied flatly.
The old man muttered something under his breath and turned away, shaking his head as he resumed arranging a grim display of shrivelled creature feet. Hermione caught a few of the words—up to no good…
Draco didn’t flinch. “I need something.”
Hermione shifted behind him, half-hidden in his shadow. She hated this. The shop, the smell, the idea of asking for something illegal. She wanted this sorted, yes, but buying black market goods wasn’t exactly the kind of reputation she’d worked so hard to build—especially when she had decided to do this properly.
“What is it this time?” Mulpepper replied. Though his voice was thin, a strength was buried within it.
Hermione peeked around Draco’s arm, trying to stay small—but as she moved, her cloak brushed against a nearby shelf. A full set of elf teeth clattered to the floor.
“Who’s that,” he screeched, voice shrill and scraping against her ears.
“Oh—I’m sorry, Mr Mulpepper,” Hermione gasped, cringing.
Draco sighed, already turning. He scooped the teeth off the floor and slammed them back onto the shelf with a clatter. “Don’t worry about her,” he growled. “I need vampire blood.”
Mulpepper froze. His face twisted slowly, like a rotting apple curling in on itself. “Just what the bloody hell are you up to, boy?”
Draco smirked. “Going senile already, Mulpepper?” he said, stepping further into the room. “We’ve had this conversation. You don’t ask questions about what I need.”
Mulpepper sniffed, turning away with a grumble. “You’ve got better luck getting a phoenix tear.” He waved a hand. “Not a chance in Avalon.”
Draco moved closer, his shadow cutting across the man’s frail figure. “Oh, don’t lie to me now,” he said, his mouth wrapping over every last word. “You’ve found me so many things before. So why not this?”
Strangely, Mulpepper began to look uncomfortable. Visibly. His breathing hitched. His hands twitched. His heart, she was certain, had picked up pace.
“It’s impossible,” he muttered, but his voice had lost its bite.
Then she saw it. That flicker behind Draco’s eyes—that unnatural glint of silverlight beginning to thread through the grey.
“I know you know where to get it,” he said, smooth as Acromantula silk.
A chill moved through her limbs. Hermione could hardly believe it—Draco was using Compulsion—on purpose.
“Malfoy, don’t,” she whispered, her voice barely audible.
But he didn’t stop.
“Tell me where to get vampire blood,”
Mulpepper’s hands dropped to his sides, eyes wide and glassy. He was now fully under Draco’s spell.
“You… can’t…” he rasped.
Draco growled, blinking hard, snapping himself out of it, the silver glow vanishing from his eyes. “I can’t believe—” He cut himself off. Then, after a slow exhale, the light surged back—brighter, sharper, colder than before.
“Say where to get the blood, Mulpepper,” he hissed, “or I’ll tell everyone what you did.”
Hermione staggered, her hand shooting out to catch the edge of a nearby shelf, just barely keeping herself from tumbling into him. She could’ve sworn she heard something—a dark rumble, low and unnatural, vibrating through his golden voice.
Mulpepper’s lips barely moved. “It’s… not… possible…” he croaked. His face had gone drawn and grey, his mouth frozen in a silent O. He looked as though he might collapse.
Then, suddenly, Draco broke the thread of Compulsion.
The silver light vanished from his eyes—though the tension, and the anger, still radiated off him in waves.
Mulpepper swayed on the spot, his thin frame tipping forward, about to crash straight into a shelf stacked with jars of brittle creature bones.
“Help him,” Hermione said quickly, through her own distorted haze.
Draco didn’t hesitate. He caught the old man with one gloved hand, pressed flat against his chest, holding him upright like he weighed nothing at all.
He exhaled sharply through his nose. “You should get some of that blood, old man,” he muttered. “Looks like you’ll be needing it soon.”
Mulpepper gave a weak, wheezing groan—or maybe it was a laugh. “I’d… rather… be dead,”
~*~
“I can’t believe you did that,” Hermione muttered as they stepped back out onto the damp, cobbled street of Diagon Alley. Her pulse was still racing, her skin prickling from the after-effect of his Compulsion—even if it was only overheard. The thick air outside didn’t help. “We were supposed to be doing this properly.”
They had left Mulpepper slumped behind his counter, dazed and pale. She could only hope he wouldn’t remember her being there.
“You said that. Not me,” Draco snapped, his pace quickening as he steered her away from the alley. “I don’t give a fuck about doing things properly—especially with people like him.”
Hermione frowned. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“He’s a bastard,” Draco said simply, keeping Hermione on track to the exit. “Trust me.”
She blinked. “What do you mean, he’s a b… bad person?” Her mind was swilling—dizzy with too many sensations: magic, guilt, fear.
Draco let out a sharp breath, jaw tightening. “He just is,” he muttered. Then, glancing sideways at her, “Don’t worry your little Gryffindor head about it, Granger.” She opened her mouth, but before she could speak, he added, “And if I hadn’t done that, we wouldn’t know for sure whether he was lying.”
Hermione sighed as the weight of it all finally hit her. “So that’s it, then, isn’t it?” she said quietly. “We can’t get vampire blood.” She had no idea how they would figure out how Dilacrians had evolved from Vampires without it. If they even did.
“Bullshit,” Draco said flatly.
Hermione shot him a look. “Didn’t you hear him? He said we’d have better luck—”
“I heard him,” Draco cut in. “I just don’t believe it. There’s always a way to get something. Everything has a price.”
She didn’t like the way he said it, but he wasn’t wrong. She knew that better than most. Everything had a price. Just not always the kind you could pay in gold.
“You can’t just buy vampire blood,” she said quietly. “We’ll have to figure something else out.”
Her mind was already racing ahead, trying to piece together a solution. Maybe Sanguini would give them a vial, despite Eldred’s warning. Or maybe… maybe she really would have more luck chasing phoenix tears.
Draco didn’t answer. They walked in silence, the oppressive weight of Knockturn Alley falling away as they stepped back into the clearer night air of Diagon Alley. Most of the shops were shuttered, the cobbled road nearly empty, and with every step away from that awful street, Hermione felt some of the tension in her chest start to evaporate.
She let out a breath. “Looks like it’s back to the books, then,” she muttered. “Sorry we haven’t managed to do this quicker—”
“For Merlin’s sake, Granger, will you stop saying sorry?” Draco cut in sharply. “It’s driving me mad.”
Hermione blinked, caught off guard. She hadn’t even noticed.
Lately, all she’d done was apologise. Sorry, Malfoy. Sorry, Eldred. Sorry, Harry. Even sorry to bloody Mulpepper…
“It’s an abnormally high number of apologies,” Draco muttered. “Especially for the likes of you.”
He glanced at her over his shoulder, then looked away again, his gaze fixed on the outline of the Leaky Cauldron ahead.
Hermione wanted to snap back, to find that fire within her and throw something sharp and cutting in return—but the words didn’t come.
How could she admit it? That since her argument with Harry, something cold had settled under her skin—a fear she couldn’t shake. Not worry. Not guilt.
Terror.
The kind that sat heavy in her chest when she thought about how easily her mistake could’ve cost everything. How easily she could fail again.
Draco spoke again, clearly disturbed by her quiet. “Look, I don’t know what’s happened. But if this whole ‘doing things properly’ thing has anything to do with it—don’t bother.” He gave a sharp rustle of his cloak. “It doesn’t help. And let’s be honest, Granger—stealing from the Ministry and trying to buy vampire blood isn’t exactly proper anyway, is it?”
That almost made her laugh. “I suppose not…”
They walked on in silence, her footsteps dragging slightly against the cobblestones, his heavier stride falling steady beside her. It wasn’t until they reached the damp courtyard outside the Leaky Cauldron that he stopped and turned toward her.
He leaned back against the doorframe, the gas lamp casting shadows across his face. There was a smirk tugging at his mouth—but it looked almost awkward, like he wasn’t sure if he’d pushed too far.
“This is all purely selfish,” he said, voice lighter now. “But you’re much easier to deal with when you’re not doing this whole mopey thing.”
Hermione laughed weakly, shaking her head. “Well, don’t get used to it. I’ll be back to insufferable soon enough.”
Draco’s mouth twitched. “Good. At least then I’ll know what I’m dealing with.”
They stood there for a moment, the space between them filled only by the distant hum of Diagon Alley.
Then, before she could stop herself, Hermione said quietly, “You’re not the only one who feels like they’ve been set up to fail, Malfoy.”
She wasn’t sure why she’d said it—maybe because it felt easier to admit to him than to anyone else.
Draco’s gaze lingered on her for a second longer as if he were about to say something more. But instead, he looked away, tipping his head back toward the sky. “Yeah,” he said quietly. “I know.”
Above, the stars glittered—bright, but cold and impossibly far away.
He pushed off the doorframe, watching her beneath a darkened brow. “Get some sleep, Granger,” he muttered. “You’re no use to anyone when you’re falling apart.”
~*~
The days and nights slipped by without distinction, each one bleeding quietly into the next. There were no arguments, no mention of what had been said outside the Leaky Cauldron. In truth, they barely spoke at all—only worked in silence, side by side, buried beneath towering stacks of books inside her beaded bag.
The only times she left the bag were to fetch more pumpkin pastries and coffee from the Leaky Cauldron, catch a few hours of sleep in her rented room, or check on Seamus Finnegan at St Mungo’s.
To everyone’s immense relief, there were still no signs of him turning into a Dilacrian. But his memory of the attack was fractured.
Hermione suspected that, like vampires, Dilacrians carried venom in their fangs. Not just to overpower their victims, but to strip away their defences, and leave them vulnerable for another attack.
Seamus might recover physically, but Merlin only knew how long it would take for his mind to heal—if it ever did at all.
After their failed attempt to get vampire blood, that search, and the question of how Dilacrians evolved from vampires, had to be reluctantly set aside. For now, Hermione had thrown herself back into the one thing she could control: cold, methodical research.
Together, Hermione and Draco worked their way through the tomes they’d taken from the Vampire Relations Office, scouring every page, devouring every word.
They were desperate to find something—anything—that might offer a glimpse into the vampires’ inner world, and, more importantly, a cure.
But every lead came up empty. Most of the books were bloated with bureaucratic drivel: tedious Ministry regulations, dry records of Highgate’s formation, and endless warnings about how dangerous vampires were.
The lack of progress was starting to wear on them. Hermione could feel it—tight in the air between them, crackling beneath the silence. Draco would fidget, pace, and mutter to himself under his breath.
And he looked tired. Not obviously. Not in any way most people would notice. He still carried himself with that effortless, pampered arrogance, like the world should fall at his feet. But beneath it, she saw it. In the hollows of his cheeks. In the shadows beneath his eyes. In the restless, chaotic way he moved—like something inside him was starting to come undone.
Eldred Worple’s warning lingered in the back of her mind: a vampire without a Familiar doesn’t stay the same. They fracture. Grow unstable—even violent.
She didn’t know how long that would take.
“Granger,” Draco growled, his nose still buried in the enormous tome on his lap, “stop inspecting me like you do that bloody Mooncalf.” He flicked his eyes briefly to Celestine, curled contentedly in her pen. “It’s unnerving.”
Heat prickled at the back of her neck. “I wasn’t—”
“You were,” he muttered, delicately turning the page. “You always are.”
Her jaw clenched. She was quickly realising how observant Draco was indeed. “Well, I wouldn’t if you weren’t so bloody stubborn,” she snapped, shoving back her chair and planting her palms against the examination table. Her curls tumbled forward, spilling over the brittle, crumbling book in front of her. “And got yourself a Familiar—”
Draco’s face screwed. “No offence, Granger, but putting my mouth on a stranger sounds a bit… unsanitary.” He then smirked to himself, returning to the page.
Hermione blinked, then barked out a disbelieving laugh. “You’re joking. That’s your excuse? Germs?”
He shrugged a shoulder. “Some of us have standards.”
She rolled her eyes so hard it nearly hurt. “You’re a Dilacrian. You heal faster than most people bleed, Malfoy. I don’t think you need to worry about catching Dragon Pox.”
Draco’s smirk began to fade. “It’s a waste of time,” he said quickly. “Time better spent finding a way out of this mess.”
A cure.
Hermione let out a slow breath and glanced back down at the tome in front of her, her fingers absently tracing the brittle edge of the page. The book was titled Diversions for the Disenchanted: A Compendium of Pastimes & Palliatives, and she’d been staring at the same paragraph—something about the benefits of midnight strolls—for what felt like hours. The words had long since blurred.
“That might be a while yet,” she murmured, flipping the page.
But her fingers stilled.
A scrap of parchment slipped free, brushing against her hand. Thin, yellowed, folded neatly in half. Hermione knew straight away—it wasn’t listed in the index. It didn’t belong to the book.
Across from her, Draco froze. His gaze lifted from the tome in his lap, watching her intently, as her pulse quickened underneath her skin.
“What’s this?” she breathed, carefully picking up the parchment and unfolding it.
Her eyes traced the slanted, spidery handwriting inked across the page.
It was a riddle:
Seek the viper, carved in stone,
Where mortals rot and turn to bone.
Within the walls where shadows bite,
Dwell those claimed by cursed blight.
For those who fear the touch of day,
I offer you another way.
Forget the fiction you were fed,
The cure is buried with the dead.