Viper
The door to 12 Grimmauld Place flew open, and Ginny’s hair flared like a flame in the cold night air. Her expression was thunderous—ready to hex whoever thought it was a good idea to pound on her door at nearly midnight—until she saw the witch standing on her doorstep, practically vibrating with tension.
The anger vanished, replaced by confusion. “Hermione?”
“Look at this,” Hermione said breathlessly, already thrusting the folded parchment toward her. Her pulse was still racing from how she'd torn out of the bag and Apparated straight to their doorstep, not even giving Draco the chance to speak.
Ginny frowned and skimmed the delicate handwriting. “You’re banging on my door in the middle of the night… to show me riddles?” She arched an eyebrow. “Is everything alright?” She reached out, pressing the back of her fingers to Hermione’s forehead. “You are hot—”
“There’s nothing wrong with me,” Hermione said quickly, brushing her hand away. “I need to show this to Harry. I think…” She swallowed. “I think it’s about a cure for vampirism.”
That stopped Ginny in her tracks. “Oh.”
She gingerly passed the parchment back to Hermione as she strode into the hall, her beaded bag thudding against her hip.
Harry and Ginny had been slowly renovating Grimmauld Place, and since Hermione’s last visit, the hallway had changed. Cosy lamplight spilled across freshly sanded floorboards, and the faint scent of paint still lingered in the air. Bit by bit, they’d stripped away the Black family’s darkness, turning the old house into something softer—something that finally felt like a home.
“Filthy half-breed,” a screech erupted from behind a heavy curtain. “It’s that filthy little Mudblood again,”
Hermione barely blinked. “Shut up, Walburga,” she muttered, smirking faintly.
Though they hadn’t managed to get rid of the portrait of Walburga Black quite yet.
“Is he here?” Hermione asked, ignoring Walburga’s tirade like she did the noise from the creatures in her bag.
“In the kitchen,” Ginny started, rolling her eyes. “But he’s—”
Hermione didn’t wait to hear the rest. She was already moving, her footsteps sharp and purposeful down the hall, the folded parchment clutched tightly in her hand.
She rounded the corner—
SMACK.
She collided with something solid, warm, and smelling faintly of rum.
“…drunk,” Ginny finished flatly from behind her.
Harry stumbled backwards, crashing to the floor like he’d been hit with a Stunning Spell. He clutched his head, breath hissing through his teeth. “Argh—!”
“Harry!” Hermione gasped, panic flaring hot in her chest. Could she not go five bloody minutes without someone getting hurt? “Are you alright?”
He didn’t answer. Just rolled onto his side, pressing the heels of his hands hard into his forehead.
“Did you hit your head?” Ginny dropped to her knees beside him, voice rising.
Harry groaned, pushing himself onto his elbows and knees. “No—no. My scar,” he rasped. “It hurts.”
Ginny froze. “Your scar?” she echoed, eyes snapping to Hermione, wide with alarm. “But that hasn’t happened since… since Hogwarts.”
Since Voldemort.
Hermione clutched the parchment to her chest, her heart pounding against it. “Surely not,” she whispered to herself.
Her eyes flicked around the room. It was unchanged since those last grim months of the war—the walls still dark and looming—as the renovation hadn’t reached the kitchen yet. The only difference now was the half-empty bottle of rum on the table, and the glass beside it, smudged with fingerprints.
Harry let out a shaky breath and flopped onto his back. “What the fuck just happened,” he muttered, voice rough and slurred.
“You’ve been drinking,” Hermione said flatly. “That’s what happened,”
Ginny reached out, brushing her hand over Harry’s forehead like she could smooth the pain away, revealing that jagged scar. “You probably did hit your head, honey. You’re half-cut.” She stood and offered him a hand, pulling him upright. He stumbled, muttering under his breath, before collapsing into one of the chairs at the kitchen table.
Since Hogwarts, Harry’s drinking had increased, fluctuating in sync with the pressure on the Auror Office, and recently, with the search for Dolohov, Goyle, and Neville, the demands had become relentless.
“Lovely to see you, Hermione, of course,” Harry slurred, pinching the bridge of his nose, “but d’you mind telling me why you’re here?”
Hermione hesitated. Maybe this wasn’t the right moment to info-dump about vampires and dark riddles. Perhaps she should wait until he wasn’t drunk—until he wasn’t clutching his head like it was about to split in two.
But she didn’t have that kind of time. None of them did.
She swallowed, and tentatively unfolded the parchment, smoothing it flat. “I thought you ought to see this.”
Harry took the sheet between his fingers, his brow tightening as he scanned the spidery writing.
Hermione spoke before he could say anything, the words of the riddle already etched into her memory. “Forget the fiction you were fed. The cure is buried with the dead." She glanced at Harry. "It’s talking about a cure for vampirism. Obviously—”
Harry didn’t answer. The drunken flush was beginning to drain from his cheeks.
Hermione kept going, her voice quickening. “…where mortals rot and turn to bone." Her whole body hummed with excitement. "That has to mean a cemetery, doesn’t it?"
But Harry wasn’t breathing. His eyes darted back and forth over the parchment, reading the lines again and again.
Hermione opened her mouth, the next line of the poem poised on her lips—but Harry spoke first.
“Voldemort,” he breathed.
Her stomach dropped. “…what?”
His face had gone pale, sharpened by clarity. He suddenly didn’t seem so drunk anymore. “This is Voldemort,” he said, voice cutting through the room. “I can… I can feel it—”
Harry flung the parchment onto the table like it had burned him, yanking his hands back as if it might bite.
Hermione scanned over him, sharp and searching—like she was trying to decide if he was thinking clearly… or not at all.
“The handwriting,” he snapped. “It’s the same.”
“Harry…” Hermione said gently. “It can’t be… Voldemort.” For some incomprehensible reason, she still struggled to say that name. “The odds are—well, it’s just impossible.” She threw a glance at Ginny, searching for backup. “Isn’t it?”
Ginny reached for the riddle, lifting it from where it had fallen on the table. Her eyes skimmed the spidery script again. Slowly, she sank into the chair beside Harry, the colour draining from her face.
Ginny knew what Voldemort’s handwriting looked like. She’d seen it before—years ago—inked into the pages of a diary that had nearly stolen her life. Maybe at the door, she hadn’t let herself remember it. But Harry did.
“Isn’t it…?” Hermione breathed.
But Ginny didn’t answer. Her eyes stayed wide, lips parted—but no sound came. Speechless, as she so rarely was.
“And my scar… It was the riddle. You were holding it.” His voice cracked. “It must’ve touched me somehow.” He looked frantic now—half-mad. “It’s him, Hermione. I know it.” He locked his gaze onto her, green eyes sharp, unblinking.
Hermione’s heart dropped. “But it can’t be,” she whispered.
But even as the words left her lips, doubt was already coiling low in her chest. Could it really be him? The odds wereimpossible, almost. And why would Voldemort—of all people—create a cure for vampirism? He never did anything unless it served him. What could he possibly have to gain?
It didn’t add up. None of it did.
Ginny’s fingers tightened around the parchment, her chest rising and falling faster with every breath.
“It’s a riddle, Hermione,” Harry said, voice low. “Exactly the kind of twisted, fucked-up thing he’d—”
But before he could finish, Ginny shot to her feet.
Hermione barely registered the blur of red hair before Ginny was across the kitchen, thrusting the parchment into the flame already burning high on the stove.
“No—!” Hermione lunged, but it was too late.
The parchment curled, blackened, and vanished into ash—devoured in seconds, Ginny’s fingers tinged with soot as she had shoved it deep into the fire.
Hermione could only watch as the riddle—and their only real lead to a cure—incinerated before her.
Ginny spun back around, blazing. “It’s gone.”
She crossed the kitchen in two strides and gripped Harry’s shoulders, who was now staring blankly across the table at nothing. At no one. “The riddle is gone,” she growled. “Voldemort is gone.”
~*~
She felt his gaze first. She always did.
Draco was slouched in the armchair, rocking it lazily on its back legs, twirling a long feathered quill between his fingers as if it was his wand.
“Welcome back,” he said, voice low, one brow arched.
Hermione didn’t answer. She tore off her coat and let it drop to the floor, her shoes hitting hard with every step as she crossed the room.
“It seems you had somewhere important to be?” He asked inquisitively, though there was an edge to his voice.
“I took it to Harry,” she said tightly.
He hummed, almost amused. “Of course you did.”
Without a word, she crossed to the examination table and began rearranging scattered ephemera—grasping at order, as if a duplicate riddle might be hiding in the mess.
“I thought he should see it,” she added, without looking up. “That’s all.”
“I’m sure he found it… enlightening.”
Her head snapped up. “What do you mean?”
“Nothing. Just curious what the Chosen One made of it, that’s all.” He kept his steady gaze on her, it crawling under her skin. “Well. Let’s see it, then,” he said suddenly, slamming the chair down onto all four legs. His hair falling over his brow. “The riddle?” He held out his hand, expectant.
Hermione froze.
For half a second, she actually looked—checked the edge of the table, the nearby stacks of parchment—like maybe, somehow, it would be there after all.
But it wasn’t. Of course it wasn’t.
She let out a breath and sank into the chair behind her, the weight of it all hitting at once.
“Ginny…” Her voice cracked slightly, and she cleared her throat. “Ginny burned it. Just—set it on fire.”
Draco didn’t move.
“Because she and Harry are convinced it was written by Voldemort.” She scoffed, shaking her head. “Honestly.”
Draco didn’t say anything at first. He just watched her from where he sat. “Well,” he said finally, tilting his head, “was it?”
“How the hell should I know?” Hermione snapped. She threw her arms up, exasperated. “Why would Voldemort waste his time writing second-rate riddles to hide in useless books? He was busy trying to kill everyone, remember?”
Draco rose from the chair, stretching to his full height. Jaw tight, he moved across the room, weaving between the piles of books without a word. Deftly, he plucked one from the stack and flipped directly to page one.
Hermione sighed. “That was it. That was all we had. Gone.”
He exhaled sharply through his nose but didn’t look up. Just turned the page like she hadn’t said a thing.
“They said they recognised his handwriting. I mean, isn’t handwriting analysis basically a… pseudo-science?” Hermione said, waving a hand in the air.
“I wouldn’t know,” Draco said tightly. “I didn’t get a chance to look at it.”
Hermione paused. She’d forgotten how fast she’d bolted the moment she’d read the riddle aloud—vanished from the bag without a word, leaving Draco in the lurch. “It was important that I showed it to Harry immediately. He’s part of the investigation. He needs to know these things.”
Draco turned to face her, one brow arched. “And I’m not?” His voice was calm, but it cut. “Just loitering in your little handbag with a bunch of half-feral beasts, reading Ministry drivel for the fun of it?”
He snapped the book shut.
“Iwas going to show you,” Hermione said, her voice tight. “I didn’t know Ginny would burn it—”
“Granger,” he cut in, voice sharp. “Have you forgotten? I need to know about these things. First.” He jabbed a finger against his chest. “Me.”
Right. Of course. That’s what this was really about—Draco being the top of the list. The pick of the crop.
“More than Potter. More than a bloody Weasley. I’m the one who’s infected,” he hissed. “And instead, you ran straight to them. And now—” He flung a hand through the air. “Poof—the lead is gone.”
Hermione shot to her feet. “I was trying to be honest,” she snapped. “Because the last time I kept something from Harry, it blew up in my face!”
“Congratulations,” Draco snarled. “It blew up anyway. Just in mine.”
Her jaw clenched. “Don’t you think I’m disappointed too? You think I want to be stuck here? Doing all this work? Stuck with you?” She went on, heat rising in her cheeks, “I didn’t choose this.”
“Yes, you did,” Draco said coldly. “This is the job you clawed your way into. You made your choices, Granger. And this is where they got you.”
Finally, he slammed the book onto the examination table, stalking around it to retrieve his drink. He took a deep gulp, traces of some unknown, anonymous blood stained about his lips.
Hermione’s fists curled at her sides. “I didn’t get you into this mess.”
“No?” His voice dropped, low and dangerous. He licked his lips slowly, like the taste had steadied him. “Would you have said that to Hannah?”
Her blood froze.
But he didn’t stop.
“Or to Seamus?” he pressed, his jaw tightening. “Or any of the Muggles who got attacked, that you apparently care about so much about?”
Hermione’s heart panged in her chest, but he was already pushing past it.
“Oh, but Merlin forbid you upset Harry bloody Potter,” he slammed the goblet down. “Heaven forbid you treat me like someone who could actually solve this.”
Something shifted inside her, then. Draco had gone too far—too personal.
Before she even knew it was happening, a barrier snapped into place in her mind, sealing it shut. Locking it from him.
She stepped forward, gaze fixed on his.
“You bring up my dead friend to score a point?” Her voice was as precise as a scalpel. “Pathetic.” She blinked. “Even for you.”
Draco’s mouth curved. A real smirk. Like he had been waiting for that all night. “Oh no,” he pouted, voice thick with mock sympathy. “Did the big, bad Draco Malfoy say something nasty?” He tilted his head, watching her like he enjoyed every second. “Shocking.”
Hermione didn’t respond. She just turned her back on him and sank into her chair like she hadn’t just been in a fight, like he hadn’t gotten under her skin.
She opened a book. The rustle of pages was the only sound in the room. Her hands trembled—just once—before she stilled them.
“Back to your precious books then, Granger.” Draco scoffed, even as she turned away, determined to ignore him. “Ticking your boxes. Writing your little report. Doing everything ‘properly’ so no one questions your choices.”
He stepped closer, towering over her as she sat at the table, his voice curling like smoke. “It’s a liability,” he sneered. “You’re a liability.”
Hermione looked up slowly, that silver light flickering sharp in his grey eyes. Dangerous. Barely controlled.
But still, he must’ve been holding back, Hermione thought distantly, because somehow, she was able to resist its pull.
“You’re the liability, Malfoy,” she said softly. “Throwing a tantrum because I didn’t run to you first?” Her lashes lowered. “I should’ve known better. It is so like you, after all.”
He didn’t move. Still towering over her. “Don’t talk like you know me,” he growled. “You don’t.”
She didn’t flinch, still watching him from beneath her lashes. “You may be a bastard, Malfoy,” a faint smile twisting on her lips, “But this?” She gestured at the tension rolling off him. “This cruelty? It’s the transition. You haven’t completed it. And now it’s destroying you. Just like Eldred said it would.”
His jaw flexed, nostrils flaring.
Slowly, she rose from the chair, turning to face him, keeping her gaze locked onto his.
“And,” she breathed, “I know why you haven’t taken a Familiar. I did wonder if it was pride—that pure-blood ideology rearing its ugly head again.” She tutted. “I mean, it’s certainly not principle.” She huffed a laugh, closing on the last inches between them—close enough to feel the icy coldness radiating off his skin. “It’s because you’re afraid.”
He was silent, expressionless, watching her.
She lifted her chin, moving closer—now almost rising onto her toes. “Don’t like the idea of drinking someone’s blood? Well.” she said, eyes glittering and deadly, “Get. Over. It.”
Something flickered in his expression, then. His gaze lowered, the sharpness of his face softened.
Behind that cool mask and those burning silver eyes, Hermione could see something bloom—dark. Forbidden.
Heat flared low in her belly, fierce and burning. Her breath hitched; her lashes fluttered before she could stop herself.
The air between them tightened, charged like the sky before a storm. The air thinned as power rolled off him in waves—cold, and so dense it pressed against her like a second skin.
Danger. Her whole body lit up with it.
Fractionally, he leaned in.
Then the air snapped—loud and violent—tearing them apart. It was as if the storm had finally broken, and wind lashed her hair toward the space he’d left behind.
He whipped through the air and slammed into a pile of books, sending them skidding across the floor. Pages burst loose, scattering like startled birds. Around them, the creatures jolted awake, frantic from the noise.
Hermione exhaled, breath shaky, heart pounding high in her throat. Her body still hummed with tension, and nowhere to put it.
One second, he’d been right there—inches from her—and the next, gone. Torn away. It was like being doused in cold water mid-dream.
She glanced around the room. Loose papers drifted to the floor, the last of the chaos settling.
The Protego Charm had triggered. Again.
Brilliant, she thought bitterly. Just what they needed—more complications.
A groan sounded from across the room. Draco was sprawled in a mess of crumpled parchment—flat onto his back, hands resting lazily on his chest, like he’d only just laid down for a nap.
Then a sound reverbrated from his chest—low, ragged, and strange. A noise she’d never heard from him make before.
Hermione rushed to his side, stopping just short of touching him. “What is it?” she asked, breathless. “Are you hurt?”
Blood was already running from a cut above his brow, thick and dark against his pale skin. It slid down slowly, catching on his cheekbone before dripping to the floor.
He didn’t answer. His head tipped back, chest rising and falling like he’d been holding his breath—gasping, almost. Then came the flash of teeth: sharp, too bright.
Hermione’s brow furrowed. “Are you... are you laughing?”
Hermione frowned down at him, incredulously, as his whole face lit up with laughter. It took him a moment to catch his breath.
“Thank you, Granger,” he sighed, voice thick with satisfaction. “I think I needed that.”
“You just got thrown across the room,” she snapped, “And you’re bleeding—”
“And yet,” he exhaled, slowly sitting up, “I feel better than I have in days.”
Hermione stared at him like he’d grown a second head. The wound was already knitting closed, the skin smoothing over with unnatural speed. Yet somehow, he looked calm. Almost peaceful.
She huffed a sigh. “Are you insane?”
“Possibly,” he muttered. “But less than I was ten minutes ago.”
~*~
More days passed, marked by the soft pop of a cork; the scent of blood in the air.
Since losing the riddle, their only option had been to return to the books and search again. It felt like madness—cycling through the same pages, the same dust, hoping somehow, that they would find something more. But there was nothing else to chase; every lead had gone cold.
There wasn’t even a mention of Liliana Moroi—Eldred’s elusive vampire friend. Her vague threats back at the manor still echoed in Hermione’s mind, but whatever she’d been hinting at, the texts offered nothing. Not a word. In fact, records of vampire activity since her arrival in 1947 were sparse at best. It was as if their entire society had been practically asleep for half a century.
The beaded bag had fallen into disarray, not unlike her rented room before had Harry stepped in to clear it—Harry, who she'd barely seen since Grimmauld Place.
They’d only spoken once, a brief check-in at the Ministry. Cordial. Professional. Nothing more.
The one thing they could both agree on was that Goyle had stopped attacking. It had been almost two weeks since he’d gone after Seamus Finnigan—the longest stretch of quiet they’d had. Since his escape from the beaded bag, he’d practically vanished. No reports. No sightings.
Maybe they’d scared him off. But Hermione doubted it. He hadn’t looked afraid. Not even close.
She’d tried to bring up the riddle, tried to explain that she understood why they were frightened—she had been, too. But Harry shut her down almost immediately. He said he wanted to move on from that night, from Voldemort, from all of it.
And truly, how could she blame him?
The floor of the beaded bag was cluttered with books and scattered parchment, food wrappers, empty green bottles, and discarded jumpers and socks—both hers and Draco’s—dropped wherever they’d been shed.
It felt, absurdly, like they were living together. Closer than she’d ever been with Ron, if she was honest—though she was only just beginning to realise how absent she’d been from that home.
And since the night the Protego Charm had thrown Draco back, something between them had shifted. There was a kind of ease now—not comfort—Merlin, definitely not comfort, but a quiet recognition, as if that moment had forced them to see each other more clearly.
The spell had drawn a line between them, revealing the precise boundary of how far they could push before things broke.
Their limit.
She’d designed it to trigger if he advanced on her, but it hadn’t been his movement that set it off, she figured—too late of course. It was proximity alone that had crossed the threshold. She had been the one to stand, to close the space between them, to push them past the line.
And the charm had done exactly what it was built to do.
He hadn’t really moved. Just a breath—maybe. A twitch.
It wasn’t like he was going to do anything.
It wasn’t like he could.
“As much as you will hate to hear it, Granger—but,” he exhaled, “Will you take my hand?”
Hermione jolted, snapped out of her thoughts. “I beg your pardon?” she said, her voice a little too high.
He was standing right beside her, dressed in black, blocking out the lamplight. Her heart stuttered in her chest—and for the life of her, she couldn’t explain why it did.
“My hand,” he repeated, voice flat. “Since I can’t exactly reach out to yours now, can I?”
She just stared at him, her mouth slightly open. “Wh—why?”
His jaw tightened. “I have to go to Highgate,” he said bluntly, tugging at his collar like it had somehow offended him—just enough to reveal the faint scar that curved along the edge of his collarbone. “I’ve run out of blood.”
Hermione had spent the last week watching him drink—long, steady draughts, bottle after bottle, each one faster than the last. He reminded her of an addict, the way he seemed to savor every drop, like he both craved the high and feared the moment it would end.
“And since I can’t leave the bag without your permission…” he said, bitter at first, though his tone softened as he looked at her. “Will you take my hand?”
He held it out slowly, fingers unfurling with precise control. His expression was steady, totally blank, as he waited for her to respond.
Hermione narrowed her gaze upon that pale hand, but her fingers gripped tighter around her book. “You’re going to Bathory’s…” she said, voice low, eyes flicking back up to meet his. “Without me?”
He smirked, dropping his hand with deliberate flair. “What’s the matter? Afraid you’ll miss me?”
Hermione slammed her book shut and stood so fast the chair scraped back behind her. “You’re not going without me, Malfoy.”
“I can manage quite well without a babysitter, you know.”
Of course he could. Merlin knew he probably handled it better than she did. But still… Dilacrians were a barely understood creature, and until she knew exactly what the risks were, she had no choice but to monitor him closely. Constantly.
“In fact,” he added, his smile spreading—sharp and white—“your absence might even improve the experience.”
“You’re still under my care. Anything could—” She stopped herself, clamping down before it started to sound like she actually cared about his wellbeing. “You could do anything,” she said briskly. “Do you really think I’m going to let you wander around—alone—near others, when you’re this unstable?”
“Oh, thank you for the vote of confidence, Granger.” Draco rolled his eyes. “I think I’ve been managing just fine—given the circumstances.”
“That’s not reassuring,” she snapped, already pulling on her shoes. “It’s too risky, Malfoy.” Her voice was firm, clipped. “Anyway. I need to go to Bathory’s because… I’ve been thinking.”
“Merlin help us,” he muttered, dragging a hand through his hair. “I knew you were going to make this difficult.”
She ignored him. “Maybe… maybe we should ask where Bathory’s sourcing the blood.”
Over the past week, Hermione had begun to seriously question how the blood at Bathory’s Bloode’s was sourced. It had to come from somewhere—someone. There had to be an official system in place, Ministry approved, that ensured it was taken safely, and only from willing donors.
She hesitated, then said quietly, “What if you could drink directly from one of them?”
The thought made her stomach turn, but she shoved the feeling down and slowly lifted her eyes to meet his.
His had already gone dark.
“It would only need to be once,” she said quickly, reaching for her coat and slipping it on—mostly to avoid his stare. “Just enough to complete the transition. After that, you could go back to bottled blood. Like before.”
“And you think he’s just going to hand over that information?” His voice was flat, unimpressed.
“Well…” She hesitated. He was going to love this way too much. “Maybe you could ask him.” Her voice came out far smaller than she intended.
Draco frowned. “Ask him?”
“You know,” she muttered, still avoiding his eyes as she fussed with the purple scarf looped around her neck. “The way you do it… just to be sure.”
That flicker of irritation vanished, replaced by a slow, devious smile. “Are you telling me to use Compulsion, Granger?”
“Shut up, Malfoy,” she hissed, glancing around as if someone might actually be listening in.
His eyes gleamed, clearly enjoying every second of this. “I’m beginning to think I’m a bad influence.”
She let out a sharp breath. “It should only be used sparingly,” she muttered, finally meeting his gaze. “You know—only when there’s no other choice.”
“Just a little rule-breaking, then.” He was really smiling now, and that’s when she noticed it—a faint dimple in his right cheek. She hadn’t seen it before, and for some reason, it annoyed her. “Only when it suits,” he added with a wink.
“It’s dangerous for you not to complete your transition, Malfoy.”
His smile dropped, and with it, that faint dimple vanished. His jaw tightened. “Fine,” he said quietly.
It seemed her not-so-subtle suggestion—that Draco’s refusal to drink from the vein came down to cowardice—had done the trick.
“Good,” she replied, firm. But for some reason, it didn’t feel like a win. Not at all.
“But I’m not making any promises,” he muttered. “Fuck knows where—or who—they get it from. I’d like to know first.”
First. Obviously.
“Right. Well.” Hermione straightened her coat and stepped stiffly toward Draco, willing herself not to overthink what came next.
Her hand hovered in the air before she reached out—quickly, almost defensively—as if to prove that there was no reason she should feel anything at all.
She let her fingers curl around his. He didn’t move—his hand cold and still—but somehow, a jolt of heat shot up her arm, winding into her chest and catching at her throat.
She exhaled hard, trying to clear the tension from her body, then grabbed the rope above them, yanking them both from the bag in one swift motion.
As soon as they landed in her rented room, Hermione heard it—a strange, distant noise, like the echo of a Quidditch match heard from just outside the pitch. Muffled shouting. Raised voices.
Draco went still beside her, every muscle locked. He was clearly picking up more than she could.
“What is that?” Hermione whispered, barely more than a breath.
He didn’t answer.
Before she could think, his grip tightened around her hand—and then he pulled.
Draco shot out of the rented room at full speed, dragging her behind him so fast her feet left the ground.
“Malfoy—!” she cried, but he didn’t stop. The world blurred.
They tore through the Leaky Cauldron, past the courtyard, and out into the street, wind roaring in her ears. All she could see were his boots pounding the pavement ahead of her. It felt like being launched from a broomstick—falling endlessly without a safety net.
He came to a sudden stop, pulling them into a narrow alcove off Diagon Alley.
The shouting was louder now—right by her ear. Hermione tried to steady herself, but her thoughts were spinning, scattered. Overhead, the stars glittered in the black sky, turning like the hands of a clock.
She leaned hard against the wall, forcing herself to focus. “At least warn me next time—” she breathed, her chest rising and falling rapidly.
“Keep back,” Draco growled, finally answering her. His eyes focused entirely on what was unfolding beside them.
Aurors were scattered across Diagon Alley, wands drawn, shouting commands over the rising noise. They were clustered at the fork in the street, moving into a synchronized formation—as if bracing for something about to break loose.
“Hermione!”
She whipped her head toward the voice. Harry was pushing through the crowd, having broken away from the order—wand raised.
Without warning, Draco let go of her hand, flinging it aside, as if even touching her was something he couldn’t stomach.
Hermione shot him a sharp, daggered look.
“You shouldn’t be here!” Harry called out, breathless. His eyes cut to Draco. “And neither should you,” he added, voice lower, more controlled.
Draco didn’t flinch. “Get back to work, Potter,” he said sharply. “You’ve got more important things to deal with.” He jerked his chin toward the building just ahead, where a stream of goblins was now pouring out through the double doors in a frenzy.
Gringotts.
“Has someone broken in?” Hermione breathed. A memory flashed through her mind—She, Harry and Ron, breaking into Bellatrix Lestrange’s vault to find Helga Hufflepuff’s cup—to find the splintered part of Voldemort’s soul.
Harry opened his mouth to answer, but a bolt of red light cracked overhead, ricocheting off the cluster of goblins still fleeing the building—sprinting like their lives depended on it.
More spells exploded through the air—defensive wards, offensive curses—all of them repelled instantly, scattering like broken fireworks across the street.
Harry darted into the alcove, wand raised, shielding Hermione from the chaos. But she stepped around him, drew her own wand, and—
Then she saw him. Sauntering through the double doors of Gringotts as if it were nothing at all.
Antonin Dolohov. With four gleaming fangs flashing between his lips.