Förgätmigej

“Hermione!”

Hurling Myrtle into the girl’s bathroom, Hermione ignores her protests.

The door slams shut behind Hermione. Waving her wand, Hermione locks the door. Not that anyone found themselves wandering into the second floor girl’s lavatory. It was out of order most of the time.

Hermione turns, flashing an accusatory look at Myrtle.

“Myrtle,” she warns, “show me what’s on your neck.”

Flushing a bright red, Myrtle shakes her head shyly, further pushing her shirt down her throat, revealing the edge of a red spot.

Hermione twitches, fighting the urge to strike Myrtle into sanity.

Impatiently, Hermione jabs her wand into Myrtle’s direction. “What were you doing with Riddle?”

“‘Mione… I can’t say.” 

Tucking her wand away, Hermione surges forward and seizes Myrtle by her collar. She paws at Hermione, attempting to push her away. Hermione only tightens her grip, her knuckles whitening around Myrtle’s shirt.

Pants and huffs fill the silence, the scuffling of their feet sliding on the damp bathroom floor.

Hermione plants her feet into the floor and shoves Myrtle forward.

Myrtle yelps as her back bends over the sink, and she catches herself on the porcelain basin. A crack. Whether it was from Myrtle’s bones or the sink, Hermione can’t bring herself to care. The Ravenclaw writhes, arms clutching her stomach.

Spotting an opening, Hermione storms forward and rips Myrtle’s collar further, flipping it open to access the pale flesh of her neck. 

Two blossoming red splotches litter the base of Myrtle’s throat, just below her larynx. Hickies. They glow shades of pink and purple in the dark bathroom lighting. Still pinned against the cracked sink, Myrtle squirms beneath Hermione’s hands. Burst blood vessels glitter beneath Myrtle’s skin.

Eyes trailing down, Hermione hooks a finger against Myrtle’s shirt and moves it aside, further and further until Hermione’s eyes widen with recognition.

A two-holed, fanged bite mark is on Myrtle’s neck, right where her jugular vein bulges.

Hermione starts to feel lightheaded.

She swallows thickly and pushes off of Myrtle, shutting her eyes. The smell of blood swims up her nostrils and into her brain; the punch of iron is tantalizing. 

“He didn’t see it. Right?” Hermione breathes out, feeling faint.

Back towards Myrtle, Hermione hears ruffling fabric as Myrtle pulls herself together. Water squeaks beneath Hermione’s neat black shoes.

“Is that what you were worried about?” Myrtle hisses, slipping her tie around her collar.

“Did he see it?”

“‘Mione, we were having such a good time that I doubt he was focused on anything else.” 

Hermione did doubt.

Tom Riddle did not have good times. Tom Riddle did not disappear into brooms closets. 

But she kept quiet, filing away the thought.

“Listen, ‘Mione, if Tom had seen your bite mark then he would have surely said something. I know I would have. He would have screamed or pushed me away. But he didn’t.”

Hermione peels her eyes open and wheels around to glare at Myrtle.

Even if he had seen it, would Riddle have said anything? 

“Myrtle. You need to be more careful.” Hermione says harshly. “As much as I will be incriminated, you will also be charged for aiding and collaborating with a vampire, as well as failing to report to the authorities a concealed identity. You won’t find much empathy in court as a Muggleborn, either.”

For a moment, the weight of her risk seems to dawn on Myrtle. Her eyes seem to cloud as she mulls it over. But before Hermione can spew another stream of warnings, Myrtle bristles with anger.

She fixes her glasses.

“Thanks for reminding me that I’m not your friend, but your accomplice.” Myrtle spits. 

There’s a sinking feeling in her stomach: helplessness, because as much as Hermione loathes to admit it, she needs Myrtle. Needs her compliance.

Hermione sighs and recollects herself, forcing an apologetic smile.

“I’m sorry, Myrtle. I just don’t want to get you in trouble.” Hermione plasters a frown onto her face.

Myrtle’s expression softens as her eyes water. She flies forward, dragging Hermione into a hug.

Hermione grimaces as Myrtle buries her face into Hermione’s shoulder.

“‘Mione, you’re all I have.” She whimpers, sniffling.

Tears dampen the fabric bunching at Hermione’s shoulders, and Hermione prays Myrtle would pull away at any second. Hermione reluctantly pats Myrtle’s back, imitating the ways Molly Weasley would comfort Ron when he had lost a quidditch game. That damn Mama’s Boy.

“Everyone calls me Moaning Myrtle and Anthony Goldstein won’t stop hexing me in the hallways.” Though the two were muggleborns, Hermione was the one spared from harassment and permanent hazing, which she chalked up to her inability to stand out. Myrtle was not as lucky. 

“And some Slytherin stole my glasses during lunch—”

There was a low, hissing sound. It was reverberating in the walls, vibrating the floor.

Hermione slowly pulls away from Myrtle.

“Myrtle. Shut up for a second,” Hermione snaps.

Myrtle looks at her quizzically, opening her mouth to protest. Hermione treads around the bathroom, water squeaking beneath her shoes.

“Do you hear that?” Hermione asks.

The hissing was muted, barely audible. She could hear it from all sides, as if it was coming from everywhere all at once.

“Hermione, I know being a vampire heightens your hearing and all, but this is—”

Raising a hand, Hermione silences Myrtle.

The pipes creak.

“Did you hear that?” Hermione meanders along the sinks, trying to focus on the source of the fizzing sound.

“‘Mione, what are you talking about?” 

“The pipes—in the walls, there’s something… hissing”

Creaking.

Slithering.

“Maybe the water system is faulty. You know this bathroom is always broken.”

The hissing stops. Water drips from the faucet at a painfully slow pace. 

“Are you tired, Hermione? It’s been days since you last fed. I think you’re going a bit delirious.”

Hermione sighs in the silence. The creaking had ceased and the absence of it was noticeable. The dripping faucet and the squeaky stall doors was all.

“I’m not feasting because I’m trying to see how long I can go. I’ve been testing some new potions and pills,” Hermione explains. “Trying to find an alternative.”

“Oh. So that’s why you seem a bit…”

“High-strung? Myrtle, you risked our secret. I don’t mean to insult you but, Riddle isn’t the type of person to—”

“To what, Hermione,” Myrtle snaps. 

Hermione shuts her mouth, teeth clanging. Hurt was written on Myrtle’s face, and her eyes were filled with shock as if Hermione had just slapped her.

“Tell me, Hermione. Riddle isn’t the person to snog a person like me?” Myrtle’s ugly teeth peek through her lips.

Hermione cringes.

“You know that’s not what I meant—”

Except, it was exactly what she meant. And that was why it was troubling. 

Myrtle storms past her, bumping shoulders hard enough to knock Hermione off balance.

Inwardly cursing, Hermione grips the bathroom sink. 

She would need to feign an apology to Myrtle, tail between her legs. Not because she was sorry, not because she felt bad, but because she needed Myrtle.

Needed her blood.

***

She couldn’t concentrate, and for the upteenth time, she sighs.

Myrtle had consequently disappeared, out of Hermione’s sights and as far as she knew, out of everyone else’s sights. Parvati and Lavender shook their heads when Hermione asked if they had seen the Ravenclaw. As sympathetic as they seemed, Hermione could tell that they didn’t carry an ounce of concern. And when she asked Ron, she could tell he was resisting the urge to scold her for fighting with her friends again.

Hermione couldn’t ask any of Myrtle’s friends, simply because she didn’t have any. Which was a silver lining, given it was the gate preventing Myrtle from accidentally letting it slip that Hermione had been sucking her blood since their first year.

And what made it even more dire, was the dizzy spell when Hermione stood up, or the weak fist which she gripped her quill with. No matter how much food she forked into her mouth, Hermione could not deny the weakness burning her body. The last feed was days ago.

She needed to find Myrtle.

Friday classes were drudgery.

With all the students restless to get off class and enjoy their weekend, none of them could sit still.

Hermione was seated at one of the front desks, Parvati scribbling notes next to her. Her leg jumps up and down, nervously jiggling.

Class had started five minutes ago.

She turns, peering over her shoulder at Myrtle’s empty seat.

Professor Slughorn takes notice too, as the absent student was creating a noticeable hole in the packed classroom. Hermione drums her fingers against her desk.

“No Warren?”

Students avert their gazes, staring at their shoes or dozing off. Hermione furrows her eyebrows.

“Has anyone seen Miss Warren?” Slughorn asks.

Keeping quiet, Hermione purses her lips and fixes her gaze on the professor. 

A yawn cuts the silence. Clearly, no one was at all interested.

Slughorn waits, scanning the classroom, his eyes occasionally jumping to the direction of the classroom door, as though Myrtle would come flying in. The unresponsive students prompt Slughorn to grumble, as he marks off the attendance.

Hermione leans towards Parvati, nervously shooting glances at the classroom door.

“Did Riddle say anything to you, when he was with Myrtle?” Hermione whispers.

Parvati looks up from her papers, her face contemplative. “Not really, it looked like they were just wandering the hallways, but as soon as we saw him, they disappeared.”

Nodding, Hermione sits straight, just as Slughorn returns his attention to the class, clapping his hands and starting the lecture.

Riddle and Myrtle were wandering the hallways. Surely, the Head Boy would know they would be seen. He had to be aware that they were in plain sight. 

Perhaps he did want to get caught. Not to mention, the two had exited a brooms closet just as Hermione was looking for them. How opportune.

Strangely, he should not have wanted to get caught. It was breaking all common logic. He was the Head Boy, and froliciking within broomsclosets to snog was condemnatory. Punishments could ensue for student leaders who slacked on the job. Additionally, the underbelly of the beast was Myrtle Warren herself. Tom Riddle, who had undoubtedly curated his personal social circle with wealthy pureblood Slytherins who likely had the Habsburg Jaw, made clear his motivations in making friends. Myrtle was an outcasted muggleborn, and in the pageantry that was society, was not all that pleasing to look at.

It was not an accident. 

Hermione grimaces.

***

Harry and Ron looked sorry enough, groveling in front of Hermione with fistfuls of galleons.

“‘Mione c’mon, one butterbeer won’t hurt,” Ron wheezes. “You looked drained , Hermione. You could use this, really.”

Unfortunately, Myrtle was the only one who could help with Hermione’s fatigued expression. Hermione stares at the two boys, who sat on the opposite side of the table with pleading eyes. She wasn’t quite in the mood to explain that butterbeer would do nothing for her.

Harry and Ron had insisted on a group outing to Hogsmeade. Half-expecting Ron to drag the entire Gryffindor Quidditch team along again, Hermione politely declined. Studying was difficult in the company of rowdy quidditch players. Harry then promised that it was going to just be the three of them. Ron, himself, and Hermione. Like good old times. The Golden Trio.

Truth be told, she wasn’t quite sure when people started to call them the “Golden Trio.” She thought it to be quite tacky. But she thinks the name started to catch on just as Hermione was drifting farther away, which seemed ironic given they were supposedly a trio.

Harry and Ron were getting more and more reckless with the years, and Hermione, more cautious. She didn’t want to break into the Shrieking Shack, she didn’t want to hide mandrakes in the kitchen to scare the elves, and she certainly didn’t want to get caught. As she got older, she became cursed with the conscience to grasp what anti-vampire legislation meant. Laying low was the default.

But somehow, Hermione, still clutching her books and papers, was strung along with Harry and Ron. She could have denied harder, could have easily lied, but she allowed them to drag her. She thinks it might have been affection.

“One butterbeer won’t hurt, but it won’t benefit me,” she counters, slamming her books down on the table.

Ron groans.

“Loosen up ‘Mione,” Harry suggests.

Hermione narrows her eyes.

“It’s not that strong,” Ron insists.

She was not willing to run her mouth tipsy. She did not have that liberty.

“Next time, boys.” Hermione smiles.

Ron slumps in his seat, sinking down. Harry sighs.

Hermione leans back, crossing her arms decidedly. 

Her nape prickles. Hermione’s eyes skim the room. A shadow flits by the window. Spine creaking, she immediately straightens. 

“Harry, Ron, wait here.” Hermione leaps from her seat, slamming her hands on the table.

The two stare up at her with surprise.

“‘Mione, you’re ditching us?” Ron protests, grabbing at Hermione’s arm, pulling her back.

She purses her lips tightly, attempting to keep herself from uttering a hex.

“Ronald. I’m not ditching. ” Hermione yanks her arm from Ron’s grasp. “I need to… pick up some butterbeers for the two of you. My treat.” She flashes a quick smile and before they can protest, she briskly walks past them.

From wall to wall, Hermione’s eyes flutter, scanning the customers. The clientele was as bland as it was on a Saturday. Fellow Hogwarts students sat clustered in a corner, and older witches and wizards sat in small groups, often of two or three.

Hermione walks aimlessly to the bar, her ears tuning into the amble chatter of nearby customers.

Indeed, she did intend to buy butterbeers for Ron and Harry, though she would mourn the loss of her well-earned galleons, but there was going to be a detour. Someone was here. Hope fills her chest, pushing down the chilling feeling that someone else was following her. It had to be Myrtle. It was time for a feed.

Arriving at the bar, Hermione drums her fingers against the cool wooden table, craning her neck to peer over the sea of heads.

“What can I do for you?” Madam Rosmerta appeared in front of Hermione.

Still twisting her neck to peer at the Inn’s visitors, Hermione waves her hand. “Two butterbeers, please.” Absent-mindedly, Hermione grabs her coin purse and empties a handful of galleons on the table.

Madam Rosmerta counts them in her palm before sliding the change back to Hermione.

“Looking for someone?” She asks.

Hermione whips her head forward. “No.”

Madam Rosmerta shoots her a questioning look before sauntering off, presumably to make the butterbeers. 

Hermione turns, deciding to comb through the crowd for Myrtle, when she nearly plants face-first into a passerby. She jumps back to avoid a frontal collision.

A bundle of newspapers falls to the floor in the scuffle, and Hermione reflexively bends down to retrieve it, snatching it from the floor and brushing off the dust.

She mutters an apology, holding the newspaper in front of her.

The sharp mint smell hits her.

“Granger,” Riddle says pleasantly.

Hermione’s face hardens, hands fall to her side, newspaper clutched. The paper crinkles beneath her fingers. She thinks of the repulsive marks on Myrtle. 

“Pleasure to see you here,” he says cheerfully.

“I see we share the same sentiment,” Hermione comments, her tone affronted.

Riddle, ignoring the distaste in her voice, glances at the bar, then back at Hermione. “A Hogsmeade excursion?”

She eyes him defensively. He was pointing out the obvious, directing the conversation once again.

“I’m not an uptight Head Boy, I rather think weekend getaways can be quite therapeutic for students. A healthy work-life balance is necessary,” he muses. 

Hermione remains silent. She thinks of Myrtle, and the bite mark impaled into her skin, inches below the hickies.

“And what does the Head Boy do on the weekends?” Hermione asks unassumingly.

Riddle looks amused. She shifts nervously.

“I read,” he says easily. “In fact, that newspaper you’re holding is quite the story.”

Hermione pauses, staring at him blankly. His expression said it all: go on, read it.

A sinking feeling forms in the pit of her stomach. She didn’t want to indulge Riddle in his expertly polished conversation, his guileless smiles. But she felt as if she had to.

Trapped.

She unfolds the newspaper, glancing at Riddle warily before reading the title.

The Prophet: Vigilante Vampires Finally Sent to Azkaban, Ministry Victory!

The faces of two vampires are printed into the newspaper, the mugshot rotating in its magical video-photograph. Haggard, the vampires are undeniably disgusting. Their teeth are crooked, sharpened all over and uneven. An unkempt stubble paints the chins of the vampires. But beneath it all, they seemed just as human as Hermione. Which she wasn’t, but she certainly pulled it off. All to say, there was no noticeable physical distinction between vampires and humans.

She bristles without thinking. Clearly, these vampire inmates had been held in Azkaban for some time, their faces grey and thin as skulls. They were strategically photographed after losing the life in them, making them seem even more subhuman. 

Right before their Dementor’s Kiss.

Why was Riddle showing her this?

Hermione freezes. Her knuckles gleam white as her hands ball into fists, wrinkling the newspaper in them. Normally, she couldn’t bear to crease reading materials, but Riddle doesn’t seem to mind. Not at all.

“Would you care to tell me what your stance is on the matter? I do believe a bit of healthy discourse is needed.” 

She can hear the careful tension in his words, the precise pauses and polite tone. As if he meant not to infringe, and this was some passing news. 

Panic wraps around her throat, constricting her breathing. Forcing her hands not to tremble, Hermione folds the newspaper slowly, fingertips brushing against the rough parchment. She matches Riddle’s probing gaze with the tilt of her head. 

It had to be nothing.

With a grounding breath, Hermione recollects herself.

“I find the Ministry’s treatment of magical beings to be reprehensible, corrupt, if I may.” 

Her response is typical, nothing short of Hermione’s public image.

But Riddle doesn’t seem convinced. He should be.

Hermione stiffens at the apprehensive glint in his eyes,

“I have great empathy for all magical beings,” Hermione clarifies, hoping the lessened focus on vampires might convince Riddle.

“And are you advocating for vampires out of empathy, or is it something more?” His lips curl into a smile.

The hairs on her forearm spike.

The question was crowding her into a corner, daring to make an unspeakable assumption—

“I only mean, perhaps you relate to them, see a bit of yourself in the underdogs,” he says nonchalantly.

He had made an incriminating implication, then drew back with a small comment. He was playing her. Plunging her into ice cold water and then yanking her out.

She swallows thickly, painfully.

“What were you doing with Myrtle in that brooms closet?” Her voice comes out calm, steady, but her breathing is ragged.

Riddle’s lips press into the beginnings of a sneer, before slipping into another restrained smile. The shift is imperceptible.

She holds her breath, as if he might say something so horrible that she should exhale with fright.

He leans forward. Hermione freezes, catatonic.

His head slots next to hers, hovering above her shoulder, breath warm in her ear.

“Why don’t you ask Myrtle yourself?”

Cold, slender fingers brush against hers as Riddle takes the newspaper from her tense grip. He sides-steps her frozen form, gliding past her like a ghost.

Hermione could not get caught.

The haunting, lifeless grey faces of the two vampires float into her thoughts.