Förgätmigej

Myrtle has been dead for over a day and Hermione’s body starts to deteriorate. 

The blood is drained from her face, leaving her ashen and grey. A little bit like Myrtle’s dead body.

Between lugging herself to classes and sleeping, Hermione’s thoughts revolve around finding a solution to her problem. She didn’t know how much time she had left. And Hermione did not like the feeling of not knowing.

It had been less than a week since the last feed, but the life was draining from Hermione at an exponential rate. 

The thought of dying was so strange and foreign and far away that Hermione couldn’t be panicked. It didn’t seem… possible.

She hadn’t thought of dying.

She couldn’t die. 

Dying happened to people like Myrtle Warren.

Blood pills were losing their effect, and as her intake increased with her exhaustion, her body grew greedier, thirstier. Her supply was limited, as they were not only taboo but getting harder to acquire. Not to mention incredibly expensive. It was a risk, buying them under the table at the dingiest spots in Knockturn Alley. 

Days were blurring. 

Days were limited.

Hermione’s singular plan was to request a sick leave, return to the muggle city and take advantage of her magic to find an unassuming person, suck their blood, then obliviate. Obliviate, and it would not have even happened. Scarring occurred after repeat bites, when her fangs would sink the flesh, preventing healing. Hermione did not have to worry about marks. They would fade over time. As long as she did not bite the same person repeatedly. The human body heals.

But in the wizarding world, they would fight back. Hermione could take on someone lesser, weaker, inexperienced, but with her current state, she couldn’t win a duel against a house elf. She was given a dangerous advantage among muggles.

As she limps into the Great Hall, she doesn’t bother hiding her exhaustion.

“Hermione, you look…” Lavender trails off, eyes scanning her.

She sends Lavender a grim smile, practically collapsing into her seat.

The rest of the table turn their heads to look at Hermione, eyes glued to the spectacle. The entire school was transfixed with Myrtle’s sudden passing, and by proxy, Hermine was subject to their gossip. Undoubtedly, Hermione looked awful. She knew it. 

Dull skin, dark circles, drooping eyelids, chapped lips. Hermione’s already frizzy hair was losing its life, sagging against her shoulders limply. 

“Merlin, are you sure you don’t want some of my sandwich?” Lavender eyes Hermione’s bare plate of toast suspiciously. Hermione shakes her head weakly. Harry’s expression is still, almost angry.

“Hermione, do you want me to get you some food?” Ron asks, sliding down the bench to place a comforting hand on her shoulder.

Worry and concern was evident in everyone’s eyes, even the occasional bystander. 

“I know everything’s been really difficult lately.” Ron squeezes her shoulder gently. Hermione feels as though her bone might melt beneath the pressure. “Just… make sure to eat your meals.” His words are robotic and stiff, lips already pressing into a frown.

Hermione smiles weakly.

“Thanks, Ron.”

He never really quite knew how to express himself, but the awkward act itself was an indication that he cared.

It was funny, the attention she got just from looking sick and having a dead friend. The flowers, the cards, the chocolates, the words of sympathy, the sorry expressions. She hopes more of her friends might die. 

Hermione grabs parchment and a quill from her bag, setting it out in front of her, nudging her plate away.

Harry, Ron, and Lavender are still staring, peering over Hermione’s hand to glimpse at her paper.

“What are you writing?” Lavender asks.

Hermione smiles. She could always expect predictability from Lavender, who couldn’t help but be curious.

“I’m requesting a leave,” Hermione answers coolly.

Harry and Ron widen their eyes, exchanging shocked looks. Lavender’s hand clamps over her mouth. Oddly, they were giving more reaction to Hermione leaving than Myrtle’s death. She was counting on Lavender’s gossiping nature, she needed Lavender to ask Hermione. It would be embarrassing to announce it herself, to assume that they would care. Prompting them to ask her was safer. 

This was the simplest way to ease Hermione’s disappearance. She couldn’t be bothered to sit them down for a heartfelt conversation. She had better things to do than play pretend.

“What?” Ron demands. His face is flushed. Hermione sighs, staring at the blank sleeve of parchment in front of her.

“Hermione. You can’t leave,” Harry adds.

“I—I have to go home.” She’s surprised that she stutters. Was she losing the strength to speak? Or was she so enveloped in her own little play that she unknowingly became emotional. She hopes it was the former. Hermione did not stutter. 

“Because Myrtle died?” Ron pushes his ginger hair back frustratedly, clearly baffled.

Hermione narrows her eyes.

“Ron,” Harry warns, turning to Hermione. “I understand that this is a lot to process. But you can’t just… go home.”

Her heart swells with indignation, offended that Harry thought he had power to keep Hermione from leaving. She knows she should have felt tenderness, fondness for her friends that wanted her to stay, that wanted to be with her.

But they’re doubting her. Doubting her judgement. As if they knew the risks Hermione exposed herself to daily. They didn’t know. They lived their lives with little maintenance.

They thought they knew better than Hermione.

Hermione knows better.

Always.

Before her lips can curl into a sneer, she forces herself to breathe.

“I can go home. And I think I need to,” she reiterates. 

Ron’s face scrunches with disbelief. Hermione forces herself to look away from the vein bulging on the redhead's neck.

“I won’t be gone for long,” she adds.

“How long? Hermione, what about school? What about S.P.E.W? What about us? ” Harry drops all composure, his voice shaking and scared and unsure and clearly bothered by Hermione’s dead look.

Frankly, the only thing she cared about was school. But she knew she was leagues ahead, both in classes and requirements. She could easily catch up once— if she returned. 

Additionally, ‘us’ did not exist. Hermione is not a part of the collective ‘ us.’ It was her and them. She is not a part of what Harry, Ron, and Lavender are. She would never be.

Hermione had to leave. She was left with no choice. Physically, she was started to show signs of exhaustion. She nodded off into sleep during class and casting spells was getting more and more difficult.

“I’ll come back as soon as I can.” I’ll come back as soon as I find a solution. Another source.

“And you’re telling us this now? ” Ron says shrilly.

“Would you rather I tell you once Dumbledore permits the leave of absence? Once I’ve already packed my bags? Or would you rather I tell you when I’m already gone, with an owl and a letter.” Her voice is cold, shocking her friends. 

Fortunately, Lavender knows her place, as she goes silent, avoiding eye contact with Hermione. Harry and Ron were closer to Hermione—in their own little worlds they were, and this was clearly developing into an argument that involved the trio of ‘ close’ friends. 

“Myrtle’s dead. ” The words slip out of Hermione’s mouth, and this time, she’s being truthful. “Myrtle’s dead and she’s not coming back.”

A wave of despair falls over her.

She hates this. Hates that she has to run . This is her reality.

Harry and Ron look worried. That Hermione might disappear from their lives forever. They must be upset that she won’t be around to do their homework. The thought alone sends her body recoiling in disgust. But that can’t be right. Because she struggles to remember the last time they had taken advantage of her. It had happened, because her body remembers the anger.

She thinks she might be clinging to that memory.

“I’m sorry,” Harry musters.

She’s been hearing that a lot lately. It doesn’t seem to mean anything. Hermione scrunches her face in distaste. It sounds ugly now. 

“I just want to know what’s going on. We’re worried.” Harry picks his words carefully, his eyes darting to Lavender. Clearly, there was more he wanted to say, but not in front of this outsider. It almost makes Hermione laugh, as if Lavender was the outsider and not her.

“Hermione, you can’t—” Ron abruptly stands. Hermione does not turn to look at him. He rubs his forehead, shaking his head vehemently in disbelief. 

Then he leaves.

And as he leaves, Hermione realizes that she hates him.

Harry is torn, he stares at Hermione, hurt shining in his green eyes, but he glances towards the Great Hall doors, watching as Ron walks further and further away.

Harry’s decision is clear. Because he, too, gets up.

And leaves.

And as he leaves, Hermione realizes that she hates him too.

Lavender follows Harry.

Hermione doesn’t bother calling out to them, she doesn’t turn over her shoulder to witness them desert her. She’s not that pathetic. She refuses. Because she is nothing to them and they are nothing to her. Hermione is above that.

She hates Ronald Weasley. She hates Harry Potter. She hates Lavender Brown.  

She hates herself. Hates that she is a vampire and that she is Hermione Granger.

The rest of the Gryffindors scoot further down the bench, pretending to be enraptured by conversation. Hermione doesn’t mind.

None of this mattered. Not after she would leave. Inwardly, she was preparing herself for the departure. It felt as though half of herself was already gone, mingling in muggle London, concealing her magic and itching for her wand. 

But a thought looms over her head. That she might really be escaping from something else. Some one else.

With no company, there are no bodies to block her vision of the Slytherin table.

And Riddle is there.

Collar pushed aside. Tie hung loose. Jugular revealed. His flesh shines and basks for her; veins green and snarled around his neck like vines. There is a delicacy to the sheerness of his skin, almost brandishing how easily it would tear under Hermione’s teeth.

Back towards her, his head is turned to the side, innocently entertaining conversation with the Slytherin next to him. She cannot help but see his bared neck, his blatant offense to the dress code. The Prefect in her thinks it to be tragic.

He must know. 

He moves with deliberation, intent. He slides a hand up his neck, rests it below his clear-cut jaw, and caresses his neck. Draped over his nape, his black curls catch and cling to the roaming fingers. Skin too supple and veins too plump. 

Hermione’s canine grazes against her tongue. 

Lunch has never been this riveting. Intentional dress code violations never this enchanting.

He must know she’s staring. The subtle, satisfied twitch of his lips tell her so.

Riddle—who never yawns—yawns. Pink lips part. He stretches his neck. The disheveled white collar of his uniform slips farther down, revealing throbbing veins. Red dusts his pale, ivory skin. A flirtation from blood. 

Hermione licks her lips.

She grinds her jaw, hoping to relieve the pressure in her teeth and mimic the biting sensation. It does little to help. Gaze transfixed on Riddle, her eyes following his actions studiously. 

It doesn’t make sense for the Head Boy to break the dress code this blatantly. 

Hermione’s teeth ache, and she forces herself to look away. Weakly, she tightens her grip on the quill, forcing herself to start the beginnings of her letter. 

***

“I’m Rita.” The witch stabs her hand into Hermione’s direction, then smiles. “Rita Skeeter.”

“Pleasure,” Hermione shakes her hand apprehensively.

Rita’s grip is firm, sharp nails digging into Hermine’s skin. Hermione weakly wrenches her hand away from Rita’s, and they take their seats. They’re situated in an empty classroom, Rita with her quill and parchment.

“I’m Hermione—

“Hermione Granger, yes, I know.” Rita readjusts her grip on the quill. “The close and only friend of young Miss Warren.”

Stifling a grimace, Hermione nods.

“So, Hermione—can I call you that?” Rita doesn’t wait for Hermione’s answer. “How have you been?”

Hermione almost responds with ‘ fine.’

“It’s been rough.”

Rita nods sympathetically, jotting down something on her parchment. Hermione had not even said anything of substance. She furrows her eyebrows, squinting to try and make out what Rita was writing.

“How long have you been friends with Miss Warren?”

“Since our first year at Hogwarts. About five years”

“What brought the two of you together?”

“Blood status,” she says plainly. “There were very few muggleborns in our year. Fewer in our respective Houses.”

It sounds reasonable enough, because Rita seems convinced, scribbling long, elaborate sentences into her parchment. Strangely, Hermione had not said enough words to warrant the amount Rita was writing.

“I hear Myrtle was bullied,” Rita says abruptly.

Hermione pauses at that.

The school wanted a testimony, proof that Hogwarts was not a breeding ground for malicious activity. 

“Myrtle…” Hermione inhales slowly, gathering the right wording. “Myrtle found it difficult to make friends.”

“Miss Granger. You’re not answering my question. Was Myrtle was bullied?”

Hermione leans back in her chair, staring at the blonde lady, who’s smile looked vicious. 

“Myrtle found it difficult to make friends.” Hermione restates, voice calm.

Rita sighs slowly, quill scratching into her notepad. She dots a period, digging the nib of the quill into the paper, before grabbing a photo from the inner pocket of her blazer and sliding it on the table towards Hermione.

“Now, this is the picture of Myrtle issued to be in the paper.”

Hermione stares blankly. It was Myrtle’s yearbook photo. Her hair was tied into low pigtails, twirling down her neck and onto her shoulders. Round glasses similar to Harry’s were perched on her thin nose bridge. 

“Can you say anything about this photo?” Rita asks.

“This is her yearbook photo.”

“I meant her appearance.”

“I don’t see how that would be relevant.”

“Was Myrtle bullied for her looks?”

That shuts Hermione up. Her mouth parts slightly.

“Both of you were—are, muggleborns, yet only Myrtle seemed to be ostracized.” Rita pushes up her cat-eye glasses. “I asked around the school. None of them seemed quite remorseful, some even seemed relieved.”

Silence.

“Teenagers can be quite insensitive,” Hermione rebukes calmly.

She forces her breathing to even out, to push out the jittery feeling in her hands. 

Rita’s chest heaves with a sigh. She leans forward, creeping closer to Hermione. She inches back reflexively. 

“I’ll be straight with you, Miss Granger. People are starting to talk. There’s been rumors that this was a blood purity related crime.” Rita’s voice is high and shrill, excited. Her wide, fake smile swallows up the entirety of her face. “As a fellow muggleborn, don’t you want to find the killer?” 

Fuck that. 

As a fellow muggleborn, Hermione wanted the best opportunities. 

Hermione recollects herself and shoots back a polite smile.

“Rita. Of course I want to find the killer, as a muggleborn myself, these ridiculous pureblood ideologies are nonsensical, and I do everything I can for other muggleborns,” Hermione says easily, her polite tone effortless. Rita is observing Hermione, voraciously feeding on every word she says. 

Hermione frowns. 

“But, that’s not the case, Rita.” Hermione shakes her head. “Believe me, if Myrtle was killed by one of those, vicious, coldblooded, inbred purebloods, then I would be the first to talk about it. I wouldn’t waste a second. You must know how active I am in social justice. Have you heard of S.P.E.W?”

Rita looks confused.

“Why do you think she wasn’t killed?”

Hermione is prepared. 

“I was told she died of natural causes. And to think that something happened to her,” Hermione chokes. “It would break my heart.”

A comforting hand lands on Hermione’s shoulder as Rita attempts to soothe her. Hermione holds herself back from recoiling at the touch.

“Did you see Myrtle before her tragic passing?”

Hermione pauses.

“I ran into her, in the halls,” she says ambiguously. 

“Did anyone else interact with her?”

Riddle did.

Riddle was with Myrtle. Riddle snogged Myrtle. And on Myrtle’s neck, was Hermione’s bite mark. If she mentioned Riddle, this reporter might start sticking her nose in places she was not supposed to. Hermione does not take chances.

“Not that I can remember.” Is what Hermione finally says.

“I see.” Rita writes something down.

“Was the school proactive in helping muggleborns integrate into academics and activities?”

“Yes.” No.

“Did Myrtle Warren ever , and I mean ever, voice concerns about facing discrimination, harassment, or bullying?”

“No.” Yes.

Rita studies Hermione. Tranquil as water, Hermione stares back, not allowing for her façade to crack.

“I require your honesty, Miss Granger.” Sighing, Rita sets down her quill.

“Was I not being honest?” Hermione scoffs, glaring at Rita, daring her to question Hermione.

“The media can twist your words,” Rita explains. “Turn you into someone you’re not.”

Hermione almost laughs. She had read Rita Skeeter’s fanciful papers, bordering more on gossip than actual reporting. Not to mention, Rita had been asking questions that cornered Hermione into revealing Hogwarts’ broken system. This was supposed to be an interview of Myrtle’s close companion to commemorate the mournful death. Not an interrogation. Nowadays, they had let any Pureblood into the industry. Hermione eyes Rita head to toe. The slut must have fucked her way up.

“I think that is all.” Hermione stands abruptly, ignoring the soreness in her ankles. “I’ve got homework.”

Before Rita can get in another meddling word, Hermione is out the door, legs shaking as she briskly paces through the hallway. 

Hermione needed to get back to her dorm, she needed to finish her letter to Dumbledore. Her interview with Rita Skeeter was sure enough to place her in Dumbledore’s good graces. After all, she did the one thing Dumbledore had asked of her. He would be cruel to deny her time away.

Strangely, a pit of despair was forming in her mind. She knew full well that Rita would lunge at any opportunity to paint Hermione’s story into a whimsical scandal to gain readers. Dumbledore had knowingly sent Hermione into the lion’s den.

She follows the familiar path to the Gryffindor dorms, passing the Great Hall and dragging her limp legs up the staircase.

A few students pass her, some not bothering to hide their curiosity and staring downright. Some refused to look at her, as if they needed to give Hermione the coldest solace in order to prove that they were not treating her any differently.

Riddle’s lithe form strides towards her, his path clearly meant to intersect with hers. Broad shoulders swaying, his pace is measured and controlled.

But just as she saw in the Great Hall, Riddle was breaking dress code. Tie so loose it seemed redundant to have it on, his unbuttoned collar slips downward, exposing his lower neck. It bordered on indecent. A slight flush paints the skin of his throat, the rosy color driving Hermione’s vision white.

Every sense in her body heightens, and for a moment she thinks she can hear his breathing. Adrenaline surges through her body, as if encouraging her to surge forward. 

And his smell.

His scent.

His stench .

It’s hitting her like a fishing hook, piercing into her and pulling. 

The sensation is eroded. She hasn’t felt it in years. With Myrtle, she had a consistent, constant supply, thus eliminating the buzz and the hunger to seek out more.

It is entirely unwanted.

Yet thrilling. She wants his skin under her teeth, wants to feel his flesh tear gently, like ripping fabric apart. And most of all, the tangy taste of blood.

So Hermione stiffens, bones turning to stone.

Riddle approaches closer and closer, reaching within earshot. His walk is relaxed, but the movement of his shoulders is subtly exaggerated, as if brandishing his exposed collarbones.

He doesn’t ignore her, or pretend like he hasn’t seen her, because that would have been more eye-catching.

Instad, he gives her a polite, Head Boy nod, smiling cordially.

Hermione hesitates.

He passes her, shoulder brushing hers, almost intentionally. 

Against all of her senses, she wheels around to face him.

“I saw you with Myrtle,” she blurts.

At once, he turns. Tom’s face is blank, betraying nothing. But there is a hint of victory, a hint of satisfaction in his sharp eyes. As though he knew Hermione could not let him get away so easily. There was a buzz to his eyes, as though he might enjoy allowing Hermione to chase him.

Her stomach twists.

“That was the last time I saw her, with you” she adds.

His eyes roam, and the spots that his gaze lingers on starts to sizzle and burn with anticipation. Her mouth. Her neck. Her eyes.

“I don’t see what you’re implying here.” He gives nothing to her.

“I’m not implying anything,” she insists.

“It sounds an awful lot like an accusation.”

Because it is.

“It’s not.” She tips her chin up to match his gaze.

His eyes search her body and her expression. She feels bare.

“You don’t seem to be grieving Myrtle’s death.”

Hermione freezes. Grabbing a fistful of her skirt, she clenches fingers before releasing them. She forces herself to breathe. Riddle’s eyes are swallowing her.

“People process death differently.”

Riddle shrugs, dismissing her idea nonchalantly.

Hermione grits her teeth.

The corner of his mouth twitches into a sadistic smile, her slight behaviors provoking him.

“You don’t seem to want the autopsy, either,” he says.

She does not falter. How does he know about the autopsy?

“What are you trying to say?” She demands.

Hermione searches his face, strong cheekbones and full lips. Subconsciously, her eyes drift to his neck; she forces herself to look away, hoping he hadn’t noticed. His eyes glint dangerously.

“Why wouldn't you want an autopsy to proceed? You can’t possibly be hiding something,” he says with a small smile. A knowing smile.

Hiding.

“You were with Myrtle, why?” Hermione continues to press.

His eyes narrow to slits. “And you don’t want an autopsy.” 

“Answer my question,” she grits out.

“Then answer mine. Why don’t you want an autopsy?” He steps forward, arriving inches away from Hermione. His scent floods her nose, filling her lungs and coating them finely, implanting bits of himself in her.

Words caught in her throat, Hermione’s mouth parts. His eyes dart towards them.

Hermione quickly shuts her mouth, covering her canines.

His eyes float back up to hers. And he smiles.

“You look quite ill. Make sure to eat properly,” he whispers.

Hermione sucks in a breath.

Riddle side-steps her, easily gliding past.

***

When she gets to her dorm, even the dull, faint candlelight is blinding.

Parvati and Lavender are bundled beneath their blankets, heads snapping up when Hermione shoves the door open. They inevitably stare at her, then pretend not to have been so obvious as they return to their homework.

They at least mumble a greeting to her.

She ignores it, trudging to her bed and ignoring the bursting pains in the soles of her feet.

Hermione tugs off her shoes and slides under her sheets, feeling both hair-raisingly cold and swelteringly hot. She settles on leaving the covers beneath her breast.

The urge, the need to feed is hammering at her chest. Although her heartbeat is too fast, it doesn’t feel fast enough. Instead, it feels slow and sluggish. She takes quick, rapid breaths in a desperate attempt to compensate for it. She wants to sink her teeth into flesh, warm blood flowing down her throat, its iron aroma drifting out of her nostrils. Her fingers twitch.

She feels ugly. Uncontrollable. 

Hands grip the sheets, and she inhales sharply.

It smells like candle wax and old books and tea leaves and Hogwarts.

She drags the blanket upwards, pressing the white cover to her nose. The smell surrounds her. And suddenly, she’s choking with an indescribable emotion, like she misses Hogwarts already. No where else smelt like this, felt like this. Hermione’s limbs shift beneath the blanket. It sweeps against her skin, soft and warm.

She doesn’t want to leave.

Because this might be home.

Her cheeks are damp and she realizes she’s crying. A sob escapes her. It’s shrill and weak and frail with exhaustion. She feels like she is hearing it from another person. Her cheeks flame with embarrassment.

Blankets ruffle as Parvati and Lavender quickly click off their lamps, the room escaping into pitch-black darkness.

There is no home for people like Hermione.