Förgätmigej

Hermione awoke stiff-boned and half asleep. Most days she awoke in this condition. An ambiguous balance between sleep and concentration is made as she writes down notes while she starts to nod off. It’s entirely frustrating, being given the taste of rest but not sleeping. It doesn’t feel satisfying. 

Professor Snape’s monotonous speech sounds far away from her as her eyelids resist closing and its low thrum only encourages her drowsiness. She wanted nothing more than to climb into bed.

Unfortunately, her current state was an upright stance, back against the wall. Her fellow classmates stood alongside her, their shoulders brushing. Normally, Hermione would have minded a bit of personal space, pushing her neighbors with a stingy arm as she tried to make space for herself. But today, she was feeling too tired to protest.

The Defense Against Dark Arts classroom was emptied out, chairs and desks pushed up against the wall.

“In case of a duel, surprise will be a tool. Unpredictability will be the tipping point of who wins or loses. Life or death.” Snape walks along the line of students, his black robes trailing behind him, fluttering in the wind. 

He passes Hermione, and once his back is towards her, her open eyes shut, defocusing. His words float in and out. With a clack of his shoe, he wheels around and walks down the other way, in Hermione’s direction. Her eyes burst open.

“Nonverbal spells will be your greatest friend, they will also be your greatest enemy once your opponent casts them. You will be unable to tell when the spell will hit you until you see it, or until you are hit. If it is a spell you are unfamiliar with, and if you are injured, it will be difficult to accurately heal the wound.”

She cannot help the fluttering of her eyelashes, the rapid closing and opening as she fights off her weariness.

Snape’s tall, lanky height approaches her.

Shoes thud against the floor.

And he stops.

Hermione stands straighter, eyes now opening in panic.

“Miss Granger.”

She wants to clean her ears of his crackling voice. Hermione clears her throat.

“Yes, Professor Snape.”

“You have been unusually quiet… these past few lessons.” 

The entire class now is concentrated on her, craning their necks to peer at Hermione. Her cheeks burn.

“I apologize, Professor. I’ve been dealing with a loss,” Hermione says with an air of practice. It’s been the slogan of her week, a phrase she repeats, but each time with a different cadence, like an offbeat radio. Which has usually been received with understanding nods.

Snape is not the usual. 

“And is that the reason why you are sleeping during my class?” His voice is patronizing, bristling with irritation. 

Hermione shakes her head weakly. She knows not to protest against her professors. 

For a moment longer, Snape remains standing in front of her, expression still.

Then, he strides away.

Hermione lets out a breath, chest quivering.

“Miss Granger will be the first to duel,” he announces.

Hermione freezes. Hands clenched into fists, she digs her nails into her palms until it stings, which takes significantly longer than she expects. 

The rest of her classmates are just as surprised, gaping and staring wide-eyed. Never has Hermione ever been pointed to the spotlight, never has Hermione lacked during class. Some look sympathetic, clearly convinced that Hermione was still mourning Myrtle’s death and that Snape did not hold an ounce of empathy in his heart. Only the latter was correct

Hermione swallows thickly and fishes her wand from her inner robe pocket. 

Finger running over the wooden patterns, she musters her courage and braves herself.

“Yes, Professor Snape.” She takes a wide step forward.

Snape is looking at her, observing her and noticing her inability to look him in the eye, her inability to hold herself still. She’s shaking. Not the sort of obvious, scared shaking, but a vague shiver. A tremor. 

“Theodore Nott.” Snape looks at a student at the end of the line. “You will be her dueling partner.”

Hermione’s expression immediately soured. She knew Theodore Nott, not well, but enough. He was a certified Pretty Boy. She knew his talents were better used on the Quidditch field than the dueling grounds. Her catalog of skilled duelists did not include this comely brown-haired boy.

Was Snape accommodating to Hermione? She looked frail enough. Offering her a much stronger opponent would be downright cruel. Snape had already chosen to single her out, why stop there? Hermione lets out a small, bitter snort.

Snape’s head snaps towards her, and she schools her expression. Her classmates are just as appalled at her blatant act of insubordination. 

“Did you think my decision was hasty?” He challenges her.

“No, Professor,” she responds at once.

“Then why did you laugh?”

All eyes are on her. She’s cornered. Snape’s glare is especially burning. All answers to his question are damning. There is nothing she could say to rectify the situation. He desires her hesitation, the silent pause in which her classmates would ogle at her like onlookers at a zoo.

But Hermione was leaving. She would no longer have to deal with this bitter professor who had no consideration.

“It was a cough,” she says, earning snickers from her classmates. Her expression is solemn.

Snape hums and sweeps his scrutinizing gaze over the line of students.

“Mister Nott, please step back,” Snape’s authoritarian voice echoes. Footsteps shuffle behind Hermione. “Mister Malfoy. Please step forward.”

Sharp, quick footsteps thrum against the floor. A tall figure is standing by her. Hermione refuses to look.

“The two of you will duel. Non-verbal spells only. Once a student is disarmed, the duel will be over.”

“Professor, non-verbal spells are taught in sixth-year—”

“Are you forfeiting already, Miss Granger?”

Hermione purses her lips, stepping back into place. She would not forfeit to someone like Draco Malfoy.

Snape nods knowingly, satisfied with Hermione’s submission.

“Situate yourselves on either end of the room,” Snape orders. He raises his wand and starts uttering protection spells, casting a field over the line of students in case of a stray hex. Hermione snorts. He surely prized the safety of others.

Malfoy leans towards her, his mouth at her ear.

“You look terrible, Granger,” he says in a low hush.

It takes her a moment to realize that he’s referring to her sunken eyes and dull skin, and that he wasn’t making a childish remark. To Malfoy, she had always looked terrible. She doesn’t forget the remarks about her hair and her teeth in the years prior. Hermione keeps her gaze trained forward, staring at the wall until her eyes blurred.

“Taunting me before the duel? Malfoy, your tactics are getting more advanced,” she mutters back.

Malfoy glances over his shoulder. Snape casts a silencing charm over the door. Malfoy turns back to her.

“You look like you can barely lift a finger,” Malfoy hisses into her ear.

She jerks away from him, craning her neck to lock eyes with him. Eyes narrowing, her lips press into a thin line. Malfoy was patronizing her. Hermione sneers, lips cracking. Without another word, she makes way to the far right end of the classroom, leaving Malfoy behind her.

She shifts her weight between her feet, settling into a comfortable stance. 

Snape finishes casting protective and silencing spells. Draco is at the other end of the classroom, his eyes hardened. Hermione readjusts her grip on her wand, finger curling around the jagged wood.

“Turn around, with your backs to each other, and on the count of three, you will cast your first nonverbal spell. If either of you utter a word, you will be disqualified.” Snape’s voice rumbles in the empty room.

Hermione gives him a sharp nod of acknowledgement before swiveling around. The blackboard greets her.

Fellow classmates chatter, a low hum penetrating the silence. Hermione’s thundering heartbeat is louder. Sweat dampens her palm, wand sliding from her grip repeatedly. She switches the wand into her left hand, quickly wiping her hand over her skirt, rubbing the sweat onto the rough fabric. The wand is in her dominant hand again, this time with a dry, firm grip.

“One.”

Hermione cannot breathe. 

“Two.”

She shuts her eyes.

“Three.”

Hermione whips around.

She ducks, knowing she had a better chance at dodging than firing an initiatory spell. A spell flies above her head, a second off beat. Hermione bites her bottom lip. Had Malfoy purposefully sent the spell late? Anger sears through her skin, reddening her cheeks.

All sounds are muted as she concentrates.

She’s spent too long thinking, because another spell pierces the air. He doesn’t go easy this time.

A light blue, translucent field is erected in front of her, and Draco’s spell disintegrates.

Hermione stabs her wand into the air, sending a volley of magic against Draco’s side. A counter spell shoots out of his wand, breaking hers with ease and tumbling into her direction.

She steps to the side, the counter spell whizzes past her ear, leaving it warm.

To conserve energy and magic, she should avoid attacks rather than cast defensive spells.

The pattern was getting more and more clear. An offensive spell, countered with a defensive spell. Another offensive spell, dodged by Hermione. Soon, she would be too drained to continue, allowing Malfoy to disarm her. She bites back a bitter smile. If she weren’t deprived of a feed, she would have ended this silly duel in three clean moves. There was no winning unless Hermione changed her tactic. 

She scans her surroundings. 

Malfoy’s red spell jets into her face. A stream of magic spurts out of her wand and breaks it in time. The hot sparks sear her face, sizzling on her skin.

The attacks do not stop. A burst of wind slams into her. Malfoy has caught her off guard.

Hermione stumbles back, almost losing her footing. Her lips itch to mumble a spell, but she clamps her jaw tightly. 

She ignites a small flame from her wand’s tip. 

Oxygen oxidizes fire.

The fire swallows the storm of air, which feeds the combustion, its flames doubling—tripling in size, and cracking with embers. Magic swells in her wand to enhance the process. 

The sheer size of the fire blocks her vision, red and orange is all she can see, the tail of the fire brushes against the ceiling. But through the dancing flames, she spots Malfoy’s wide eyes through an opening. Her proximity to it burns her hand and her face, sweat gathering on her brow. 

She draws her heavy wand behind her, surprised at its weight, and flings the fire forward.

It soars in the air.

To extinguish fire, Malfoy needed to smother it, which didn’t seem as easy due to the flames’ size. He would need to—

A wave of water streaming from Malfoy’s wand crashes down on the fire. Smoke diffuses into the room from the collision of water and fire. Choking can be heard from the sidelines and from across the room, Malfoy. The smoke rolls in waves, providing a thick blanket of cover. Her hand trembles with exhaustion.

Now was the time for her attack.

Planting her feet into the ground and recalling where Malfoy was, she aims her wand into his direction, hoping he hadn’t moved. Hermione slashes the air with her wand, a spell cutting across the cloud of smoke. Just as the magic ejects from Hermione’s wand, a shard of blue magic penetrates the wall of smoke and brushes just past her. Malfoy’s counterattack. Her cheek prickles with pain. 

A thud echoes in the room. The clattering of a wand follows after, rolling on the polished classroom floor. Hermione glances at her hand. But it wasn’t her wand.

She had planned for Malfoy to provide her with the second ingredient for the hazy grey fog, but it also meant neither of them were able to predict where the spell would come from and where either of them would be. 

The smoke dies out.

Malfoy is hunched against the wall, grabbing his shoulder. Blood seeps through his shirt sleeve and his fingers.

Clamoring ensues. Students are letting out soft gasps, and Snape is rushing towards Malfoy’s crouching form.

Hermione’s breath hitches.

His smooth, dark red blood is dripping down his forearm. 

Hermione immediately shuts her eyes. Canines dig into her tongue sharply, pain sparking. She needs to breathe. She needs to feed.

“Congratulations, Miss Granger.” Snape’s voice is painfully loud to her ears. “You have won.” He says this without an air of celebration or praise.

Adrenaline melts away, and she’s left with bone-aching exhaustion. Her throat is dry, her stomach burns. The remnants of the smoke fill her lungs, mixing with the faint smell of blood. With every breath, the sweet aroma of iron tempts her. She holds her breathing still.

“Miss Granger,” Snape says warningly. She snaps out of her trance, but refuses to peel her eyes open. “Please fetch Draco’s wand.”

Hermione’s knees lock as she attempts to take a step forward. The room spins.

Magic leaks out of her, and with every stride, she is closer to tipping.

Her hands shake as she bends down to retrieve Malfoy’s wand. Her fingertips are numb. She can’t quite feel the warmth radiating from it. It pulses with magic.

Hermione stands upright, swaying gently.

“Miss Granger.” Snape’s tone is dangerous. “Please return Draco’s wand.”

With a stiff nod, she peels her eyes open. Staring down at the floor, she avoids looking at Malfoy as she walks forward. She sucks in a painful inhale, the smell of blood growing stronger and more potent as she approaches Malfoy.

She arrives, and stretches her left hand out, Malfoy’s wand offered. 

Malfoy takes it from her hand. She keeps her eyes on the floor.

The smell of blood is drowning her. She cannot think.

Hermione hobbles on her feet, struggling to stand upright. It felt as though someone was tilting the room side to side. Just as she thought she had found balance, she would lean over too far.

“Professor Snape, Hermione—er, Granger, looks a bit ill, she looks… pale. She’s also got a cut on her face.” A voice calls from the sidelines.

Hermione faintly registers the biting pain on her cheekbone. A hesitant hand rises to reach it. Warm, sticky blood glides over her fingers. Even though her own blood was closer, the smell of Malfoy’s blood was overpowering. It was sickly sweet. 

Malfoy was helpless in front of her, folded against the ground, injured. She could probably dab a hand on his cut shoulder and collect the blood in her palms—

“Miss Granger, please head to the infirmary,” Professor Snape says curtly. “I will take care of Malfoy’s injuries.”

She was being sent away.

Hermione was not supposed to win. This was her punishment. And she would gladly accept, if it meant she could leave this classroom and its noxious smell of blood.

She turns on her heel and exits the classroom.

The infirmary is eerily empty, which is no surprise given it was only midday. Evenings after raucous Quidditch matches are the typical rush hour for Madam Pomfrey. Soft white curtains billow in front of the tall windows. Beds with white linen sheets are stacked against the walls, privacy screens between each.

She enters through the double doors, slowly stumbling through. 

Madam Pomfrey was fussy and overly nosey, due to her worrying nature. At first, Hermione had not wanted to receive treatment from the matron, she found it more convenient to heal her own wounds and avoid the prodding eye of Madam Pomfrey. She knew that once the nurse had her hands on Hermione, she would know there was something inhumane about the exhaustion and lifelessness plaguing her. 

But, Hermione’s magical reservoir was dwindling, she could feel it. There was a growing disconnect between her and her wand. It felt as though there was a gaping hole where Hermione’s spell started, to where it was expelled through her vinewood wand. Hermione had grown so familiar and dependent with her wand that it felt wrong. She was left with no other alternative but to receive treatment.

Blood pills clink in her inner robe pocket.

“Madam Pomfrey?” Hermione calls out softly. Her voice echoes before dissipating. Glancing askance, she checks each side of the hospital wing before quietly wandering to one of the beds, entering the stall.

Flanked by tall screen dividers with teal blue fabric curtains, Hermione clumsily shoves her hand into her inner robe pocket. Smooth pills jingle against each other, brushing against her fingertips.

Head still peering side to side, Hermione counts the pills with her fingers. Rolling the capsules between her hands, she surmises that there were five left. She would deliver the letter to Dumbledore today, and would presumably leave tomorrow evening, after Dumbledore tied up the loose ends concerning her classes. All she had to do was wait for Dumbledore's cue. Her bags were already packed and tucked beneath her bed.

She would save three for the trip tomorrow. Two for today.

Finger latching around one of the pills, she drags it out and hides it in the crease of her palm. She lifts it to her mouth, depositing it onto her tongue. Hermione swallows.

The weak shell is crushed by the muscles of her throat as she gulps. It explodes midway and an unnaturally tepid wave of blood swims down her throat. The one downside was that it was rather lukewarm, not flesh hot like normal blood. 

The fabric curtain is pulled to the side, hangers jingling.

“Granger?”

Hermione jolts, head snapping to the side.

Riddle stands in front of the opened divider, brows furrowed minutely. He’s hiding his alarm.

His dark eyes do not behave, roaming her body, before lingering on her cheekbone, no doubtely on her wound.

Hermione grimaces.

“Riddle,” she greets back plainly.

Strangely, his uniform is neatly back in place. Tie hangs primly against his buttoned collar, black robes stretching across the broad expanse of his shoulder. This meeting was unintentional, neither of them expecting the other. 

Hermione narrows her eyes. 

Riddle had only violated dress code when he knew they would have crossed paths.

“You’ve been injured,” Riddle says flatly. His eyes burn into her.

“Yes, that is why people come to the infirmary,” Hermione responds dully. Now that Riddle has been properly clothed, she feels more at ease maintaining eye contact. “And why are you here? I don’t see any injuries.”

He hesitates before flashing her a trim smile.

“My colleague was wounded, unfortunately. I came to assist him to the infirmary.” 

This was Riddle’s character, his persona. Time was well sculpted in his time table. Throughout her five years at Hogwarts, she observed him, and he spent time wisely as if he might die the next day. There would be no reason for Riddle to accompany his ‘ colleague’ himself, unless—

“What did you do to him?” The words tumble out of Hermione’s mouth. She clamps her jaw shut immediately, biting her inner cheek. She thinks the burst of energy from the pills were making her impulsive with words.

Riddle’s eyes flash with something of discomfort, but he evens his features. 

“And what would I have done to my colleague?” He asks cooly. 

The answers were infinite, and grim.

“Nothing, I suppose.” Is what she says instead.

His eyes are still trained on her wound, following her movements even as she ducks her head away. Her attempt at hiding her injury does not go overlooked.

“You are more than capable of healing such a minor scrape.” Riddle’s voice is low, but curious. “I admit that I have seen your spellwork.”

The words clog in her throat, and for once she cannot muster a snappy response. She doesn’t know how he could have witnessed her spellwork. They had never dueled. Frankly, there had been no contact between the two prior to Myrtle’s death. Riddle seemingly knew many things.

“Are you feeling weak?” It’s a simple, innocent question, but when it comes from Riddle. Hermione knows better. “You must be… drained, if you cannot perform such a simple healing spell.”

Riddle was catching on. His taunts are simply packaged as words of consolation. Hermione resists scoffing.

“If I may…” Riddle trails off. He retrieves his wand from his robe, slender fingers snaring the wooden weapon. Riddle eyes her expectantly.

Hermione stares at him blankly.

No. Absolutely, not. She will not allow him and his wand anywhere near her—

He waves his wand gently, the tip sparkles and dances in the air. The bursting pain in her cheek fades, and is left with a cool, numbing feeling.

Menthol.

Lowering his wand-wielding hand, he raises his other hand, reaching for Hermione’s cheek and brushing against the healed skin. Her skin pricks. His touch is faint, a cold presence ghosting over her face. The action is intimate, but not in a darling manner. His approach is akin to a hunter stroking a wild animal ensnared in a trap.

“Do not die before I get to you,” he murmurs softly. 

It’s a threat.

He will get to her. 

Hermione jolts, taking a step backwards, the heel of her foot hitting the bed frame. The clang sound alarms her, but Riddle is not affected. His hands return to his side naturally.

“How did you know about the autopsy?” She demands, matching his stare.

Riddle pauses, his eyes flashing with contemplation. He seems to deliberate between lying to her and admitting the truth, his lips quivering a fraction as if he might speak.

“It is not hard to eavesdrop,” he responds vaguely.

Hermine is not sure whether this is the lie or the truth.

“Did you win?” He asks.

Hermione’s mouth falls open. 

“You must have been involved in some sort of altercation… Which I highly doubt, since you aren’t the type of student to fight,” he says shrewdly. “You would not have willingly fought in this state. It must have been a class duel. Did you win?”

Indignation swells in her chest. Who was Riddle to assume that she was averse to confrontation? Hermione gathers that she was feeling more defensive on the account that he had guessed right. He barely interacted with her, yet it seemed he wanted to pick apart her veneer. She ignores that she does the same.

“Are these the wounds of a defeat?” She snaps.

Riddle’s expression hardens, sizing up Hermione. “And how has your adversary fared?” He asks coldly.

She thinks of Malfoy’s bleeding form, and the memory of his warm, red blood makes her hazy. Hermione does not like that Riddle provokes this imagery. She gathers herself.

“And how is the colleague you accompanied?” Hermione counters.

Riddle goes silent.

There is enough reluctance on Riddle’s bristling expression for Hermione to surmise that his ‘ colleague’ would likely look similar to how Hermione had left Malfoy.

Hermione pushes past Riddle, albeit with a weak arm, and strides out of the infirmary.

***

In the corridors, Hermione walks slowly. Her legs are heavy, removing to swing in front of her. 

Wand tucked into her robes, Hermione uses both of her hands to dig into her pockets, impaling her palms with her fingernails. She’s forgotten to trim them as of lately. A thin layer of sweat is building. Everywhere.

She keeps her eyes trained on the floor, head hung low.

Class had ended, unpleasantly once Hermione entered the Defense Against Dark Arts classroom to a chilly atmosphere. She had won, and cleverly so, if she could boast. But she was still met with a hair-raising animosity. 

Malfoy and Hermione were on opposite ends of one singular, obsolete scale.

Blood ‘purity.’

Then lunch comes. Hermione makes her way to the Great Hall, manages a few bites of her onion soup. It’s difficult to swallow and uncomfortably slippery in her throat. She feels no instant relief after digestion, but regains some strength in her fingertips. Drumming them against the table, she marvels at the tingling sensation.

Ron and Harry are absent, most likely ditching to play quidditch. Before, Hermione had always chided them for skipping lunch, insisting that meals were vital to their performance. But they had always found the buzz of being bad to be more exciting. Now, they are playing quidditch for a different reason: to avoid Hermione.

She thinks she might have time to sulk over it, but something is more pressing.

Riddle is eye-catching, and seemingly only to her.

Their gazes dance around each other. Just when one turns, the other looks away. 

Much too tired, Hermione fights off sleep for the remainder of her school day instead of listening to the rumors swirling around her. For once, she is quite glad to have dull hearing.

After her last class, Hermione forces herself upright, almost toppling over as she balances her books in her hands. She’s anemic and it takes a moment too long for Hermione’s dancing vision to clear. She almost panics, mistaking it for a sudden blindness.

The pills have worn out, quite faster than normal. Her exhaustion swallows them whole.

But she will be free soon. Because Hermione treks to her dorm room to fetch her letter requesting a leave of absence. She hobbles, and her sluggish pace allows for other students to easily outpace her, rushing past her as they run to the Quidditch field or zipped into their dorm rooms. Soon enough, the hallways are empty, echoing with the excited screams of faraway students.

She considers stopping by the second floor girls' lavatory, to investigate. But her time is ticking, and even if she were to find anything of substantial suspicion, there was nothing she could do. Any lead she procured would prompt an investigation, and Hermione was not so keen on having Myrtle’s body in the hands of anyone other than the underpaid, indifferent mortician.

When she reaches her dorm room, Hermione collapses on her bed.She’s thirsty, hungry, and sleepy. Her skin breaks out into a sweat but goosebumps rise from the cold. 

Her body is heavy.

Eyelids flutter in an attempt to stay open.

Hermione would simply… rest her eyes, for five seconds.

She shuts them, allowing darkness to envelop her and counts to five.

Exhaustion pulls her to sleep.

Her eyes open.

The five seconds were over.

But the lights are shut off, and the faint rustling of blankets echoes from Parvati and Lavender’s side of the room. Hermione had just shut her eyes. There was no way that the two girls entered the room, settled in their beds, and turned off the lights in such a short span of time.

Had she fallen asleep?

Hermione cannot get up. In fact, every muscle in her body locks into place.

Another wave of drowsiness overcomes her. Her eyelids are dangerously heavy, tempting her into another lull of sleep.

She panics, blood running cold as she realizes she is seconds closer to entering a comatose state.

The letter.

Moments pass by, and Hermione is not sure whether it is minutes or seconds, before she hoists herself upright, propped against her nightstand, clutching the wooden table. Her hands blindly grab for the letter, tightening into a claw grip as the paper crinkles. 

Hermione stands, swaying so severely that she nearly falls back into bed.

She takes a step forward, but her brain is telling her to take a step back, a step back into her welcoming bed, a step back into sleep.

She forces her legs to drop forward, and marches to the door in a drunken stupor. She only registers the overwhelming sleepiness along with the chiding voice urging her to continue moving. Hermione obeys both, being half-asleep and stumbling out the Fat Lady’s Portrait. Hermione walks down the hall, her ankles twisting beneath her. 

The letter slips from her weak hands, landing on the smooth polished floor. Hermione quickly snatches it, her spine cracking as she bends down. When she stands back up, colorful spots of pink and blue dance in her vision.

She counts to ten.

The blur does not fade.

Staggering down the hallway, Hermione firmly sets a hand against the wall for support. She needed to get the letter to Dumbledore.

She still cannot see. In a limbo state, she slips out of consciousness periodically, finding herself further down the corridor than she was a second ago. She was in disbelief. How had her state deteriorated so quickly? It couldn’t be true. Her body must have been playing tricks on her.

Head in her hands, Hermione pants. Then she notices her hands are empty.

She swallows thickly, bringing her hands in front of her. She can barely see the outline of her wrists. Hermione panics.

The letter. Her wand.

They were gone.

She’s on her knees, clutching her torso and squinting her eyes.

A vibration. It’s pulsing from the floor. Stable, steady pulses.

Footsteps.

She wants to move. She wants to run. These tremors are outpacing her.

They get closer, until she feels a resounding thud tremble from the ground to her legs. Delirious, Hermione’s hand shoots out, instinctively attempting to grab at whoever.

Hands wrap around her. Not feeling or touching, but lifting.

She slips further out of consciousness, but the pressure on her body and the sudden loss of grounding is enough to signify that she is being carried. 

Her gums burn against her teeth. She wants nothing more than a drop of blood.

Paramedics. Mediwizards. She must have been spotted convulsing on the floor, by someone .  She cannot go to the infirmary. They cannot inspect her body. Hermione thrashes, but her limbs barely move, her body refusing to listen.

But they don’t speak. She hears nothing except for the footsteps and the dull ringing in her ears. No one is speaking to her, asking if she is awake, asking if she is alright, asking her name or what has happened. 

Whoever was stealing her away from the Fat Lady’s Corridor was not interested in conversation.

She’s confused, but she can’t organize her thoughts. Every passing emotion is subdued by the emptiness of sleep. 

Blood rushes to her feet, and her skin prickles.

Up and down. Her body is rocking up and down, rocking along with the broad, strong steps of her holder. 

They turn a corner.

She needs to get up. Hermione mouth parts to swallow the air. Mint.

Another corner.

A door creaks open, and it sounds so far away in Hermione’s catatonic state.

Now, the air is wet and moist. Hermione has been in here enough to recognize the smell. It’s the second floor girls' lavatory.

There is hissing, just as she heard the last time she saw Myrtle in the bathroom. But this time, it rumbles from the chest of the person carrying her. It spews out, linking into a steady pattern. 

Every part of her is screaming to get up. Her limbs do not move. Even her breathing seems dead. 

Once the hissing ceases, a low thundering noise surrounds Hermione. Something is shifting, moving, opening.  

Strong hands press against her side, hoisting her with ease.

Hoisting —hoisting her where?

Gravity relents, and suddenly, Hermione grasps the feeling that she is descending. The fall is short, or Hermone thinks so. Time blurs.

A thud echoes, as if Hermione lands in a wide, empty chamber. Coldness hits her. The oxygen feels heavy and pressing, her lungs filling up with the dense air. This is not the infirmary. This is not Dumbledore’s office. And this is certainly not Hogwarts.

Hermione felt as though her thoughts were a second person, like someone else was screaming at her to panic.

She could barely stay awake, but the fright forces her  to wake, just so she can succumb to another wave of weariness.

The tense body next to hers seems to relax, loosening their unrelenting grip on Hermione.

They're speaking to—at her. She cannot make out the words. She’s barely grasping at consciousness, struggling to not slip into a forever slumber, just fighting it exhausts her even more. Desperately, she wills herself to speak, to move.

Now, she’s sitting on the floor; her back hits a damp, chilly wall. The hands holding her upright suddenly leave her. Only when these hands are on her, can Hermione feel the body part that they are touching. 

The hands return to pull at her arms. Not at all gentle, the hands arrange her limbs.

Two cold fingers press against her neck. Against her pulse. They linger for seconds longer before disappearing.

She’s alone, swimming in a black pool of unconsciousness.

Hands maneuver around her body, and a voice in Hermione screams that this unfamiliar touch was unwelcome. One hand curls around her neck, yanking her forward. Her upper body falls onto something—someone, a firm chest. They move until she’s resting on their shoulder.

Fabric rustles. The swish of a pulled tie fills the silence. Fingers hastily unbutton clothing.

Hermione screams, but no sound escapes her. She was being unclothed—

But it wasn’t her. She didn’t feel cold air against her bare skin, in fact, she felt bare skin against her skin. Hermione’s chin is resting on a naked shoulder, her cheek pressed against the stranger’s neck. The flesh is warm.

Instinct. Habit. Urge.

With one last burst of strength, her body is desperate to feed, to stay alive. She manages to keep her mouth parted. She’s being guided, her mouth angling towards its destination: the neck. But, that couldn’t be right, who would have her—

Gravity pulls Hermione down.

Fangs sink into a plump vein and blood fills her mouth. Her taste buds shriek at the taste of iron.

Warm floods her jaw.

Hermione swallows.

The first drop of blood empties into her. Electrifies her. Rips Hermione from her state of paralysis.

She swims to consciousness.

“Hello,” a voice.