Chapter Text
It takes weeks to find an address.
Even when she tracks it down—using some of the less reputable channels at her disposal—Hermione isn't entirely certain it's the one she's looking for.
The house is a stretch from London proper outside of Crawley, as far off the map as she can imagine. For a startling moment, Hermione can't determine whether the house is even on the power grid or if it's entirely separate from society.
A nearly full moon hangs half-hidden in a cloudy sky, silvery brightness splintering the gaps. In the distance, she can hear the faint howling of wolves.
It doesn't strike her as the sort of place Draco Malfoy would inhabit.
She has to remind herself, not for the first time, that this isn't the Draco Malfoy she once knew. Any semblance of the boy she'd known at Hogwarts is—quite literally—dead.
It's with this sobering thought in mind that she dwells on the front step for minutes longer than she ought to, torn between knowing or indulging the cowardly part of herself that doesn't care to follow through with this at all.
Not cowardly, she has to remind herself. It isn't cowardice to appreciate her life.
And she has no idea what lingers on the other side of the door. She wonders if he's already aware of her presence.
Drawing in a deep breath, Hermione scrounges for the scraps of courage she can assemble and raps sharply on the wooden door. She stares at its surface, her next breath catching in her lungs, eyes skirting the deep gouges in the wood. She can't quite determine whether it's meant to be like that.
Long moments pass, her heart clamouring in her chest, before the door swings open with a high-pitched creak. The sudden noise is jarring, a heartbeat stuttering its rapid pace as she finds herself face-to-face with Draco Malfoy.
If he's surprised by the impromptu visit, his expression doesn't show it. For several tempered breaths—on her part—they stare at each other. He's eerily still, and though she knows he doesn't need to breathe or blink, he makes no effort to conceal the inhuman quality to his presence.
After a beat, amusement slides into the silvery-grey of his eyes. A slow, teasing smirk tugs at one corner of his mouth, though she doesn't catch a glimpse of his teeth. His fangs.
"Hermione Granger," he purrs, her name low and careful on his tongue, as though he's testing the taste of it. "To what do I owe the pleasure of your company? It has been a long time."
Seven years, if her reckoning is correct.
She's come here on purpose—for this unsettling meeting—and she reminds herself of what the world could stand to gain.
Hermione lifts her chin, meeting his cool stare. "Hello, Malfoy," she says, keeping her hands folded at her front. A subtle show that she isn't concealing her wand. It feels at odds with her entire youth to know that everything she's been working towards hinges on his reaction now. "I'm with the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures; specifically, I work as a researcher in the Beings division, and I—"
"Not," Malfoy clips, "interested. You can leave." Any hint of amusement slides from his face in a breath, his eyes going cold as chips of ice.
Before he can close the door in her face, Hermione steps into the door frame, growing painfully aware of their sudden proximity. Of his inhuman reflexes and speed.
Of the way he could overpower her in an instant.
"I need to speak with you," she bites out.
Malfoy rolls his eyes. "You and every other researcher who's decided to poke around in my life for your own purposes. I'm registered—that's all the Ministry can ask of me. Now get the fuck off my step."
Something shifts in his voice, and her feet slide back a step of their own accord. She grits her teeth, fighting against the power of the allure in his voice. She isn't surprised—only that she let her guard down long enough for him to slip through.
Malfoy blinks, unperturbed, when she fights off the demand beneath the words.
"That isn't why I'm here," Hermione says, reaching a hand towards the door. She lets out a slow breath, tamping down the acceleration in her heart; already, she can see the darkening of his eyes. "I'm here in... shall we say, an unofficial capacity."
Malfoy folds his arms across his chest, lithe with corded muscle she can see through the fabric of his shirt. Though his expression remains unamused, he cocks a single brow. "You have one minute."
Through the entire exchange, his mouth remains tight in a way that obscures his fangs from view, even when speaking. She wonders if it's a learned habit. A way to prevent anyone from immediately catching on to what he is when he leaves this desolate house.
But even as the thought passes her mind, she can read his growing impatience. As she weighs the request that sits heavy on her heart.
His upper lip curls with the makings of a sneer—and finally she catches a glimpse of one fang, razor sharp and vicious enough to tear through skin as though it were nothing.
Maybe it's the warning of a predator—and she his would-be prey.
Hermione sucks in a breath, forcing herself to lift her eyes to meet his. His jaw clenches, patience run through, and she can sense he's about to relieve her of the option.
"I need you to do something for me," she says, the rushed words falling as little more than a whisper. She knows his enhanced hearing caught the words—hell, he can probably hear every rapid beat of her heart. Malfoy doesn't respond, eyes boring into hers. "I need you to turn me into a vampire. Please."
Something falters in his expression—something like surprise or doubt or disbelief—and he releases a low, humourless huff of laughter.
"Not a fucking chance," he grits out. "Get off my property—and if I ever see you here again, I'll bleed you dry for trespassing."
Hermione stumbles a step back, the force in his words stronger this time, and a thrill of genuine fear darts through her. For as much as she might have known him at one point in her life, she doesn't any longer. She doesn't know what this version of Draco Malfoy is truly capable of.
And after multiple years studying vampires, she knows better than anyone how volatile and unpredictable they can be.
She blows out a slow breath, allowing her heart rate to settle as she backs away from the house lest he decide to follow after her.
Hermione might have guessed he wouldn't even be willing to hear her out.
The situation will take more finessing than she initially hoped. With a grimace, she Disapparates from his desolate plot of land and back to her research lab, bracing herself to enact the next attempt.
Her preparations take longer than she cares for. Malfoy is the only vampire she knows—the only one she can find dwelling in England who doesn't live in a coven. And to her knowledge, he still exists along the periphery of wizarding society.
If she's honest, no matter what else has changed, she finds a small bit of comfort in the familiarity.
It's a matter of a few tracking spells, an insidious ward installed on the edge of his property to alert her to his movement, and then the patience to wait it out.
When she finally catches sight of him alone at the border of Diagon and Knockturn, hood pulled far over his hair, silvery in the moonlight, Hermione falls into action.
She knows she has a matter of seconds before he senses her presence—and it takes only a small vial of holy water, procured from a shady dealer the month before. Just enough to desensitise him, to blind his ultra-keen hearing and scent—just long enough to send a magical twist of silver coiling around his wrists. She summons his wand, despite that he's more lethal without it.
Giving her wand a backwards tug, wrenching the magic towards her, she scans the street with a quick non-verbal detection spell.
Malfoy's furious eyes snap open just in time to land on her as the silver solidifies into shackles around his wrists. She grabs onto the chain, pulling him with her into side-along Apparition. By the time he snaps back to his senses, the effects of the holy water wearing off, he's secured in the silver cage she's fashioned just for him, fangs bared.
She douses him with another, stronger dose for good measure.
By the time Malfoy comes to, the moon is high in a pitch black sky.
He releases a low snarl, and it takes only moments for him to piece together the situation.
Hermione removed the silver cuffs from his wrists, though she's secured a pair to the inside of his cell just in case he tries to escape. The silver bars trapping him in should be more than enough—unless he fancies himself a masochist.
For all she knows, he does.
She's allowed for a small range of comforts in his cell, an armchair and a cot, a few books atop a small table—and a loo in one private corner.
Without looking up from the notes spread before her, Hermione says, "This can all go smoothly if you do as I ask."
A disbelieving scoff greets the words. "And if I don't?"
"If you don't," she says softly, looking up, "it won't go smoothly."
"You've fucking kidnapped me," Malfoy snaps, lifting his hands as though he's going to wrap them around the silver bars. Catching himself at the last moment, he twists his fingers together instead. Already, his wrists show a faint red banding where the shackles tightened, though she removed them before they could do too much damage to his alabaster skin. "Why on earth would I do anything you want?"
Hermione folds her arms, cocks a brow, and paces towards his cell. "Because if you do I'll let you go free."
Malfoy's lip curls with disgust, silver eyes boring through hers; narrowed as they are, it isn't hard to remember he's no longer fully human. Or alive.
Many believe vampirism to be an abomination. It's a topic she's studied extensively for years—and she knows nothing is so simple. It's a shame that she had to go about things this way—but so long as he does a few small things for her, he will walk away unharmed.
He looks as though he might argue or snap at her, hatred searing in his eyes. She knows if the silver bars weren't in place to keep them apart she would already be drained of blood. He clenches his jaw, and his gaze drifts around to take in the details of his surroundings.
"Or," he says at last, deadly quiet, "I'll wait for you to slip up. It's bound to happen. And in the moments before you die, you'll wish you'd never come near me."
Hermione manages a tight smile, unwilling to allow him to sense a spike in her heart rate. "Or that."
Although his face falls neutral once more, he eyes her with cool disdain, lips parting to reveal a flash of razor-sharp incisors. "You want to become a vampire." Malfoy's gaze rakes over her. "Why?"
"You wouldn't believe me if I told you," she says, squaring her shoulders in the face of his scrutiny.
"You want to die."
"Hardly." She snorts. "There are cleaner ways to go about that if I were so inclined."
He pretends to think, eyes roving the barred ceiling of his enclosure. "You want to live forever like some omniscient overlord." He snorts. "I hate to break it to you, Granger, but this life isn't worth anything."
It's the closest thing to a straightforward sentiment he's given up, and she mentally catalogues the thought. "Tell me," she says softly, "how you became a vampire."
"Surprised you don't already know," he drawls. "Given you've tracked me down twice now. A little obsessive, if I'm honest. Bit of a turn off."
Hermione allows a smile to tug at her lips. "Good thing I'm not trying to attract you, then."
Given the complex nature of their past, he isn't someone she's ever particularly thought of in that way. Eyeing him now though, all sharp features and a sort of otherworldly sheen to his countenance that she knows to be typical of vampires, she can't help the small part of her that appreciates his appearance.
His indolent gaze sweeps the length of her, a facetious sort of heat blazing in his gaze. His mouth twitches with humour, and he drags his lower lip between his teeth. Blood wells at the point of his fang, only for a moment, before the flesh knits over.
"Too bad," he drawls.
The air feels charged between them in a way she can't quite dissect—and it takes only a jarring moment for her to snap back to her senses. To realise he's attempting to use his allure on her. To force her into a slip up of some sort.
She snorts. "You're going to have to try a little harder than that. I'm thoroughly equipped in vampire protection."
Amusement still glints in his icy eyes, and he catches his tongue between his molars as he stares at her. "So I see. I must admit, I'm impressed—you've given this some thought. You tell me—why vampires?"
"Why not vampires?"
The response slides from her lips easily, as it does every time someone questions her primary field of study. As far as magical beings go, they're one of the most interesting but one of the most dangerous as well. She would be lying to say she hasn't had a few close calls.
"Not an answer," Malfoy clips, but he takes a step back from the bars all the same. "If you're going to keep me here, you could at least provide some amenities."
Hermione rummages in a box on the table, withdrawing a bag of blood procured from a Muggle blood bank. Malfoy's brows flicker in surprise when she levitates the bag through the bars. He eyes it for a moment, skimming the details written on the plastic surface.
"You've laced this with something," he murmurs.
"You would be able to tell."
He doesn't argue that point, tearing a neat hole in one corner of the bag. When Hermione brandishes a straw through the bars, he sneers at her but takes it, stabbing it through the hole. He grimaces at the initial sip, the bridge of his nose wrinkling.
"Room temperature blood is never preferable," he announces. "For one determined to become a vampire, you'd best learn the ins and outs of it."
Malfoy takes a seat in the armchair she arranged in his cell, folding one ankle over the other knee. Despite his complaints, he sucks on the straw again, and she watches the thick crimson liquid slide up the length of it and into his mouth. His throat bobs with a swallow.
"What do you prefer then, your highness," she mutters under her breath.
"Warmed," he snips. "Or for a rare treat—chilled." He continues to glower at her, as though imagining he's drinking her blood, and despite the protections that separate them, a shudder darts along her spine. "You aren't honestly going to keep me in here. It's fucking illegal."
"As you can see," Hermione says, retreating to her desk, "I've provided you with nourishment and comfort. And as long as you cooperate, I won't be forced to chain you up."
Malfoy stares at the ceiling, his lips moving in an exaggerated 'wow'. He sucks on the straw again with a noisy pull as the blood bag empties. "Not enough," he drawls.
"I know how much blood a typical vampire requires to keep functional."
"Functional," he echoes. "You're keeping me as your fucking prisoner. I want more."
She knows better than to indulge him—especially when she can tell he's simply attempting to get a rise out of her. "If you do as I ask, you'll be free to go and do whatever you want. What do you usually do for blood, anyway?"
"Attack pretty little Muggle-borns who try to get me to do things for them."
Her eyes snap back to him despite her better judgement. His eyes glint with cold amusement once more. "You kill people?"
"Not usually."
Thinning her lips, she returns to her notes. The Ministry keeps a close watch on all registered vampires in an area for this reason—because only by indulgence or neglect do they ever kill anyone. Most mature vampires can feed without killing—and if they can't, they aren't deemed fit to exist without Ministry interference.
She scribbles something on the parchment, and Malfoy releases a loud huff.
"Of course I don't kill anyone," he snaps. "I have fucking restraint. You can tell that to your precious Ministry."
Hermione turns back to her parchment, knowing it will only infuriate him further. "I tell them very little beyond progress updates, if you must know. I pursue my own independent research, and provided I make gains, they continue to allow funding."
Malfoy snorts in the back of his throat. "More blood, Granger."
Releasing a sigh, she rummages for another bag—and though a part of her wants to give it to him as it is, she casts a warming spell on it before tossing it towards his cell. He snatches it out of the air between the bars, his hand moving so quickly she doesn't fully track the movement.
"And what research is that?" he drawls, preparing the bag in the same way he did the last.
"That isn't relevant for you to know," she says idly. "All you need to know is that you'll actually benefit yourself if you do as I ask."
He ignores her, drinking his second bag of blood in several deep pulls from the straw. Once he's done, he drags his tongue along the corners of his mouth and sets both empty bags into the bin.
Leaning back in his seat, Malfoy folds his hands across his middle, eyelids fluttering shut. A hint of colour brightens his cheeks after consuming two bags of blood, and she finds herself fascinated by this intimate chance to observe.
"You do realise," he says, "the transformation doesn't always work. Even if I were to bite you, there's no guarantee you'll turn. And no guarantee you'll survive either. Roughly half of all transformations don't take."
"There are ways to increase the odds," she counters.
The air between them falls tense and stifled at the suggestion, his eyes snapping open to land on her again. "Sure. If you want me to mark you."
Hermione releases a level breath, willing her pulse to settle.
When she doesn't respond, he snickers. "Merlin," he says with a quiet huff, "you are insane, aren't you?"
"Dedicated," she corrects delicately.
By all accounts, if her research holds merit—if by chance it actually proves fruitful—it will be a massive revelation for magical communities across the globe. It's the primary reason the department continues to fund her research despite minimal gains over the past three years. And she's willing to put herself on the line to test her theories.
"Tell me," she breathes. "How it works. The marking."
Malfoy's lips curl into a slow, unnerving smirk that sends a shiver along her spine. "You mean your research hasn't told you?"
There isn't any sense in denying it. "No."
The smirk pulls into a grin, wide enough to flash the sharp points of his fangs. Idly, she wonders if the bite would hurt. If he has ways of minimising the sting.
"It's a magical grounding, in a way," he drawls, as though this is infinitely banal subject matter and not everything she's been missing from a legitimate source. "A way to anchor the new vampire to their sire—to focus the magic and strengthen the transition."
"But the transition is already initiated through a bite," she counters. "Doesn't that serve the same purpose?"
A part of her wonders whether he's simply humouring her—if he's already formulating a plot to break free and kill her for the trouble. Even so, her heart rate escalates at receiving information directly from the source. None of the vampires she's sought out in the course of her research have been exactly forthcoming.
"Not to the extent of the marking." He eyes her for a moment, grey eyes searing into her. "It's a permanent tie that binds the two together. It's sex, Granger."
She isn't surprised, but hearing him lay it out so blatantly still shoots a jolt through her. The idea has already vaguely manifested itself in the back of her mind—and she knows if it came to it, she would allow him to mark her. If it means her plans fall into place.
"Most vampires forgo the marking even when initiating the transition," he adds on. "Because they don't want to deal with the long term ramifications."
"So it's a contingency," she hedges.
He eyes her another moment longer, his amusement evaporating at something he must read in her. "Sure, Granger. A contingency. Now—I've told you all I know. If you let me go now I won't drain you on my way out the door."
"You already told me you don't kill people," she deadpans.
His lip curls. "I'll make an exception for kidnapping."
She isn't certain whether she should believe him—but the last thing she means to do is underestimate him. Although she's learned ways to protect herself from vampires, she knows all too well how dangerous they can be. Especially him—literally caged here like a wild animal.
She can't claim any of this to be particularly wise.
Even if he does as she asks, despite the fact that she's holding him here against his will, there's nothing saying he won't track her down after the fact.
"I already told you," she breathes. "I'll let you go if you do as I ask. What does it cost you to turn me?"
"Aside from an entire wizarding community on my arse with pitchforks for turning their golden girl into a vamp?" he snickers. "My dignity is enough. Which I still have, by the way, despite everything you might think about me."
"How did you become a vampire?" she retorts—and by the way he blinks rapidly, she knows she caught him off guard.
"Boring story," he says, eyes drifting to the silver bars overhead again. She wonders if he's formulating an escape. "I was out too late one night, too comfortable in Knockturn, a little too deep in the whisky. Woke up the next morning with a hangover only blood could cure."
Her mouth falls open. "You don't even know who it was?"
"No." His mouth curls with a sneer, eyes darkening with malice. "It was several years ago."
"You ought to have reported it."
"It was enough that I had to register with the Ministry," he says. "I didn't want to deal with them any more than necessary."
Hermione considers him for a moment, finding it almost surreal that this is by far the most she's ever spoken with Draco Malfoy. "They could have helped you—"
"In what way?" he snaps, voice growing harsh. "What could they possibly do to help my situation? And why would anyone care for that matter? I'm a magical fucking creature, Granger—no one gives a fuck."
She swallows in the wake of his outburst as silence falls across the lab. She poises her quill over the parchment before setting it down instead. "I give a fuck," she says at last. "But clearly you don't care what I have to say, either."
Discomfort falls over the pair of them again when he doesn't respond, and through the high, narrow window, the first sliver of daylight begins to peek through. With a wave of her wand, Hermione covers the window, catching the hint of relief that crosses Malfoy's face.
"I have to go to work," she says quietly. "I suggest you consider this arrangement."
Tossing another bag of blood at him—and leaving it room temperature—she strengthens the wards and slips from the room.
When Hermione returns to her basement lab that evening, Malfoy lies on his cot, tossing the bag of blood she left for him over his head and snatching it out of the air at blinding speed.
"Oh, good," he drawls without looking at her. "I thought maybe you'd abandoned me here to desiccate and I'd have to ration this shitty lukewarm bag of blood."
"I can take it back, if you don't want it," she snaps. "I'm sure there are plenty of vampires who would love an easy meal."
Malfoy releases a long, arduous breath, as though searching himself for patience. Hermione rolls a crick from her neck, reminding herself why all of this matters. She won't force him to bite her lest he decide to drain her after all, and especially not if he needs to mark her for the transition to take.
She can't imagine forcing him into that. And just because she's willing to do whatever it takes in order to proceed with her research, he obviously doesn't care.
Delicately, she asks, "Did you give any further thought to my request?"
"No," Malfoy says, throwing his bag of blood upwards again. "I sat here with an absolutely blank mind and did nothing all day in this fucking cage while you were gone."
"I left you books to read."
His lip curls with the makings of a snarl. "I've read them." When Hermione doesn't answer, he catches the bag and jams his straw into it, taking a big slurp. "I'll only consider turning you if you tell me why. No one wants to be a vampire. Skulking about at night, living off of blood—I don't recommend it."
There's a hint of genuine dejection behind the irreverence in his voice, and Hermione drags her desk chair over to his cell, keeping a safe distance from the silver bars.
"Look, Malfoy," she says with a sigh. His eyes slide to meet hers from where he still lies on the cot. And despite the guardedness in his face, the tension holding his body, she can sense his curiosity. "I've spent the better part of five years exclusively researching vampires. The origins, the gene that passes on through the transition, ways to mitigate the cravings."
His gaze is hard on her.
"I don't know what it's like," she says quietly, "but I know it isn't easy."
"Then why," he grits out.
"You won't believe me if I tell you."
Clenching his jaw, he looks away again, sipping at his blood. "Fine. Then I'm not turning you."
"What does it matter to you, anyway?" she breathes. "It's not as if I'll bother you after the fact."
"You will," he snaps, "if I have to mark you."
The air grows awkward between them and Hermione glances away, her cheeks heating at the thought. "If you're opposed to that, I'm not going to force you to do it."
To her surprise, Malfoy snickers. "You wouldn't be forcing me, Granger. If this is all just some badly contrived plot to get me into bed, then—"
"It isn't," she huffs, grateful for the shred of amusement. "But interesting you think I would go to such lengths to sleep with a vampire."
A wicked grin splashes across his face with a glint of fangs. "Obviously you've never slept with a vampire."
A smile tugs at the corner of her mouth in return despite herself. "You're right, I haven't. The majority I've met have a tendency to threaten my life instead."
"Instinct," he says with a shrug. "Most humans aren't so receptive to vampires. There's the occasional thrill seeker of course."
Idly, she wonders how the conversation slid in this direction—and she attempts to quell the coil of heat low in her stomach at the thought.
"Anyway," Malfoy says softly, tossing his empty blood bag into the bin. "If I needed to mark you, it wouldn't be temporary. It isn't a mating bond, per se, but there would always be a pull between us. I can't imagine you'd want that for the rest of your immortal life. And I'd rather avoid it."
It catches her off guard to realise the conversation has settled into something civil despite the fact she's keeping him prisoner and he's threatened her existence numerous times.
"If you don't mark me?"
"Depends," he drawls. "If your body handles the turn well enough it isn't necessary. But there are no indicators as to what that takes. Some of the strongest humans can't survive a vampire transition." His expression darkens with a flash of grief, and he adds, "Mine was miserable. Took me days before I could function properly. A marking would have helped the process along."
He's been surprisingly amenable to her questioning, and Hermione draws another bag of blood from the box, warming it before handing it to him through the bars. He snatches it from her, stare lingering on her through the silence.
Sitting up from the cot, he moves to the table and sets it down. The move brings them closer, and she can catch the inhuman glint in his silvery eyes.
"You aren't going to let me out," he says. "Are you?"
"If you turn me, I will."
"Fuck," he mutters under his breath, raking a hand through his pale hair. "You don't know what you're asking for, Granger. I promise you'll regret it."
It occurs to her then that he's resisting out of some sort of misguided protection. That he simply doesn't want her to struggle with the existence of a vampire in the ways he has.
"What would you do," she offers, "if you had the opportunity not to be a vampire anymore?"
His eyes snap up to hers. "That's bollocks because I already am. You can't come back from being dead."
"If you could."
His gaze sears through her. "Anything. I would do anything."
Hermione sucks in a sharp breath, aware of the rapid pulse of her heart. She's certain he catches it too by the way he shifts in his seat, eyes dropping briefly to her throat. The words catch in her throat. "Then turn me."
She hears his sharp intake of breath.
"What the fuck are you up to?" he growls.
Glancing away, she hesitates for a long moment, weighing her words. It's clear the only way he's going to relent is if she tells him—and if she's honest, maybe he deserves to know.
"My primary research for the past few years," she begins, "has been in the creation and animation of vampires. How the body continues to function after the transition—and how the regular intake of blood keeps a vampire functionally alive."
She can feel his eyes burn through her.
"I've developed something... an antidote, if you will, that mimics that animation and sustains the vampire's natural rhythms long enough for the recovery and the counter-transition to take place."
"What?" Malfoy's mouth hangs open, brows furrowed with consternation. "A counter-transition—that's impossible."
"It might be," she breathes. "And I won't know until I try."
She watches the pieces click together. "On yourself. You want to try it on yourself."
"I don't want to test it on someone else if I'm unwilling to try it myself."
Malfoy's eyes are wide, incredulous, alarmed. "And if it doesn't work?"
"It could shut down the vampire's rhythms altogether. A sort of death beyond death."
Silence descends upon them and he shakes his head as though in disbelief. "You think you can cure vampirism. Fucking Granger."
She knows it's a big ask. She's known all along—and the only reason her superiors have allowed her to work on this for as long as she has is because her research has been sound. But there isn't any way to do a proper test other than on an actual vampire.
"If it doesn't work," she breathes, "my department heads will have all of my research—they'll be able to tell where I went wrong and take it from there."
"It is absolutely like you to submit your literal life to your work," he drawls, pursing his lips. His voice goes hoarse, body tensing. "What will you do if it works?"
"It will require further testing, of course. One success doesn't mean it'll work every time—just like how the transition doesn't always work. But if it works, it means I can keep going with my studies."
It means she'll survive. She's asked herself for years why she's willing to put her life on the line for this—and though she doesn't know how to give him a straight answer if he asks, he doesn't.
"You have faith in it," he says softly. "In this research."
Hermione ducks her chin. She's only reached this point after long, hard years of study. It will take time after the transition before she's ready to test, but the research is on course. "I do."
"Let me out of this fucking cage," he says. Their eyes lock. "And promise me if it works then I'm next."
A smile tugs at her mouth. "We have a deal."
For all her preparations and imaginings about how this might go, Hermione doesn't know what to make of the moment when it arrives. Her heart clamours an anxious rhythm in her chest, her skin warm with a combination of nerves and fear and anticipation.
She releases Malfoy from the silver cage, a part of her still certain he's going to drain her—that his interest in her research has been little more than a ruse to forge trust and convince her to let him out.
But he stands before her, folding his arms. His proximity is heady, his silver eyes lancing through her with altogether too much heat. Too much hunger.
Despite their conversation, he's still a vampire. A predator. And as he stares at her, she feels very much like prey.
For all her research, she doesn't know about this. About the moments before being bitten—about how it will feel.
"I can make it easier on you, if you like," he murmurs, jaw tightening.
She knows he's referring to the allure. That he can force her into a beguiled state—a sort of mental intoxication.
"No," she breathes. "I'd rather be conscious of what's happening."
The moon is high outside, a gleam of silver light through the high window, but the lab is otherwise dim. Some part of Hermione feels as though she should arrange something different—but this is little more than an exchange.
Malfoy steps towards her, his gaze tracking to her throat. His tongue darts out to moisten his lower lip, catching on one fang. A shudder of raw fear courses through her. She tries to imagine his fangs tearing through her skin, draining the blood from her body.
"If it helps," he says quietly, "the bite doesn't really hurt. It's the transition that's worse."
She's heard accounts of the transition—that there isn't any way to subdue the pain of the shift. "Okay," she whispers, tugging her jumper off and leaving her in a tank top.
Malfoy feels like too much, too close, his presence too overbearing in the limited space between them. "So we're clear—if I have to mark you—"
"Yes," she breathes. "Only if we need to."
He nods once. "That's fine."
For some reason, the thought that she might need to have sex with Malfoy—that he might need to mark her permanently—has managed to stay clinical and emotionless, lingering in the back of her mind. Until now.
With the closeness of his cool frame, the contrasting heat of his stare—the way he stands over her, lean and lithe and barely human.
Her eyes flit to the cot still in the corner, and just in case, she waves a hand to magically widen it.
Malfoy lifts a hand, brushing her hair out of the way, and his fingers feel like ice as they graze her neck. A shudder courses through her. His eyes flash in the din as he presses a little harder, drifting his touch along her throat as though testing her veins.
"Breathe, Granger," he murmurs, ducking in close. He tilts her head to the side, exposing her neck to his gaze. His lips brush her skin. "I've got you."
She feels the moment his fangs pierce her neck—like a pinch, like the jab of a syringe—seconds before his lips close over the wound.
And it's so much more sensual than she imagined. His tongue sweeps the puncture marks, his lips playing against the sensitive flesh, and if she didn't know any better he might be simply kissing her.
Heat rushes through her, pooling in her core, something closely akin to desire pulsing in her veins.
Malfoy's fingers tighten in her curls, holding her head still as he ravages her throat, taking her blood in deep pulls that she scarcely feels over the raging of her pulse. She wonders if it's a side effect of the bite, or if this is something else altogether.
If Malfoy is doing his best to make this good for her, like it wasn't for him.
He draws her flush against him, tilting her head still further to oblige his ravenous thirst, and to her surprise and horror, a moan slides from her lips. Eyes snapping open, he draws back, a smirk curling his lips. He presses a kiss over the wound with a quiet, "Doing alright?"
"Yes," she says, a little light-headed, a little flimsy in his hold. She doesn't know how much blood he's drawn—how much he needs to draw.
Her skin feels hot, her pulse racing as though to make up for what he's taken, and her knees grow shaky.
Hermione feels the moment he bites her again, a little sharper this time, enough to shoot a jolt of pain through her. "Stay with me," he says, sucking hard on the wound. Some vague, distant part of her understands why he holds her so close when she sags in his arms, feeling him lean her against the wall for support.
"Breathe, Granger," he says. "Your heart rate is too high."
She sucks in a breath, forcing herself to meet his stare. His brows are knit together with concentration, and he drags his tongue along the puncture marks in her neck. His tongue is red—with her blood.
A flush suffuses his cheeks, and her attention snags on the small details of the situation. The way his eyes shine a little brighter, his face alert. He presses the backs of two fingers to her throat, just beneath her chin, even as he wraps his other hand around her hip to steady her.
"How do I taste?" she gasps, the edges of her vision growing a little blurry.
His mouth twitches. "Delicious."
Malfoy measures her with his stare, a muscle in his jaw working. Without looking away, he brings one wrist to his mouth, biting down and creating two fresh punctures in his own pale skin. He turns his arm, bringing his wrist to her lips.
"Drink," he says, and there's enough of a command in the word that she inhales sharply even as she wraps her fingers around his forearm. "It will help."
It's self-evident that, as a vampire, she'll have to consume blood. Still, the thought of it twists her stomach into knots as she watches a thin trail of blood break from each of the two even punctures at his wrist.
She drags his wrist closer, and pushing down a wave of revulsion, drags her tongue along his skin to scoop up the blood. Closing her mouth around the wound, she sucks, tasting the metallic tang of his blood. Even in this state, it's a wonder that he still has blood in his veins, that his body exists as it does.
Her mouth fills with blood and she gulps it down, thick and cool, heavy on her tongue.
Some part of her jolts to life at the taste of it—the new, barely fresh part of her—and she sucks again, taking another mouthful of blood before she swallows it back. She wonders if it gets easier—if she'll simply forget she's drinking blood eventually.
Malfoy's eyes gleam as they rest on her, lips parted with the slow intake of his breath. He watches her drink from his wrist as though it's infinitely fascinating. When he presses his lips shut, his throat bobbing with a heavy swallow, she wonders how it feels for him.
If he feels the same current of energy pulsing through her.
Carefully, he extracts his wrist from her hands, observing her as she watches the wound close almost moments later. Her heart hammers in her own chest, the taste of his blood still filling her senses.
"Is that it?" she asks, voice wavering a little.
"That's it," he murmurs, ducking down to meet her eyes. "You're beginning the transition. I need you to keep your eyes on me, Granger."
She fixes him with a hard stare, forcing herself to draw slow, even breaths even as her veins spike with heat. Her entire body feels wilted, and all she wants is to collapse and slide into sleep.
Some part of her knows he's only doing this because she's offered him a way out. That her survival is suddenly important to him in the wake of their mutual interests. But he's the only person with her, and as a fresh wave of panic rushes through her, she's grateful for his presence.
He holds tight to her, keeping her standing as a wave of exhaustion sweeps through her. Against her better judgement, her eyes slide shut.
"Granger," Malfoy grits out.
"I'm fine," she says, and the words sound slurred to her own ears.
Her skin feels hot, his blood mingling with hers, prickling in her veins. She winces at a sharp spike of pain cresting within her.
"Open your eyes," he drawls. "For fuck's sake, Granger."
"Fine," she breathes, scrunching her face tight at the early onslaught of the transition. She feels as though she doesn't belong in her own body, every movement sluggish, her organs revolting against her body. Every part of her seizes, her skin growing unbearably hot. She grits her teeth together. "It hurts."
"I know." His hands wrap tightly around her arms. "Your body is literally undoing itself."
"Malfoy," she grits out, hot moisture spiking at the corners of her eyes. She can feel the rampant cadence of her heart, too fast, too much.
He checks her pulse again, his face carefully stoic—and it says more than if he had reacted. When he presses the back of his hand to her brow, she can feel a sheen of perspiration break at her hairline.
A sudden vicious thirst claws at her throat, unbearably dry, and her fingers wrap around his wrist of their own accord.
"No more," he snaps, wrenching his arm back. "You had enough to complete the shift."
Heavy breaths slide from her lips as she stares at him, searching his gaze for something she can't define. The lab feels so hot, her skin burning up, her heart ready to explode in her chest.
Malfoy's jaw hardens into a tight line. "I haven't seen many transitions, Granger, I—" He cuts himself off, wrenching a hand through his hair.
A small whimper breaks from her lips. She wishes she could crawl out of her own skin. "Please," she hears herself gasp.
"I'm going to do the mark," he says quietly, the words reaching some part of her that hasn't yet given over to the horror of it. "Tell me now if you changed your mind."
"You don't have to," Hermione whispers. It will sentence them both into a bonded state, and she knows he doesn't truly want that.
But he only smirks, leaning in close. "You're not dying on me, Granger." His fingers tighten on her hip, nose brushing her own. "Yes?"
"Yes," she breathes, desperate to lose herself in something else—anything else. She doesn't know what to expect from him—if it will be rushed and frantic, or a cold and clinical effort to subdue the pain and the agony of the transition.
So when he kisses her, it catches her by surprise. His lips are cold like every other part of him, a soothing balm to the fire that courses beneath her skin. Hermione kisses him back, clutching his face, sliding her hands into his hair.
Malfoy grips her tight, draws her close, his mouth working over hers, tongue sweeping into her mouth as he manoeuvres her away from the wall.
He bites down on her lower lip but doesn't break the skin, drawing back with a smirk. "I knew this was all an effort to sleep with me."
A bright laugh slides free, breaking some of the tension within her, his touch working wonders on the pain. "You caught me," she says, her voice scratchy from the dryness in her throat. "I've been pining after you for years."
"Knew it," he mutters, sliding one hand beneath the back of her shirt as he kisses her again. In one careful movement, he tugs the fabric over her head, and though she knows she ought to feel exposed in only her bra, the heat in his stare ignites her heart in an entirely different way.
She reaches for his shirt, slipping the row of buttons and pushing the fabric from his shoulders. His body is hard and toned, all of the scars he once bore smoothed away by the healing magic in his vampire blood.
Hermione can't deny the desire coursing through her, the arousal that she suspects would exist even if the circumstances weren't so dire.
"What do we have to do?" she asks, fingers drifting to his belt buckle. His hands graze the bare skin of her middle, her arms, rounding to the small of her back. His cool hands do wonders for the heat of his blood in her veins threatening to boil her alive.
"It's simple," he drawls, pushing his jeans free and making quick work of her own. "When you get there, bite me."
"Bite you," she breathes, alarm chasing through her.
A hint of true amusement tugs at his mouth, his fangs flashing. He dips his thumb between her lips, brushing the pad of it against her incisor. She's surprised to feel the sharpness of her tooth break skin, the taste of his blood meeting her tongue again. The fangs are already forming. She closes her lips around his thumb, sucking briefly. His blood tastes so much better now than it did only minutes ago.
"Bite me," he repeats, extracting his thumb with a smirk. "It's instinctive. You'll know. And I'll do the same. It'll form the marking."
A sudden jolt of pain bursts within her again, a pounding in her skull, and she grimaces against the force of it. She grips his arms tighter as another wave of heat roars through her, threatening to incinerate her insides.
The amusement falls from his face and he manoeuvres her across the room, settling her onto the cot. She can scarcely see straight from the pounding in her head, and she's grateful for his support.
If she's honest, he's been more understanding than she ever expected from Draco Malfoy—especially when he was threatening to drain her only the night before. Especially knowing the instincts that drive him.
More than anything, she appreciates how he's taken this. As though maybe this all isn't the end of the world. Maybe they'll get through this. And if her antidote works, if she's able to come back from this in the end, she likes knowing he'll be the first one to join her.
He kisses her deeply again, one hand drifting between her legs, slipping beneath her knickers.
She might feel self conscious about the whole thing if not for the different sort of heat pooling with her—the desire swelling within her for his touch.
He growls at the wetness between her legs, yanking her knickers down with his other hand as he slides two fingers inside of her, teasing her, staving off the heat and the pain threatening to rise within her again. A sort of keen, animalistic desire dances in his eyes, darkening the silver with flecks of slate.
She's reminded all at once he isn't fully human anymore.
"Malfoy," she gasps, feeling his hardness against her leg. She slips a hand into his shorts, taking his hard length in her palm, basking in the groan she draws from him. He presses his brow against her shoulder, thrusting his fingers harder into her, and she arches her back from the bed with a cry when he curls them deep inside.
There's a sort of frantic urgency to it, paired with something less so. Something more like the desire for exploration, to understand the other on a deeper level—a sort of longing that it wasn't like this.
Maybe she chose the right vampire for this after all—because Hermione can't imagine any other taking such care with her.
Even so, she can't imagine she's likely to see him again after this. Provided she survives this he'll probably want nothing more to do with her unless or until she can help him. And she can't blame him.
He presses a trail of kisses to her throat, lingering on the bite marks he made earlier, and a jolt of energy chases through her when he drags his tongue along the closed wound.
The pain from the transition fades a little into the background as the searing heat of desire takes over and she clings to him, dragging him closer as she hitches a leg around his hip. However it works, his touch is enough to keep the agony of the shift at bay, at least for now
Hermione can only hope the marking works as intended. That she'll make it through this as alive as she possibly can be.
Malfoy meets her gaze, his silver eyes bright in the dim lighting.
For several moments, they only stare at each other. For some reason she can't quite comprehend—maybe she simply needs to clear the air—she blurts out, "I'm sorry I kidnapped you."
He gives a huff of incredulous laughter. "You really should be."
He drives into her, filling her, and a moan slides from her lips at the feel of it. Malfoy stills, suspending himself above her on his forearms.
A smile tugs at her lips as she rolls her hips, nudging them closer together. "Maybe you let yourself be kidnapped and this was all your convoluted plan—"
Malfoy cuts her off with a sharp bark of laughter. "Shut up," he drawls, pulling her into a deep kiss as he withdraws and thrusts into her, painfully slow. "I did not see my day going this way."
She groans as he fills her again, the pair of them moving against each other slowly, indulgent, as though their lives aren't at stake. And it's suddenly all too easy to forget that he's a vampire, that his life was stolen from him years ago. That he could overpower and kill her with a single bite.
That he might have simply been a young man allowed to grow and live if not for all this.
At the moment, she can't think of anything but this, the way he feels inside her, the way she doesn't feel half as uncertain as she thought she might. They were never friends growing up, never anything other than enemies on crisply drawn battle lines—but right now none of that matters.
All she cares for now is the mutual benefit that lies between them. That if he saves her, she can try to save him in return.
It's hopeful enough to chase away any other demons haunting her—to subdue the pain of the shift still roiling within her body as it threatens to shut down altogether.
Hermione kisses him again, winding her legs around his waist, bringing him deeper into her with each thrust. His mouth on her is all heat, his hands strong and assertive, and every time his teeth graze her skin she feels a thrill deep within her.
She thinks of the mark—the magical bond that will draw them together, at least until she can figure out the final intricacies of her solution. If it even works.
Now that she's fully committed to this, she has no choice but to make sure it works.
Malfoy rolls them on the cot, staring up into her eyes as he brings her down onto him, as she rolls her hips again and again, taking the full length of his cock into her walls with every delirious, desirous meeting of their flesh. She gasps his name, her moans and cries swallowed up on the other side of his lips as she twines her fingers into his soft hair.
She feels herself growing close, the tight coil of pressure within her building towards a wave of pleasure.
"Draco," she breathes, her skin flush against his as she takes him into her. Her eyelids flutter as he reaches that spot inside her. Hermione tries not to think of what she needs to do, to rely on the instincts forming within the part of her that's already been consumed in the transition. She can feel the lethal sharpness of her own fangs. The strength manifesting within her. "I'm so close."
His eyes lift to meet hers, darkened with lust and pleasure, and in a swift movement, she's on her back again. He drives into her faster, harder, cries breaking from her lips with every thrust.
Kissing her hard, Malfoy reaches between them, and his thumb finds her clit. "Come for me," he whispers against her mouth. Brushes a curl back from her brow with a featherlight touch. "I've got you."
At the soft words, she breaks, falling apart under the pulse of her desire, surrendering herself into the waves of release.
It's nothing at all when her lips find his throat, teeth baring and sinking into his flesh. This time, when the rush of blood hits her tongue she indulges in it, loses herself in the heady taste of him.
Malfoy groans at the feel of it, angling his head to oblige her, and moments later when he finds his release alongside her, his fangs sink into the same punctures from earlier.
Her mind erupts, and if possible, the pleasure coursing through her amplifies in the wake of it. A cry breaks from her throat, her body arcing from the cot as he holds her tight against him, his mouth moving against her skin.
She feels rejuvenated in a way she's never known, her senses sharp, her body lethal.
Her eyes blink open to meet his, and he looks so much clearer than she remembers. As though she's viewed everything through a hazy lens, and now the world is sharp. She can hear his heart beat, feel the blood pulsing in his veins, wrapped in each other as they are.
Malfoy pulls himself free of her, settling at her side, and long moments pass where neither of them speaks.
Finally, his mouth twitches with a hint of humour. "How do you feel?"
"Good." The word is an understatement, when she feels like a more acute version of herself, every part of her aware and alert in a way she's never known. She bites down on her lip, the skin tearing only for an instant before the wound knits itself shut. "Great."
He sinks his face into the pillow with an indulgent smile. "I remember those early days. Feeling invincible."
"What happened?"
She wonders if he's going to answer. If he has anything more for her, or if this—protecting her from a transition gone wrong—is all he has to offer.
But he rolls to face the ceiling, shaking his head slowly. "The reality of it caught up with me. The societal constraints. The way my entire life changed. The way people started to look at me. Even when people don't know you're a vampire, some instinct within can tell there's something not quite right."
She knows that well enough—she felt that way interacting with him just the day before.
He hesitates for a moment, and when he speaks again, his voice is soft. "The loneliness."
"Yeah," she breathes, and when silence falls over them—not uncomfortable but not entirely at ease—she wonders whether this is it. If they'll have nothing to do with each other now until she attempts the reversal on herself. "Well... thank you."
Malfoy doesn't immediately respond, his expression tugging into a frown. "I hope you figure it out, Granger. Because even if you feel this way now, eventually it'll grow old. And I can wait—but if you figure something out, Merlin... if there's a way out of this life, I want it."
"Yeah," she whispers again, uncertainty growing within her. She can't imagine how he faced everything alone—and doesn't know how she will begin to navigate this life now that it's ahead of her. It's one thing to study vampires, to learn everything she can about how they function and how the animation of it works.
It'll be another undertaking entirely to learn how to actually survive. How she'll feel, where she'll live, what she'll do with her time.
The department knows of her intent, but this will change the course of her career even so.
She can't ask for Malfoy's help. Not after he turned her—not after he marked her, creating a permanent bond between them he didn't want in the first place.
"I'll let you know," she whispers. "What I figure out."
"I'll come when you try it." His gaze still doesn't meet hers, and she wonders whether he regrets it. What they did. The decisions he made after she told him the truth. "And... Granger, make sure it's right. I'd hate to go through all of this and for you to die by your own spell."
His mouth twitches, and it's the first hint of warmth that's crossed his face since they came down.
"That would be quite unfortunate," she manages.
He flashes her a grin. Brushing his fingers along her jaw, he leans in to press a kiss to her throat, right over the spot where he marked her. Idly, her gaze drifts to the point on his throat where she marked him—and she's surprised to see a matching set of puncture wounds on his neck, unhealed. Hermione brushes her fingers along the skin, and his eyelids flutter.
"Thank you," she breathes. "I know I didn't go about this the best way, but I appreciate your assistance."
He snorts low in his throat. "You won't be thanking me when you try to get used to living as a vampire. But... there are a few things that almost make it worth it. Sometimes."
She finds herself enraptured as he speaks, his palm smoothing easy circles on her hip almost absently.
She sucks in a breath, "Like what?"
"The heightened senses," he says, considering. "The speed. The security of knowing you can protect yourself no matter what happens." His mouth curls with thoughtful warmth. "There's... a sort of connection with the world around you that I never noticed as a human."
His gaze locks on hers, and she wants to ask him to stick it out with her a little longer. To introduce her into this world even though no one ever did the same for him.
But she knows she can't ask that of him. Not after all he's already done.
"You can go, if you want to," she whispers, spent of all the energy that brought her to this point. In the aftermath of the transition, she's exhausted.
"I mean..." His tongue darts out to moisten his lips, eyes tracking to her own. "We have all the time in the world, really. At least until you finish your research. If you want, I can show you some things in the meantime."
A swell of relief washes over her, and she can't contain her grin. Her fangs graze her lower lip, and a huff of laughter breaks free.
"I would like that." Knowing she isn't alone in this, not in many of the ways she anticipated, eases so many of her worries and doubts. "I'll need time to perfect the reversal. And for now..."
His fingers link with hers, and he gives her hand a squeeze. He brushes a kiss to her mouth with a teasing, taunting, "For now."
She kisses him again, deeper, drawing him close against her. Maybe for now, she can learn this new life and all of its facets with someone who understands.
Until they're ready to start over again.
Despite herself, she smiles at the thought.
Some hundreds of years later
Some days, Hermione doesn't remember what it was to exist during the day. The feel of the sun on her face. A life as part of society.
Those early days that separate that life from this one are little more than a blur, tucked away in a far-back corner of her mind. She had been young, idealistic, dedicated to the idea of accomplishment and making a difference in some small way.
So much time has passed that she scarcely recognises the young woman she once was.
She slipped into the life she now lives like the simple changing of a cloak, committing herself to her work until it was through. Until her plans changed.
A small coven of vampires from the north, desperate for the rumours that had begun to spread, had stolen a copy of her work—and in the end, they perfected her formula on their own. Hermione had never wanted the credit for the vampire reversal, and she'd been all too content to remain in the shadows, watching as her work changed the lives of thousands around the globe.
For her part, she watched so much of it from the sidelines.
Separate from the world she once knew—but not alone.
She and Draco have seen the world, spent years exploring and years settled. Months apart and years together—and always, drawn back to one another by the magic that binds them. Always kept each other close.
They've lived in cities and towns, in the wilds and on the beaches of the world. In countries where vampires are revered rather than feared. Where the night is celebrated.
They watched everyone they've ever known slip away. Friends and family, coworkers and acquaintances, lost to the relentless pursuit of time. While the two of them have simply carried on, exploring the many facets that life has afforded them until the years began to bleed together.
Because for Draco, she now knows, it wasn't being a vampire he hated—it was facing an endless dredge of time alone.
They've seen nations rise and crumble, observed the changing of the world from a distance, indifferent to the immediacy of human existence.
And still, she can remember the vow they made after their first hundred years together passed.
If the time ever comes, Draco had told her, quiet and reverent, his gaze fixed on the sky, that the sight of a full moon no longer inspires awe, we'll move on.
Lacing their fingers together, she'd brought his knuckles to her lips with a whispered, Deal.
Some days now, she feels tired. He had been right in telling her that this life would be exhilarating in its own way. That she would lose herself in the thrill of it—and for so many years, they did.
For lifetimes, they've seen the world together. So many years that she can't keep track, and most of the time, they don't bother. They've had so much more time than she ever imagined—so long they've been together their hearts are simply entwined, their souls two halves of the same.
And now...
She's felt the shift in him as surely as within herself.
That it's time.
Their time to become human again, to live out the remaining years of their lives as mortals, until they succumb to the fragility of age.
Clutching two small vials in her hand, she offers him one. Together, they remove the stoppers; the potion smells like all the things she loves the most about the night.
"I love you," she breathes, seeking out the comfort she knows in the silver of his eyes.
Draco smiles, that soft, indulgent smile she's come to know so well. "I love you," he returns, brandishing his vial. "To our next, final adventure together."
Her eyes sting with tears, but she knows no doubt.
And in an overgrown patch of land outside of London that once held a small wooden cottage, they start again.