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Chapter 26: A Muggle Solution
🕑 Added 2025-09-03 18:37:12 +0000 UTC"Hey! Are you deaf? I'm talking to you!" Malfoy's voice was a sharp, arrogant whine that cut through the oppressive silence of the Forbidden Forest.
He, Draco Malfoy, heir to a sacred and ancient pure-blood line, was used to being the center of attention. Since arriving at Hogwarts, the freshmen of Slytherin orbited him like nervous little planets. To be so thoroughly and completely ignored by this… this Mudblood… was an infuriating new experience.
"I heard you," Hermione replied without breaking her stride, her voice flat and bored. Her eyes were scanning the forest floor, tracking the subtle signs of passage that the others had missed. "And I'm ignoring you. If you continue to make pointless noise, I will leave you here by yourself to discuss your feelings with the acromantulas."
A cold, moist wind rustled the high branches, and the darkness around them seemed to deepen, pressing in on all sides. Malfoy shivered, a visceral, primal fear overriding his indignation. He took a hasty step closer to Hermione's small, unconcerned form. The next second, as if embarrassed by his own weakness, he puffed out his chest.
"Hmph," he sneered, trying to reclaim some semblance of control. "I'm not afraid of a few spiders. When we get back, if you've got any guts, you'll face me in a proper wizard's duel!"
"Oh?" Hermione finally stopped and glanced at him, a single, amused eyebrow raised. "Are you sure you want to do that, Draco?"
Malfoy's face froze. The casual, almost intimate use of his first name was somehow more disarming than a threat. And then the memory of the troll, of the brutal, systematic execution he had only heard about, flashed in his mind. He remembered the looks on the other Gryffindors' faces—not just awe, but genuine fear. He remembered the way Professor Snape, his own head of house, had been silenced by a single, menacing gesture from this small, quiet girl.
Gods, he thought, a cold knot of dread tightening in his stomach. What am I doing?
"Let's go," Hermione said, her attention already back on the trail. "I know which way it went." She nodded in the direction they were heading, then glanced back the way they'd come, where Hagrid's lantern was now a faint, distant star. "They went the wrong way."
Her certainty was absolute, infuriating. For a man who had been the school's gamekeeper for decades, Hagrid had the tracking skills of a blind flobberworm. It was no wonder he'd been so easily framed for the Chamber of Secrets incident. Twice.
They walked on in silence for a few minutes, but Malfoy's nervous energy couldn't be contained. "How do you know this is the right way?" he whispered, his voice cracking. "Are you sure you're not just getting us lost? We should have stayed with the oaf…"
Hermione had had enough. She spun around, her eyes flashing with a cold, adult anger that was utterly terrifying in a child's face. "Shut. Up," she commanded, her voice low and dangerous. "I am trying to concentrate, and your incessant whining is making it difficult. Frankly, Malfoy, explaining the principles of tracking to someone with your limited intellect would be a waste of my breath. If you don't trust me, feel free to go back on your own. Otherwise, be quiet."
Malfoy was stunned into silence. She… she was mean to me. No one, not even his mother, was ever truly mean to him.
His fear and humiliation curdled into a familiar, ugly rage. "Don't you get so smug," he snarled, his voice trembling. "You're nothing but a filthy little Mudblood—"
His words were choked off by a strangled gasp.
Because just ahead of them, in a small, moonlit clearing, was a scene from a nightmare. A unicorn, its coat as pure and white as freshly fallen snow, lay on its side, its breath coming in ragged, shallow gasps. And hunched over it, like a vulture, was a figure cloaked in a black, tattered robe. The figure was lying on the unicorn's chest, its face buried in a wound on the creature's neck, and it was drinking its blood. They could hear the greedy, slurping sounds.
The figure raised its head, and in the pale moonlight, they saw silver, shimmering blood dripping from the corner of its mouth.
"AAAAAAHHHHHH!"
Malfoy's scream was a high-pitched, piercing shriek of pure, unadulterated terror.
Startled by the noise, the black-robed figure rose, turning its unseen face toward them. It didn't walk; it floated, a silent, spectral horror gliding over the forest floor, coming right for them.
Malfoy turned to run, tripped on an unseen root, and fell backward. He scrambled away on his hands and feet until his back hit the cold, hard trunk of an ancient oak, his mind completely blank with fear, able to do nothing but watch the monster drift closer.
Just as the figure was about to pounce, a sound ripped through the ancient, magical silence of the Forbidden Forest. It was a sound that didn't belong here, a sound that was loud, violent, and brutally mundane.
CRACK!
The cloaked figure jerked as if struck by an invisible fist. It staggered, its smooth, floating motion faltering, and it dropped to the ground.
CRACK! CRACK! CRACK! CRACK!
A series of deafening explosions, each accompanied by a brilliant flash of fire from Hermione's position, echoed through the trees. The robed figure convulsed with each impact, a low, guttural roar of pain and pure, undiluted outrage tearing from its throat. It twitched a few more times on the forest floor and then lay still.
Hermione stood with her feet planted, holding the Glock 9mm she had taken from the dead robber in New York in a firm, two-handed grip. The anachronistic sight of a twelve-year-old witch in Hogwarts robes holding a modern semi-automatic pistol was so bizarre it defied comprehension.
With practiced, economical movements, she ejected the empty magazine, pulled a fresh one from a pocket in her robes, and slammed it home with a satisfying click. She raised the pistol again, aiming it squarely at the motionless figure on the ground.
"Faker," a voice hissed, not from the figure's mouth, but seemingly from the air around it. It was a voice of pure, ancient hatred.
The black-robed thing scrambled to its feet and fled, not floating now, but running, a clumsy, rolling, and incredibly fast retreat into the deepest shadows of the forest.
Knew you were faking it, Hermione thought with a cold smirk. She had no intention of actually killing him. Not yet. She lowered the gun and turned its barrel toward the whimpering, paralyzed lump of pure-blood wizard that was Draco Malfoy.
"What was that you were saying just now?" she asked, her voice dangerously sweet. "Something about… mud? I didn't quite catch it."
Malfoy swallowed hard, his eyes wide with a new, more immediate kind of terror. He shook his head, unable to form words.
Hermione let the pistol drop to her side. There was no sport in it.
Just then, Hagrid, Harry, and Ron came crashing through the undergrowth. "What was that noise!" Hagrid bellowed. "Sounded like thunder!" They had seen the dark shape fleeing and had rushed toward the sound, fearing the worst. As he got closer, Harry felt a sharp, stabbing pain in the scar on his forehead.
"Nothing," Hermione said calmly, making the pistol vanish back into her robes with a flick of her wrist. "Met the thing that's been attacking the unicorns. I scared it off."
Harry and Ron didn't even question it. After the troll, they would have believed her if she'd said she'd wrestled it into submission. A mere murderer was nothing.
Hagrid, however, had seen the unicorn's body. "Who would do such a thing?" he growled, his voice thick with sorrow and rage.
Voldemort, obviously, Hermione thought. Failed to get the Stone, so now he's slumming it, drinking unicorn blood to survive. She noted with a clinical detachment that the dark lord, even in his weakened, parasitic state, could take multiple 9mm rounds and still run away. Impressive.
"What's wrong with him?" Harry asked, finally noticing the pathetic, whimpering state Malfoy was in.
"He's a coward," Hermione said with a helpless shrug. "Got a little spooked."
Harry and Ron looked at Malfoy with matching expressions of deep, satisfying contempt.
It was then that Hermione felt the familiar, pleasant buzz from her grimoire. She checked it internally. The unicorn, having been killed by Voldemort in her vicinity, had triggered her Dark Harvest.
Dark Harvest - [Current Soul Energy: 520]
Five hundred points for one unicorn, she thought, a thrill of pure, triumphant glee shooting through her. What a good man, that Voldemort. Always willing to do the dirty work. For a brief, dark moment, she wondered how many unicorns were left in the forest and did the math. No, bad Hermione, she chided herself, forcibly expelling the dangerous thought.
She looked at the dead, beautiful creature, at her terrified pure-blood classmate, and at her two loyal, clueless followers. The game was getting more interesting—and more profitable—by the minute.
