AU, obvi. I'm supposed to be working on something else, but this plunny kept humping my head.

Anyway, I'm changing a few things around, altering events, and basically fucking with canon, both books AND films. This first chapter is just glossing over some stuff, and introducing everything else, so if it seems tedious, you know why. Just laying the groundwork.

I'm not really sure what's going to be included in this, but I can tell you there will br graphic violence, gore, sexual situations, adult scenes, possible drug/alcohol use/abuse, and will include controversial themes, topics, or scenes where appropriate for the story. I'm not writing a Purge movie.

Any additional warnings will be included on a per chapter basis. If you choose to ignore this, well, your complaints will be ignored. You have clearly been told what you're getting into.

I own the plot. That's it.

Fan/Facecasts:

Hermione Granger / Emma Watson

Jeanette & Robert Granger / Hayley Atwell & Dennis Quaid

Jonathan Spencer (OC) / Charlie Plummer

Sanguini / Gerard Butler (think Dracula 2000)

Severus Snape / Adam Driver (as per my husband's request)

Draco Malfoy / David Balheim

Additional castings tba as chapters progress.

"The mistakes don't matter. It's what you do when you mess up that does."

- Kim Harrison, Early to Death, Early to Rise

"Alone. Yes, that's the key word, the most awful word in the English tongue. Murder doesn't hold a candle to it and hell is only a poor synonym."

- Stephen King, Salem's Lot

"Yet I saw crypts when I looked at him, and I heard the beat of kettledrums. I saw torchlit fields where I had never been, heard vague incantations, felt the heat of raging fires on my face. And they didn't come out of him, these visions. Rather I drew them out on my own." - Anne Rice, The Vampire Lestat

Summer, 1996, approximately one month after the DoM battle

"Hermione!" Jeanette Granger yelled distractedly, fumbling the handle of her purse on her wrist while she maneuvered her keys from the lock. Closing the front door with her hip, she toddled the groceries toward the kitchen. "Hermione Jean!" Her voice carried through the house more insistently as one of the bags had begun to tear a bit. "I need help with these -"

"Hey, mum! Sorry, let me help," her daughter replied, swooping down the stairs and catching the bottom of the dodgy bag before it could spill its contents. Hefting it a bit in her arms, the cans inside rolled and knocked against her sternum, and Hermione winced. She wiggled an arm free and held it out to her mother, smiling. "Have one more?"

"Are you sure, Hermione?" Jeanette's reply was the wiggling of her daughter's fingers, so she capitulated, handing another bag over where they stood in the kitchen entryway. She sighed to herself. That Headmaster had only told them few details of Hermione's injury, mainly concerned about her recovery. Oddly concerned, really. When Robert and Jeanette were finally able to bring their only child home to finish her recovery, she told them the full story.

With a mother's heart, Jeanette ached for Hermione's friends. Poor Harry, brought up by those god awful people only to be targeted because of a prophecy. She shared her daughter's skepticism for Divination, having heard all about the class experience when she had been Floo called by Minerva regarding Hermione's walk-out. To be in that young man's shoes, feeling like a slave to destiny carrying the world… it was no wonder Hermione had gone with him to the Ministry to take on and ultimately defeat the Dark wizard that targeted him.

Ronald Weasley had always stricken her as a bit of a hanger-on, riding Harry's coattails for recognition of his own. As Hermione's tales of the years previous went on, however, it had become apparent Ron was insecure and unsure how to make his own way. Being the youngest boy and, compared to his older brothers, fairly unremarkable, Jeanette was sure he felt adrift in the world. Robert had noted that the boy seemed to be quite the tactician, when Hermione had relayed the life-sized chess game. "He may be more dense than a rock, but the boy knows his strategy," he had remarked at the time, though he considered the redheaded boy a brute and a cad for his treatment of their daughter. Ronald's emotional immaturity had not done their tenuous friendship any favours in this war.

While she and Robert were not ecstatic learning exactly how dangerous these Death Eaters had been, they couldn't fault their child for standing for her beliefs and her friends as they had taught her. Not for the first time, Jeanette was grateful her daughter was a witch, able to protect herself with more than just her fists or a weapon. Every day, more people had been found dead or mentally bereft, soulless husks of the people they once were. Whole families were found maimed, neighborhoods experienced "gas leaks" or fell victim to "violent drug addicts". She now knew the stories, for the most part, were hogwash. They both did.

Initially, their reaction had been to panic. It had seemed logical to pull their daughter from the school when she had such an obscenely large target on her back, to sequester her home or go abroad, and just run, run, run away. They could fly to America or Australia, or stay with Jeanette's extended family in Greece, but Hermione wouldn't hear of it. She explained that those people, those Death Eaters, wouldn't just go away. They would run rampant through Britain, doing their master's bidding - that Voldemort fellow - even as his dust wafted away in the winds. Hermione had been clear that, as her parents, the Muggle parents of one of Harry Potter's best friend and partner-in-crime, they were also targets.

Their daughter had asked Dumbledore about some sort of protection for their house from what she called The Order. Robert had commented that it had sounded almost as ominous as these Death Eater characters, and had raised a very good question to the old wizard. One that Hermione had seconded with nary a thought.

If Harry, Ron, and Hermione, their families included, had been targeted by Dark wizards and witches since their First Year, why only now, before her Sixth, were Albus Dumbledore and his Order considering protection? And why only after Voldemort had been defeated? While, yes, the events Hermione had told them of in First Year were relatively tame compared to currently, the subsequent years showed a marked increase in the severity of the threat. Robert, during one of their late night talks before bed, had shared suspicions that the lack of concern was less than accidental. The Weasley homestead had protective magic, as did the new Headquarters, and Harry's muggle home was apparently protected by some sort of familial bond passed from his mother at the time of her death. He believed that Dumbledore was setting them up to either be murdered or captured to sway or control Hermione, who, as her tales progressed, admitted she had displeased and surprised the Headmaster by acting out of what he assumed her character to be.

Hermione had told them of the Sorting Hat's indecision, the troll, and her part in the three trials of First Year. Second Year had seen their daughter petrified by a semi-sentient reptile which had been housed, hidden, beneath the school. How anyone had been unaware was beyond her, but then, she had guessed magic could do interesting things. Transform a mouse into a goblet, hide a giant, evil Basilisk; different intentions, same magic.

The retelling of Third Year, in which Hermione filled in the obvious spaces between her heavily distilled missives home, had included the tale of Sirius Black, a prison escapee who had been wrongfully imprisoned without trial for the murders of none other than Harry's own parents. Apparently, their daughter was also slightly older than she was supposed to be, as she had been given use of something called a Time Turner in order to take as many classes as she had hoped. The use of the device had added roughly a month to her age, meaning she would be seventeen sooner than September. Robert's hand had tightened around hers when their child recounted the harrowing encounter with a werewolf. A werewolf who had also been their Defense Professor. Jeanette's head had spun as her blood pressure raised during the climax of the tale in which she had used the device she had been entrusted to not only save whatever a Buckbeak was, but also Mr. Black and themselves, The Novikov Self-Consistency Principle Jeanette remembered once hearing in a public lecture making more sense.

Fourth Year's tale had Robert using language typically only heard at docks and seedy pubs. Not only had they not been informed their daughter had nearly been killed at the World Quidditch Cup she had attended with her friends, they also had not been made aware that a student had been killed during an inter-school tournament. Jeanette had sent a silent prayer up for the Diggory boy and his family. Such a senseless act, all so Lord Wannabe-Caligula could be resurrected. And Harry, well, he had barely escaped the man-turned-thing only to be told he was delusional.

When they had finally gotten to this past school year, through the stories of masked figures and turbaned ne'er-do-wells, there had been a feeling of dread. They hadn't heard from her at all that year, and had tried to contact the school. Oddly, however, none of their communications had been received by their intended parties. Hermione had explained how her mail had been kept from her, that any of her attempts to write to them had been met with resistance and confiscation. The woman who had taken control, Umbridge, had tortured the children by making them write lines in their own blood and dosing them with a truth potion before illegally interrogating them. She had talked about their rebellion, Dumbledore's Army, and how they had met in secret to do practical work rather than theoretical, something with which Jeanette had agreed with. The prank George and Fred Weasley had pulled during their testing made both parents cheer, but it was what happened next which had cut that short.

Harry had been shown a vision by the evil creature who had used him to be resurrected. His Godfather, Sirius, had escaped from prison years before only to be captured once again and used as bait. What had galled Robert was that Hermione had known the man was bait, had known exactly what this Dark Lord was doing, and had still gone with her friends to the Ministry. Once there, she, a student, would do battle with fully grown men and women intent to kill her, and one almost would. The only thing which had saved her was the silencing spell she had cast at her attacker a split second beforehand.

At least now the Ministry had no choice but to confirm the return of the Dark Lord Voldemort just as they confirmed that three schoolchildren were responsible for sending him to rest. 'Still a stupid name,' Jeanette thought, returning back to the present to gaze upon her daughter placing the groceries in their cupboards. Stupid name or not and dead as he was, his followers who had scattered like cockroaches in a sudden burst of light had no issues with killing the families of Harry Potter's best friends if it meant leading the boy closer to his own demise, and that thought was what had kept Jeanette up at night.

"Anything else?" Jeanette jumped. Hermione stood, casting a curious glance at her mother and attempting to surreptitiously rub at her chest. When she noticed her mother's eagle eyed stare, she slowly dropped her hand to her side and grimaced.

"Still bothering you, luv?" Jeanette moved to the cupboard above the icebox and pulled the pot of salve the dour Potions Professor, Snape, had sent via elf days earlier. Handing it to her daughter, she leaned back against the island countertop. "They still have nothing?"

Hermione removed her tee-shirt, baring the camisole she wore beneath, and began rubbing the sweetly scented substance on the barely visible remnants of her injury. "No, unfortunately. Dolohov apparently has a penchant for inventing his own spells and curses, as well as modifying others thought lost in time. I'm guessing either this is new or-"

"Or you're the only one to have been hit and survived," Jeanette finished grimly. "Have Harry or Ron owled you? What about that woman with the hair? That Auror? You said the Black house was being used as the Headquarters, correct? Maybe they have a family library, like the Muggle elite had. Wizarding society seems very Victorian, so I'm assuming some other things might've carried over, aside from the fashion and lack of equal civil rights." She handed a snickering Hermione a small dish towel to wipe her hands, taking the pot of medicine from her and placing it back above the icebox.

Moments later, the two women were seated at the small breakfast table waiting for the electric kettle to warm. Rolling her mug around in her hands, Hermione finally spoke, "You're not safe, mum. You and dad." She sighed, tangling a hand through her hair. "No one has owled me, not even Dumbledore about the wards. I've read almost every book I have trying to come up with something, but all I've found is a basic Fidelis. I- I can't- mummy.. " The curly haired witch whimpered and scooted her chair closer to her mother, burying her head in Jeanette's bosom and sobbing gently. All she could do in return was run a hand down her daughter's back and coo, but inwardly, she felt just as terrified. "I don't want you to die…"

That evening, the three of them were sitting down for dinner when the chime rang for the door. "Wait," Hermione hissed to her father before he opened the door, drawing her wand and standing to the side out of sight. Robert looked through the peep hole and let out an audible sigh of relief.

"It's just Johnny from down the street, darling," he told Hermione, who shook her head and held her wand tightly in her fist.

"No, it's not. They went out of town on holiday three days ago, dad. Remember?" Alarm and suspicion alighted in his eyes at her reminder. Sharing a look, he silently asked her what to do as the chime rang again. She gently moved him out of the way of the door, into her former spot out of sight, and opened it herself. Plastering a smile on her face and holding her wand so it was hidden by the door jamb but still ready, she greeted the imposter as though unaware of their sham.

"Hey, John, how have you been?" She greeted enthusiastically, maybe a bit overly so she realized. As Not-Johnny nodded politely back and grinned slightly, rocking on his heels, Hermione paid close attention to his finer movements. Whomever this was had done a good job aping their neighbour. If she weren't so tense with everything going on, Hermione herself probably would have been fooled. The hair on her neck raised a bit, the primal response of a prey to the predator.

"Been good, Hermes. I didn't know you were in town finally! Can I come in for a visit?" Not-Johnny looked toward the interior from his vantage point, a flash of something in his eyes. His nostrils flared slightly in rapid succession, and she was reminded of a feline taking in gentle puffs of air to scent for something on which to pounce.

"Oh, balls," Hermione cursed lightly back with a shrug and frown. Fat chance he was coming inside. "Mum and dad have just left for their evening walk, and you know their rules." They had no such rules about visitors, and had never been ones to take evening walks, something which the real John would know. Unless Not-Johnny had been keeping vigil for longer than a few days, he wouldn't be privy to the information.

"Pfft!" the younger teen waved his hand in the air. "New rule? I know there have been a lot of weird things on lately, but it's just me." He stepped a bit closer into the weak light of the porch and Hermione noted the waxy, nearly bloodless pallor of his skin. "Your dad worried about his health again? They never take walks. He should think about one of those Stair Climbers me da's always using at home." He flicked his eyes to the side, almost as if he could see her father directly through the wall, and his nostrils flared again. His gaze moved almost as quickly back to her and he grinned at her as though he knew a secret.

Hermione was confused, running through scenarios in her head. Obviously, Not-Johnny knew his intel on the Grangers. Unless… she observed him again. His normally cornflower blue eyes were bright, nearly backlit, and set against his overly pale complexion, they were even more striking. "Johnny, are you okay?"

The boy in front of her seemed to shake with restrained laughter. "I'm better than I've ever been, Hermione. That's actually why I've popped in. An old mutual acquaintance sent me. So, I ask again, Hermione Granger, may I come in?" He grinned at her fully then, and she noticed his elongated canines.

Her eyes widened and her grip on the door tightened. Swallowing her fear, she was thankful her voice didn't crack when she replied. "I don't permit vampires into my home without knowing who their Sire is and whether or not they've recently fed, Jonathan Spencer." Her ears caught her father's shocked gasp beside her and she fought to not look at him.

"I had wondered," a deep voice intoned from the shadows of their hedgerow, "how cautious you would be allowing people into your home, Miss Granger. I am pleased you are being careful." A tall, gaunt man stepped forward, his travel cloak fluttering behind him with the motion. He looked less morose than the last time she had seen him, certainly less bored, but, as with the immortal undead, he hadn't changed a bit otherwise.

"Sanguini," she greeted with a nod. The elder vampire joined his fledgeling on the porch and nodded back.

"If I may, Miss Granger, I am able to speak for young Jonathan this evening, but I must ask that you allow us inside. It is most urgent and you have very little time left, even from my perspective." Even with his face expressionless, his tone had Hermione stepping aside and stowing her wand away.

"Yes, sir. Sanguini, Johnny, please, do come in." She closed the door behind them, and, began introductions. "This is my father, Robert Granger. Dad, this is Sanguini - I apologize for not knowing your surname, sir, if you prefer one used in introductions." He waved absently, dismissing politely her concern with an indulgent smile, as a father would a daughter. Sanguini nodded toward Robert, almost amused with the other man's timid behavior when faced with the unknown, and shook his hand.

"So, you - you're a - a -" the man stuttered nervously.

"A vampire, yes. You have a lovely home, Robert, if I may call you so informally," Sanguini's even tone washed over the room and everyone visibly relaxed. Robert nodded faintly, thanking him, significantly less panicked but still wide-eyed. "Relax, Robert, you have nothing to fear here."

'He's Compelling us.' The thought had flickered through Hermione's mind faster than one could flick a switch, but the Johnny still managed to catch her eye and wink playfully. Her eyes rolled and she gave him a small smile, nudging his arm slightly.

"Hello, there. I'm Jeanette Granger," her mother came from behind them in the kitchen, stepping forward and placing a hand out. Sanguini clasp it gently, bowing over it and pressing his lips lightly to her knuckles.

"I am Sanguini. It is an unexpected pleasure meeting both your husband and yourself this evening, Jeanette."

"Such an interesting name, Sanguini. From the Latin sanguis, yes? Please, do sit," Jeanette had heard the previous goings on, had observed carefully the reaction her daughter had had to the lithe, oddly handsome vampire. Hermione had been familiar, yet formal, and Jeanette had remembered her mentioning one such vampire she had met briefly at a club dinner. Part of her had panicked, having not only had muggle vampire lore from cinema and books making her heart pound, but what she had read when Hermione, curious about the immortal beings, had furiously researched whatever she could from old books and scrolls. Another part, her cautious, rational side, gauged the situation, gleaning what she could from body language and what she could hear of the conversation from her place hidden by the kitchen entry.

Johnny had turned to look at her briefly, when Robert had begun stuttering, and nodded to her politely as he had for years when he would ride his bicycle lazily past on summer afternoons. Her eyes teared up, but she blinked them away then, and smiled back warmly to the young man - no, vampire. A moment later, she had felt wisps of a strange comfort, like wrapping a sun-soaked blanket around your shoulders after taking it off the line, and had realized the vampire with the low, dark ponytail was attempting to calm her husband, who seemed close to a panic attack. From the corner of her eye, she saw Hermione smile lightly at Johnny, bumping elbows like they always had as children when they'd goad each other.' If Hermione could retain normalcy and decorum in the face of this,' she had thought before stepping out from the kitchen. 'Then so can I.'

"Would you care for anything to drink? We've tea, coffee, water," Jeanette offered their guests, hearing the kettle she had set before their arrival scream. The question seemed awkward to everyone, and Johnny licked his lips nervously, clearing his throat.

"Tea would be lovely, please, Mrs. Granger," he replied quietly, politely. She was like a second mother to him, really, for how long they had been neighbours and his friendship with Hermione. One of his few friends, really, just as he knew he had been one of her only. As a child, he would often be found climbing the large tree between their two properties, Hermione on the ground with her hands on her hips and a frown. They were thick as thieves until she had gone off to boarding school.

Every summer, though, without fail, they would see each other and it was like nothing had changed. Until this one. Johnny couldn't help but feel he had disappointed the Grangers with his changed self. He could only hope he was wrong.

Jeanette smiled at him in response, and nodded just as she had always done. He ducked his head and caught Hermione's eye, then her hand as it darted out to clasp around his with a squeeze.

An unspoken agreement to be silent until drink were served took place. Robert cleared his throat and opened his mouth, catching the attention of the room, but Jeanette re-entered with the tea. There, on the tray, were a handful of bloodpops amidst the biscuits. With a bashful smile, Hermione mumbled something about personal research and reached to prepare her own tea.

The clinking of spoons added to the tension enough that Hermione's father jumped when Sanguini shifted in his periphery, spilling his tea a bit. "I put a few drops of the Calming Draught you had above the refrigerator into his cup before I came out," her mother whispered into Hermione's ear. Sanguini smirked and winked at the women when Robert had regained enough of his composure to sip from his cup shakily.

Certain the room had become comfortable enough, Sanguini decided to approach business. "I'm sure you have questions, Miss Granger, but I ask that you hold them for now. It was brought to my attention that you had been injured by an unknown curse at the end of this past school year, is this correct?" At her hesitant nod, he continued, "I am aware Master Snape is preparing your medication, but the exact curse is still as of yet unknown to the Healers assigned to your case. I believe I may be of some assistance in that regard." His long fingers tucked into the tailored suit jacket he wore, pulling a relatively thin leather bound book from within. Thin shoulders hunched inelegantly as he leaned over the small coffee table between them. The transformation from refined, ageless gentleman, to someone reminiscent of her father checking the league stats in the paper was almost comical with how abruptly it occured.

When he flipped his long ponytail back over his shoulder after it had fallen down obscuring his view in a silky midnight wave, Hermione nearly laughed out loud, hiding it behind a sip of tea. Finding his page, he flipped to book to face her, advising her not to touch it. "'Ardenti Inimicus'," she read, cringing as her chest began to throb.

Ardenti Inimicus didn't manifest as a purple flame, though it did engulf whomever it was cast upon in flames, immolating them from the inside out near instantaneously, leaving only ash behind. Perhaps that was why no one else had been found to have survived Dolohov's curse, because there was nothing left of them. If that was the case, however, then why was his spell purple? Could it have been a side effect of the silencing spell she had barely cast before he had shot it?

"That was my concern, as well, Miss Granger," the vampire before her stated, responding to her unspoken concerns. For the benefit of her parents, he continued, "As with most curses, this depends on the strength of the caster, both their intent and magical core. Your counterspell may have been strong enough to block most of the effects, but what remained was still strong enough to significantly harm you."

Hermione swallowed the lump in her throat, afraid of the connotations lain before her. 'You're a Gryffindor,' she told herself, though she felt more like a mouse than a lion.

"Even mice have teeth and claws, Miss Granger," Sanguini replied with a sympathetic glance in her direction. Her father next to him seemed to realize the vampire was reading her mind and proceeded to look between the two of them suspiciously.

'I'm dying, aren't I?' she asked quietly in the recesses of her mind. To see such regret cross the face of a being who had lived many lives through many centuries was dreadful, and all the answer Hermione needed. She nodded, dropping her gaze to the floor as she leaned forward to place her elbows on her knees, clasping her hands to her forehead.

"What are her options?" Jeanette asked from her side, now understanding the situation to be more serious. She had seen Hermione hide her pain when the mark on her chest would ache or something made contact. The Healers had already informed the Grangers that they had done all they could, but there was every chance she would die sooner than later. Even an approximate timeline was impossible, as the unknown curse ravaged their daughter's body internally, slowly burning its way through her muscles toward her heart. The only thing able to be done was to continually repair the damage with specialized potions and salves. Eventually, those would not be enough, and unless a counter-curse or cure could be found, Hermione would slowly burn to death. Whether it was this week or twenty years, it was inevitable.

"I believe, Jeanette, that we will need something a bit stronger than tea," was Sanguini's reply.