Harry Potter: The Vampire Prince

By late January, Hermione had been in the hospital wing for a month and was recovering well.

The short fur that had covered her body after the Polyjuice mishap had begun to fall out, and her face was gradually returning to its original smooth, youthful appearance. This was undoubtedly a good thing—both Harry and Ron were thrilled to see her back to normal.

However, there were some downsides. That is to say, now that she was no longer a big cat, Hermione had lost her vertical pupils, and her night vision was not nearly as sharp as before. Over the past month, she had taken advantage of her temporarily enhanced eyesight to sneakily read books under the covers at night, evading Madam Pomfrey's watchful eye. In just a month, she had managed to read four more massive tomes than usual, making her time as "Miss Cat" rather fruitful.

"Do you know what she's reading?" Ron Weasley asked incredulously when he returned to the Gryffindor common room after visiting Hermione. "A History of Potions (1981)! I swear, if you threw that book at someone, it'd be more lethal than any spell I know!"

The Gryffindors could never understand Miss Granger's peculiar hobbies, nor could they fathom how she remained so energetic—so full of life that even after devouring mind-numbingly dense books, she was still eager for more.

Eve, however, understood her perfectly.

"That book is quite good, Hermione," Eve commented, lounging beside Hermione's hospital bed. "Some of the ideas in it are very insightful. I once recommended it to Nolan when he was researching a high-purity bloodline potion. I thought it would help."

"And?" Hermione asked with interest, glancing sideways at Nolan, who was seated at the other end of the bed, scribbling something on a parchment. "Did he read it?"

"Read it? No, not even a single word." Eve shook her head. "You have no idea how much Nolan despises historical literature."

"Historical literature? That's not—"

"It is," Eve interrupted with a shrug. She speared a piece of apple with a toothpick and held it out to Hermione. "Just look at the title: A History of Potions (1981). That alone was enough to make Nolan put it down. He has no interest in wizarding history."

Nolan, still engrossed in his notes, spoke up without looking up. "To put it simply, I couldn't care less about who invented what spell, what impact it had on history, or how much the inventor was revered. None of that matters to me. I just want to know what the damn thing does and how to use it."

"Professor Binns would be absolutely livid if he heard that," Hermione muttered, rolling her eyes as she bit into the apple.

"He's already dead, in case you forgot, Miss Granger," Nolan said dryly. "Binns is a ghost. The only difference between him and other ghosts is that he happens to teach a class. And Dumbledore, for whatever reason, still hasn't found the funds to hire a living History of Magic professor."

As he made this sharp remark, Nolan set his quill down and leaned in closer to Hermione. Without warning, he reached out, gently pulling down her lower eyelid while peering intently into her eyes.

"Day twenty-seven… Vertical pupils are almost entirely gone, iris color has returned to normal… Appears indistinguishable from a human's," he murmured to himself, analyzing her like an experiment subject.

Hermione turned bright red. Her body stiffened as she stammered, "Too close! Too close!"

Only when Nolan finally leaned back to resume writing did she let out a long breath, her heart still pounding. She turned to Eve, hoping for some sort of ally, only to find the Slytherin girl propping her chin up with one hand, watching her with an amused, almost predatory smile.

A shiver ran down Hermione's spine. I feel like a helpless lamb being stared down by a British sheepdog…

Worried that Eve might have picked up on something, Hermione quickly forced a laugh and asked, "Does he always do this?"

"What, treat History of Magic like a joke?" Eve raised an eyebrow before smirking teasingly. "Yes, absolutely. Nolan's history grades are infamous. Professor Binns already warned him back in second year that if he gets another 'E' this year, he might as well use that class time for something more meaningful—at least, to him anyway."

"Professor Binns said that?!" Hermione was stunned.

Professor Binns was a mild-mannered old ghost, his routine unchanging for decades. No one had ever heard of him scolding a student, let alone issuing such a warning.

For him to go that far, Nolan's performance in history must be truly abysmal.

"If Binns is willing to say that, maybe it means he actually likes Nolan?" Hermione offered awkwardly.

Eve fed her another apple slice before picking up a new one for herself. "Maybe. No professor truly dislikes Nolan. Even Professor Snape is the same."

"Professor Snape?" Hermione was doubtful.

"I know it sounds surprising," Eve admitted, chewing her apple thoughtfully. "But everyone knows Snape favors Slytherins. Nolan is the only exception—because he doesn't show Snape the proper respect."

Hermione refrained from commenting.

The truth was, most Hogwarts students had personally witnessed Snape cursing Nolan under his breath at least once. Nolan, however, never seemed particularly bothered by it.

"Actually, Snape doesn't hate Nolan as much as you all think," Eve continued. Seeing Hermione's pleading look, she finally stopped trying to force-feed her. Popping the last apple slice into her own mouth, she said, "Nolan has some… health problems. A rather dangerous form of magic is involved. Snape has been brewing potions for him all term to keep things stable."

It was no secret that Snape was universally disliked outside of Slytherin. His sharp tongue and petty nature had made him infamous among students and staff alike.

However, Eve had started to see him in a different light.

Despite all his grumbling, Snape had been working tirelessly to adjust the condition of Nolan's magical eye. Cold on the outside, warm on the inside—perhaps that was the best way to describe him.

Eve's opinion of Snape had improved significantly lately. She was even starting to respect him.

Of course, if he could just bathe a little more often, it would be perfect—but alas, that seemed like an impossible dream.

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