The Testament of Longing
I haven’t posted here in such a long time… but here we are 🤍
This is a small piece from my newest Dramione fanfic — this one leans into a vampyr theme. In this particular scene, I intertwined my own story with a thread of inspiration from The Historian by Elizabeth Kostova.
I’ve always loved that book. To me, it’s one of the most atmospheric and quietly powerful vampire narratives out there . It felt only natural to let that influence slip into my Dramione world.
Hope you enjoy it 🖤
https://archiveofourown.org/works/78843376/chapters/209188071
She was no longer in the library.
She stood—no, hovered—within another night.
Rain lashed the forest like a punishment. Trees clawed at the sky, their branches tangled and black, dripping with cold. A man ran through them in terror, robes soaked and clinging to his thin frame. A monk.
Hermione knew instantly that she was caught within a seer’s vision. The knowledge settled in her bones—this monk, fleeing through rain and darkness, was Brother Kiril.
Brother Kiril fled through the wood, breath tearing from his chest in ragged gasps. A bundle was strapped tightly across his torso, bound with cord over his shoulders, pressed close to his heart as though flesh might recognize flesh.
Behind him—
wolves howled.
Above—
the frantic beating of wings, leathery and many, stirred the canopy as if the night itself were tracking him.
His lips moved ceaselessly, voice hoarse, broken by sobs and prayer.
“Deliver me, O Lord, from the evil man: preserve me from the violent man.”
His foot caught on a root bursting from the earth.
He fell hard.
His body struck stone and soil, rolling violently down a slick embankment. The bundle tore loose, tumbling away into the undergrowth. His chin split open on rock; blood streamed down into his collar.
“не— не— не—” he rasped, scrambling upright, hands shaking.
Brother Kiril dropped to his knees in the mud.
Rain hammered the forest floor so fiercely that the earth itself seemed to writhe beneath him. His hands plunged blindly into soaked leaves and roots, fingers clawing, scraping, tearing through darkness in frantic devotion.
His breath came in sobbing gasps.
“Domine… Domine…” he whispered hoarsely, lips trembling.
“Qui habitat in adjutorio Altissimi…”
He prayed without pause, whispering Bible verses. Psalm after Psalm as though the words themselves were the only thing holding him upright.
“He that dwelleth in the secret place of the Most High shall abide under the shadow of the Almighty.”
His voice rose, cracked, then broke.
“Deliver me from the snare of the fowler—”
“from the noisome pestilence—”
“Surely He shall deliver thee from the snare of the fowler, and from the noisome pestilence.”
His hands shook violently now.
He retched bile into the mud and forced himself forward, muttering prayer upon prayer as though words themselves might form a barrier.
“Though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death—”
“I will fear no evil—”
“…for Thou art with me.”
Hermione—watching, trapped within the vision—followed the line of his gaze.
The bundle lay torn open.
The altar cloth had slipped aside.
And there it was.
A severed head.
The rain washed across it, streaking blood from the torn flesh of the neck, yet the blood did not darken, did not clot. It gleamed wet and fresh, as though time itself recoiled from it. The mouth hung slightly open, frozen in a half-formed breath. A noble moustache framed lips that should never move again.
The eyes were closed.
Brother Kiril sobbed with relief so sharp it became pain.
“Blessed are the dead who die in the Lord,” he whispered desperately, hands hovering.
“Let them rest from their labours—”
He reached.
The eyes opened.
Green—cold, furious, aware.
They fixed upon him with a hatred so vast it swallowed prayer whole.
Brother Kiril screamed.
A raw, tearing sound ripped from his throat as he recoiled backward, slipping in the mud. His rosary snapped, beads scattering like spilled teeth.
“Christus vincit—Christus regnat—” he shrieked, voice breaking.
“Exsurge, Domine—salva me—”
“Arise, O Lord; save me, O my God.”
The head’s mouth twitched recognition.
Hermione screamed too—
the sound tearing from her own lungs as the vision collapsed—
https://archiveofourown.org/works/78843376/chapters/209188071
