Fleur sat in her bed, staring dully at the letter that had just been dropped in. By a white dove. Only one women would send those to her, this Fleur knew.

She peeled open the seal, which bore three white columns on black wax, the Greek number three, and pulled out the new orders.

Fleur,

Darling, how are you? I know those English are pushy sometimes. But still, Hogwarts! The most famous school in Europe! I've heard even that the Boy-Who-Lived, Harry Potter, takes classes there.

Well, I hope you remember to mind your manners. Learning from this Madam Pomfrey will undoubtedly be beneficial to your future. Try to make a few friends, perhaps even pick up a man, hmm? You should visit your cousins, while you're at it.

Your loving grandmother,

Lucy

Fleur's lips drew into a tight line. Lucy. It was almost mocking.

But she was Matriarch. Her word was stronger than written law, be it wizarding or Muggle. The message was hidden, but it was there. Keep her cover. Make sure to keep her image as a simple apprentice. Wait for whatever team Lucienne was sending.

And Harry Potter. Get close to Harry Potter. From that, Fleur could only assume one thing.

Her grandmother was after Harry Potter.

Slowly, the letter crumpled as her fist clenched.

"Where are we going, sir?"

Dumbledore moved slowly up the beaten path, seemingly impervious to the biting wind. Harry gathered his robe more tightly around himself, willing his teeth to stop chattering.

"You will understand when we reach our destination." Dumbledore responded calmly.

Harry willed down his frustration and kept walking. The ancient wizard wouldn't have brought him here if it wasn't important, this he knew, so he would hold his peace. For now.

Dumbledore reached forward, and pushed open a old gate, and Harry looked ahead. They were heading into a graveyard. A rather large one.

We're paying respects? To who? Harry thought, bewildered by this turn of events.

Furthermore, who would Dumbledore even want him to pay respects to? The Dursleys had had a great uncle who had died when Harry was seven, and he doubted he was buried in this mostly Wizarding town. He was the only dead relative Harry was aware of besides...

Dumbledore stopped.

They stood in front of a white marble headstone. It was stark and bright compared to the dull greys of the others. The words on it were easily visible.

James Potter, Born 27 March 1960, Died 31 October 1981.

Lily Potter, Born 30 January 1960, Died October 31 1981.

Harry felt like he had been punched in the gut. But the surprises were not over, as he saw under the names that instead of Rest In Peace, under that it read-

The last enemy that shall be destroyed is death.

Those words sent a chill through Harry that had nothing to do with the cold. He looked up at Dumbledore, who was staring solemnly at the headstone.

"Sir...isn't that a Death Eater motto?" Harry asked, sensing that the Headmaster wasn't the one who was going to be the one to break the silence here.

"It can be interpreted many different ways, Harry." Dumbledore replied, not unkindly. "In this case, I believe it uses the gentler context...the concept of living after death. Together. In peace."

"Right." That would make sense. "Professor...is there somewhere, in the village, maybe, we can buy flowers? Or something? For the graves." Harry couldn't hide the wistful edge to his voice. It felt like something was clogging his throat.

Dumbledore cracked a smile, a small, sad one. He raised his wand and drew it in a quick, small circle, and a bouquet of roses appeared out of nowhere. He caught it with surprising deftness for an old man, and handed it to Harry.

"One of the many solutions magic provides for the most mundane of problems." The older wizard offered softly.

Harry was hardly listening, as he slowly, almost reverently laid to bouquet in front of the marble headstone.

He remained hunched over the graves of his dead parents, as Dumbledore began to speak.

"Your parents were very special people, Harry. In all my years, I have scarcely seen a couple that was so bright and promising as that of the Potters. So young, yet so filled with drive, and ambition, and hope." Dumbledore folded his hands behind him. "When the war began, they were two of our greatest warriors. Your father joined the Aurors, and your Mother worked at St. Mungo's when she was not busy taking care of you. They were pinnacles of righteousness, sworn enemies of the Dark Arts."

Harry said nothing, but it was apparent he was listening, so Dumbledore continued on.

"You were their greatest inspiration, Harry. You were what kept them going. They fought, they struggled, in order to create a peaceful future, for you. I'm sure that even in these times of strife, they are still watching over you, urging you onwards. And, my boy, I'm sure you will make them proud."

Harry straightened, and hastily rubbed his eyes with his robe sleeve. His eyes were red. "Thank you, Professor Dumbledore." He whispered quietly. "Is this all you wanted to show me, or could we leave?"

"Only one more stop to make, Harry. Then we will make haste back to Hogwarts."

Harry nodded listlessly and followed the Headmaster , as they headed onwards out of the cemetery.

Neither wizard was aware of the two pairs of eyes following their every move.

Colette looked impassively over the small town of Hogsmeade, from the tall pine she sat in. It seemed rather sleepy, but then, the school year hadn't started yet and it was missing the life that the students of Hogwarts provided it.

She heard the whisper quiet flap of wings behind her and the rough rustle of branches, and knew who it was without thinking.

"Alexa." She uttered coolly. Colette didn't take her eyes from the sight of the village.

She felt the tree wobble and knew that Alexa was sitting down next to her. One time, she would have been thankful for the company. Now, she did not need it. She had the service of the Mistress to keep her strong.

Colette glanced at her, to where her once-friend was glancing at her worriedly, devoid of her usually teasing nature. Alexa was considered exotic, with her lustrous black hair, but there was an easy explanation for that.

In the first thirteen or so years of a young Veela's life, she was unable to utilize her aura. This was because the aura was spread as far as possible, like the barest of mists, taking touching as many males as it possibly could.

Those who had studied this had found an easy answer. A little known or utilized property of the Veela aura was as a sort of passive form of Legimency. But, instead of memories, it read your desires, your emotions.

The aura in a Veela's childhood was spread so far, taking in the desires and fantasies of as many men as possible, so they could imprint these upon the girl herself. Then, the body would slowly mould itself to fit those fantasies.

When the young Veela hit puberty, the imprinting process was already mapped out, and their appearance was set. This was how Veela appeared as if they had stepped straight out of a wet dream; it was because they had.

The reason so many Veela were blonde was simply because it seemed that most men preferred blondes. Alexa had seemingly grown up around a majority of men who preferred brunettes.

"What have we got?" Colette suddenly snapped. Alexa flinched in surprise, before resting her chin on her knee.

"Not much we don't already know." The other Veela admitted grudgingly. "The boy stays mostly to himself, and his two friends. He rarely comes down to the village except to occasionally buy some candy at the shop or have a butterbeer. Basically, just like a normal student, if a bit quiet."

"Hmm." She honestly hadn't expected to get much more. "Do we know anything about him in school?"

"Next to nothing. He's a Gryffindor, and that's all we have. You know what that means, yes?"

"Yes." They had done some brief research on Hogwarts. Hogwarts, A History was among one of the books Colette had skimmed through. "Courageous and brave, or so they say. It matters not, though. He will bow before the Mistress before too long."

"Do you remember our training?" Alexa asked, so suddenly that Colette was taken aback. "When we were still just fresh out of our mother's apron's strings, proud to be taken in by one of the most prestigious schools in France?"

"...yes..." The captain of the small squad replied slowly. Aile Brulant, or 'The Nest', it was nicknamed, an all-Veela school directly funded by the Mistress, where girls learned from the moment they hit puberty and gained access to their powers how to properly utilize them. "...why? How is this relevant?"

"We were so young, then, weren't we, cherie?" Alexa's tone was wistful. "So young and full of hope."

"Where are you going with this? Is there any point to this needless reminiscing?" Colette asked, annoyed and a bit testy.

"What happened to us, Colette?"

"...what do you mean, 'what happened'?" Colette responded, confused.

"Our bodies remain young, of course-" Alexa gestured to her own body, as beautiful as if it were sculpted by angels, just like all the rest of the Veela. " -but the hope. Where has the hope gone?"

"What are you talking about? We have hope." Colette insisted stubbornly. "The Mistress's dream. To once again show the world that Veela are the greatest species ever created. To take back what is rightfully ours. It's what we've all been working for. What we've been dreaming for." Colette frowned slightly. "You know that." It was not a question.

For a long moment, Alexa stared at Colette, before bowing her head.

"...of course I do. I was being silly." Her voice seemed slightly strangled. "It feels nice to indulge every once and then, you know?"

"Do it on your own time." Colette replied sternly, staring with some amount of befuddlement at Alexa, before shaking it off quickly. "Now, here is the plan. The Mistress informs me that the boy seemed eager, so we are to make contact as soon as possible. The first thing we must do is secure a place of operations...

The old wood creaked as Harry walked slowly through the vine choked Potter Cottage. His steps were tentative and careful, as if he were walking among broken glass.

He stared around what used to be the living room, and let out a slow breath. A feeling welled up in him, that took a moment to really recognize. Disappointment.

He could remember this house, better than probably any other, thanks to the torturous visions of the dementors. His hand drifted down to touch a sofa, once white and pristine, now greenish yellow and rotten, soaked by many rainfalls and covered in strange lichens.

Had he expected his parent's home to look the same? He supposed. Dumbledore had explained a little to him. So many things broken, and shattered...Dad put up a good fight, it looks like...

The wards and Fidelus Charm had been tied to them while they lived. When they died, it had all collapsed, and the cottage had been exposed to the world. No Muggles remembered the Potters living there, of course. One of the perks of magic. Harry glanced out the window, where Dumbledore was waiting calmly by the sign marking it as his parent's cottage.

Harry smiled slightly as he remembered the many messages written across it, in everlasting ink, the words of encouragement. Dumbledore had elected to stay outside.

"I wouldn't dream of intruding here, my boy. Take as much time as you need."

Harry's shoes crunched as he stepped through the remains of a long shattered lamp, broken long, long ago, and up the first stair. He could remember this flight of stairs. Or rather, the person fleeing up it, those nearly fifteen years ago.

"No! Take me instead! Don't hurt my son!"

"Silly girl...stand aside!"

"NO!"

Harry ran one hand down the moss covered wall. Had no one thought he might want this place? It couldn't have taken that much magic to keep it in order for him. A bubble of resentment grew in his chest. Had no one thought that he might want more of his parents than just a vault and a gravestone?

She nearly tripped as she scrambled up the stairs, terror driving her every step. He was coming. The angry whine of spell fire had ceased downstairs, and she could not even hope that it was James that had survived.

She held Harry to her bosom, protecting her most important possession zealously.

Harry winced and swayed as the image drove itself into his consciousness, stars brushing the edges of his vision. He blinked in confusion and pressed against the wall to steady himself. Possession? He wondered, staring up the stairs, to where his room was.

His vision blurred and grayed.

Even as she slammed the door shut, throwing every locking charm she knew onto it as she placed Harry gently in his crib, she knew it wouldn't be enough.

Why couldn't that stupid man have just stalled him a tad longer?

Harry's steps were unsteady as his body moved of it's own accord, following the path that Lily Potter had those many years ago. What the hell is happening? Why can't I control my body? He thought, horrified. He neared the top of the stairs.

Another image seared his thought away. This one he recognized.

She stood, chest heaving in agitation as she stood, arms outstretched to protect her child. Her mission, her life, it mattered not now. All that mattered was her child. All that mattered was Harry.

She watched as the door exploded open, and a sword whizzed towards her neck and that wasn't part of the memory-!

Harry didn't so much dodge the sword as his knees buckled at just the right moment. He scrambled forward on hands and knees, before a hand grabbed his robe and pitched him across the room with ease.

He crashed into something that broke with a crash and fell in a heap on the floor. He managed to sit upright against the wall before the sword pierced his chest.

Harry choked, tasting copper and salt in his mouth. The pain was excruciating. But it helped him focus, and he finally got a view of his attackers.

The sword was held by a man all in dark robes. His face was pale and bloodless, and Harry watched his thin lips curl into a fanged grin. His mind connected the two. Vampire. Harry thought.

There was another dark figure standing near the window. A woman, Harry judged through the pain filled haze, from the slim figure.

She said something in a language that Harry couldn't place. Something Slavic. She glanced out the window, almost nervously. Dumbledore. They're afraid of him. They're vampires, and they're-

A sudden vicious twist of the sword made Harry choke out a snarl of pain, as it was removed. The male turned the female and smirked, saying something else.

Harry's attention was drawn, inexplicably, to his left. His hand twitched as he touched a small ornament, and as he glanced at the cylindrical bars he sat in a heap of, he realized he was sitting in the remains of his old crib. Harry stared dully a small green ornament- a frog, maybe?- lying broken on the musty floor.

The vampire noticed, and raised his sword again, an annoyed expression flickering across his face.

That's right. This is my old room...in my house. Mine. Harry felt something stir inside him, sending heat rushing through his veins. This is my house, my home, and these vampires, these assassins, they attack me here? It coiled like a hellish serpent in his stomach, and Harry looked up, feeling strength return to his numb limbs. They strike at me in the home of my fathers?

They dare? Something snapped within him.

The sword fell, and Harry jerked upright, roaring and flinging the crimson flame in a torrent from his hands. The male snarled as his cloak caught fire and leapt back, and Harry stumbled to his feet, his teeth bared in a wordless snarl.

Then, the fire abruptly was cut off as what felt like a troll's club smashed into him from the side, pushing him up against the wall. Harry's vision was obscured by a shrieking face, and he realized his mistake. The female. I forgot about the girl.

Harry screamed as something cold and icy rammed into his lungs. He heard the male yell something, and the female snarled at him, baring her teeth wide in obvious preparation to bite.

"Sol Solim Corona!"

Dumbledore! Was Harry's one, single thought as the face suddenly was obscured by an obscenely white light, and a humming sound filled the air. The female shrieked, and Harry slumped to the floor as she let go.

Dumbledore stood in the doorway, looking like an avenging god as he blasted the vampire with purest sunlight from his wand. Harry watched as Dumbledore's free hand lifted, and a heavy bookcase rose into the air, before it flew and slammed into the male, immobilizing him.

The woman fell over, clawing at her face and exposed skin, and Dumbledore advanced, his face grim. Harry watched as the ancient wizard advanced, relentless in his assault. The female curled into a ball in the corner, her skin peeling and crumbling like aged parchment, shrieking and sobbing with agony.

Dumbledore merely stood over her, his face blank, wand blasting until the vampire finally stopped moving. She suddenly froze up, rigid as a statue, before her entire form simply caved, falling in onto itself in a pile of ash.

There was a brief, awful silence. Dumbledore turned to the wounded Boy-Who-Lived.

"Harry-"

There was a crash from the other side of the room as the bookcase collapsed, and the male shot out, merely a dark blur.

Dumbledore whirled around, his wand at the ready, but the vampire wasn't attacking.

The nearest window being too close to the two wizards, the male simply rammed through the wall, old plaster and wood giving way, leaving a person sized hole in the wall of the house as he leapt down and out.

Dumbledore was at the hole at a speed much unsuited to his age, jets of light streaming from his wand. Harry struggled to his feet and hurried over just in time to see the male vampire streaking into the trees.

The Headmaster's wand and hand waved in intricate spirals and loops, as if conducting an invisible orchestra, as he glared at the front lawn of the Potter Cottage.

Forms rose like molds from the turf and grass, and took definition. Four legs, spots, orange hides. Cheetahs. Plenty of them.

With a dismissive wave of the old wizard's wand, the fastest creatures known on land shot into the woods, in pursuit, no doubt.

Harry peered blearily, feeling a tad lightheaded. "D'you think they'll catch him?" He mumbled.

Dumbledore's eyes were wide, as he turned to Harry. "Harry." He whispered. He stared at the boy, and Harry frowned.

"What?" Harry looked down, and saw the knife sticking out of his ribs. "Oh." He said, rather lamely, before his knees buckled the world spun and all went dark.

"I believe I must shoulder the blame entirely in this mishap, Harry." The Boy-Who-Lived could hear the guilt in the Headmaster's voice. He winced as Madam Pomfrey unwound a bandage a bit too fast. She murmured an apology. "I was arrogant, arrogant enough to believe I could sense any life that got near you, but..." Dumbledore trailed off, obviously brooding.

"But what?" Harry did his best to sound non-accusatory. Even if he had shown up late, he had saved Harry's life.

"Did you know, Harry, that vampires are most often employed as assassins against wizards? This is because vampires have no magical aura. They sacrifice their magic for their unnatural strength and agility, as well as their enhanced senses. As such, where I could normally sense nearly any other wizard or creature..." Dumbledore left the obvious answer to hang. "Vampires are also referred to as the 'living dead' for a reason. They have only the barest flicker of the normal aura of life that all living creatures emit, and hence, are almost impossible to sense through their auras."

Madam Pomfrey unwound the last bandage, baring his wounds, and waved her wand over them, which emitted a soft green light.

Dumbledore seemed stricken. "Oh, Harry, what have I done to you?" He whispered.

Harry couldn't honestly blame him. He was a mess.

The two diamond shaped wounds from the stab of the sword and dagger had not closed, nor filled over with scar tissue or pus like a normal wound. Instead, they gaped open, purplish green flesh moving out on his chest. Harry could see that they were still bleeding, too.

"The wounds won't close." Madam Pomfrey offered as means of explanation. "Something magical is preventing them; perhaps a curse on the weapons, or poison." The aged Mediwitch gently swabbed the inside of the sword wound, and then the dagger, before bagging the samples. "I'll test these and check for magical residue or venom after I close you back up." She picked up a clean bundle of bandages and began winding them around Harry's midsection and upper torso.

"No need." Dumbledore intoned, face solemn as he scrutinized the wounds. "I have seen this kind of wound before. It is a special toxin, magical in nature. It is only excreted by one snake in Britain that I know of. Nagini, Voldemort's familiar. What he will need is Blood Replenishing Potions, and heavy doses of the best numbing solutions you can concoct."

"Is there an antidote?" Pomfrey asked, all business, as Harry tried to ignore the needles of agony every time the bandages were tightened.

"Tragically, no."

"So I'm just going to have these wounds open forever?" Harry asked sharply, gritting his teeth as the Mediwitch finished and Transfigured the ends together with a flick of her wand.

"You need not worry, Harry." The Headmaster reassured him. "Survival of this poison depends on the victim's magical strength. When a wizard or witch is gravely wounded, their magic turns inward, speeding up the healing process. It is what allows us to survive accidents and injuries that would kill most normal Muggles outright, such as splinching. This venom can only be purged by long periods of rest and no magic, after which the wounds can be healed normally."

"I'm strong enough, right?" Harry asked, uncertain.

"Once again, my boy, you need not worry." Dumbledore replied, a sad twinkle in his eye. "You are much stronger than you think. I would estimate that you would be fully recuperated by the time the Hogwarts Express arrives, if not sooner. All you need to do is rest."

Harry sat back, relieved, feeling the oppressive weight lift off of his shoulders.

"Fleur!" Madam Pomfrey's voice rose sharply. "I need a drip of Blood Replenishing Potion, as soon as possible!"

Harry heard the Beauxbatons former-champion's voice emanate from the end of the hall, where the Mediwitch's office lay. "Oui, Madam!"

The school nurse nodded sharply. "And rest you will get, Mr. Potter. You're not leaving that bed or this wing for a few weeks, at the very least."

Harry thought about protesting, before he rationalized that the more rest he got, the faster he would get out of this place. "Yes, Madam Pomfrey." He answered resignedly.

"Poppy, will spare me a moment alone with young Mr. Potter?" Dumbledore requested mildly.

The Mediwitch rose without complaint. "I'll start brewing the Numbing Draughts. And a dose of Sleeping Solution. Do not leave your bed, Mr. Potter, or I be forced to take unpleasant measures in ensuring your cooperation." The last she directed at Harry, a dire warning, before leaving.

As soon as she left, Dumbledore turned to Harry. "Harry, do you understand the ramifications of this attack?"

Harry slowly nodded. "If the vampire's weapons were coated with Voldemort's poison, then...the vampires have sided with him."

"Excellent, Harry. You must remind me to award you points once the year begins." Harry smiled slightly at the joke. "I had not believed that the vampires would side with Tom, not after what happened the last time. It seems that I was mistaken."

"What happened?" Harry prompted.

"Well, Harry, tell what you can recall of vampirism and the nature of those afflicted."

Harry frowned, trying to cobble together the bits and pieces he could remember from the History of Magic lessons and DADA classes.

"The disease is incurable, they have super strength and speed and their senses are enhanced, like you said...er...they can see in the dark, they don't like werewolves..."

"There! There is the root of the problem." Dumbledore cut in. "Vampires and werewolves do not simply dislike eachother, my boy. They are utterly repulsed from eachother, like two sides of a magnet. Like cats and dogs, they cannot stand being around eachother, and share a rivalry written in their very blood. Thirteen years ago, Tom employed the services of the vampires, and the werewolves, and declined to tell them they were working together. When you banished him from his body, in the ensuing chaos, the link was discovered. They left his side, and began slaughtering any Death Eaters they could find." Dumbledore's lips quirked in an almost smile. "Ironically, this was the only time they truly worked as allies, in revenge against Tom's forces."

"So they must have forgiven him." Harry worked it out, following the reasoning. He was surprised when the Headmaster shook his head.

"Doubtful. The vampires are organized in families, much like the Muggle mafia, and they are exceptionally cruel. They never forget, and seldom forgive. No, my guess is that Tom joined forces with a new, smaller family, and has promised them some manner of power or riches."

Harry clasped his hands in his lap. A question popped up in his mind.

"Did the veela ever join Voldemort's side?" Harry queried, before realizing his folly. That was a strange question, and Dumbledore might inquire about his motives.

To his relief, though, the ancient wizard looked surprised, rather than curious, which quickly morphed to delight.

"Harry, you have heard of the Triumvirate of Beasts? It seems your marks in Professor Binns class bely your ability."

"Er..." He had never heard it before in his life. "I think I heard it somewhere. Hermione, I think." Harry lied quickly.

"Ah, the young Ms. Granger. I should have known." Dumbledore chuckled ruefully. "I shall refresh your memory. The Triumvirate of Beasts is the nickname of the three species of magical creatures that make up enough of a portion of the magical population that the International Confederation of Wizards and Ministries of the magical countries formally recognize them as separate governments and provide laws and citizenship for them. Vampires, werewolves and veela."

"Formally recognize...that means there's laws protecting them, right? From getting killed or imprisoned without the embassies knowing. And they have rights to a fair trial and stuff too." Harry pulled up his memories of government. "Do they all have their own Ministries? Wouldn't they need a country for that?"

"Not all people choose a Ministry as their form of government, Harry. The vampires have a council that meets every new moon. The werewolves instinctually follow the largest 'pack', so to speak. And the veela are governed by their matriarchs, thirteen of them, all of them following the First Matriarch, whom they refer to as the Mother." Dumbledore shifted in his seat. "And the Triumvirate could very well own their own Ministries if they wished, since they possess quite a few countries of their own."

"Really?" Don't wizards control the countries? Harry had always assumed that each country possessed a wizarding community of it's own. This was new information.

"Do not look so surprised." Dumbledore chastised him. "Though I suppose that some of this attitude is natural, since you happen to have the fortune of being born in the strongest wizarding country in the world. Many other countries, however, are controlled by the Triforce. The vampires, for example, did in fact originate from Transylvania, and hold their council there. It is under complete vampire rule. As is Serbia, Romania, Poland, the Czech Republic. Various other countries, including ours, hold vampire families."

"And the others?" Harry asked, barely refraining from asking about the veela.

"The werewolves do not hold any countries officially, but they converge mostly in Germany, Austria, and other Slavic nations. Russia, though owned officially wizards, hold a particularly large population. They and the vampires were rather reduced in power after Tom's fall, since shortly after extracting their vengeance upon the Death Eaters, they began fighting amongst themselves." One of Dumbledore's wrinked hands smoothed his robes. "The veela are currently the strongest in power, since they never officially took sides when Tom rose. They own France, Holland, Luxembourg, Greece, and have a large following in Japan and China."

"...Bloody hell." Harry murmured, taken aback.

Dumbledore's eyes twinkled. "Indeed. Although the wizarding population is much stronger than any individual part of the Triumvirate, were they ever to join forces, we would be in very serious danger. Luckily for us, they all strongly detest each other. The vampires and werewolves because of their blood rivalry, the veela because they believe the other two to be false beasts, considering that their powers can be acquired by any who contract lycanthropy or vampirism."

Harry stared straight ahead. "So we're safe."

"More like we maintain a quantum of tolerance." Dumbledore corrected smoothly. "Though, I am curious, Harry, as to why you inquired about the veela in particular."

Harry opened his mouth, and blurted the first story that came to mind. "I remembered that Hermione mentioned something about veela being related to vampires and werewolves. Probably when she mentioned that Triumvirate of Beasts thing."

Dumbledore stared at Harry perhaps a moment too long, before his face broke into an easy, grandfatherly smile. "It is to be expected, I suppose. From what I hear through the grapevine, when Ms. Granger opens her mouth, she rarely closes it until she has said what she wishes to say."

"Right." Harry replied, weak with relief and guilt. More lies. How many more lies would he tell?

How many more could he bear?

"THAT INSECT! HE DARES! RAMELA! RAMELA! GIVE HER BACK TO ME!"

The roars of the injured hunter echoed through the open doors of the darkened hall, making many of the vampires wince as their enhanced hearing magnified the sound. The Lord paid it no mind, staring at the thrashing vampire impassively as two others struggled to hold him to his bed.

"She is dead, Vrej. If she has been captured or killed, then she is dead to us, shamed by her failure." The Lord uttered flatly, and emotionlessly. "You are only alive because of your history and your knowledge. Now. What. Happened?" He spoke slowly and calmly, as if speaking to a child.

"RAMELA! RAMELA! HE STOLE HER FROM ME!" The Lord of the Hall sighed as the magnified blast of sound buffeted his eardrums.

He supposed that Vrej had some justification. He had just lost his lover, suffered horrific burns on nearly fifty percent of his body, and had to fight off a pack of wild cats, from the looks of the scratches and bites. It was a miracle he had made it back at all, a credit to his skill.

One of the vampires let two others take over, and hurried over the Lord's side, holding an empty syringe.

"He's not healing, sire. The bites and scratches have healed, but the burns, they will not!" The vampire shook the syringe angrily. "This was vintage veela hymen blood. Perfectly preserved! And it did nothing!"

"Calm yourself, Tsakig." The Lord ordered coolly.

He stepped forward, despite the vampire's panicked warnings. Vrej's hand shot out and grasped him on the forearm, his sleeve falling back to expose the afflicted skin. The Lord grimaced in true disgust.

The burn was horrific. The skin bubbled and boiled as he watched, with a color resembling a boiled lobster. And the smell...the Lord's lips thinned, and his eyes, narrowed.

"What did the boy do to you, my friend?" He asked softly.

Vrej, through some supreme force of will, forced his body to mere shudders, his agonized red eyes focusing on the Lord.

"Eshkhan!"He gasped out, as if realizing for the first time that the Lord was in the room. "Eshkhan, help me! It burns! It BURNS!"

"I am here, my friend." The Lord replied softly. "Tell me what happened."

"Fire! From his hands, the crimson flame! Eshkhan, make it stop, please!" The nigh-legendary hunter sobbed in torment, as his flesh regenerated before being destroyed yet again in the bubbling burns, over and over again.

"What else?" The Lord pressed on, unsatisfied.

"His eyes, all red, like blood, ESHKHAN, HELP ME!" He screamed, before the vampires were forced to restrain him once more.

The Lord stepped back and left the room, his mind racing. His friend's howls soon faded from his ears.

He had lived long, very long, being immune to the passage of time as he was, just like all other vampires. As such, vampires kept very accurate histories, by written word or spoken tongue. There were no myths among vampire tales, only hidden truths.

He remembered when his father had died, of a werewolf's bite. A werewolf's bite was absolute, slow and painful death for any vampire, just as their bite was to a werewolf.

As he lay dying, his father had given him a key and a message.

"Read the histories, my son, and defend our people from all threats past and future, just as I have done."

And in his father's locked desk, he had read of the secret histories, that known only to the Lord of the Hall, head of the Kenderian Family. He had learned of the origin of their race, of the foes they had overcome.

Or so we thought. The Lord clenched his fist. One straggler, one lone survivor. But the danger of that one...!

Male veela. And not the pathetic, nearly magicless weaklings that they spawned today, guarding them carefully, or even worse, in the case of the French.

Real, true-blooded incubi, impossible to control and nearly impossible to kill, able to turn any women to their cause with the slightest touch, and send men screaming with terror with a hard look. Eshkhan knew their power, knew that it was them that had allowed the veela to sit at the height of power for nearly five hundred years.

That boy...he could not have come at a worse time! The Lord mentally snarled, pacing in his study. Us and those filthy dogs at a fraction of our true power, whilst the bitches are slowly rising, despite their disgusting blood mingling with the humans.

The veela blood had been slowly thinning, this Eshkhan knew. They had been attempting counter-measures, such as the Provision Law that had been enacted in China ñ each full-blooded veela women was required to sire at least one male child of veela genes every twenty years. From the reports of his spies, rather drastic measures had been happening in France, things that he was sure even the werewolves would cringe at.

Another good century or two would have seen their powers whittled away to nothing, Eshkhan was sure. But the appearance of a male veela ñ pure of blood, from the sounds of it ñ that could halt the downfall of the veela in it's tracks.

No, worse! It could catapult them into another Age of Domination! He mentally screamed. And it had to be him; Harry Potter, Boy-Who-Lived, beloved hero of Britain, the strongest wizarding state in the world!

Something had to be done. The veela couldn't get their hands on him, on his genes, on his strong blood. It was a small mercy that there were virtually no veela in Britain, so the chances of him meeting any were slim if he did not.

Eshkhan knew what he must do. His Family could not do this alone, it was too small, to damaged from the genocide. But it was a Family. And he was it's Head.

It was high time for a Meeting of the Blood.

For Armenia, for our people, for our species, Harry Potter must die.