In fact, Hermione found herself consumed with the situation. It didn't help that, of course, the Transnistrian Border Guards service was not exactly communicative, and the government had mastered 'politely unhelpful' down to a professional T. Both of those things had been expected.

And a convenient solution had been put in front of her, anyway. The group supposedly run by Bellatrix could in fact be responsible for the smuggling. Why would Bellatrix want to smuggle dragon eggs to Britain? She refused to believe that one would just be over money. There might, then, be a far more sinister motive.

The problem was that these musings were giving her the brain-bug that Bellatrix Lestrange was alive. It wasn't a comforting thing to think about. The scar, the memory of the night in the Malfoy Manor. She didn't sleep nearly so easily as she thought would, when she started out on this journey days ago.

So she sent her set of mysterious inquiries, and got some answers—no known child of Bellatrix with Rodolphus (of course, that would be news in the Tattler if nothing else). Not like that ruled it out. At all. And then Andy came through and said to Harry, apparently, that she totally had a niece-in-law named Tamara Tonks who lived in Romania and was, as far as she knew, a squib, like Ted Tonks' mother had been (squib-ness was generally held to last for two or three generations, though mostly Wizards didn't like talking about it at all, a kind of fear and bigotry Hermione thought was disgusting).

Superficially, that ended the inquiry. Tamara Tonks existed. Her meeting on the aeroplane had been an innocuous coincidence. Of course, that had nothing to do with the photograph of 'Bellatrix' in Bendery, which could in fact be Bellatrix even if the girl on the aeroplane had been Tamara Tonks…

God, my head hurts.

So there had been only one really viable solution to all of that uncertainty. It didn't stop her head from hurting, but it did move things forward. She had a list of nightclubs which were frequented by the supposed-Bellatrix and the maybe-not-definitely-Tonks—scratch that, owned.

So it was time to go clubbing.

This was actually an experience that Hermione had never had before in her life. She'd started life as the sheltered, bookish child of two dentists. She'd read books. She'd gone to science centres and museums. After school activities. From age eleven, she had been a witch. Ultimately, by the age where her muggle parents might have let her go to a nightclub, she was romancing a wizard—one with a very poor family. She was also in the middle of a war.

Wars had this strange way of keeping you from going clubbing.

She looked like every socially awkward young woman forcing herself to a club that had ever existed. The difference from the stereotype was that she was a rising government civil servant, and a hard drinker.

Hermione couldn't find a single thing in this that was really interesting. In fact, other than nursing alcohol to avoid getting actually drunk, she wasn't really doing anything interesting, or productive. She did suppose that most cases of potential criminal organisations were as completely boring as this, but it didn't exactly provide her much to go on in terms of writing a report, or getting Larissa to shut down the smuggling operation.

In fact, she knew that the only serious reason she was here was to find out whether or not Bellatrix Lestrange was alive, and this had rapidly become her core focus. The responsible, dutiful student part of her was hoping that Bellatrix was responsible for the dragon egg smuggling, so she could put a bow on all of this, but it was decidedly secondary in her heart.

Maybe it was too much to have expected that she wouldn't attract attention. A few conversations had passed with her awkward and limited language, but nothing substantive. Then, it abruptly changed. A somewhat battered woman in her—Well, it was hard to tell. She might only be in her thirties, but if she was, she had lived an extremely rough life—middle age settled down next to Hermione, and ordered vodka from the bar.

Hermione felt a small, involuntary shiver when bright and clear blue eyes turned toward her. They were the eyes of a hunter, a killer. The look in the eyes was something that both the Death Eaters and the heroes shared now, that muggle soldiers—and not just any, but the Operators, the Airborne—and Aurors who were Wizarding War veterans alike shared. The casual experience with killing. The people who would sleep peacefully after garrotting you. That's the look she had.

Dumbledore's Army wasn't really to face people like that, Hermione thought with a glum reflection on the dead at the Battle of Hogwarts. Including Tonks. She glanced up to the dangerous woman, with her shock pale skin and hair in a mad tangle down her back. She was well dressed, if rather conservatively by the standards of a nightclub in Bendery.

"Dobrei vecher," she offered. A simple 'good evening'.

"You have a good talent for foreign languages," the woman remarked in smooth English, accented, a bit sibilant, but perfectly comprehensible.

"Did I give myself away that easily?"

"British tourists always do. I suppose you might be American, but you don't weigh nearly enough."

Hermione laughed involuntarily.

The woman polished off her glass with the third swig. That matched Hermione levelly—Dumbledore's Army hadn't taught her how to kill, but the Battle of Hogwarts had certainly taught her how to drink. The power plays of Ministry life were just a different kind of moonshine. "Mmn," she mused. "That was an unkindness. You are nothing like an American."

"Oh, they're not bad people—really," Hermione insisted wryly. "Still, may I have your name?"

"Valentina."

"Valentina, a pleasure. Do you come here often?"

"I do," Valentina acknowledged. "There's not much else to do in Bendery these days, alas. Particularly when your only time off is at night."

"Busy days?"

"One could say it," the rather bedraggled woman nodded. "Of course, not many tourists actually come to Transnistria, you know. Did you show up to obsess over the Soviet chic?"

"Hardly. I'm here for business," Hermione answered, now feeling a little suspicious.

"Oh, well, good."

Hermione surreptitiously reached for her wand, and tried to work a simple magic detection spell from under her short jacket. This was fabulously awkward, but she was fabulously good at magic, so it balanced out.

The wand shook.

Valentina was magical.

But she had no wand unless very carefully hidden.

What if it's Tonks? What if it's … Bellatrix Lestrange's child. Risky to push, and yet fascinated, Hermione leaned closer, her wand still tightly held under her jacket, and whispered. "Tonks, is it you? Where's your wand?"

"...Let's go somewhere private and talk, Hermione." 'Valentina' slipped down from her barstool. "International Statute of Secrecy and all that."

Hermione's eyes going wide was impossible to avoid at that point as the figure next to her used her name and invoked magical law. Oh Merlin is that really Tonks what the hell is going on?! She rallied that terrible Gryffindor courage, and hurried after the woman. They reached a nondescript door, to a dressing room for nightclub singer or something like that. A full bed was inside, which left Hermione feeling a little embarrassed as the person she had met quickly shut the door behind them.

"...Tonks?" Hermione repeated.

"Sit down, sit down… Valentina," the woman corrected, leaning against the door. "Promise me you won't panic, Miss Granger."

"Are you Tonks!?"

"No. But I know who you are—I planned this opportunity at a meeting." She turned her coat inside out. "No wand."

"But you're magical, I know, the spell told me," Hermione cringed, briefly worrying about an internal investigation into having violated the Statute. "And you knew Tonks' name. You know my name."

"I've been researching you," Valentina answered… And yawned widely, the yawn turning into a growl, the growl showing fangs as they dropped into view, her eyes flashing in the light like a cat's would.

Hermione sucked in her breath and paled. "You're not a witch. You're a vampire."

"Well spotted. I had hoped you might be more intelligent than that, witch, based on your reputation."

"Well, sorry." Hermione was quick to anger, when her intelligence was insulted. "But I … I've never met a vampire before." She had her wand ready, slowly calming, but remaining tense and ready to fight.

"I'm not surprised, considering how popular it was for Wizards to kill the likes of us, once upon a time," Valentina answered, and seemed to relax a little. "You won't kill me?"

"Not unless you try to kill me."

"I would never think of it. You, Hermione Granger, are my ticket to being able to live a normal life."

"...Madame Valentina? You're a vampire, so aren't you dead?"

Valentina sniffed. "That's really a matter of perspective. I'm a sapient creature that can interact with the material world and has a need for sustenance and an ability to experience life and accrue memories. Does that sound dead to you?"

"No."

"So, I want a normal life," the woman in front of Hermione continued. "I should like to have the same rights in Wizarding Society as a Goblin or an un-transformed Werewolf would. To live amongst you, to be recognised by your services, to have a community, interactions with your culture. I am perfectly capable of feeding without killing any kind of human. And I have spent most of my life alone."

Huh. I wasn't expecting this, but, she's got a point. Vampires are discriminated against. Hermione bit her lip, and looked at the woman with a new appraisal—that she was just a normal woman who happened to be a vampire, and of course, vampires were people too. She knew enough to know that she wasn't lying—being fed on by a vampire was not necessarily harmful, according to the books. But she had only seen one vampire before, and he had essentially been a pet kept by a wizard for entertainment. Which in retrospect was just as sickening as any treatment of House Elves or Goblins or Werewolves she had ever encountered.

Vampires were just going to have to be the next step up in terms of getting anyone to pay attention to their rights—but it was definitely her job, and it definitely made sense. Why couldn't someone like Valentina who was perfectly conversant and calm be a part of Wizarding society?

"I'm sympathetic," Hermione offered, though her head was still filled with questions. "How did you…"

"Your work on the rights of non-Wizard magical creatures is already well known," Valentina answered, moving to sit on a chair opposite Hermione sitting on the edge of the bed. "So I wanted to take the opportunity to ask for your help."

"...You mean, with seeking reforms, so you could join international wizarding society with rights under the law, rather than just a protection from being killed?"

"Yes," Valentina replied levelly. "I mean, wizards would never permit a magical creature to be part of muggle society, so I can't precisely create an organisation to advocate for the rights of vampires there. It would have a rather awful outcome. However; I do rather want some kind of society to live in. So I decided to ask you."

"How did you figure out I was here…"

"I may or may not have been responsible for the original leaks of information to the Ministry of Magic which brought you here, Miss Granger," she smirked.

Hermione shook her head, laughing. "Well, in that case… Is there even a link to the dragon egg smuggling?"

"Oh yes, there is—one does not bait a woman as smart as you are, Miss Granger, with something that is a lie. Though you're looking for it with the wrong group. They're certainly using Sheriff assets to execute the smuggling operation. Junior Councillor Naryshkina is likely under orders to keep you away from their operations, because they own nearly the entire economy of Transnistria and have extensive connections to international smuggling. But, again, because they own nearly the entire economy, any negative repercussions for them as a muggle business concern would result in negative repercussions for Transnistria, and thus Russian interests."

"And how do you know it's them?"

"I'm an associate of the firm you were investigating, namely, the one that owns these Nightclubs. Do you think they just let any random vampire into their back rooms? You witches are too used to being able to open muggle locked doors at will, I must say…"

Hermione laughed ruefully. "You're likely right about that." But those words actually chilled her to the bone. This woman is an enforcer for someone else who may, in fact, be Bellatrix Black's daughter.

Hermione felt herself grow very cold and very still. Wrong direction, 'Mione. Not Bellatrix Black's daughter. Vampires.

Try Bellatrix's Grand Aunt. Or great-great-grand-aunt.

What happens when you make a witch a vampire? "Speaking about that," Hermione spoke carefully. "Satisfy a curiosity of mine, if you would?"

"Go on," Valentina answered casually. She looked at Hermione with arched brow, and the confidence that reminded Hermione she might be making a very bad decision.

"What happens when a witch becomes a vampire?"

Valentina grew still. Her eyes, pallid blue, stared hard, and Hermione felt like she were trying to peer inside of her own soul to discern where and why the question had been directed to her. Hermione could tell that her muscles had stiffened. "You don't want my life," Valentina directed at her, at last, the breath drawn in to allow for speech, coming out as a sharp, harsh hiss. "There's nothing good that comes from someone who wants to be a vampire for power, or immortality."

Hermione was going to protest, but she decided against it. The conversation was a fascinating window into the lives of other sapients, and she was pushing on, because she was edging around the question of who the woman in the photograph with Smirnov was. "How did you become a vampire?"

"For power," Valentina laughed bitterly. "Or I suppose revenge. One woman wasn't strong enough for revenge, so I became one creature of hell instead… Impertinent witch."

"You still refused to answer my question," Hermione bounded up, stepping closer to Valentina, curiosity overcoming the fear of feeling like a hunted prey. "And, you wanted my help. In fact, I have no interest in living your life or becoming one of your kind, but … I am curious. What happens to a witch who becomes a vampire? Or wizard, as you like. I've no preference."

Valentina's eyes rolled faintly, and then she shrugged, took a step back, but looked Hermione in the eye. "A witch who becomes a vampire finds her magic being drawn through a straw. This, I have learned. And, of course, it feels very different for a muggle who became a vampire, for the innate magic of a vampire is much better than having no magic at all."

"Hmm. Like your magic is being drawn through a straw. So, you mean, almost … Oh, right, you've probably never apparated."

Now Valentina rolled her eyes altogether not faintly at all. "Yes, sorry about that." She stretched, and shifted again relative to Hermione, seeming restless. "Does it occur to you, Miss Granger, that you are entirely too inquisitive by far?"

"I am here to ask questions, you know. And if you manipulated the files to get me specifically sent, you should know that. I will help you, Valentina, but I need you to also answer my questions and help me. It's not like I'd ever be able to convince the wizarding world to accept a substantial reform of the laws around vampires without some kind of sympathetic subject to craft a narrative around. Though, to your credit, you sound like you've had a very hard life."

"I chose not to let it define me; I could have died dissolute, I chose revenge instead, and, I think you will find that I am not the best face of such a campaign. Nonetheless, I would do all that you say, except that I feel your questions are not very germaine to the matter of vampire rights in the United Kingdom."

Hermione sighed. "It's bound to come up. A living death for a wizard or witch in which they don't have magic would be a horrifying risk. Not so much, if they still have magic, for example. I'm going to have to convince people that, firstly, the risk of accidental vampirisation is small, and that two, it isn't a fate worse than death if it does happen. By the wizarding world's standards. I can already appreciate why you did what you did." In fact, Hermione couldn't appreciate it at all, and was starting to have a sinking suspicion that Valentina might well have had those killer's eyes long before she had become a vampire. Still, never let it be said that Hermione didn't believe in the power of redemption. If Valentina wanted in from the cold, she'd give a fair shake toward making it safely happen for all involved.

But that was quite an effort she was committing to. It might just be some leverage. "But, Valentina, will you help with my investigation, in return?"

"I already told you to investigate Sheriff." Valentina tensed.

Tensed like she might be ready to pounce. Suddenly the sheer, insanely bold danger of the situation which Hermione had thrust herself into came crashing down on her. She was standing in a small room, in the back of a nightclub, in an unrecognised country, with a highly refined predator of humans. She was a human. She might as well have been a gerbil inside of a Terrarium, the snake uncoiling around her as she stood there.

What kind of fucking idiot am I?

A Gryffindor.

"Accio Wand!"

Valentina blurred. Hermione barely had the instant of time in which to work unvocalised magic. She nailed the vampire with a hex, sending her toppling back into the small bed. Another split-second of hesitation or slowness in the motion of her hand, and she would have been undone there and then.

Hermione held her wand up, and then cleared her throat. "I'm sorry, but there's a problem with this entire situation. I was given photographs and I need answers about them. Photographs of a woman meeting with Igor Smirnov."

The door clicked. Shadows began to shift along the walls.

"Incarcerous!" Hermione commanded, the wand motion summoning, conjuring forth a mass of thick ropes to bind Valentina. Take out one enemy, turn for the next. Merlin, was this an ambush all –

"Fuck." Hermione whispered. Her heart hit the pit of her stomach. She felt her strength melting from her.

That familiar old bent wand that had resisted her magic so long and well, for the love of its mistress, was pointed again at her, as it had been on some of the worst days of her life. Drawn up in a massive coat, from ankle to neck, over the customary old dragon-skin corset and dress—absolutely gothic. Even the touch of ruby red lipstick, perfect below a wild tangle of black curls, now once again, almost silken and smooth, without a single extra hint of grey, for all of the years that had passed. Hips and thighs muscular despite the tiny size of her body, bosom full under the corset… Eyes alight with a kind of mad intelligence.

"The only problem with this entire solution, Muddy the Mudblood, is that you just attacked one of my retainers. Without warning, when she was being nice to you." Bellatrix Lestrange clicked her tongue and laughed bitterly. "Even Dumbledore would have to take five points from Gryffindor for that one, muddy."

"Lestrange," Hermione hissed, feeling her courage sag around her. Feeling the scar on her arm begin to ache. Before she could dwell on it any further—there was some kind of stubborn Gryffindor courage which kept her wand up and at the ready, at least, so that Bellatrix didn't immediately pounce—there was a sound of cracking robes from the bed.

Incarcerous was a set of magical bonds, but vampires were magical creatures. And whatever magic gave Valentina her strength was starting to win in that context.

And it was then, with a vampire on the bed in the process of breaking out of her bonds, and standing down Bellatrix Lestrange in a stand-off with their wands, that Hermione realised the obvious. How did Bellatrix survive the Battle of Hogwarts?

Jesus fucking Christ. She didn't.

And that's exactly why she's standing in front of me right now pointing her wand at me.

And then the situation decided to take a dive into a funhouse mirror. "I'll remind Your Nobleness," Valentina spoke from the bed, brushing off the chunks of shattered Incarcerous rope and sounding remarkably composed, "that you gave your word to another member of your cover that you would not harm this woman."

Bellatrix grimaced. "Oh you fucking rotter. Why did you even have to bring that up?" She laughed, and for a moment, Hermione felt distinctly haunted. "Anyway, give muddy some credit. Whippet-quick reflexes and her wand out and ready to fight. How, exactly, do you propose that I bring her back to our manor without a war in the back room of the club?"

"An offer of safe conduct, Your Nobleness," Valentina answered with guileless sincerity, taking a few ginger steps to Bellatrix's side. "She's too curious for her own good, and she'd be just as likely to lose as to win the fight."

Bellatrix shrugged, laughing. "I wasn't expecting that from her, but… Well, alright, muddy, there you have it. Do you want to go … Sit and talk?"

Hermione wondered idly if it were more similar to an invitation from the Mad Hatter, or Hitler.