"It is one thing to mortify curiosity, another to conquer it."

~ Robert Louis Stevenson, Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde

. . .

Ron adjusted his hold on the legs, staggering through the grass. "Jesus Christ, is this fucker filled with rocks?"

Harry shook his head. "At this point, nothing would surprise me."

Sweat dripped into his eyes, blurring his vision with a sharp sting. He was desperate to wipe it away but his hands were secured beneath the corpse's armpits, trapped under the weight of the torso.

For how withered the body appeared, it was shockingly heavy. Getting it up the hill had been a harrowing feat, both men grunting and groaning as they rolled the dead weight foot by foot, collapsing into a painting heap as soon as they reached the summit.

Harry had regained his breath first and used those few extra minutes to journey back into the woods.

To check on the night watchman.

His body was cool and bloodless as Harry rolled him onto his back, revealing a gleaming neck wound to the narrow strip of moonlight above. He'd taken a silent moment to close the man's pale lids, and then selfishly combed the area for any evidence of his or Ron's presence, not wanting either of them to be pinned for the bizarre and gruesome slaying.

After hauling their attacker's body for another twenty minutes they finally neared the perimeter of the Park, the gate barely visible in the distance, backlit by a violet sky. Harry hoisted the corpse higher, feeling a surge of adrenaline with freedom so close at hand. Ron didn't seem to share the sentiment, nearly losing his handhold as he grappled with the bony knees.

Harry wet his lips, tasting a salty pool of sweat collected atop. "Are you sure they'll be here?"

Ron grimaced, stumbling over a rock. "I told them to give us an hour."

Harry nodded, praying for one thing to go right this night.

As they reached a row of tall hedges Ron craned his neck to the side, spine bending as his gaze swept over the street.

"I see them."

Harry's heart soared. "Thank God."

They emerged from the bushes and out of the shadows, visible to the two onlookers watching their movements from the otherwise empty road.

Fred stood away from the side of the blue Studebaker. "Holy–"

"–fuck." George leaped down from his sprawling perch on the hood.

Ron and Harry stopped at the gate, the body wedged awkwardly between them as they struggled to open the door.

Ron peered through the bars. "I can explain–"

"Potter, it really is you." Fred stepped closer, signature smirk in place.

George followed suit, mirroring his twin's expression. "We thought little Ronniekins was jerking our chain."

Harry blinked, trying to maintain his grip while backing onto the sidewalk. "Hey."

"Hey, he says!"

"After pulling a Houdini for two years."

"And returning with an impressively fetching scar."

"Quite impressive. Were you pirating the high seas, Captain Potter?"

Daggers flashed in Ron's narrowed gaze. "Is no one going to mention the goddamn body we're hauling out of the woods?"

They arched matching brows, speaking in unison. "We hadn't noticed."

Ron shook his head, face caught between a scowl and grimace. "Ha-fucking-ha, now get over here and help us."

Fred raised his hands. "You know our One-Felony-Per-Day rule."

George tipped his chin toward the vehicle. "Commandeering the ride put us at our limit."

Ron rolled his eyes as he and Harry neared the curb with their exhaustive haul. "Then at least open the trunk."

George reached into his back pocket and fished out a gleaming set of keys. "I suppose aiding and abetting aren't the worst we've gotten up to on a Thursday morning."

He stepped off the curb and unlocked the hatch, revealing the cargo hold. Harry peered inside, pulse thrumming.

"This car is stolen?"

Fred smirked anew. "Borrowed."

George flanked the opposite side, resting an elbow on the roof. "With every intention of returning."

Harry narrowed his gaze, glancing between them. "The tarp was already in here?"

"Ron suggested we bring it. Just in case."

He looked beside him. "What?"

Ron avoided his accusing stare, dumping the legs into the trunk. "I wanted to be prepared."

Harry lowered the torso down with more care. "Prepared for what, exactly?"

His friend scowled as he stepped back, shaking his hands as though trying to rid himself of a dark taint. "What do you think?"

"Perhaps you crazy kids can have your lover's quarrel on the road?" George drummed his fingers along the hood. "Best not to linger beside a crime scene with a body in tow."

Harry scrubbed a hand over his face, smearing dried blood and dirt in sweaty streaks across his tanned flesh. "Let's wrap him, make it easier to move him out."

He and Ron stepped forward, pulling slack fabric from beneath the body and tucking it over top. The encroaching dawn illuminated the pale tarp, making Harry's grime-caked hands stand out in stark relief.

Fred cringed. "Jesus, Harry, you look like you crawled out of the pits of hell."

Harry drew back, slamming the hatch door shut. "Let's just go."

He and Ron piled into the backseat while Fred took shotgun and George slid behind the wheel. Within seconds they were peeling out, tires screeching along the asphalt and engine revving.

Harry glared into the rearview mirror. "Can you please try and be a little less obvious?"

Fred turned in his seat, eyes bright as the sun slowly breached the horizon ahead. "Nervous, Harry?"

George glanced in the mirror as he made a left turn. "Worrying causes premature wrinkles."

Fred smiled. "And you don't want to distract from the youthfulness of your scar."

Ron gripped the seat back in front of him, shoulders tense. "We're driving around in a stolen vehicle with a body in the trunk, will you two act serious?"

Fred sighed. "We've upset Ronniekins."

His twin placed a hand over his heart. "Poor Ron Ron. He's extra sensitive today."

Their younger brother glowered. "Are you two this idiotic when you're searching for Gin? No wonder we haven't found anything."

The twins' expressions rapidly sobered, a raging sea in their eyes. "We've torn this goddamn city apart." Fred leaned in, tone scathing. "Don't you dare question our dedication to finding her."

Ron's gaze narrowed as he gripped the seat harder, fingertips turning white against the dark leather. "Then why don't you try asking us what happened tonight?"

George sighed heavily, making a right turn. "Alright, what happened tonight, Ron?"

"We were attacked."

Fred tilted his head. "At the crime scene?"

"We never made it that far."

Harry pushed the sweat-matted hair off his forehead, drawing the man's focus.

"And at what point was Harry pushed into a vat of oil?"

Harry's jaw ticked as he gazed through the window at the rapidly passing scenery, orange sunlight spilling across the earth.

"It's not oil."

Fred arched a brow.

Harry turned his head, meeting his eye.

"It's blood."

Fred blinked. And then smiled. "Ah." Dimples appeared on either cheek. "So you were attacked by a cartoon?"

Ron slammed a fist into the seat back, causing it to rock and its inhabitant to laugh.

"This isn't a joke!"

"Calm down, Ronniekins–"

"Stop calling me that!"

"Everyone shut up!"

They all jolted at Harry's booming command, laughter ceasing immediately. He set his jaw, gesturing at the window.

"George, make a left here."

The man did as bade without question or argument, but his twin shook his head.

"We're better off dumping the body in the river."

Harry leaned back, limbs weighted with exhaustion. "We're not dumping it." He rested his head along the top of the seat. "Not before we figure out what the hell we're dealing with."

He closed his eyes, allowing the steady hum of the engine to calm his turbulent thoughts. "I know someone who can help."

Hermione spun in place, wielding a shoe in one hand and a stack of papers in the other.

"Where are you?"

She hurried to her desk, setting the shoe on the counter and bracing her hand along the wood, leaning down to peer beneath it. The loose ribbon on her blouse swayed back and forth, attracting the unwavering attention of her cat.

He leaped onto the chair, batting at his prey, claws catching in the silk fabric.

"Not now, Crooks!"

She rose to her full height, rapidly scanning the books and files strewn about the surface of her workstation, no sign of the missing document.

"Helen!"

She jolted at the distant shout, closing her eyes and drawing a hand through the loose sea of her hair.

And then her gaze snapped open as she realized she forgot to plait it.

"Double shit."

She abandoned the papers in hand and hurried across the room once more, stopping before a baroque mirror and piling her chaotic tresses atop her head in a haphazard bun.

Crookshanks jumped off the chair and darted to her side, arching his back and rubbing along her ankles, reminding her she also had on one shoe.

This morning can't get any worse.

She searched the side table for a spare bobby pin.

"Helen!"

Her jaw set, teeth grinding as she released her hair, watching it fall in a messy cascade across her bare shoulders.

"Coming!"

She stepped back from the mirror, nearly clipping an orange paw and earning a low throated mewl for her effort, before trotting down the hall, one heel clicking along the scuffed hardwood as she pushed open the door at the end.

"Good morn–"

Her eyes landed on the bed, heart seizing as she spotted the empty mattress, covers thrown to the floor.

She stepped inside. "Papa?"

But movement at the window calmed her racing pulse.

"Helen." He twisted in the threadbare armchair, meeting her gaze. "I think Hermione is sick."

Her shoulders dropped, breath evading her in a rush. "I'm fine, Papa."

He shook his head, gripping the armrests tightly. "There was a scarlet fever outbreak at the school, they sent a letter home–"

"That was a long time ago."

She moved further inside the room, fighting to keep her movements unhurried, a Herculean task when she felt as though she could vibrate out of her skin at any moment. But he wasn't fooled by her ministrations, shaking his head more profusely as he made to stand. "We need to call a doctor–"

"It's alright–"

"No! We have to call him! He needs to check on her!"

She dropped to her knees beside the chair, fitted skirt pulling tight across her legs.

"Shh." She gripped his shoulders and gently pushed him back into the cushion. "I'll call the Doctor. It's okay."

His wrought expression stabbed at her heart. "You'll call?"

She nodded, cupping his cheek, brown and grey stubble scraping along her palm. "Yes, I'll call him right now."

He searched her eyes, his own unnaturally bright in the morning sun. "If anything happened to our little girl, I wouldn't be able to survive it."

She blinked, vision clouding with tears, lips curving into a pained smile. "You're a good father."

There was a knock at the front door.

He lifted his head, staring at the open hallway with a wide gaze. "The Doctor!"

She sighed, pressing him into the seat as he once again tried to stand, her fingers curling against the soft fabric of his terry robe.

"Stay here, I'll get it."

He swallowed heavily, watching her rise. "Mione hates shots."

She nodded, starting for the hall. "I know. I'll be right back."

She rushed across the house as another knock sounded.

"Coming!" She unlocked the deadbolt and opened the door, immediately sagging into the frame. "Oh, thank god."

"I'm so sorry I'm late."

She shook her head, stepping back to allow the other woman inside.

"Don't apologize, I'm grateful you were able to come at all. Thank you, Susan."

Susan set her bag on the entry bench, catching sight of Hermione's bare foot and smiling. "One of those mornings?"

Hermione dragged a hand through her hair, pushing curls from her eyes as she gazed upon her feet, wriggling her stockinged toes. "You've no idea. The shipment came early."

Susan closed the door behind her. "You've got to go in on your day off?"

Hermione glanced up with a weary sigh. "There's no one else who can–"

A loud thump sounded from the bedroom at the end of the hall, followed by a low voice and deep laughter.

Susan tilted her head, drawing Hermione's focus back. "How is he today?"

"Excited. I tried to calm him down but I'm running late and can't find the inventory list–"

"Hermione." She gently grasped her arm, squeezing. "It's alright, I've got him. You finish getting ready."

Hermione smiled. "Thank you, I shouldn't be gone long."

"Don't worry about it."

Susan released her and started down the hallway, knocking softly on the bedroom door before entering.

"Good morning, Professor."

"Ah! Lettie! How nice of you to visit!"

Hermione rubbed her eyes and then darted into her office, only to trip over the edge of the rug just past the threshold. She gasped, catching herself against the side of the sofa.

And blinked.

Her pulse skipped as she caught sight of a paper peeking out from beneath the knit throw. She grabbed the fabric and whisked it away, heart soaring as the missing page came into view at long last.

She snatched it up, clutching it tightly overhead like a hard-won trophy and laughing hysterically, overcome with relief.

She wasted no time grabbing her leather case, unbuckling the top flap and sliding the paper inside, slinging the strap over her arm and charging headlong into the hall without preamble. She pulled her shawl off the coat rack and opened the front door, blowing a kiss to her furry housemate before slipping out, slamming the door in her wake.

Crookshanks continued to watch the barrier, bottlebrush tail flicking from side to side three times before the door flew open and his owner rushed back in.

She shook her head, running to her office with a scowl.

And grabbed her shoe off the desk.

"Christ."

George killed the engine, raising a brow as he peered through the windshield. "This is where your friend lives?"

Harry leaned forward, gazing out the window into the darkened alley beyond. "He isn't a friend."

Ron shifted at his side, trying to catch a glimpse of their final destination past Harry's shoulder. "And yet we're bringing him a corpse."

Fred shrugged, lips carving a crescent grin. "Come to think of it, it's a great gift for an enemy."

His twin brightened, bouncing in his seat. "Ah, are we framing someone for murder? It's been too long."

Harry shook his head, opening his door and stepping onto the cracked cement. "I've got it from here."

Ron opened his door a moment later, leaping up and peering over the roof as Harry started down the narrow divide. "Wait! I'm coming with you."

Harry sighed, opening his mouth, but Ron cut him off before he could utter a syllable.

"Don't even think of leaving me behind. Gin's my sister. I have every right to be a part of whatever this is." His eyes flashed. "I'm going in."

Harry held his gaze for another suffocating beat before nodding with resignation, glancing to the men watching their exchange with open amusement.

"You two wait here."

George saluted him. "Aye, aye, Captain."

Ron slammed his door and walked around the front grill, falling in step beside Harry as he cut a path through the debris littering the alley. He carefully sidestepped a busted crate, cringing as a rat darted around his shoe, dragging bits of trash along from the nearby overflowing dumpster.

"Who the hell do you know who lives in an abandoned warehouse?"

Harry's lips pressed thin as he stared ahead. "An old acquaintance."

They reached a dead-end, a brick wall with a single wooden door, covered by a sliding metal grate and several padlocks.

Harry raised his fist and banged against the screen in rapid succession, arms tensing on instinct, only to glance over his shoulder as the engine fired to life at the mouth of the alley. Fred rolled his window down, lighting a cigarette and blowing a steady stream of smoke into the crisp, sewage-filled air.

Harry gazed forward as noise emanated from within the building, a muffled bang followed by a colorful curse. Ron drew back as footsteps followed. Harry rubbed his brow. And then the sound of sliding locks filled the alley, the door wrenching open a moment later.

"This had better be good!"

Harry arched a dark brow, attempting to meet the man's gaze through the thick glass goggles concealing the top half of his face. A thin cloud of smoke billowed out from behind his lithe frame, bitter and pungent.

"Potter?"

Harry smirked. "Hello, Nott."

Hermione's heels clicked loudly off the steps as she approached the center archway of the Met, gaze affixed to the blood red banners strung between the two-story columns along the front.

She sighed, shaking her head as reached the top, pulling open the gold filigree door and striding into the marble entrance hall.

"Hermione."

A man materialized at her side, as he was prone to do, usually with some bit of urgent news in hand. She kept her quick pace through the center of the lobby, passing the concierge desk with a polite nod to the attendant.

"Good morning, Anthony. I came as fast as I could."

His long legs kept easy pace beside her as they progressed over the cream tiles, footsteps echoing loudly across the dome- vaulted ceiling.

"That's alright, the cargo was already unloaded into the–"

"Under whose authority?"

She stopped short, rounding on him quickly. He froze in place, eyes and mouth falling wide, no further sound emitted.

She arched a brow, tugging her shawl off her shoulders with force, sweat collecting along her nape.

"Anthony, under whose authority?"

He swallowed heavily. "Um, well–"

"Mine."

Her spine went rigid as she spun on her heel.

To face the man at the front of the room, watching her from his raised vantage point at the top of the steps. He began his graceful descent, suit and hair in immaculate condition as always, making her hyper-aware of the rapidly expanding circumference of her bun as it hungrily absorbed every ounce of humidity in the air.

"You're late, Granger."

She set her shoulder back, squeezing her case in one hand and her discarded shawl in the other. "I came as soon as I got the call."

He pinned her with the full intensity of his glacial stare. "You got the call over an hour ago."

Her eyes narrowed as he reached the bottom level, approaching her slowly.

"I have responsibilities outside of the museum, Malfoy."

He tilted his head, eyes holding her steady as he stopped directly before her. "And yet no social life to speak of."

She rolled her eyes, glancing to the man beside her with a softer expression.

"Anthony, would you please start preparing the examination room?"

Relief stole across his boyish features. "Of course." He nodded with deference to Malfoy before quickly making his way to the bank of brass elevators at the far wall.

She started in the opposite direction, entering a long and vaulted corridor. Malfoy kept pace beside her, hands tucked casually in the pockets of his tailored charcoal coat.

She set her jaw, gazing fixedly ahead. "You know we're liable for any damage to the artifacts the moment we accept delivery."

"The only way to examine the artifacts is to accept delivery."

"You should have waited for me, I have the inventory list–"

"You weren't here. I made an executive decision. Considering I'm on the Board of Directors I'm allowed to do whatever the hell I want."

"Your father is on the Board. And you can bear the brunt of their wrath if anything is missing."

He scowled, glancing down at her tense profile. "You're a regular ray of sunshine today."

She took a deep breath as they rounded the corner, reaching a narrow stairwell leading down. She gripped the railing tight. "Why are there adverts on the columns?"

"They set a date for the exhibit."

She halted halfway down.

"What? When?"

He stopped on the stair below, arching a pale brow. "Yesterday. The signs when up last night."

She awaited the rest in silence, tension radiating through her limbs. He seemed to sense her unease. And derive great pleasure from it, the corner of his lips turning up.

"Two weeks, Granger."

She blinked, rocking back on her heels and nearly losing her balance. "Two…" She gripped the rail once more. "Shit."

He reached out a steadying hand, smiling fully. "I don't know why you're in such a mood. You've worked with tighter deadlines than this."

She wet her lips, brushing his hand aside as she continued her downward trek.

"I don't have the same time to devote to the department as I used to."

He glanced sideways at her as they reached the sublevel, the temperature dropping several blessed degrees.

"Is your father–"

"Let's just look at the shipment."

She lengthened her stride, outpacing him, grateful for the resounding silence at her back.

Harry held his breath as he navigated the metal stairwell, each step measured and slow as he descended backward with the body in tow. Ron stood a few steps higher, once more gripping the legs, though it was difficult discerning end from end encased so tightly in the tarp.

They both breathed a heavy sigh of relief as they reached the ground floor, leveling out their cargo. Ron's elbow nudged a metal cart against the wall, rattling a set of liquid-filled beakers.

Nott surged forward, lifting his goggles into his dark hairline.

"Watch it! I spent hours preparing those mixtures!"

Ron directed a withering glare over his shoulder. "I'm more concerned with spilling the contents of my head all over the fucking cement."

"I doubt you have much to lose."

He scowled but remained otherwise silent as their strange host directed the pair to a metal table situated in the center of the industrial space.

As they hoisted the heavy load atop the counter Harry glanced around the room, gaze caught by metal shelving along the back wall, overflowing with crates and beakers. Freestanding fluorescent lights illuminated the windowless space, revealing a long workbench covered in lab equipment, a microscope situated at the far end.

Ron blinked, glancing about the sterile environment as well, eyes lingering on a green, bubbling mixture stationed atop a bunsen burner. "What the hell is this place?"

Nott strode past without a glance, eyes affixed to the tarp-covered mass.

"My office."

Ron began to speak but fell silent as the man turned to Harry, eyes narrowed and voice clipped.

"How much do you want for it?"

Ron glanced between the two men. "Wait, you want to pay us?"

Nott scowled, holding Harry's gaze. "Why did you bring this idiot?"

His friend surged forward. "Who the hell do you–"

"Ron." Harry placed a hand to his chest, halting his approach, then wet his lips, eyeing Nott carefully. "Consider it a gift. I just need you to do an autopsy first."

Nott tilted his head, tone flat. "An autopsy."

Harry lowered his arm, nodding. "Yes. I need to know… whatever you can tell us. Then it's yours."

Their host crossed his arms, lab coat pulled tight across his biceps, ill-fitting and splattered with an array of multi-colored stains.

"And how did you come by this body?"

Harry set his jaw, choosing his words carefully and avoiding Ron's penetrating stare. "I stumbled across him this morning."

"Was he still breathing when you stumbled?"

Harry glanced away.

Nott lifted a dark brow, sapphire eyes gleaming in the harsh lighting. "This isn't a place to rid yourself of evidence, Potter."

Harry met his gaze swiftly, gesturing to the table. "Just take a look. Trust me, you'll be interested."

"I have enough to worry about with the law. I won't entangle myself in a homicide."

"It was self defen–" He sighed deeply, rapidly pivoting tactics. "Nott, please, just take a look. I guarantee you won't regret it."

They held each other's eye for a short eternity, a silent battle of wills raging through the makeshift lab, the only sound in the universe the gentle rolling boil at their backs and Harry's thrumming heartbeat. Until at last Nott drew back, dropping his arms as he walked to a free-standing shelf.

"Open the tarp."

Harry's pulse soared with victory. He wasted no time edging to the table and loosening the top of the fabric, pulling it apart down the center, revealing the pale, shriveled corpse from head to belt buckle.

Nott turned and began a methodical path forward, pulling a pair of elbow-length rubber gloves into place. Ron shifted uncomfortably but stepped closer as the man hovered above the body at last. Harry peered down as well, absently noting the corpse appeared even more husk-like than when they first loaded it into the car. He silently pondered whether it leaked in the trunk...

"You said this man died this morning?"

Harry was pulled from his musings, gaze snapping up. "Less than two hours ago."

Nott met his eye.

And scowled.

"Is this some sort of joke?"

Harry sighed, bracing his hands along the metal table. "No."

"Someone paid you to–"

"Nott. This man attacked me in the woods. Ron shot him six times and he barely flinched. It took driving a goddamn pole through his chest to stop him."

Nott shook his head, smiling with venomous scorn. "You're a regular riot."

Harry leaned in, emerald eyes glinting. "If you don't believe me, examine him for yourself. Then ask yourself if I'm really capable of pulling off such an elaborate prank."

Nott's jaw ticked twice before he leaned forward, voice low and edged with hostility. "I'm charging for my time."

Harry rolled his eyes. "Fine."

Nott reached beside him and gripped the edge of a narrow rolling cart, pulling it in, the top tray filled with gleaming surgical tools. Ron paled, stepping back as the man grabbed a pair of narrow scissors and began cutting open the dark fabric of the shirt. The material was stiff with dried blood. Nott parted the fabric, gazing at the bullet wounds along the chest and stomach, though for all intents and purposes they appeared more bee sting than entry wound, the withered flesh nearly healed over.

He sighed. "I need more light." And set the scissors aside, pacing to the nearest standing lamp and dragging it closer, the metal scraping along the floor with cringe-inducing shrillness.

Ron studied the man carefully. "Are you a Doctor or something?"

Nott visibly bristled, releasing the base. "Or something."

Ron inhaled slowly, about to say more, but fell reluctantly silent as Harry shook his head, imparting a meaningful look across the table.

Nott resumed his inspection, lifting the boy's limp left arm and inspecting the crepe-paper skin wrapping the appendage tight. "The body is severely dehydrated."

Harry swallowed, searching for the right words, settling on the simple truth. "It spewed a lot of… liquid."

Nott arched a brow, lowering the limb. "You're certain this came out of him?"

Harry gestured to his own filth-splattered shirt. "I'm positive."

Nott reached for a cotton ball and metal dish, swiping the former along the side of blood-caked chin.

Harry gripped the edge of the table tight. "Some of the blood... isn't his."

Nott's eyes flickered up. "The less I know the better, I'm sure."

Harry watched in silence as he set the dish and swab aside, picking up an empty syringe instead.

"I'll cross reference with a traditional sample."

He retook the scissors and cut through the coat sleeve up to the elbow. A moment later he was swiftly inserting the needle. Ron glanced away while Harry leaned closer, watching with rapt fascination as a slow stream of black sludge steadily filled the glass vial.

Nott blinked.

"Blood takes eight to twelve hours to reach this consistency. Even so, this isn't mere oxidation." He wet his lips, drawing the needle free and holding the sample before the light. "Obviously he has some sort of preexisting condition." He set the needle on the tray. "I need to check his liver."

Harry ground his teeth, ears ringing with anticipation. "Why don't you start with his teeth?"

Nott's brows drew together, but he walked to the head of the table without comment, tipping the head back and parting the lips with his gloved thumbs. At this angle, Harry saw just how gaunt the face was, the cheeks sunken and bruised. Nott pried the jaw apart, revealing black gums and a shriveled tongue to the green-tinged light.

"The mucous membranes are in an advanced stage of decay." He tilted the head at an angle, leaning closer. "Which is highly abnormal given the time of death."

Harry pressed his palms flat to the cold metal. "What about his fucking fangs?"

Nott glanced up, eyes narrowed. "His what?"

Harry shook his head, pushing back and walking around the edge of the table. He stepped beside the man and peered down.

Only to blink.

"How…" He glanced up at Ron. "They're gone."

Ron stepped forward, eyes wide as he gazed upon the short, even row of white teeth on prominent display.

Nott glanced between them, releasing the head. "Have either of you taken any hallucinogens in the last twenty-four hours?"

Harry scowled, slamming a fist on the table, the impact radiating along his arm and into his chest, echoing his resounding heartbeat. "Cut him open."

Nott stepped back. "The state of his clothing tells me this is someone of repute. I can't perform an autopsy."

"Nott–"

"I only accept corpses of the homeless for a reason, Potter. I don't need the police at my fucking door. This man looks like he resides in the Upper East Side."

Harry pushed away from the table. "Nott, you're a man of science. Look at this fucking thing." He held the man's gaze, slowly edging closer, fighting to keep his mania tightly contained. "You know this isn't normal. Don't tell me you aren't burning with curiosity."

Nott's eyes gleamed in the artificial light.

Harry stepped closer yet. "No one saw us take him. The police won't show up at your door." He wet his lips, arching a dark brow. "You're standing on the brink of a truly remarkable medical breakthrough–"

"Spare me the sales pitch, Potter."

Harry stopped short, jaw clenching. Nott turned away, pulling off his gloves.

"It's not only the police I'm worried about. I've no idea what connections this man has."

Harry lifted his chin. "You didn't kill him." A heavy beat. "His friends will come for me."

Nott shook his head and began to walk towards the shelf, only for his path to be obstructed as Ron stepped forward, shoulders wide and eyes glinting.

"This man may be connected to a string of kidnappings. He may have taken my sister."

Nott tilted his head, pinning him with a leveling stare. "And that's my problem how?"

Ron's fists clenched. "You fucking–"

"After you examine him we'll dump him in the river." Harry stepped forward, earning Nott's attention. "You can take all the samples you want, and then we'll destroy the evidence. The body will never be connected to you."

They held each other's penetrating gaze once more, the silent phenomena feeling almost routine at this point. Harry's chest began to slowly loosen as he saw the familiar gleam of acquiesce take root in the other man's eyes a moment before he spoke, voice low and tight.

"I'll hold onto him for twenty-four hours. Not a minute longer."

Harry nodded. "We'll be back for him in the morning."

Nott glanced away, striding to the table and pulling the tarp back into place. As he did so the arm was pressed into the side, pushing something free from the inner lining of the coat.

Harry leaned in. "Wait."

Nott blinked, glancing over his shoulder.

Harry stepped closer, eyes fixed upon the torso. "Something's in his pocket."

Nott caught sight of it a moment later, carefully grabbing the corner and tugging the item free. He held it up, centered before their gazes.

It was a narrow cylinder, roughly the length of Harry's palm, comprised of a ceramic material. But what made it truly remarkable was the decoration covering the surface.

Ron tilted his head. "What the hell is that?"

Harry inhaled slowly, transfixed. "Are those…"

"Hieroglyphs," Nott concluded, appearing equally intrigued. He slowly rotated the clay cylinder in the light, revealing row after row of symbols. "This is undoubtedly an item of great value. Someone will be looking for it."

Harry swallowed, already sensing the storm to come. "Fantastic."

Nott lowered the item, meeting his gaze. "How fortunate you're so well acquainted with the country's second most renowned Egyptologist." He blinked, considering. "Hm... the first now, I suppose."

Ron shook his head. "You're an asshole."

Nott shrugged, setting the item aside as he pulled the tarp over the body. Harry reached forward and picked the cylinder up, shoulders tensing as his palm encased the cool ceramic. He could feel the etchings beneath his skin, the hairs along his forearm standing on end as a faint electrical current pulsed through his limb.

"Fred and George can drop us by her place on their way to work."

Harry jolted, Ron's voice seeming to echo all around him. He met his eyes and swallowed once more, though this time it was more of a convulsive gulp. "You should take it to her."

Ron blinked. "Why–" Lightning lengthened his spine as realization struck. "Are you fucking kidding me?"

Harry stepped back. Ron surged forward.

"You lying sack of shit."

"I didn't lie, I stopped by her house, she was already gone."

"Bullshit."

Nott sighed deeply, glancing up the from the table as he carefully tucked the tarp beneath the body. "Can you please take this intellectual debate to the alley? I'm trying to concentrate."

Ron braced his feet apart, crossing his arms, a menacing force to behold. "You're going to see her. Today."

Harry closed his eyes, unconsciously reaching an arm across his chest, digging his fingertips against the back of his shoulder until the pain drew his focus, grounding him.

"Alright." He released a long, searing breath, flames erupting to life within his gut, eager to consume him whole. "Just let me change into something a little less bloody."

Hermione tapped her pen along the top of the clipboard, clutching the wood base with a cotton-gloved hand. Her eyes flickered rapidly over the list, then to the open crate situated before her. She leaned forward, peering into the mass of straw with a narrowed gaze.

"The busts appear intact, though they really should be in separate containers."

Malfoy rolled his head along his shoulders, tone and expression decidedly bored. "You know the British. Cheap bastards, the lot of them."

She pointedly ignored the comment, walking further down the line and peering inside the next container.

"The amulets are accounted for." She wet her lips, glancing to the labor workers lingering beside two standing crates. "Let's get the sarcophagi out of the way." She nodded, smiling warmly. "Whenever you're ready, gentlemen."

They stepped forward, lifting their crowbars and wedging them along the seam of the first box, slowly prying the lid free. It fell to the ground with a mighty clatter, causing her to jolt, and then her heart to seize as she caught sight of the gleaming treasure within. She stepped forward, carefully inspecting the front of the sarcophagus.

Malfoy moved closer, tucking his hands into his pockets. "And who's this poor dead bastard?"

She studied the vibrant coloring in the painted headdress. "I assure you, he's anything but poor."

She smirked, eyes glittering as brightly as the inset gemstones along the molded gauntlets. "This is Amenemhat, first ruler of the Twelfth Dynasty. His reign marked the beginning of the Golden Age of the Middle Kingdom. He's one of the most renowned Pharaohs to ever live."

"How fascinating." His tone suggested it was anything but. "And now his dried up corpse is on display for school children to gawk at. What a legacy."

She tapped her pen once more, examining the gold plated torso, bits of tarnished silver peeking through. "He led a remarkable life, I assure you. But it's his death that garners the most intrigue."

He released a long, reluctant sigh. "Dammit, Granger. How do you always manage to make this bullshit sound fascinating?"

"Because it isn't bullshit."

He sidled closer, undeterred by her bite. "Alright, I'm sufficiently hooked. How did he die?"

She lifted her chin, studying the exquisite craftsmanship of the death mask. "Some accounts say his guards overthrew him in a bloody usurp, murdering him in his own chambers. Other stories hint it was his lover who organized the assassination."

"Having personally experienced the wrath of a woman scorned, I'm inclined to believe the latter."

"As am I." Her lips curved with pleasure. "But perhaps that's just wishful thinking on my part."

She gazed down at her clipboard, missing his answering smile as he watched her check off another item on the list. And then her eyes snapped to the second standing crate. She nodded to the workers once more, giving them silent leave to continue.

"And this is the lover in question. His long-time consort and mother of his successor."

They wedged their tools behind the lid, grunting low as they pried it loose, bent nails slowly exposed. She lowered her clipboard, anticipation swelling.

"Neferitatjenen."

The lid broke away, crashing to the floor with an echoing crack.

Hermione's breath was pulled violently from her lungs. She blinked, heart galloping wildly as she gazed ahead with unbridled fascination.

Malfoy moved beside her, tilting his face. "Wonderful, the heart of the esteemed collection is a massive cat."

She slowly shook her head, focus unwavering. "It isn't a cat." She wet her lips, a strange pressure seated upon her chest, making it difficult to take a full breath. "It's Sekhmet."

An electrical current raced along her skin as she spoke the name aloud, static snapping at her hair. She took a tentative step forward, clipboard dangling forgotten at her side. "A goddess depicted as half woman, half lioness."

He drew a hand through his perfectly styled coif. "Fantastic. The Queen was a crazy cat lady." His eyes gleamed as he glanced sideways at her. "You should feel right at home with this exhibit."

Her eyes slowly roamed the feline features, the curve of the almond eyes and slitted pupils glinting brighter than the rest of the face.

"Egyptians held cats in the highest esteem. A lioness was considered the fiercest and most cunning hunter on earth." She stepped closer yet, an invisible thread knotted to her center, pulling her forward. "Sekhmet was a renowned warrior. The daughter of the sun god Ra, she was so powerful it's said her very breath formed the deserts. Pharaohs prayed for her protection and guidance, her wisdom and strength."

She stopped just before the sarcophagus, standing at eye level, her own distorted reflection staring back at her. "But she was also wild and passionate, easily offended, and her wrath could level a city as easily as save it. To appease her, the Egyptians held a festival of intoxication every year, plying themselves with wine and vices to pay tribute to her fiery nature."

Her hand tightened around the clipboard, bending the papers, nails pressing crescent grooves along the pages. "But true to her feline disposition, she turned on mankind without warning."

She slowly raised her gloved hand, fingertips hovering over the feline muzzle. For a stuttered beat it seemed to radiate a cloud of heat, as though breathing against her palm.

"Her father sent her to earth to destroy any mortal who opposed him. Her killing spree stained the sands red for decades. She became so possessed with bloodlust she began to devour her victims alive. The only way to stop her was to disguise wine as blood. She drank to excess and fell into a deep sleep, her rampage finally coming to an end."

Her fingers curled around the empty air, a strange energy pulsing through the atmosphere, crackling, causing her blood to surge. "But by then she had taken so many lives she was tied to the underworld for all eternity. She ruled over the dead and undead alike, sending her demons to earth to punish sinners with disease, chaos, and pestilence."

The corner of her mouth lifted as her hand fell to her side. "A woman after my own heart." She stepped back, pulling free of the siren call, taking a deep breath at last. "So yes, Malfoy, I think I'll feel right at home with this exhibit."

She gazed down at her paperwork, checking off another box.

Malfoy tilted his head, gaze faceted and fixed carefully upon her form. "Christ, Granger. If the history professors at Harvard delivered lectures with half as much allure I might have passed a test."

She rolled her eyes, sliding the pen into its holder along the metal clasp. "Since that's as close to a compliment as I'm sure to get from you this week, I'll take it." Then she lifted her head, glancing to the forgotten workers lingering at the wall. "Alright, let's look in the final crate."

They stepped forward at her bidding, quickly breaking open the last box in the row. She moved in close, meticulously inspecting the contents nestled upon the straw bed.

She nodded to a long, flat box heavily wrapped in brown parchment. "Those will be the texts. I'll examine them downstairs." Her gaze roamed higher. "Fertility statue." Her finger skimmed along the list. "Canopic jars." Her gaze narrowed as she peered at the clay pots and began silently counting them off.

Malfoy dragged a hand over his face, groaning low. "Are we done yet?"

Her spine stiffened as she reexamined her list.

Malfoy paced closer, seemingly restless. "Is there a problem?"

She lifted the first page, rapidly scanning the second. "My list accounts for ten jars, but I only see nine."

She dropped the clipboard to her side and quickly approached the first crate, leaning over the top and raking her eyes over every item once more.

Malfoy sighed. "Maybe it's a typo."

She shook her head, heels clicking along the tile as she made her way to the second shipment container. "The British Museum doesn't make typos. Least of all with their Egyptian collection."

"Then maybe someone packed it in the wrong box."

She sent a pointed glare over her shoulder. "Maybe you should help me look."

He rolled his eyes but stepped forward all the same, reaching a hand into the nearest crate.

She spun on her heel. "Don't touch anything!"

He scowled. "And how am I supposed to help you look?"

"With your eyes."

His jaw ticked. "Yes, Professor."

Her spine straightened, shoulders squaring on instinct. An expression akin to regret flashed across his pointed features for the space of a heartbeat. He opened his mouth but she shook her head, directing her focus to the crates.

"I don't see another item."

She inspected the paperwork once more, flipping through each page repeatedly as though the answer would reveal itself if only she thumbed through them one more time. She gave up the futile effort at last, making her way to the final crate and reaching in with her gloved hand, carefully rotating the jars to read the hieroglyphs carved into the ceramic. She cross-referenced the markings with the list, drawing back several minutes later, pulse throbbing in her neck and wrists.

"I think we're missing Neferitatjenen's heart."

Malfoy slowly approached, posture eased and tone flippant. "They forgot to pack it."

She rounded on him, fire exploding to life within her chest, smoke billowing from her lips. "This is why you should have waited for me!"

His calm facade cracked like a plaster mask. "Don't put this on me! It's not my fault you weren't here, the drivers had to leave!"

"Oh, did they have another Egyptian collection to drop off at the museum down the street?"

"Just contact the British Museum and–"

"Tell them we've lost one of their priceless artifacts? Yes, let me get right on that!"

His jaw set as he bore down upon her with the full intensity of his Upper East Side pedigree. "We didn't lose it, you crazed shrew. The boxes were sealed when they arrived."

She stepped back, mind rapidly spinning, temples pulsing in time to her skipping heart. "Their offices will be closed now." She rubbed a hand along her brow. "I'm going to contact the delivery company, find out of they had any incidents."

"Incidents?"

"Yes, Malfoy, incidents!"

He regarded her carefully. "You think it was stolen?"

She nodded absently, giving him her back as she took to rummaging through the crates with her gloved hand. "Thieves prey upon museums all the time."

"Yes, to steal the fucking Mona Lisa! Who breaks into a crate to steal a single organ jar?"

"There's a black market for artifacts, especially of Egyptian origin."

A low-chime echoed through the corridor. She stood straight, glancing to the clock mounted to the far wall.

And sighed, closing her eyes.

Malfoy watched her closely, pale gaze narrowed. "Have somewhere to be, Granger?"

She smothered a groan, lids peeling open, eyes clouded with resignation. "I was supposed to relieve Susan an hour ago." She shook her head, turning back to the crates. "Alright, I'll call–"

"No, I'll call."

Her head snapped to the side. "Excuse me?"

"You heard me. I'll call the damn delivery company, ask if they had any armed robberies they forgot to make us privy to."

She blinked, hand dropping heavily to her side. "What about–"

"I'll contact you with any news. We'll figure out what to tell the British Museum."

She slowly rotated, facing him fully. "Are you sure?"

He rolled his eyes. "I think I'll be able to manage. Now go. Your anxiety is creasing my suit."

She couldn't contain her grin. "Thank you, Malfoy."

She extended the clipboard. He accepted the crumpled heap without comment, seeming to have already forgotten her presence. She hurried across the room, drawing his attention as she trotted up the steps, shouting over her shoulder.

"Call me after you speak to them, regardless of what they say!"

"I'm your boss, you don't give me orders!"

She could hear the smirk in his voice, pulling one of her own to the surface.

"You aren't my boss! Call me!"

He shook his head, mumbling just loud enough for her to hear as she reached the landing.

"Vicious harpy."

. . .

Hermione ascended the brick steps with her shawl slung over her arm and hair hanging loose, the wild tresses finally overcoming her meager attempts to sequester them in an orderly knot.

As she reached the front door she felt the unmistakable sensation of eyes upon her, making her stomach tighten and adrenaline seep from every pore.

She spun in place, gazing around the busy street beyond.

People milled in every direction, conversation and traffic heavy in the air. She swallowed lightly, searching for the steady gleam of eyes upon her.

But saw no one.

She released a sharp breath, quickly extracting her keys and sliding them into the lock. Her shoulders eased as she stepped over the threshold, the familiar fragrance of worn leather, parchment and ink permeating her senses, a soothing balm to her nerves.

"I'm home!"

A faint shuffle.

"We're in the kitchen!"

She closed the door and set her keys in the Tibetan dish on the side table, throwing her shawl to the bench with a careless toss and kicking off her heels without ceremony. She made her way down the hall, Crookshanks trotting in from her bedroom and weaving his way between her ankles, nearly causing her to tip over. She emerged into the kitchen a moment later, expression pinched.

"I'm so sorry–"

"Don't worry about it." Susan stood from her stool with a smile. "Everything go okay?"

Hermione leaned into the center island, opening and closing her mouth before settling on a response.

"Yes."

The other woman arched a dark brow. "That bad, huh?"

Hermione released a short laugh, pulling the remaining pins from her hair and dropping them to the counter. "We'll figure it out."

She cast her gaze to the breakfast table, its single occupant turned towards the French doors, peering out into the overgrown vegetable garden.

"How was he?"

Susan leaned in beside her. "Quieted down after you left. I read to him, made him some lunch. He ate most of it."

Hermione nodded, pushing back. "Thank you, Susan. Please, let me pay you overtime for the extra hour–"

"Don't be silly. You'll pay me my normal rate."

"I insist–"

Susan silenced her with a hand at her shoulder. "It's alright, Mione. I know this is a lot for you to deal with." Her brown eyes exuded a gentle warmth. "You don't have to stress over me as well."

Hermione felt her first genuine smile of the day emerge. "You're a lifesaver."

And then soft, insistent paws began clamoring at her hose-clad shin.

Hermione glanced down, grin widening. "If only this one wasn't so demanding."

Susan chuckled, dropping her hand and turning for the doorway. "He's a smart cat. A bit too smart. Figured out how to get into the pantry from the icebox"

Hermione followed her into the hallway. "Lovely. If only a dog had followed me home instead."

He mewled his displeasure, trailing at her side. She rolled her eyes. "I'm only joking, Crooks. You know I wouldn't trade you for anything."

They reached the front door. Susan leaned down and picked up her bag. "Dog may be man's best friend, but a cat chooses who it's devoted to. Makes the bond far more sacred."

Hermione quirked a brow. "I'll remind myself of that the next time he brings me a dead present in his mouth."

Susan winked, grabbing the knob. "I'll see you tomorrow."

"Have a good evening."

She stepped onto the front stoop, the sound of the city invading the entry in an explosive chorus. "You, too, doll."

And then she closed the door, taking the steady hum of noise and chaos with her, leaving Hermione with only festering, oppressive silence. She rubbed her palms along her skirt, backing into the hall and making it halfway to the kitchen when a hard knock echoed after her.

She spun in place. Crookshanks hissed loudly, hackles rising. Hermione blinked, stepping over him.

"Calm down, Crooks."

She paced back to the door, sliding the deadbolt and pulling it open with a smile.

"Did you forget some–"

She froze in place.

Or rather, time itself froze, the universe grinding to a halt for an endless expanse of fleeting seconds. She blinked rapidly, clutching the frame until the wood groaned beneath her white-knuckled grip.

And then her lips parted of their own accord, the world spinning on its axis, hurtling her through the dark cosmos with a gut-wrenching jolt.

"Harry?"

Theo glanced at the smudged toes of his boots, concentrating on tying the rubber apron behind his back. Once the knot was secured he slid his goggles firmly into place and turned to the table, reaching for the bone saw on the tray just beside it.

He adjusted the standing light, wishing for the thousandth time since securing the location the building was properly wired for overhead electric. Rerouting the wiring would cost a small fortune, and he certainly couldn't have a journeyman over for an install. Keeping a low profile was paramount, no matter the sacrifice.

He set his jaw, making do with his limited resources and pulling the tarp open to examine the pale, sunken chest, every rib visible.

Strange, it seemed to be drying up more and more with every passing minute. Suddenly, Potter's words filled his head unbidden, echoing through the endless caverns of his mind on an endless loop.

"What about his fucking fangs?"

He set the bone saw aside, making his way to the edge of the table and tipping the skull back, parting the jaws once more. The teeth still appeared normal, perhaps the most normal part of the entire affair.

He shook his head, stepping back.

"Ridiculous."

He pulled his surgical mask up from his neck, covering his nose and mouth as he picked up the saw and switched it on, a gentle, comforting hum filling the air as the blade spun to life.

He pressed beneath the collar bone and began cutting a clean line through the sternum, the muscle tissue offering no resistance, sparse and withered as it was. But his focus was rapidly drawn away from the chest as something quite astounding occurred across the bare arms.

The veins swelled, thick and black, standing out in sharp relief against the translucent skin.

He turned off the saw and set it aside, lifting his goggles and leaning in close to inspect the dermis.

When a soft crack filled the air, sharp and distinct, sending him reeling.

He blinked, staggering to a halt and staring at the face, waiting for it to contort with life. The eyes remained blank and clouded. But the mouth…

The mouth was propped open.

Theo slowly edged forward, the rubber of his gloves creaking as his fists curled tight. He leaned in once more.

And gazed upon the lengthened canines pressing the bottom lip, gleaming fangs protruding proudly from blackened gums.

He smiled behind his mask.

"Marvelous."

Harry rocked back on his heels, staring at the door across the street with steady intensity while manically carding his hands through his hair, every strand stiff with rebellious disarray.

He had watched her enter the brownstone minutes ago. She'd paused outside the door, gazing over her shoulder, hazel eyes sweeping the street beyond as though she could sense his presence. He'd held his breath, turning to marble where he stood, making no effort to hide, both terrified and desperate to be discovered.

But her eyes had stopped just before reaching him, her shoulders drawing in as she pushed the door open and disappeared from sight. He'd deflated on the spot, silently cursing himself for his endless supply of stupidity and cowardice.

And then the door opened a second time, a young, pretty brunette descending with a smile. He caught sight of Hermione in the entryway, smiling and waving farewell before the barrier closed once more.

He swallowed heavily, stepping forward and jogging a quick path across the street, sidestepping foot traffic from the nearby fruit stands. He took the steps two at a time, stopping outside her door with his heart lodged firmly in his throat.

He closed his eyes.

And knocked.

He heard her soft murmur from the other side, followed by her muffled voice as the lock slid free.

"Did you forget some–"

She opened the door, face appearing directly before him. Blood pulsed through his ears, deafening, his heart beating a call to war against his aching ribs.

"Harry?"

He swallowed heavily, swaying in place.

"Mione."

She blinked.

Once.

Twice.

And then leaped forward, arms wrapping his neck in a tight embrace. He immediately twined his arms around her waist, holding her so firmly her bare feet lifted off the ground. He buried his face in her loose hair, breathing deep, absorbing the gentle shockwaves of her broken sobs as she cried into his neck.

"You're home."

The pain in her voice wedged a metal spike through his heart. He couldn't find his voice, couldn't find his breath. She sniffled loudly, pulling her tear-stained face back and meeting his gaze.

Only to stiffen in his hold, hands clenching upon his wide shoulders.

"Your eyes."

He sighed, desperate to glance away but unable to break her penetrating stare.

"It looks worse than it is, I promise–"

"Not the scar." Her hands lifted, thumbs sweeping across the dark circles pooled beneath his bottom lashes. "The color."

He swallowed heavily, Adam's apple bobbing high as he fought to keep his tone unaffected. "I suffered minor cornea damage, made the left iris lighter."

Her eyes flickered back and forth, studying his gaze with succinct astuteness. "Where did the gold come from?"

His pulse skipped manically, making him light-headed. He grasped her hips and pulled her back, setting her on her feet and forcing a tight smile.

"All that California sun, I suppose."

She arched a brow, hands sliding down to brace his chest, palms framing his rapid heartbeat. "If you had bothered to show up to biology class you'd know just how idiotic that sounds."

His palms felt clammy, sweat pooling along his nape and temples. He glanced over her shoulder, desperate for escape. "Can I come in?"

She blinked, glancing at the street, seeming to remember their surroundings. "Of course."

She stepped over the threshold and swung the door wide, allowing him room to pass. He barely stepped onto the brightly woven rug when a sharp hiss filled the air, followed by a low growl. He glanced around the floor, searching out the source of the noise while Hermione shut the door.

"Crooks! Stop that!" She shook her head, turning the deadbolt. "Don't mind him, he's been a little terror all day."

He finally caught sight of the orange bundle of fur watching him from the corner, amber eyes gleaming from the shadows.

"You got a cat?"

"A cat got me." She followed his gaze, watching the scowling feline with unmistakable affection. "He followed me home from the corner market a few weeks after you left."

He lifted his head, glancing sideways.

She met his eye.

Their gazes held, the air pressure building, sweltering, clouding his throat and saturating his lungs.

"Hermione." His hands clenched. "I–"

"It's alright." She stepped forward, curling a hand over his shoulder, fingertips dangerously close to the source of all his misery. "You're home now. That's all that matters."

He swallowed thickly, searching her warm gaze. "Gin."

She closed her eyes, hand falling away.

"I know."

She turned and started down the hall, the cat darting forward to follow at her heels, glancing at Harry over its shoulder, gaze slit.

"I took off work as long as I could to help search and hand out flyers. I've posted her photo to every bulletin board in the city." She sighed, removing a stray pin from her hair and raking her nails across her scalp, shaking the last of her constrained curls free. They danced over her bare shoulder in a shimmering lake. "I've called the police department so many times they recognize my voice."

Harry followed her into the open space at the end of the corridor, an office he had spent many years admiring as a boy, always fascinated by the one of a kind relics displayed across every available surface. She'd moved the furniture around, but the framed maps of Cairo and Alexandria hung in the same places as always, a comforting sight.

"I don't know what else to do, Harry. I feel so useless."

He shook his head, stopping at the center of the room, watching her pace restlessly.

"You've done all you can, Mione. Now it's my turn. I'm helping Ron look." His arms folded across his chest. "He thinks she's still in New York." He watched her closely. "What do you think?"

She slowed to a stop beside her desk chair, bracing the upholstered back. "I'm afraid to think otherwise."

He lifted his chin, voice low and measured. "Mione, was she seeing anyone?"

Her spine turned rigid. "What?"

"He says she was kidnapped from the Burrow." He held her gaze steady. "But if she snuck out voluntarily we might get somewhere."

She sighed, gaze drifting to a mounted display of ancient Greek coins. "I don't know. After you left she became… withdrawn. We didn't talk as much."

The shadows stretched along the walls as the sun began its gradual downward descent, late afternoon slowly giving way to early evening.

"I should have made more of an effort to be there for her. She was hurting and I…" She closed her eyes, pressing a palm to her chest, sliding it higher to rub circles into the hollow of her throat. "I was only focused on my pain."

"Mione, I'm so sorry."

Her gaze flickered open, a beam of orange sunlight striking her across the face.

"It's alright."

He lowered his chin, his own visage consumed by shadow. "You don't have to keep saying that. It's okay to be angry. I deserve it."

"I'm too exhausted to be angry." She absently drummed her fingers along the top of the chair. "Between Gin, the Met, and my father, I don't have any room for anger."

He drew back, shoulder blades tightening with a familiar prickle of dread.

"How is he?"

She glanced away, hand curling around the wooden finial. "He entered severe decline two months ago." Her jaw worked silently as her gaze swept across the rug. "The doctors say it's only a matter of time before he loses the ability to communicate altogether."

A tense beat.

"Once that happens, it'll be a countdown to the end."

Harry stepped forward, reaching out a hand. "Hermione, I'm so sorry–"

"I can't talk about it. Not right now." She drew back, crossing her arms tightly over front. "If I talk about it I'll think about it and then I'll–"

She shook her head, eyes gleaming with unshed tears. "I need to stay focused."

He lowered his arm, nodding slowly. "I understand. But when you're ready to talk, I'm here."

She inhaled deeply, eyes lifting. "And when you're ready to tell me what really happened in California, I'm here."

His heart skipped, painfully.

He nodded once more, loving and cursing her astute observational skills in equal measure. He'd never been able to keep secrets from her. From the moment they first met as children she always had a way of peering all the way through him, down to his very core, effortlessly stripping away layers of concealment with painstaking efficiency. He didn't know why he bothered trying to hide things from her.

But then again, some truths were better left to the dark recesses of his soul, far away from her radiant light. He couldn't taint her. Couldn't endanger her...

She relieved him from the suffocating pressure, gesturing to the couch against the wall. He sidestepped an elephant statue and followed on stiff knees, watching as she sat gingerly on the left cushion, tucking her feet underneath her skirt-clad thighs and placing a decorative pillow on her lap.

"What time did your train arrive?"

He sat beside her, causing her slight weight to bounce.

"Actually…" He rubbed the back of his neck, watching the sky turn a burnt gold through the pane. "I got home yesterday."

She stiffened. "Oh."

He glanced sideways, forearms bracing his thighs. "I should have come sooner. I meant to, but I… I wasn't–"

"It's alright, Harry."

He released a strained breath. "Please stop saying that."

She fidgeted with the tassels hanging off the edge of the pillow. Her feline companion watched the strings sway side to side from his spot on the rug, pupils expanding, tail twitching.

"I don't know what else to say."

He leaned back, eyes glinting like the gemstones they so embodied. "Tell me I'm an asshole. A selfish prick." He wet his lips, hands clenching over his knees. "Tell me you hate me."

Her eyes snapped up, flashing with just as much vibrancy. "I'll never be able to hate you, Harry Potter. No matter what you say or do, I'll always love you."

Pain lanced through his center, a driving ache that skewered him straight through to his shoulder, the scar tissue burning with a familiar flame.

Her eyes were unwavering. "You were in a dark place. You did what you thought was best." She lifted her chin. "I can't judge you for that. I won't."

He released a slow breath. "I should have called."

She nodded. "Yes, you should have. But I know you have your reasons for staying silent. And I know one day you'll tell me what they were."

He tore his gaze away, scrubbing a hand over his face, skin feverish, ready to split at the seams and unleash the raging hurricane confined within his heart. "There is something I need to tell you."

She tilted her head, expression filled with gentle patience.

He swallowed thickly. "Or rather, show you."

She blinked, watching closely as he reached into his vest, lifting the flap of his inner pocket.

"Ron and I came across this last night, I was hoping you could tell us what the hell it is."

He carefully extracted the narrow cylinder, holding it out in his palm, shoulders tensing as she reared back, nearly toppling to the floor.

Only to surge forward in the next beat, tossing the pillow carelessly across the room, her cat leaping free of its trajectory at the last moment.

"Where did you get that?"

"Central Park."

Her eyes flickered up, wide, mouth wider yet. "What? How?"

"It's a long stor–"

"Put it on the couch!"

She jumped to her feet as though the cushion was spring-loaded, staggering across the rug. Harry blinked, trying to formulate a response.

"Put it down, Harry! The oils from your skin cause a chemical reaction that erodes the surface!"

She rushed to her desk, pulling open the bottom drawer, the smell of cedar releasing into the air. Harry carefully set the item on the cushion, movements slow and methodical as though handling a stick of dynamite.

"So, it's an antique?"

She shook her head. "It's a priceless artifact." He watched as she pulled white gloves over her hands. "From a new collection I'm overseeing at the Met." She started across the room once more, focusing upon the cylinder. "It was missing in the shipment."

She held her breath, leaning down and picking it up with gentle fingers, balancing it in both palms as though it were made of crystal.

"I can't believe you found it. What are the chances?" She inhaled deeply, crossing back to her desk. "Thank god. I have to call Malfoy, let him know–"

"You can't."

She glanced over her shoulder. "What?"

He pushed to his feet. "Not yet anyway. That's the only lead we have on Gin."

She sat the object atop a square of velvet laid across the veneer. "What are you talking about, Harry?"

"We visited the crime scene at the Park–"

"You what?"

He raised a staying hand, stepping forward. "Ron thought it may lead to information on Gin. But before we could investigate we got attacked."

She paled, pressing against the edge of the table. "Are you alright?"

"We're fine. But the man who attacked us had this on him."

He nodded to the object.

She blinked, gazing down at it. "He must have robbed the delivery truck. Or maybe the shipping vessel." She tapped a gloved finger along her chin, and then her eyes tracked up, latching onto him. "I don't see how it relates to Ginny."

He sighed, scrubbing a hand over his face, the storm gaining speed with every passing beat. "Trust me on this, Mione. This guy was more than a common thief."

Her gaze turned speculative. "I agree, common thieves don't target artifacts. He obviously works for a specialized buyer, maybe even an underground procurement ring." She tilted her head, expression beautifully innocent. "Have the police questioned him yet? If they can track his employer then maybe–"

And then the gleam in her eyes faded, realization taking root and darkening her countenance as she studied his guarded expression.

"Harry." She arched a brow, crossing her arms. "What happened?"

He drew a hand over his mouth as though to contain the truth.

But she tore it free with a withering glare.

"He's dead."

She drew back further, rocking the desk, color fading from her cheeks.

"Did…"

"Yes."

She lowered her arms, a tremor racing along her limbs.

He raised his hands, palms up, unable to bear the fear in her eyes. "Mione, I promise, it was self-defense."

Several beats passed, until at last she nodded, shoulders easing a fraction. "I believe you. But you have to tell the police. You can't just leave him for someone to find."

"That won't be a problem."

She blinked, and then her fists clenched. "Harry James Potter, what did you do?"

His long legs ate up the space between them in three strides.

"Mione, please listen." He gripped her shoulders, the sunlight streaming in from the window blinding in intensity, casting her figure in a golden aura. "I promise you, this wasn't an ordinary man."

She shook her head but didn't try to pull free of his grasp. "I don't understand."

He held her gaze firm. "Neither do I. And until I do, I need you to hold onto this."

Her jaw unhinged, shoulders going rigid beneath his hands. "Are you insane? I have to return it to the museum immediately!"

He sighed, breath hissing across her face and blowing loose curls back, thoughts caught in a vicious cyclone of bad decisions and worse outcomes. Until at last, he settled on the lesser of the evils laid out before him.

"Alright. Can you sneak it back in?"

Sadly, she didn't seem to share his sentiment, rearing back with a textbook-perfect look of scandal.

"Of course not! I have to make a report! A major felony has occurred, choosing to ignore it makes me an accomplice!"

He rubbed his throbbing temples in a vain attempt to keep his brain situated inside his splitting skull. "Can you at least wait until morning to make the report?"

A beat.

He gazed up, hopeful.

She regarded him carefully, as though trying to decipher one of her ancient texts.

"Why morning?"

He lowered his arms. "Because by then I'll hopefully know what the hell we're dealing with."

She crossed her arms again, glancing down. "Harry…"

"Please, Mione." He stepped forward, gently grasping her wrists, a gesture born of comfort, not restraint. "I'm begging you. For me. For Gin."

"I could lose my job. I could get arrested."

"I'll take the fall."

"That doesn't make me feel any better."

"This is the only thing we have that may lead us to her."

She closed her eyes, head tipping back. "I still don't see the connection." Her lids peeled open, gaze clouded with chronic exhaustion he recognized well. She stared at the ceiling for several seconds, lips slowly parting. "But if you truly believe it may help find her…"

She set her jaw, lowering her face and pinning him with the full intensity of her steel-tipped gaze. "7 a.m. Then I make the report, no exceptions."

His answering grin split his face in half. "Thank you, Mione."

She sighed, leaning into his chest with boneless fatigue. "I'd nearly forgotten what it was like."

He wrapped his arms around her back. "What what was like?"

She lifted her eyes. "Being around you." His heart ached at her bittersweet smile. "There's never a dull moment."

Ron made his way down the narrow corridor, mindful of the discarded rubbish packed along the stained and warped baseboards. An infant's shrill cry echoed from behind a door somewhere ahead.

He reached his destination in the center of the hall, knocking loudly on the barrier as a woman's frantic scream joined the fold, followed by a man's enraged snarl. He cringed, glancing over his shoulder, wondering which apartment it was coming from when a faint shuffling drew his attention forward.

"Who is it?"

He wet his lips, shifting uncomfortably as the arguing at his back reached new heights.

"It's me."

"We don't know any Me!"

"Parvati!"

The sound of sliding deadbolts followed, and then the paint-chipped door gave way, opening just a fraction, stopped by the rusted chain.

Brown eyes peered through, widening.

"Ron? What are you–" Her lips remained softly parted as she roamed his figure. "Are you alright?"

He raked a hand through his disheveled hair. "I'm sorry, I should have called but…"

The disembodied woman screamed anew, the baby crying louder. He swallowed, edging closer, desperate to evade the chaos.

"Is this a bad time?"

"Yes!"

She scowled over her shoulder. "Parv! Cool off in your room!"

A scathing groan followed, chased by the slamming of a door. The blonde shook her head, facing the hallway once more.

"Hold on."

She shut the door, sliding the chain free, and then opened it wide. He sagged with relief, stepping through. She continued to clutch the edge of the frame, eyeing him carefully. "What happened?"

He stopped just before her, releasing a sharp breath. "We might have a lead. On Gin."

She tilted her head, golden hair cascading over her bare shoulder. The tie at her waist hung loose, the silk robe parting to reveal the scant lacy teddy beneath.

"That's wonderful."

His eyes flickered around the barren apartment.

"Can…" He met her eyes, pulse thrumming. "Do you have any more clients tonight?"

She shook her head, pulling her sleeve over her shoulder and tying the sash. "No."

He wet his lips. "Could I…"

She nodded, pushing the door closed and placing a gentle hand on his arm. "Come here."

He melted into her embrace, pressing his face into her hair and closing his eyes as he drew her forward.

"Thanks, Lav."

Harry dragged his feet over the threshold of Grimmauld, chest tight as he gazed around the dark interior, the sun rapidly fading at his back.

He kicked the door shut with his boot, pressing a hand against his shoulder blade. He took two more steps and was caught by Walburga's accusing stare from above.

Hermione's voice still lingered in his mind, as did her face, the pain and hopelessness in her eyes as they discussed Ginny. Ron's stricken expression invaded next, followed by the withered corpse they delivered to Nott.

He swallowed heavily, holding the Black Matriarch's sinister scowl for another sweltering beat before dropping his arm and galloping up the steps two at a time.

He stood on the landing, holding her gaze at eye level, heartbeat echoing in the back of his throat as he gripped the gilded frame and wrenched it from the wall. It didn't want to give way at first, putting up a decidedly impressive fight, but his superior strength ripped the nails and peeled the faded paper in a long strip.

He flashed the image a triumphant smirk before turning the portrait around and leaning it against the wood paneling, free from her imposing scorn at last.

And then a floorboard creaked in the adjoining hallway.

He turned on his heel, heart skipping.

The corridor was saturated in darkness, the shadows so opaque they formed a living, undulating mass that shifted along the walls, spreading out like ink, filling the air with a black cloud.

His ears filled with a low electric hum, the crackle of static quick to follow, his stomach twisting with the unsettling certainty of watchful eyes upon him.

His fists clenched.

"Hello?"

He shook his head at his own stupidity.

Suddenly, a draft stole past, cold and bitter, laced with a familiar scent. His chest cracked cleanly down the center.

"Sirius?"

The darkness exploded to life, surging outward in a powerful rush, barrelling towards him. He staggered back, eyes wide and voice frozen, catching himself against a side table, desperately reaching for the shadeless lamp resting atop.

He switched it on, holding the light like a baseball bat, feet braced for combat.

But the halogen glow revealed an empty corridor, the only movement a gentle swaying of cobwebs, their shadows dancing along the ceiling.

He shook his head, wiping the sweat from his forehead.

The lamp flickered.

He blinked, holding it before his gaze, the bulb humming loudly as the light surged, blinding.

He raised a shielding hand to his eyes, gasping as the bulb exploded, glass raining across his shirt and pants, scattering across the wood floor, darkness wrapping him in its cold embrace.

He sighed, slamming the destroyed lamp on the table.

"I fucking hate this place."

Hermione closed her father's bedroom door with a soft click, taking comfort in the sound of his rhythmic breathing as sleep stole him away at long last. She crept carefully down the hall, mindful of creaking floorboards, and slipped into her office.

Crookshanks leaped from the back of the couch and ran to her side, meowing loudly. She smiled, leaning over and picking him up, cradling him to her chest and planting a dramatic kiss to his smushed face, laughing as he twisted in her grip, desperate for freedom.

She set him back down and made her way to the desk, staring at the jar with a heavy heart, stones settling to the pit of her stomach.

"Malfoy will be calling any minute." She interlaced her fingers tightly. "What do I tell him, Crooks?"

His response was to hike his back leg into the air, licking along the base of his tail.

She drew closer to the table, pulse throbbing with every step. The air pressure changed, turning dense and heavy in her lungs.

"Why would they take only one jar?" She tilted her head, bracing the back of the chair. "And why this one? Surely Amenemhat's heart is more valuable to collectors."

She wet her lips.

"Unless…"

She pulled the chair out and quickly sank down.

Unless there's something of greater value inside.

It wouldn't be the first time valuables were stashed in unusual places as a means of subverting grave robbers.

She pulled her cotton gloves back into place and pulled open the middle drawer, grabbing up her leather roll. She pulled the tie free and opened the case, revealing a gleaming row of tools.

She clicked the desk lamp on and bent the neck forward, illuminating her workspace, jar at the center. And then she held her breath, reaching forward and carefully taking the item in hand.

She rotated it slowly, studying the markings, cringing at the barely visible oil residue from human skin. Her teeth pinned her bottom lip as she tested the lid.

Sealed tight, as anticipated.

She just hoped it hadn't been glued in place by whoever stole it. Artifact thieves rarely knew how to handle the treasures they procured, greatly devaluing the delicate valuables before they even reached the black market.

She began to read the religious spells engraved along the smooth clay, noting the royal seal. The main text was a prayer to reunite the spirit with its body in the afterlife.

Quite standard.

At a glance, nothing seemed terribly unusual…

Except for the jar's shape. Long and narrow instead of short and round.

A curious anomaly.

And perhaps what made it so valuable...

She flipped it over, studying the flat base.

And blinked.

There was a faint stamp, the hieroglyph faded, barely discernible in the light. She extracted her magnifying spectacles from the top drawer and slipped them into place, holding the jar closer, the symbol finally revealing itself to her studious gaze.

Sekhmet.

She leaned back, removing the glasses.

Now this was highly unusual.

She pictured the gleaming sarcophagus in her mind. How strange that it bore a goddess's likeness instead of a standard death mask. A high honor to be certain, but one typically reserved for Pharaohs alone, not their royal consorts.

She bit her lip, considering.

If only I could ask Papa…

He would have known. He always knew everything.

She swallowed heavily, closing her eyes and shaking the wayward thought aside before it crippled her.

I'll ask the British Museum. They've had the collection for years now, surely they'll have some insight.

There was nothing more frustrating to Hermione than having to rely on someone else for answers. Especially in the field of her life's passion. But her days of field research and excavation were long behind her. She was confined to New York now, her only interaction with the Ancient world would be through Museums and collectors.

She would learn to make do. There was no other choice.

She brought her focus back to the jar, squaring her shoulders. Not reporting the theft right away was madness, plain and simple. A temporary loss of sanity only Harry was able to bring out in her. But she'd already committed to seeing the Big Bad Decision through...

So what was one more, lesser crime?

She wanted to open the jar.

No.

She needed to open it.

She had to look inside for herself. Perhaps then she could figure out what set this item apart from all the others, why it bore a warrior goddess seal. The British Museum would have made note of anything unusual within...

But perhaps they missed something.

She bit her lip once more, eyes gleaming as the sun slowly set over the city beyond her window.

Someone wants this jar. Only this jar.

And I need to know why.

The simple, undeniable truth animated her limbs and set her into motion. She reached into her drawer and extracted a surgical mask, looping the straps behind her ears and covering her airway.

There was minimal damage to the exterior, which was fortunate given the chronic mishandling over the last twenty-four hours. She didn't want to introduce any moisture to the interior, calcite was highly reactive and would rapidly promote mold and degradation.

So she lifted a metal pick from the roll, its tip narrow and sharp, ideal for scraping away calcium deposits. She traced the point along the seam of the lid, wetting her lips behind the mask, eyes narrowed with concentration. Her breathing turned shallow as she became utterly absorbed in her task, slowly working the narrow tip along the groove.

Crookshanks padded closer, laying at her feet and commencing with a bath. The sound of his grooming faded to the background of her mind. She tilted her head, hair cascading down the chair, sweat collecting at her temples.

She finally set the tool aside and reached for a vial from the drawer.

White spirit. A quickly evaporating solvent.

She drew in a slow breath and unscrewed the cap, motions slow and steady as she extracted the dropper and carefully administered a line of pungent chemicals along the groove she'd created with her pick.

She inhaled sharply and held, lungs burning with the pressure as she capped the spirit and set it aside, picking up the jar and working quickly. She twisted the lid back and forth, heart skipping as it started to slowly give way.

And suddenly, as often happened when she became lost to her work, her father's soothing voice filled her mind, clear and steady.

"Patience is a virtue, my darling."

Her eyes gleamed with fast approaching victory.

"Preserving history is just as time-consuming as making it."

She gasped as the cylindrical lid finally gave way beneath her touch, pulling free entirely and revealing the hollow interior.

And the tight roll of parchment tucked within.

Her pulse thrummed manically as she carefully gripped the edge of the papyrus and tugged. It slipped out without resistance, revealing a pile of ashes at the base. She rolled the cylinder in her hand, watching the dusty debris tumble around the sides.

No gleam of metal or jewels revealed itself to the light.

She set the base next to the lid and extracted tweezers from her case, gently clasping the edge of the scroll and rolling it open. The parchment was extremely delicate, barely the size of her palm.

And covered in writing.

She began to skim the text, expecting another prayer. But this was something else entirely…

And written in hieratic instead of hieroglyphs.

It just keeps getting more and more interesting.

She began to decipher the symbols in her mind, translating them as she went, pulse swelling as she caught sight of a familiar symbol.

We return Sekhmet's sacred servant to the sand and sky.

May she live forever in the children and moon.

Hermione shook her head.

No, that wasn't right. The last symbol was smudged, but there were three horizontal lines at the base of the crescent, not two, and the structure of the consonants indicated a descriptor, not a separate noun.

May she live forever in the children of night.

She wet her lips, satisfied, and leaned closer, hot breath smothered by the mask.

When the Nile runs red, we offer blood sacrifice.

To guide the great Mother home.

And protect us from the wrath of Ra.

Her hands trembled. She wondered if she was the first one to discover this parchment. The first to decipher the text since it was first written millennia prior.

The mere thought made her heart soar, vision tunneling.

She blinked, clearing her eyes of the sudden fog and carefully releasing the papyrus, allowing it to curl back in on itself.

What does it mean?

She pulled the mask away and set it aside, leaning back in the chair, watching the sun sink beneath the horizon at last.

It seemed neither prayer nor spell…

We offer blood sacrifice.

Her brow furrowed.

There must have been another interpretation. Egyptians never practiced human sacrifice to their gods, and retainer sacrifice ended after the First Dynasty.

She held her gaze in the reflection of the pane, rapidly rifling through her mental stores for a possible explanation–

Crookshanks mewled, breaking her focus. Before she could glance in his direction he hopped onto the surface of the desk, tail swishing and colliding with the base of the jar, knocking it on its side.

"No!"

She surged forward, reaching for him, eyes wide and transfixed with horror as a thin trail of ashes spilled across the glossy veneer. He panicked, leaping away before she could grab him, his back paw kicking at the pile and sending the ashes into the air.

She gasped.

And inhaled the cloud.

Fire tore through her throat.

She reared back, coughing violently into her gloved fist, throat seared with acid, the pain overwhelming.

She pushed back with her feet, sliding the chair away from the desk, eyes and nose streaming as she doubled over in a fit, coughing uncontrollably, unable to clear her airway. The debris seemed to stick to the sides of her esophagus, swelling the tissues, slowly choking her.

She became lightheaded.

Crookshanks keened anxiously as she toppled to the floor in a convulsing heap, too breathless to cough, sputtering wordlessly as she suffocated, face a feverish red, eyes bloodshot.

Her vision rapidly dimmed, the lights around her seeming to fade.

And then flicker.

A distant static filled her head, like an old radio with the volume turned low, caught between channels. Broken voices followed, strange and foreign to her ears, the whispers overlapping, filling her mind and driving out the sound of her roaring heartbeat.

The lamp on her desk brightened, filling the room with a surge of intense light. Car horns blared to life outside, someone screamed–

And then the world faded to black.

The sun dipped beneath the horizon at long last, giving way to the waxing moon. The impressive skyline stood tall and proud, illuminated by a dark halo of smoke as factories pumped their toxins into the air.

He tilted his head, gazing at the bustling streets situated eight hundred feet below. The penthouse offered unparalleled views of the city. And at this particular moment, his eyes lingered on the dark stretch of swaying canopy and glittering water comprising Central Park.

The steady click of shoes across marble sounded at his back. A moment later a familiar reflection appeared in the pane beside his own.

The new entrant stopped several yards away, bowing his head with deference.

"Sir."

He lifted his chin, hands clasped calmly behind his back. "Go ahead."

The man took a tentative step forward, eyes gleaming. "Avery still hasn't returned."

He didn't react to the news, continuing to gaze upon the city without expression. "That's because he's dead."

His second-in-command went rigid, hands clenching as he swayed in place. "When?"

"The bond severed early this morning."

"Sir, if you'd told me–"

"It would make no difference." He tilted his head, eyes flashing as he caught sight of a couple walking hand in hand along the park's outer gate.

A heavy beat.

His General stepped closer.

"Do you think it was her?"

He released the couple from his sights, glittering eyes flickering southward, watching a homeless man pushed a trolley along the sidewalk.

"I did." A group of darkly clad youths passed by in the opposite direction, taunting the vagrant with boisterous merriment. "But if she had it we would know by now."

"What are we–"

He held up a silencing hand, concentration shifting as a strange kinetic energy buzzed along his skin.

The lamp at his back flickered.

And then the lights across the entire city followed suit.

The streets erupted into chaos as traffic lights flashed and headlights died. Pedestrians stopped in their tracks, residents opened their windows to gaze upon neighboring buildings as the bizarre light show took hold of New York.

His shoulders tightened, transfixed by the anomaly, tasting it on the air, something satisfyingly sweet saturating the back of his tongue.

And then a shockwave of energy blasted across the land, lights surging bright, blinding against his nocturnal vision. The impact of the wave arched his spine. His General staggered with the force of it, nearly losing his footing.

He continued to gaze through the panoramic windows. None of the humans seemed to feel the second surge. His jaw ticked, senses rapidly sharpening.

The man at his back straightened, gripping the velvet settee for balance. "What the hell was that?"

He wet his lips, eyes turning molten at the core as he watched the ensuing chaos overtake the city.

"I don't know." His fangs lengthened, razor-sharp edges glinting in the moonlight. "But I intend to find out."