The Thrall

by A.Lovely.Villain

New York City, 1925. When the sun sets, darkness reigns over the city that never sleeps... and an ancient evil awakens. Penny Dreadful inspired AU

4. The Divine

A/N: Ready for some of those sketchy af translations I promised? I'm here to deliver, baby ;D

---

"A pretty sight, a lady with a book."

~ Shirley Jackson, We Have Always Lived in the Castle

. . .

Tom made his way along the east gate of the Park. Pedestrians cleared a path for him as he progressed down the sidewalk, a subconscious gesture born of instinctual fear. Prey sensing a predator in the tall grass, changing their course as though they had any hope of evading him.

But they were in luck. He wasn't looking for dinner. At least not yet. No, right now he had far more pressing matters to attend to.

The air crackled along his skin, still charged with supernatural energy that left his fangs aching, igniting a deep hunger in the very marrow of his bones. But the sensation eluded him. It wasn't blood he craved. Nor flesh. Not anything he could assign a name to. And the mystery frustrated him beyond belief.

No matter. He knew it had to be connected to the relic. There was no other logical explanation to be had. Which only motivated him to find it sooner. He tipped his head back, inhaling deeply, holding it in his lungs. Avery's scent was heavy in the air. Emanating from somewhere centered within the park, interwoven with the faint tinge of something else. Something dark and wild. Something he didn't recognize but was drawn to nonetheless.

He set his jaw, coming to a stop. The sidewalk was mostly cleared, the only remaining occupants a young couple who eyed him warily, stopping in their tracks and crossing the street to avoid his path, not bothering to check for oncoming traffic. A car honked manically, swerving around their huddled figures and narrowly missing a collision. Tom shook his head, astounded by the frailty of the human condition. He turned to face the gate once more, backing up a few paces and leaping the rod iron posts in a single bound.

He landed deftly on the other side, crouching low, one hand bracing the grass before glancing his surroundings, standing gracefully and straightening his coat. The electrical current continued to dance along his skin, more powerful than before. Closer to the source, but not quite upon it.

He pushed on, dismissing the unnerving sensation in lieu of tracking his missing henchman. He'd spent the bulk of the previous evening consumed with the chaos that overcame the streets. It had taken nine hours for the power to come back on. The humans were an utter mess during the interim, running around the dark streets like chickens with their fucking heads cut off.

Most were simply too stupid to realize the danger they were putting themselves in the direct path of, but a select few used the opportunity to subvert local authorities and go on half-cocked crime sprees. While police and emergency services were preoccupied with major accidents and robberies, Tom spent the night stopping over two dozen attempted rapes and murders in the underappreciated parts of his city.

He didn't give a toss about human on human violence. They maimed and killed each other constantly and he was content to leave them to their own devices. But altogether they comprised the majority of the population and it was his job to maintain balance in his Territory. An overabundance of crime and murder in one night would disrupt social and economic structures alike. And on the most basic level, it would fuck with the food chain.

There were a great many factors to consider. Far more than met the eye. But Tom understood the interconnective tissues comprising the living beast that was New York City. It was why he was awarded the most coveted Territory in America. The Jewel of the West.

Though at the moment, it most closely resembled a radioactive cesspool.

He emerged from the treeline, glancing around the darkness with ease, his nocturnal vision catching every swaying branch and flickering leaf. He continued to cut a path directly through the center of the Park, following the swelling cloud of Avery's scent. He passed a cluster of evening primrose, their blooming fragrance overpowering his senses for several beats, prompting him to stop in the middle of the trail and tip his head back, closing his eyes and expelling the air from his lungs as he waited for the blood to filter back to the top.

Avery's scent was easy for him to discern, laced as it was with his own, but there was human blood on the wind as well. He opened his eyes, detecting at least five different sources, some old, some new. Not surprising, considering his location. Still, a bit too much bloodshed for comfort, given the current circumstances.

He heard the human clomping after him several minutes ago, most likely a night watchman, given the fact he possessed the subtlety of a wrecking ball. Tom picked up the irregular heartbeat from across the Park, strained beneath mounds of fat and cholesterol no doubt. He didn't deviate his path for his uninvited guest, continuing forward at a brisk and even pace as the bright spotlight exploded across his back.

"Hey! You there!"

Tom narrowed his gaze, searching the dark treeline ahead. A set of glowing eyes watched him from a bush. The scent was growing stronger.

"Stop!"

The creature scurried away, darting up a nearby tree, disturbed by the panting voice steadily gaining volume up the path. The man started to jog, joints popping loudly, inducing an automatic cringe Tom was helpless to suppress. Humans decayed so very quickly. The memories of his own mortality were faded, intangible. He sometimes found his mind drifting, wondering what it was like to feel yourself dying, to look in the mirror and watch the gradual breakdown of your own body while it was still alive.

He slowed his pace, the watchman panting so heavily he sounded on the verge of a massive coronary. Tom didn't have time to deal with another body. He'd had his fun and fill last night dealing with the city's dumbest criminals. Better to nip this nuisance in the bud before it blossomed into yet another crime scene.

He came to an abrupt halt, turning around, shielding his face from the blinding beam. The guard held the flashlight aloft in one hand and his belt in the other, the waistline of his trousers drooping with every labored step. He stopped before Tom at last, face flush and glistening.

"Stop right there! How did you–"

Tom tore the flashlight from his grasp and crushed it in his grip, glass shattering in every direction as the metal bent, darkness descending upon them. The watchman gasped, staggering back.

Tom arched a dark brow, tossing the deformed flashlight aside. "Don't scream."

The bumbling fool's jaw parted wide, his shrill scream tearing through the night, disrupting a flutter of sparrows from a neighboring tree.

Tom rolled his eyes and grabbed the hysterical idiot by the throat, dragging him forward and lifting him onto his toes until they were eye level. The watchman opened and closed his mouth like a gaping fish, unable to take a breath, eyes bulging and veins throbbing as the blood collected in his skull.

Tom tilted his head, holding his stare, waiting until he saw the lights dim in the depths of the human's terrified gaze, triggering the rest of the rotund body to fall lax.

"You never saw me."

The guard blinked slowly, dazed. Tom watched as the command sank into the deepest layer of his psyche before releasing him. The guard gasped and sputtered, swaying heavily on his feet as he pulled at his collar. Tom cast a bored glance at their surroundings, searching out possible witnesses but spotting only nocturnal wildlife.

"Leave."

The watchman blinked several times, staggering back, coughing into his fist as he regained his breath before turning on his heal and starting forward with a slow and measured gait. Tom followed suit, continuing in the direction he'd originally been heading. Towards the Pond. He tilted his head, eyeing the east gate in the distance. The scent was leading him towards 60th Street.

Avery had been on his way to the Penthouse.

Tom emerged from the path, the glittering black water coming into view. He started across the bridge, footsteps echoing off the wood beams, sending more creatures scurrying in every direction through the trees beyond. Their faint footsteps drew his focus, another sight quickly emerging from the shadows.

Yellow-dyed rope.

Another outstanding problem to deal with. The recent string of kidnappings was starting to draw attention, the wrong kind of attention. He'd thought nothing of the disappearances. At first. Until high-profile heirs and heiresses started appearing on the front page of the Herald. The crimes were on everyone's radar, so they were now on his radar. Which was just as well.

No one stole from his Territory.

The humans were worthless cattle, but they were his worthless cattle. Tom had vested interest in all of his possessions, regardless of their value. To take without asking was a deep affront that simply would not do. He intended to suss out the culprit. And he intended to punish them.

But first, he had to find the goddamn relic.

He reached the end of the bridge, deftly leaping the crime scene in a single bound, sparing the patch of grass a parting glance. Avery's scent was faint, easily overpowered by a young female. The victim, to be assumed. The grass was still saturated with blood and sweat, her final moments of terror palpable.

He dismissed the observation without sentiment, another odor pulling his focus, propelling his feet forward. He emerged into the dense thicket. The canopy was heavy, blocking the moonlight and casting the ground in undulating shadows. There was a strong aroma of Avery's blood in the grass. Along with a human.

And something else.

His fists tightened as he crunched through dead leaves and twigs, slowing between a circular cluster of trees where the bizarre amalgamation of scents seemed most concentrated. He lowered to his haunches, pressing his palm flat to the soil, feeling the faint hum emitted from the earth below. It radiated through his arm and into his chest, helping clear his mind and senses as he closed his eyes and inhaled once more, holding the breath in his lungs until they burned.

His gaze snapped open, fingers curling, gathering a clump of grass.

No.

He rose swiftly, legs stiff and eyes hard-set, gleaming like dagger points.

Surely not.

But the scent was unmistakable.

It had been decades since such a creature set foot on the island.

He wiped his palms clean, examining the ground more closely, the signs of a two-person struggle easily discernible in the tracks and trenches marring the dirt. But his inspection was interrupted as a gentle breeze blew past, rattling the leaves and bending the overgrown weeds, carrying with it the dark decay of death.

He went rigid, senses overwhelmed by the saturating scent of Avery's blood.

He turned on his heel, exiting the narrow clearing and traversing the rough terrain once more, eyes fixed ahead, moving against the wind, searching out the source. The answer to this bizarre and frustrating puzzle. The trees ended abruptly, the earth giving way to a steep decline, spitting out into a grassy clearing with a tall gazebo at its center. The moonlight reflected off metal scaffolding covering its side.

The scent was overwhelming, filling the air so completely Tom half expected to glimpse a toxic cloud hovering above the land. But he didn't have to set another foot forward to see the pool of black staining the ground below, glistening like morning dew across each blade of grass. A line of ink trailed up the side of the hill.

Drag marks.

His hackles rose, gums throbbing as he followed the path, obvious as a chainsaw marking its destruction. He didn't scent another of his kind. Nor did he expect to. A vampire would never slay one of their own in a such a public venue. Nor would they leave a blatant path of breadcrumbs for Tom to follow. Not even She was reckless enough to engage in such suicidal behavior.

But no human could have possibly overpowered Avery on their own. Something underhanded was clearly at play. And She certainly had no qualms subverting the Treaty for her own gain, if history was anything to go by. Her scent may not be on the leaves and branches but the situation positively reeked of her meddlesome bullshite. What other explanation could there be? No one else knew of the artifact. No one else had cause to intercept Avery.

Unless there are other interested parties.

He wet his lips.

Perhaps there's something He didn't tell me.

Tom shook his head, casting the errant ponderings aside as he followed the scent towards the gate, emerging onto a gravel trail and passing the watchman from earlier. The guard walked directly past without batting an eye, glassy stare fixed blankly ahead, coming into focus only after Tom left his line of sight.

Tom paid the frail creature no mind, focus entirely devoted to the waning scent of his deceased progeny. He reached the rod iron barrier at last, gripping the posts and hoisting himself over the top with ease, landing on the sidewalk with a soft thump, causing a young man heading in the opposite direction to glance over his shoulder in surprise, blinking like a deer in the headlights before scurrying around the corner. Tom followed the last tendrils of blood on the wind to the curb, the smell finally dissipating. He studied the tire marks along the pavement.

The body was loaded into a vehicle.

He tipped his head back, fixing his stare upon the bright moon above, his longtime companion and confidante. She was a pulsating beacon, whispering softly across an endless expanse of time and space.

But he understood her warning just the same.

Someone had breached his city's walls, violating a centuries-old contract by killing one of his own.

And Tom had a burning suspicion he knew the mastermind behind it all.

She wants a war?

His eyes turned molten, a churning river of rage and bloodlust.

I'll give her a war.

He gazed into the street, lifting his arm and watching with idle detachment as a line of cabs raced to his position, honking and swerving as they attempted to outmaneuver each other. He stepped back as a yellow taxi won the race, screeching to a halt along the curb. He reached for the handle as the driver spoke through the open window, elbow resting upon the frame.

"Where to, Sir?"

Tom opened the door, unbuttoning the front of his tailored jacket as he slid into the backseat.

"The Met."

---

The car pulled to a slow stop, the interlocking gate casting a long shadow over the interior of the cab.

Lavender leaned forward, hands curling over the edge of the seat. "You sure this is the right address?"

The driver tapped his fingers along the wheel. "65th and Park. This is the address you gave me, doll."

She blinked slowly, transfixed by the sprawling structure ahead. "I just… didn't expect… this."

"Did you expect a gate? Because Old Betty ain't too good at driving through 'em." He rubbed a hand along the dashboard, palm coming away with a film of dust.

She awoke from her stupor, leaning back and scrambling for her satin clutch. "Oh, yes, hold on."

She popped open the pearl-tipped clasp, searching through the darkness for the ivory calling card. The sharp corner of the cardstock sliced into her thumb, eliciting a hiss. She narrowed her eyes, grabbing the small slip of paper and pulling it free, heart skipping as she read the black print across the front and the finely handwritten cursive just beneath.

She took a steadying breath, rolling down the window and peering out at the brass intercom centered between two flowering bushes. "Can you pull a bit closer? I can't reach the button."

"Sorry, doll, any closer and I'll scratch the paint."

She huffed, scooting to the edge of the seat and opening the door, carefully climbing out and crossing the pavement to the box. She leaned down, pressing the square button and jolting when static erupted to life all around her.

"Good Evening." The voice was choppy but decidedly feminine. "Welcome to Palais au Clair de Lune. How may we assist you?"

The melodic French accent was deeply intimidating. Lavender felt like a child playing dress up in her mother's gown and heels. Her make-up felt heavy and the rhinestones in her headband felt cheap.

She leaned over once more, speaking directly into the box as though the woman was inside it. "Oh, um, I'm here to visit–" She blinked, remembering the instructions the mysterious stranger had given her. "I… I mean, I'm…"

She glanced to the card in her hand, fingers trembling so badly the scrap of paper slipped out of her grasp, catching the wind and lodging somewhere in the bushes.

"Crap!"

"I'm sorry, Madam, I don't think we can be of assistance."

She shook her head, leaning forward and batting aside leaves, desperately searching for the flash of white. "No, I…" She wet her lips, snatching the paper free with a thrill of victory and reading the handwritten word aloud, voice hitched. "Divus!"

Her pulse stuttered as the intercom went dead, the static ending all at once, an eerie bubble of silence encasing her. She swallowed thickly, crumpling the card in her palm as she turned to face the cab, shoulders heavy with defeat and face burning with embarrassment.

The box clicked. She spun on her heel, nearly losing her balance as the static exploded to life a second time.

"Welcome to Le Palais, Mademoiselle. We are delighted to have you."

The gate buzzed loudly, jolting her before slowly parting down the center, revealing the full splendor of the property beyond. She gazed forward, eyes wide and gleaming.

"Thank you."

But the intercom was already off. The driver peered through the window, eyeing her speculatively.

"So this is how the other side lives, huh?"

She bit her lip, shifting awkwardly. "I wouldn't know."

He chuckled, voice deep and scratchy, winking over his shoulder as he put the transmission into gear. "Looks like you'll find out tonight. Hop on in, I'll drop you at the front."

She nodded stiffly, still feeling obscenely out of place as she slipped into the backseat and closed the door, clutching the handle to steady her nerves as the taxi rolled forward. They progressed along a long circular drive, a massive fountain at its center, equipped with inset lighting that reflected blue waves onto the pavement and decorative columns ahead.

She squirmed anew as they stopped before the entrance, transfixed by the white marble steps leading to an imposing pair of gold filigree doors. Two men were situated on either side, well-suited and still as statues. She released her breath in a rush, prompting the driver to glance into the rearview mirror, brow raised.

"You alright?"

She cleared her throat, glancing away from the window and gripping her clutch with both hands. "Yes. How much do I owe you?"

"A dollar forty."

She nodded tightly, opening her purse and searching for her billfold. Her fingertips fumbled with the coins at the bottom, a Buffalo nickel flying free and falling to the dark floorboard. She cursed low, leaning over to paw blindly for it, flushing as she heard the driver sigh.

"It's alright, doll. Just give me whatever's in your hand."

She wet her lips, cheeks aflame and nerves strung taut. "Thank you."

He held out a palm, accepting the cluster of coins she placed in the center. "Have a good evening, sweetheart."

A hissing sigh escaped her lips, the pressure in her chest dissipating even as her shoulders drew tight. She gripped the handle once more, pulling it slowly, reluctant to leave the sanctuary of the backseat.

"You as well," she offered softly, sliding out with as much poise and grace as her trembling limbs would allow. She gently closed the door and stepped back to gaze upon the imposing structure towering above, filling the dark skyline and blotting out the moon and stars.

"Hey."

She jolted, gaze flickering to the cab. The driver rested his arm on the window frame, holding her gaze steady.

"Be careful, kid. Pretty young things keep turning up missing or dead– even in neighborhoods like this."

His tone was flippant but the intensity of his expression gave her pause. She blinked, Parvati's visage flashing before her mind's eye. The phantom remnants of their fight came rushing back all at once, souring her stomach.

She pushed her unease aside, lifting her chin. "I know."

He tipped his head in silent farewell, tucking his arm back inside and pulling forward, following the curve of the drive as he circled back to the gates. Lavender took a deep breath, inhaling smoke exhaust and doubling over, coughing indelicately. She shook her head, rising to her full height and peering nervously at the attendants standing guard.

Off to a great start.

The gates began to close, the motor humming as the taxi pulled back onto the main road. She watched it turn the corner and disappear from sight, taking something of herself with it. But she squared her shoulders just the same, plastering on a smile as she made her way forward, carefully navigating the glossy steps in her heels, eyes fixed downward, each movement slow and measured.

Don't fall don't fall don't fall...

She made it to the top level, laughing to herself in relief, only to sober as she lifted her head. The men continued to stare forward blankly, expressions frozen with mannequin repose. They reminded her of the wax sculptures she and Parvati saw at Madame Tussauds. The memory of the excursion served to both calm and rattle her further. They'd spent hours wandering the darkened halls, admiring the figures and waiting for the crowds to clear before posing lewdly with each, trying to force the other to laugh first. She'd never before felt such joy, such happiness and freedom. It was undoubtedly one of her greatest memories.

And now it merely served as a painful reminder.

She was pulled abruptly from her musings as the men sprang to life at the same moment, turning swiftly inward and each grabbing a handle, pulling the double doors wide. She gasped, stepping back and nearly toppling down the stairs, staggering forward and glancing between them with wide eyes, wondering if they would have simply let her fall and crack her head open on the pavement below. She glared, opening her mouth to ask as much when she caught sight of the entryway beyond.

And all remaining thoughts scattered like leaves on the wind.

Her jaw snapped shut with an audible click, heartbeat echoing through her ears as she stepped forward, tentatively crossing the threshold as an icy sweat erupted along her neck and spine.

How the other side lives indeed.

The men both bowed low as she passed. She didn't spare them a glance, unable to tear her eyes away from the glittering opulence before her. "Thank you," she muttered as an afterthought, already too far away to be heard.

She tried to keep her steps light and measured, but the strike of her heel against the marble brought to mind a horse clopping through a stable. She bit her lip, eyes roaming the crystal-strewn ceiling, gaze lowering only to ensure she didn't collide with a pillar. A high counter was situated at the other end of the lobby, a young woman standing behind it, blonde hair pulled back in a sleek bun and lips painted a cherry red. She was utterly radiant, even in uniform, smiling as their eyes met.

"Good evening, Mademoiselle. We are honored to host you."

Lavender fought the urge to fidget with her dress, her hair, feeling utterly foolish for thinking she could ever appear as anything more than a hooker from the slums. But she forced her feet forward, committed to seeing this evening through, for better or worse. She couldn't bear going home and facing Parvati in such a state. She'd never live it down.

So she stopped before the counter, gathering every ounce of strength left within to keep her chin held high and smile firmly pinned. "Good evening."

The woman's smile deepened, head tipping just a fraction as she lifted her arm and gestured to the far wall. "Lord Voltaire is awaiting your company on the eighth floor. Alberto will escort you up."

Lavender glanced to the side, spotting a handsome young man in uniform, hands folded behind his back as he nodded in greeting. She swallowed thickly, twisting her clutch. "Oh… alright." And then blinked as the woman dipped into a makeshift curtsy, unsure how to respond. She settled for nodding her appreciation, fighting to mask her overwhelming sense of unease, amazed they hadn't thrown her out yet.

She crossed the marble to the man, breathing a sigh of relief when he smiled, far more expressive than the attendants at the door.

"Bonsoir, Mademoiselle. Suivez–moi, s'il vous plaît."

Her relief flew out the window like a frantic bird.

Oh god.

She blinked rapidly, fever sizzling through her veins, overtaking her pale complexion. But he didn't seem to expect a response, merely bowing at the waist before rising swiftly and turning gracefully on his heal, leading her down an arched hallway to a bank of elevators. She followed with bated breath, raiding her mental stores for even a lick of French.

Baguette… that means bread, right?

She closed her eyes as he pressed a button on the wall.

For the love of God… don't speak, idiot.

The center doors chimed, gliding smoothly and silently open to unveil a gold plated interior. She followed him in, staring at her own harried reflection for several beats before glancing away, gripping the railing at her back with both hands, taking comfort in the cool metal against her heated palms. She watched as he stepped forward and inserted a key into a narrow slot, something behind the panel clicking loudly as the doors slid shut. Then he pressed a button near the top, all of them identical, unlabeled, and the car began to rise.

She pressed back into the wall, biting her tongue and staring forlornly at the mirrored ceiling, counting each frantic heartbeat as they rapidly ascended. Her ears popped and knees quaked. She'd only ridden in a handful of elevators throughout her life and detested each one more than the last. Such contraptions were nothing but death traps. Then again, anything pertaining to heights was a death trap in her opinion. However, this was the first high rise she'd ever set foot inside, and she wasn't keen on taking the stairs all the way to the top. Certainly not in these shoes.

So she gripped the rail tighter, still unable to wrap her mind around her current circumstances. Was she really standing here? Wherever the hell here was...

Their ascent finally slowed, coming to a smooth stop. Their arrival was nearly imperceptible except for the faint hum of shifting gears outside the car. She held her breath as the doors opened, giving way to a dimly lit hallway, rich burgundy carpeting leading to a single door at the end. The attendant stepped into the corridor and lifted an arm, pressing it to the metal frame to prevent the doors' closing. He met her eye once more, expression patient and expectant.

"Bonne soirée, Mademoiselle."

She released a slow breath, forcing her knees to bend and heels to trudge forward. He bowed as she passed, scrambling her thoughts yet again before gracefully unfolding himself and stepping back into the car. He reached for the bottom button and her lips parted on instinct.

"Wait!"

He blinked, hand frozen mid-air. She flushed brightly, shifting from foot to foot and she mindlessly traced the seam of her clutch.

Please don't leave me.

She shook her head at the childish plea, ashamed of her own juvenile reaction.

What's gotten into you?

She wet her lips, forcing her voice to remain calm and measured. "Thank you."

He blinked again, smiling this time, teeth white and gleaming. But the sentiment didn't reach his eyes.

"Le plaisir est pour moi."

She nodded, long-resigned to feeling like a moron in his presence, assuming his words contained a polite dismissal. So she began to turn for the hallway, arms drawn tight, when his voice drew her focus back.

"Mademoiselle."

She held her breath and spun around, golden hair dancing across her shoulders, eyes bright and hopeful. Something flickered in his gaze, there and gone so quickly she was certain it was merely the byproduct of poor lighting and her own overwrought imagination.

But his eyes remained steady, unblinking. "Take care."

Her heart skipped, a painful lance through the ribs. His face appeared tenser than it had a moment ago. She opened her mouth to respond but the words became caught in her throat as she watched him press the button. They continued to hold each other's gaze in heavy silence as the doors swiftly closed.

And she stood alone once more.

She pressed the edge of her bag into her thigh, jaw aimlessly clenching as she struggled to form a coherent thought. But her musings were abruptly scattered as a sudden noise stole her attention, pulling her eyes to the door.

Classical music.

It played on loudly, the sharp and precise chords of a violin emanating through the barrier and permeating the long stretch of hall. She wasn't cultured enough to recognize the piece, or even identify the other instruments that joined in as the song progressed, but it was a soothing melody, if not a touch melancholy. Something about it touched her deeply, tethering to her core and pulling her steadily forward, deeper into the unknown.

The door progressively filled her vision with every step, seeming to pulsate before her eyes in time to her throbbing heart. The reality of her situation finally sank in, weighing her limbs and slowing her mind, each half-formed thought stuttering on the next haunting note of the dark lullaby.

The music grew louder the further she traversed, anticipation swelling until the melody was echoed in her very veins, each artery thrummed and plucked like the chords of an instrument. She reached the barrier at last, smoothing a hand through her hair, across her middle, along the slit of her gown, breath labored and vision dimmed, everything turning to smoke around her.

And yet she forced her hand up, whether to knock or steady herself she hadn't the faintest clue, but was spared from having to decide as the door swung open. The movement was so unexpected and abrupt she stumbled back in her shock, losing her footing and catching herself against the wall.

A finely dressed older man stood in the doorway, posture so impeccable he hardly seemed real. He eyed her carefully, his mask of neutrality cracking as his greying features twisted in an unmistakable sneer.

"Good evening, Madam. You must be Lady Brown."

She blinked, flushing so deeply she was certain the color would stain her skin permanently. Yet she managed to push away from the wall without stumbling further, stepping forward on unsteady legs.

"Um… yes."

His eyes roamed her figure from bottom to top, grimace deepening for the space of a heartbeat before he carefully schooled his visage once more. "Lord Voltaire has been awaiting your arrival. Please, follow me to the parlor."

Her teeth clenched as he turned swiftly, offering his back and stepping inside. She started to follow but quickly paused, hovering in the doorway, the atmosphere suddenly changing as the air turned charged, alive. She glanced to her arm, noting the fine hairs standing on end, wondering what havoc the static would wreak on her long tresses.

But her focus was drawn upward as the man cleared his throat, an underlying note of impatience thick on his tongue. He stood beneath a wide archway, a glittering chandelier visible in the room beyond. The interior of the penthouse was brightly lit, revealing the familiar coloring of his outfit.

Another uniform.

The man was an employee.

And yet he still looked down on her.

Her fists clenched as she stepped forward, progressing with her head held high, fighting the urge to gawk at her extravagant surroundings like a common street rat. He resumed his path as she fell into step behind him, leading her through a large open room equipped with a grand piano and harp. The ceilings were vaulted, every wall covered from top to bottom in portraits. She wondered at their value. The rest of the lavish decor suggested they were a small fortune each.

At last they neared the end of the room, music cresting like the ocean tide with each step, when a sudden wave of dizziness took her under. She slowed, struggling to regain her bearings, only to feel her stomach somersault as deep male laughter floated into the room, echoing off the domed ceiling.

She froze in place, blood rushing through her ears, drowning out their voices.

She was only supposed to be meeting one man.

She gripped her clutch until the wireframe threatened to bust.

No.

Only one.

I only agreed to one.

She felt faint, the music surging to deafening volumes, driving out the last vestiges of rational thought and giving way to blind fight or flight instinct.

The employee stopped in the doorway, glancing impatiently over his shoulder once more, eyes narrowed. But his expression transformed rapidly, concern marring his features as he eyed her carefully, no doubt perturbed by the grey pallor of her complexion.

"Lady Brown, are you quite alright?"

She closed her eyes.

Lady Brown…

Where am I?

She pressed a hand to her stomach and shuffled backward, the male voices in the other room cutting off abruptly.

As did the music.

She gasped, turning on her heal, desperate for escape.

Not again.

Never again.

"Ah! There she is!"

She turned to marble, every muscle solidifying in place, ignoring the desperate commands of her brain. Her head turned on instinct, peering past the man in uniform to the open doorway beyond. The adjoining room was just as large, just as bursting with portraits. But a stranger was visible within, and he cut such a jarring sight her mind was rendered blank.

He watched her with a wide grin, eyes gleaming from behind the thick lenses of horn-rimmed glasses. But what stole the breath from her lungs was the massive canvas situated before him, balanced atop a wooden easel.

She blinked, opening her mouth, but no sound emitted. And then there was a faint shuffling, fabric sliding against fabric, and a shadow moved across the floor. Footsteps echoed atop the gleaming hardwood, slow and heavy. She held her breath, hands trembling as a second man walked into frame.

Her entire body swayed in place, legs going numb as she stared into a pair of glowing amber eyes, utterly captivating in their intensity. She blinked, but the strange effect remained, too mesmerizing to instill fear.

He stepped into the doorway and paused, watching her with steady calm, his dark, chiseled features perfectly symmetrical and utterly flawless. She'd never seen such beauty in real life. Never knew it could truly exist on a living, breathing being.

Then, as though he could read the direction of her thoughts, he smiled.

And the bottom dropped out.

She gasped lightly, stepping back to avoid losing her balance outright, the impact of his gaze and grin too much to bear. Despite his inviting expression his eyes remained decidedly fixed, eerie in their unwavering focus.

And then he started forward, cutting a measured path straight for her. She felt like a cornered doe, trapped in the sights of a hungry wolf, held captive by its own hypnotic terror. As he moved forward the room behind him came back into view. From the corner of her eye she saw the second man step away from the canvas, moving towards a portable gramophone against the wall. But he quickly faded from sight and mind as the beautiful stranger stopped a mere foot away, filling her vision from end to end, sucking up all the oxygen in the room.

He reached out smoothly, never breaking her gaze, and grabbed the hand not grasping her clutch for dear life. An electric pulse raced along her arm as he lifted it to his mouth, lips hovering at her fingers, hot breath ghosting across her skin.

"A pleasure to make your acquaintance at last, Lady Brown." He pressed her knuckles to his mouth and her entire body throbbed, a gust of steam filling her lungs. He searched her eyes, full lips grazing her flesh with each syllable. "You look positively ravishing."

Her legs went numb. She prayed her knees would continue to support her weight as she struggled to find her voice. "I… thank you…" she took a shaky breath, forging ahead blindly. "Lord Voltaire."

His eyes shone with silent amusement, making her fever snap and sizzle. His fingertips blazed a trail along her palm as he traced the delicate skin. "I welcome you to my home, and hope you'll find your time here most fulfilling."

She swallowed past the constriction in her throat, unable to pull a whole thought free from the jumbled mess in her mind. What was she supposed to say? Were they role-playing? No one provided her with a script... She was terrified of displeasing him, the overwhelming desire to flee a long forgotten memory in the wake of his appearance.

Now she was equally desperate to stay.

He seemed to read the uncertainty in her eyes, lowering her hand but not releasing it. "Rest assured, pet, my only desire this evening is getting to know the real you."

She blinked. This man was no ordinary John. Not by a long-shot. The realization was both refreshing and terrifying.

Lavender, what the hell have you gotten yourself into this time?

She forced a smile, nerves as tangled and knotted as her thoughts. He tilted his head, gently squeezing her palm.

"And one other thing."

Her heart skipped.

Here it is.

The catch.

Her spine went rigid.

There's always a fucking catch.

He smiled once more. "I'd like for you to pose for me."

She blinked again. "Pose?"

He released her hand at last, fingers carding through his long ember locks, sweeping the bangs off his forehead as he moved beside her, facing the open doorway. "It's a tradition, you see." He gestured to the man at the gramophone, half obscured by the massive canvas. "I commission the portrait of everyone who passes through my doors."

She glanced up with wide eyes, cold sweat returning with a fury, a blessed reprieve from the burning heat. "Everyone?"

He peered down, chuckling softly, rich and honey-thick. "A bit eccentric, I know. But the tradition stems from old folklore my mother taught me many years ago, and superstition is not to be treated lightly."

She traced the seam of her bag once more, picking at the clasp with her thumbnail. "I... don't know." She shifted anxiously, glancing back to the doorway. "I've never had my portrait painted–"

"It's decided then."

He grabbed her hand without warning, starting forward suddenly, pulling her along effortlessly in his wake. She held her breath, trotting quickly to keep up, too shocked to argue.

He spoke over his shoulder, tone conversational but resolute. "Every young woman must have their beauty captured on canvas."

She shook her head as they crossed the threshold, recovering her senses at long last. "Oh, but I'm not– I mean I didn't prepare–"

He stopped abruptly, turning on his heel so quickly she collided with his front, gasping and rearing back, only to be captured by an ensnaring arm around her middle.

"As I said."

He pressed her into his tall frame, capturing her chin with his other hand and leaning forward, the heady scent of his cologne overwhelming her senses, infusing her with a tingling warmth she was content to bask in for the rest of eternity.

He lowered his face, brandy-scented breath ghosting across her lips. "You look ravishing."

Her vision hazed. She pressed her palms into his chest, feeling the steady pounding of his heartbeat beneath the buttery fabric of his shirt. The soft velvet of his fitted jacket rubbed against her arms, the firm wall of his body immovable, frightening yet grounding, something solid to cling to when her knees finally gave out.

Her thighs clenched, the push and pull of fear and desire too much for her senses to cope with. She leaned into him instead, surrendering to this moment and whatever chaos it entailed. His eyes flashed, victory clear in their glowing depths as he loosened his hold on her chin, tracing the pad of his thumb along her bottom lip.

"It won't take long." He stared at her mouth with blatant hunger, pupils expanding. "And then we can get on with the rest of our evening."

Her throat was beyond parched, a barren wasteland of broken dissent. But in the end only one word surfaced, bobbing along the shallow waters of her sanity.

"Alright."

His smile was breathtaking, quite literally, leaving her light-headed in its wake. "Wonderful."

He released her waist, stepping back so suddenly she fell forward, gasping as he caught her with strong hands at her waist. Her cheeks flamed as his resounding laughter surrounded her on all sides, light and carefree, before being pulled into his side and escorted to a tufted silk chair facing the easel.

She blinked rapidly, the rest of the room materializing frame by frame. The second man took his seat behind the canvas, pushing his glasses higher on his nose. The gramophone emitted a soft static at his back before bursting to life, classical music pouring from the oversized speaker once more.

Her heart thundered as she perched on the very edge of the cushion, setting her clutch aside in order to wring her hands atop her lap, glancing around the vast room with frantic eyes, taking in all the portraits surrounding them. Their eyes seemed to be centered upon her. Watching. Waiting.

Her host stepped away, drawing her attention as he tucked his hands into his pockets and smiled, looking to the other man with a gleam of anticipation in his eye.

"Colin, your model is ready."

---

Harry took a steadying breath, knocking on the door and glancing swiftly over his shoulder at the dark street beyond.

Eerily quiet. Disturbingly still.

The porch light pulsed in time to his heartbeat, seemingly in tune with his chaotic thoughts. And then the door opened, drawing his attention forward.

He blinked, throat tensing as his eyes drifted lower, latching onto the formidable woman encased in the doorway. She held his gaze in silence for a resounding beat before erupting to life, the very air around her crackling with energy as she launched forward like a shot.

"Harry!" She stood on tiptoes and wrapped an arm around his neck, pulling him into her all-encompassing embrace, easily bending his tall frame in half as she openly sobbed. "Oh, my sweet boy!"

His airway constricted against her shoulder as she squeezed tight. He swallowed thickly, squirming in place. "Mrs. Weasley, I can't brea-"

"Let me look at you!"

She jerked back abruptly, choking him further before remembering to release his neck. But he had only a moment's reprieve before she grabbed his cheeks in both hands, holding him immobile once more, searching every inch of his face with her astute gaze. His entire body tensed, sensing the storm to come.

Sure enough, her short frame went rigid as a board, mouth hanging wide as fire sparked within the depths of her eyes.

"Oh my god!"

He cringed as she raised one hand, tracing his scar with the calloused pad of an index finger.

"You've been maimed!" And then her expression pinched to a narrow point, shadows blossoming to life across the rounded planes of her face. "Who did this to you, Harry? Give me their name, I'm going to kill them myself!"

He blinked, once, twice, overcome by the question and the vehemence in her voice. "I…" His own voice was hoarse, hollowed out by exhaustion and cloying dread. "It wasn't… I mean, it was an accident–"

"Someone accidentally tried to gouge out your eye?"

Her fingers tensed, pressing painfully into his cheekbones. He tried to pull away but his efforts were easily staunched by her unrelenting grip. He swallowed tightly, trying again. "No one did this to me, I fell on some glass during a match–"

"Horse shit." Her jaw clenched, nose twitching. "Pardon my French."

He blinked again, rendered silent by her knowing gaze.

"I've seen every kind of cut known to man, thanks to my children." She lifted her chin, tipping his face to the side to better examine the mark. "I've picked shrapnel from each little hellion with the sole exception of Percy, foreheads to toes and every imaginable body part in between." Her eyes darted back to his, allowing him to gaze forward. "And that, my dear, is not the result of broken glass."

He swayed in place, bloodless, held aloft only by her steadying hands. Her stare turned measuring, inescapable. "So I'll ask you again, who did this?"

He sucked in a sharp breath, holding it in his lungs until they burned with raw fire, trying to bide his time. But his spine screamed in protest from being forcibly bent for so long, his mind vacant of the usual lies and excuses. He wet his lips, slowly exhaling. "Is it possible to sit, this isn't exactly a conversation I'm keen on having in the doorway."

She jolted, gazing to either side of the porch as though seeing it for the first time. "Of course!" She released his face and backed into the house with a bright smile, as though the last few minutes were a figment of his imagination. "What's gotten into me? Come into the kitchen, let me make you supper."

He rose to his full height, rolling back his shoulders, joints stiff. "Please don't trouble–"

"Stop that at once, I'm making you a sandwich and won't hear another word about it."

She turned on her heel and marched into the entry, the set of her posture telling him resistance was futile. He couldn't contain his answering smirk as he followed her in, closing the door at his back before starting down the hallway, watching her short figure round the corner into the brightly lit kitchen.

"Is anyone else home?" He studiously avoided the pictures hanging along the wall this time around, unable to bear the smiling faces, their captured innocence, so far removed from current reality.

"Not yet." A cupboard door opened and shut. "Arthur's working swing shift and Ron comes and goes at all hours. My poor boy, works himself to the bone searching."

Harry wet his lips, turning the corner and hovering at the threshold, watching her busy herself at the counter, opening the bread box and reaching inside.

"Mrs. Weasley, I'm–"

But the words became jumbled in his throat, lodging beneath his Adam's apple and causing it to bob high. She paused her task, dropping the loaf to the counter and turning in place, eyes gleaming beneath the inset lighting.

She nodded slowly, holding his gaze firm. "I know, sweetheart. I know."

He closed his mouth, swallowing heavily as he watched her approach, suddenly fifteen years old and standing before the only mother he'd known after losing his own. She stopped directly before him, a foot shorter and still larger than life.

"None of what's happened is your fault. You know that, don't you?"

His chest tightened, a searing pain through the center driving the breath from his lungs. He opened his mouth and words tumbled free at last, bubbling over the brim of his self-control. "If I'd been here then maybe–"

"Harry." His jaw locked as she placed a hand to his chest, directly over his stuttering heart. "There is evil in this world. Evil that sits in the dark. Watching and waiting."

He held his breath, the deep cadence of her voice freezing the very blood in his veins. She continued on, undaunted, shoulders level and tone even.

"Someone meant to harm my precious girl. They took her from us. They took her from a house with her parents and older brother sleeping down the hall. Whether you were in California or ten minutes away would have made no difference to them." Her nails pressed into the fabric of his shirt, as though clenching upon the conviction of her words. "This is not your fault, Harry. There is only one person at fault, and that's the monster who took her." Her eyes flashed. "And rest assured, their day of reckoning will come."

Her nails pressed deeper, dimpling the flesh beneath, a gentle sting he made no attempt to evade. "And I'm not talking about judgment before our God Almighty." Shadows morphed across her features once more, transforming her face into something unfamiliar. Sinister. "They will answer to me first. I will find every single person involved in her kidnapping. I'll chase them out of their dark holes and hovels and I'll smash them underfoot until nothing remains but a dark smudge on the pavement where they once writhed."

The darkness cleared away with her next breath, lights flooding the room with obtrusive brightness as she dropped her arm and stepped back, smile warm and wholesome. "What do you want on your sandwich, dear?"

He swayed in place as she spun on her heel, red hair falling loose from her bun and grazing her shoulders as she approached the counter.

"I know you're particular about your cheese, I think we have some swiss in the back of the icebox."

He blinked, drawing a hand over his face as she leaned forward, opening the cupboard and grabbing a jar of mustard from the bottom shelf.

"Um…" Her words still rattled around his mind, deeply unsettling. Chills of unease erupted along his spine. "That sounds great."

She began to hum under her breath, a light and merry tune. He stepped back into the doorway, leaning his shoulder against the frame for balance and clearing his throat, fighting to keep his voice steady. "I'm going to run to the restroom."

She slid open a drawer, grabbing a butter knife. "Of course, sweetheart."

He lurched into the hall without a backward glance, one hand pressing the wall as he barrelled ahead, desperate for privacy, an escape from the insurmountable weight pressing upon his lungs–

He passed a closed door, hand grazing the wood, an electric current racing along his limb and halting his steps. Molly's movements in the kitchen faded into the far recesses of his mind, the air swelling around him and smothering all sound beyond the rapid thrum of his pulse.

He stood outside the barrier for several seconds, working up the nerve to grip the handle. He turned the brass knob at last, palm sweating, and slowly opened the door, teeth gritting as the hinges released a shrill groan. He froze, glancing over his shoulder with bated breath. Molly grabbed a plate from the pantry, ceramic clinking together, and continued with her mission. Harry opened the door a fraction more and slid inside, releasing the air from his lungs in a sharp rush as he flicked the light switch, revealing the interior of the room.

He swept his gaze over the furniture, unable to stare at any one item for too long. The walls were the same shade of eggshell he remembered, tinged yellow with age. The drapes a soft lilac, their bottoms singed. The corner of his lips rose at the memory they induced. She hated anything overly feminine, begging her mother for another set of furnishings in any other shade. But Molly had staunchly refused, claiming it a wasted expense when the curtains she had were perfectly functional.

So Ginny set them on fire. Always the creative problem-solver. One of the many traits he loved endlessly. Fortunately he and Ron had smelled the smoke from down the hall, putting out the blaze before it spread any further.

He pulled himself from the memory with a heavy heart, forcing his feet onward. Towards the bed. Exactly the same as it appeared two years prior. The coverlet was a faded navy, another hand-me-down from her brothers, but one she was eager to accept, finally able to do away with the pink lace monstrosity that adorned her mattress the long decade prior.

His gaze carefully roamed the shelf against the wall, cataloging the assortment of trinkets and knick-knacks detailing her youth. A mason jar filled with seashells. Another with bottle caps. A busted music box. An empty perfume bottle. He walked further along, spotting the crate in the corner, lid ajar and blankets peeking through, along with a teddy bear's leg. He leaned forward and gripped the stuffed appendage, carefully tugging it free.

His heart swelled at the sight, fur soft and worn beneath his hands, stitching frayed and loose along the sides. The grinning face bore only one glass eye but was no less loved by its owner. Harry wet his lips, recalling the first time he saw the toy, clutched tightly in her hand as she peeked around the corner of the hall, sneaking glances at him as he visited the Burrow for the first time. She couldn't have been older than seven, dressed in a pink nightgown, hair in pigtails.

He sighed, setting the bear atop the crate, vision hazed at the edges.

She was everywhere. In every nook and cranny. Her scent thick in the air. He clenched his fists, waiting for the sound of her deep laughter to ring through the hallway, quick footsteps to follow as she burst into the room in a whirl of color and noise. But her absence from the Burrow was obvious now. More than ever before. The room was far too still, far too silent. Harry had known she was gone... but for the very first time, he felt it.

The pain was excruciating. For he loved Ginny Weasley with all his heart.

Though never in the way she truly wanted.

From the moment they met, she was as much a sister to him as Hermione. As vital as his own blood, his own breath. He'd do anything for either girl, whatever it took to keep them safe–

You've already failed.

"Someone meant to harm my precious girl."

His stomach twisted. He pressed a hand to his middle, turning a slow circle, taking in his surroundings with far more precision.

"What the hell happened to you, Ginny?" he whispered to the dust-filled air.

She had a wild streak a mile long, a daring her family had no hope of curbing. They were all so quick to insist a stranger stole her from her room, but Harry still wasn't certain. She'd set flames to her drapes without flinching. Without hesitation or fear.

What if she played with fire a second time?

He strode for the bed, steps certain and determined, stopping before the side table and pulling open the drawer. The random items within were of no use. He slid it shut and lowered to his knees, slipping his hands beneath the mattress and staring at the opposite wall, fingertips tracing the boxspring until–

His heart leaped with victory as he grazed a stack of papers. He gripped the edges tightly and pulled the pile free, holding the assortment close to his face for inspection.

Only to tilt his head, drawing back.

They were brochures, glossy and colorful. He turned the top one right side up, reading the words along the front.

St. Catherine University

He unfolded the paper, quickly scanning the text. Located in Minnesota. The campus was breathtaking, at least in the promotional photos. He carefully folded it into place, setting it on the bed and reading the next.

Sweet Briar College in Virginia

He thumbed through the remaining brochures, eyeing their covers.

Bennett College in North Carolina

Ursuline College in Ohio

He swallowed heavily, staring at the pile for a sweltering beat.

"You wanted to get away."

Molly opened the icebox, humming louder than before, pulling him from his stupor. He quickly collected the brochures and slid them back into their hiding spot, careful not to bend the edges, knowing the meaning they must have held to her.

He drew back swiftly.

The meaning they hold.

His jaw tensed.

Don't you dare start thinking in past tense… don't you dare abandon her again.

He pushed to his feet, shoulders tight. "Where is it, Gin?"

His eyes continued to flicker manically around the room, mirroring his racing thoughts. She had the twins and Ron to contend with, not to mention her well-meaning mother, each of them eager to pry into her secrets…

She'd have hidden it where no one would expect. Or at the very least, somewhere they'd have difficulty getting to. He began to pace the floorboards, eyeing each one carefully, nudging the ends with the toes of his trainers, looking for a loose slat. Several boards were uneven, but none gave way.

He set his jaw, leaning over and grabbing the corner of her rug, pulling it back. His eyes immediately fell upon a slat that sunk in deeper than the rest, wood scuffed and knicked along the edges. He dropped to his haunches and carefully wedged his blunt nails along the groove, prying it up. He smiled outright when it gave way at last, revealing a dark cubby in the floor. He reached in without hesitation, heart swelling as his fingertips grazed the edge of something rigid and rectangular…

But his smile fell in the next beat. The unseen item was far too small to be what he sought.

He pulled the pack of cigarettes free, flipping open the lid and counting the smokes within. Three, and a book of matches. He reached back into the hole and felt around, hope sinking to the pits of his stomach as his palm met only dust and cobwebs. He tossed the nicotine bundle back inside and snapped the board into place, carding his hands through his hair and rising to his full height.

Damn.

He shook his head, kicking the rug flat but refusing to throw in the towel.

Clever clever girl.

Of course she'd divide her treasures. He'd taught her the trick after all. He wet his lips, recalling his words to her from a lifetime prior.

And then his eyes flickered up, examining the water stains along the ceiling.

If the first hiding spot was low…

His gaze narrowed upon a particularly deep crack running half the length of the room, disappearing into the wall. He followed its path with his feet, coming to a stop before her closet. His pulse throbbed as he wrenched the door open, met with the tiny space within, bursting at the seams with clothing, metal hangers packed tight. He pulled the cord dangling before his face, switching on the overhead bulb and illuminating the narrow walls. His eyes tracked upward, following the crack along the plaster. Years ago part of the ceiling crumbled beneath a pool of resting water, replaced by merely a sheet of plywood.

He reached up carefully, holding his breath in anticipation as he pressed on the thin covering, grinning as it easily lifted away. He carefully slid it aside, just enough to fit his hands into the gap, feeling along the edge of the hole for–

He grazed the edge of a familiar shape and held his breath, grabbing the book and sliding it free, emotions raging within his chest as he gazed upon the treasure trove at long last.

Her diary.

He gripped it tightly with both hands, a faint tremor in his arms as he opened the cover, temples pulsing at the mere thought of her reaction to this massive breach of privacy.

"Sorry, Gin."

But despite his festering guilt, the first entry was enough to elicit a reluctant smile, earlier unease pushed aside as he read the heavy block lettering filling the page from end to end.

Private Property of Ginny Weasley

Rule #1: Do. Not. Read.

Anyone caught in violation of Rule #1 WILL get beaten to a bloody pulp.

He shook his head, lips tugging higher. "After I find you, you can beat me black and blue."

He flipped further along, eyeing the dates in the corner of each page. She didn't write daily, only when she had something to vent about, for better or worse. Every entry exuded such raw emotion he could practically hear her voice screaming the words no matter how quickly his eyes scanned past them. The first half of the diary was composed while she was in high school and still quite vocal about her frustrations at being the youngest in the Weasley brood, the last to experience everything.

He skipped to the later portion, muscles tensing as he spotted his own name with more frequency. The years when her crush sprung deep roots and blossomed. She began writing his name differently, curling the tail of the Y with more flourish. Harry began to sweat, the walls of the narrow closet pressing in.

He flipped further, eager to move on, only to curse as a cluster of loose photographs spilled free, tucked into the pages like bookmarks. He leaned down, extracting them from the floorboards, holding each in the light to reveal their image. The first was of a young Ginny laughing on the beach in her swimsuit, hair wet and face awash with sunlight. An equally young Ron was in the background, submerged up to his pale knees in the water, laughing just as hard and holding a crab overhead with both hands.

The picture was so quaint, so peaceful and serene it made his chest ache. He tucked the photograph beneath the cover of the diary and picked up the next.

Only for his ribs to crack cleanly down the center.

He stared at his own face, gaze vibrant, features youthful, and ran the pad of his thumb over the unblemished flesh of his left eye. His focus drifted lower, taking in the uniform. Stolen from his father's closet. The memory came rushing back with a powerful wave, nearly tipping him onto his backside. He and Ron had attempted to subvert the draft and enlist at seventeen, posing for photos in their borrowed fatigues, eager to appear older. Alas, they hadn't been able to forge their birth certificates, turned away at the door without ever making it to the registry desk.

He rubbed a palm over his chest, tucking the picture into the binding before picking up the third and final fallen image.

As he anticipated, it was another photograph of himself, though he appeared several years older in this one, sitting beneath an oak tree, hands raised to shield his gaze from the bright sun above. He recognized the setting immediately, the lush greenery easy to discern, as well as the white linen shirt and dark trousers, tie pulled loose.

Hermione had spent the day wandering around campus, taking photographs with her father's new Kodak, lugging the massive contraption around with such enthusiasm Harry had relented at her first request. He hated having his photo taken, abhorred being the center of attention for even a moment. But he couldn't say no to his best friend, not when her eyes glittered with such eager excitement. He never knew what became of the photographs she took that day. Never thought to ask. He wondered how Ginny came to possess this particular one. If she saw it in one of Hermione's many albums, whether she asked to have it or simply stole it when no eyes were upon her.

He shook his head, tucking the final image back into the binding as well. It hardly seemed to matter now.

Gin…

He inhaled swiftly, overcome by the sudden onslaught of memory, her voice ringing through his mind as clear as the night they parted company for the final time.

"I'm so sorry, Ginny. I–"

"Don't." A wet gasp. "Just go, Harry. Get out!"

He closed his eyes, her broken sobs filling the caverns of his chest with scorching flame. He pried his lids apart, rising to his feet only to lean against the doorway, overcome, dizzy. He opened the diary once more, committed to seeing this through, to plunging the knife all the way in. He flipped rapidly through pages until he came across the date he wanted.

The other entries had been filled to the brim, messy scrawl filling the margins and changing direction along the sides to cram in all the details of her day.

But this page bore only two words. Utterly heart-wrenching in their simplicity. In their dark agony.

He's gone.

Harry stared at the message for a short eternity, a distant hum echoing through the air, filling his head like static. He managed to tear his eyes away several moments later, flipping to the previous page. Dated nearly a month prior.

Nothing from the night before his departure. Nothing of their final encounter.

He set his jaw, caught between disappointment and relief, unsure which emotion made him more of a selfish, heartless bastard. He shook his head in disgust and thumbed forward, only to blink at the date of the next entry.

Eighteen months later.

His heart skipped. He double checked the entries, swallowing heavily. And then it was another woman's voice filling his head, just as familiar, just as haunting.

"I should have made more of an effort to be there for her. She was hurting and I…"

He pushed the memory to the far recesses of his mind, reading the first entry she made after his abrupt departure.

Got a new job.

Totally sucks.

He smiled, hearing her read the words aloud with a perfectly bored inflection. He turned to the next page, and the next. The dates were well spaced but each entry became slightly more detailed than the one previous, until finally she was writing in full paragraphs once more.

And then, at long last, he found a page filled to the brim, the margins overflowing, the paper overcome by enthusiasm or frustration. Harry welcomed either emotion, any emotion, as long as she was feeling something with passion once more.

The entry was dated only six weeks prior. His eyes narrowed upon the first sentence.

I met the most fascinating person today.

His pulse thrummed. A floorboard creaked at his back, stealing his focus as he spun on his heel, eyes wide as he spotted the room's new occupant.

"What are you doing?"

His spine straightened, arms dropping to his sides, the diary still clutched tightly in hand. Ron tilted his head, tracking the movement, blue gaze sparking as he spotted the book in Harry's grip.

"You found it."

Harry lifted his chin, bracing his feet apart as he stood away from the wall. "It wasn't hard."

Ron nodded slowly, gaze flickering up. "We all knew where she hid it. Not many options in this house."

"So you've read it."

"Of course. We scoured every page after she disappeared."

Harry raised a dark brow. "And stuffed it back in the ceiling?"

Ron shrugged one shoulder, tone light, eyes hard. "Didn't want her to know we violated rule number one."

A beat passed. Harry clutched the diary so tightly the spine threatened to bend. "She said she met someone."

Ron sighed, glancing away with casual dismissal. "It's not what you think."

Harry stepped forward, emerging from the closet doorway. "I know she's your little sister and it's difficult for you to imagine–"

"It was a woman."

He blinked, jaw swiveling on its hinge as Ron met his eye once more.

"Someone she met through her office, interacted with once and never saw again."

Harry blinked again. Ron rolled his eyes, drawing a hand through his hair.

"Christ, if you'd bother to read the rest of the page you'd know all this. She was fascinated by the chit. Some enterprising businesswoman, told Gin to look into schooling or some nonsense. It was nothing."

Harry's gaze flickered to the bed before he could restrain himself. Ron raised a brow, glancing over his shoulder with blatant curiosity.

"What?"

Harry wet his lips, shaking his head and drawing back to the topic. "The entry seems rather long for nothing."

Ron sighed, facing forward, expression and tone decidedly bored. "Ginny was a part-time secretary who hated cubicles and typing. She was fascinated by anything that pulled her from the monotony of her day."

Harry tapped the diary along his thigh in time to his heartbeat. "If you say so."

His friend's gaze narrowed, teeth clenching. Harry braced himself for the discourse sure to follow. But Ron seemed content to let the subject drop.

"Did you visit Nott this morning?"

Harry's shoulder blades tensed, muscles spasming, the change in topic hardly a relief. "Yes."

Ron tipped his head. "And?"

Harry wet his lips, squeezing the diary tighter. "We have a lot to talk about."

---

Tom's long stride made easy work of the stairs leading to the entrance of the museum. As he reached the top landing the golden doors parted ways, a young couple exiting hand in hand. They slowed their gait upon spotting him, the man pulling his companion into his side and out of Tom's path, both their gazes fixed upon the tall stranger before them.

Tom paid neither of the pair any mind as he walked calmly past, scenting the pheromones the female secreted as she watched Tom enter the lobby, cut by a pungent current of anger exuding from her male counterpart as he no doubt caught sight of her longing expression. Such delicate creatures, easily ruled by emotion and desire. It was no wonder they so frequently met such gruesome ends at one another's hand.

Tom dismissed them from his thoughts entirely as he took in the opulent interior before him. He hadn't set foot in this particular establishment in many decades. Right after it was built, if memory served. Perhaps it was the grand opening party… or some related celebration, such events tended to run together over time. Regardless, the specifics were irrelevant, and the layout had changed since then anyway. The desk had been moved to the center of the lobby, circular and equipped with two chairs, though only one employee was stationed within. A young woman.

Tom smirked. At least one part of his evening would be smooth sailing.

He started a direct path forward, watching as her shoulders stiffened, head snapping up as though she sensed his eyes upon her. Her gaze widened upon spotting him, a bright flush staining her pale cheeks as she squirmed in place, smoothing her skirt beneath the table.

He stopped just before the counter, tucking his hands into his coat pockets as he graced her with the full splendor of his smile.

She swallowed audibly before quickly clearing her throat. "G-Good evening, Sir."

"Good evening, luv. How are you?"

Her flush deepened, spreading like spilled wine down the column of her throat. His accent usually had that effect upon American women, doing most of the work for him. A small blessing, as he was trying to conserve his energy for whatever chaos lay ahead this evening.

She leaned forward, drawn like a magnet. "I'm quite well, thank you for asking. How can I help you?"

Her pulse beat erratically, causing his fists to tighten, stomach clenching with hunger. He ignored the growing ache, tipping his head, gaze unrelenting. "I couldn't help but notice the signs out front advertising the upcoming exhibit."

Her face split with a grin. "Oh yes, those went up just the other day. We're very excited about the new collection."

He searched her gaze, watching as she fell still, utterly absorbed by his presence. "As am I. I'm a bit of an enthusiast, you might say."

Her eyes gleamed, tongue darting out to wet her lips. He tracked the movement, the hunger pulsating through him, threatening to cloud his mind. He forced his eyes back up, reminding himself of the mission, his true purpose.

"May I ask who will be overseeing the exhibit? I'd love to pick their brain."

She blinked, shoulders sagging, as though remembering their surroundings. "Oh, well, Mr. Malfoy oversees the Ancient Civilizations Department, including all the displays." Her hands flattened atop the table. "But if you have questions pertaining to the collection, or anything regarding Egypt really, you'll want to speak with Ms. Granger."

He traced the back of his teeth with the tip of his tongue, gums throbbing.

"Ms. Granger."

He could practically taste the name, every instinct flaring to life with anticipation. The young woman nodded, leaning forward once more, staring at his mouth.

"Unfortunately, they've both gone home for the evening."

His jaw tensed, eyes darkening beyond his control. She bounced in her seat, pulling her chair closer as she hastened to add, "But they'll be back in the morning!"

She blinked rapidly, blushing deeper with the outburst, pressing back into her seat. "If you'd like to return then."

He awarded her with his most breathtaking grin, fists tensing in his pockets as her heartbeat galloped uncontrollably, the throb of her pulse a rhythmic song he knew well. "Thank you." His eyes flickered to her golden name tag, affixed to the pressed lapel of her uniform. "Penelope."

She swallowed once more. His gaze raised slowly, pinning her in place.

"What a beautiful name."

Her breath released in a sharp rush. "Oh, I–" She shook her head, hands fidgeting with the hem of her skirt. "Thank you."

He stepped closer, staring at his own reflection in her rapidly expanding pupils. "I have one more question for you, Penelope."

Her hands went limp in her lap, eyes fogging over. He leaned in, voice low and deep, for her ears alone.

"Where does the museum unload its shipments?"

She blinked slowly, breath shallow, tone hollow. "Downstairs, next to the service entrance on 79th."

He drew back swiftly, teeth gleaming. "Thank you, darling." He withdrew a hand, rapping his knuckles atop the counter. "As you were."

She closed her eyes, pressing a hand to her temple. "Y-Yes…" Her lids parted, a crease appearing between her brows as her flush returned with a vengeance. "Enjoy your visit, Sir."

He nodded, already turning away. "I intend to."

He cut a straight path through the center of the lobby, tuning out the hum of voices surrounding him, including those filtering in from the busy street outside. He rarely set foot in public venues such as this, uneasy around so many humans at once. Individually they posed no threat. But in droves, they were capable of great destruction. However the deeper he ventured into the hallways the more the crowd thinned.

The Museum was closing in less than an hour, the majority of exhibits already blocked off with velvet rope. Which was just as well, as his final destination sat beyond the double doors situated behind a portly security officer. The man stood at attention as Tom approached, footsteps echoing loudly through the otherwise empty hall.

"Good evening, Sir. I'm afraid this is a restricted area."

Tom stopped a few feet away, smiling congenially. "Ah, terribly sorry. I must have gotten turned around."

The man gripped his belt, weapon holstered to the side, and nodded shortly. "Easy to do here. Where are you trying to get to?"

"Your service entrance on the south wall."

The guard blinked, pulse skipping. "That… that's restricted–"

"Stand aside, tell no one of this encounter."

He blinked once more, moving to the wall without an ounce of resistance as Tom strode past, pushing through the doors without a backward glance and leisurely descending the staircase at the end of the corridor. It fed into a long, dimly lit room lined with shelving and boxes. Bits of straw littered the floor, leading to a series of crates stacked in a row along the far wall.

He stopped before the first large container, lifting the loosened lid and peering inside, glimpsing an empty bed of straw. He dropped the lid to the tile, bracing his hands along the lip of the box and inhaling deeply, scenting a bevy of humans. But underneath the layering notes, he caught the faint remnants of a familiar odor.

Avery.

He glanced to the crate at his right, noting the bent nails along the frame, as though the top had been wrenched off at some point prior. He crossed over, sliding aside the lid, eyes gleaming as Avery's scent wafted up, more concentrated in this particular bed of straw.

His gaze narrowed.

So he got the jar.

The revelation was both a relief and a weight. He knew the jar was missing from the shipment after his morning call with the Met. Impersonating a member of the British Museum had been child's play. But up until now he hadn't been certain whether Avery was the one to obtain the artifact, and his current findings provided no further insight on where the hell it was now. Though the list of suspects was concise. Only a handful of individuals wanted it as bad as him.

Still, it was only a matter of time before the actual British Museum checked in on their priceless collection, and then they were all up shite creek.

He caught sight of a clipboard resting atop the third crate. He picked it up, glancing at the top page. An inventory list. He began to flip the paper over when an intoxicating scent floated up, invading his airways and scrambling his thoughts. He blinked rapidly, stomach growling with an overwhelming surge of hunger. His fangs lengthened beyond his control as he brought the stack of papers higher, inhaling deeply.

His eyes drifted close.

Fucking hell.

Every vein expanded, blood surging with the raw, visceral hunger the aroma awoke. He forced the clipboard down, opening his eyes and studying the text with more care. The writing was neat and tidy, evenly spaced cursive with a decidedly feminine flourish. There were faint oil marks from bare skin. A fingertip had traced along the list, marking off items as they went.

He turned to the last page, searching for any sort of mention of the jar, any indication there was something amiss. But the penmanship remained neat and tidy, unhurried. There was a signature at the bottom. He ran the pad of his thumb over the letters.

H. Granger

His pupils expanded.

"What are you doing here?"

He didn't bother turning. He'd heard the man's approach several moments ago, sensing no threat. He continued to study the writing, fixated upon the name.

"I'm looking for the items that came in this shipment. Where are they?"

The man at his back shifted, unease rolling off his body in waves. Tom could sense his youth without even glimpsing him. The boy's pulse spiked, feet shuffling awkwardly.

"You can't be down here. How did you get past the guard?"

Tom lowered the clipboard, glancing over his shoulder at last, scanning the tense face from across the room. "I walked. Where are the items?"

The boy swallowed heavily, fists curling as he spun on his heel. "I'm notifying security."

"Stop."

The young man jolted, swaying in place, shoulders squaring until he resembled a plank. Tom wet his lips.

"Turn."

He did so, albeit slowly, entire body trembling as though in the midst of a fit. His veins stood in stark relief against his pale skin, complexion splotchy with exertion, jaw tightly locked. And then the connection snapped like a stretched band. The boy staggered in place, gasping for breath and wiping the sweat from his face.

Tom raised a dark brow, studying him anew. "Impressive. Always the ones you least expect."

The boy continued to pant, eyes narrowing even as his heart beat through his chest. "What… how did you… I don't–"

"Think about it some more and get back to me." Tom lifted the clipboard. "In the meantime, where are the items in this shipment?"

The young man swallowed heavily, gaze flickering between the pages and Tom, indecision creasing his face. He rocked back on his heels, as though preparing to bolt. But once more he proved an anomaly by standing his ground, straightening to his full height and speaking with edge.

"They've been put in storage."

Tom lowered the pages, tilting his head. "And were the authorities notified regarding the missing item?"

"I…" the boy blinked once more, mouth opening and closing. "Missing item?"

"The jar."

He searched Tom's gaze, shaking his head. "Who are you?"

"The person who had the jar stolen, obviously." He debated the practicality of torturing the man, weighing his current impatience against the time it would take to discard of the corpse after. "Has it been reported?"

The boy's eyes flared, feet shuffling back as though he finally grasped the magnitude of his situation. "I… I don't know."

His fear permeated the air. Tom's stomach twisted with hunger. "What's your name?"

The young man's jaw clenched tight. Tom rubbed a hand along his brow, inhaling slow and deep, reminding himself that splitting the boy's skull wide would bring him no closer to the relic. Instead, he sent out a powerful shockwave, watching the ripples chase along the air. The human swayed back, eyes glazing over. Tom lowered his arm, approaching slowly.

"Tell me."

The boy positively reeked of terror, eyes wide with unbridled dread as he watched Tom draw near, unable to move. "Anthony Stuart Goldstein."

Tom held his gaze steady. "And what is your role at the Met, Anthony?"

The young man's body drew taut, pulse throbbing heavily as the tendons in his neck strained. "I assist the Ancient Civilizations Department."

"Hm." Tom glanced casually to the clipboard in his hand, overcome by the intoxicating scent all over again. "And this Ms. Granger is your boss?"

The human wet his lips, eyes bloodshot, on the point of hypertension as he fought Tom's hold. "Not exactly."

Tom stopped before him, still fixated upon the signature. "What is her role?"

"Hermione is our head Egyptologist and ancient linguistics expert."

His hand clenched around the wood backing, the name ringing through his ears. "Hermione." His fangs throbbed. "She's overseeing the new exhibit?"

The boy closed his eyes, sweat dripping from his temples. "Yes."

"And where can I find her?"

Tom glanced up at the prolonged silence, listening as the young man ground his teeth to dust. His closed the distance between them, pulling together more energy and sending out a second wave.

"Anthony Goldstein."

At long last the boy was overcome, hands uncurling as his entire body sagged against the wall, eyes covered by a matte film. Tom bore down upon him, tracing the letters of her name with his thumb all the while.

"Tell me where to find Hermione Granger."

---

Theo dialed up the magnification power on the microscope, gaze narrowing as he peered into the eyepiece. He adjusted the slide beneath the lens, studying the blood culture with bated breath.

He swallowed heavily, pulse thrumming a dizzying beat as he took in the sight before him. He blinked at last, leaning back and rubbing his eyes, only to bend forward once more, gazing into the scope anew. He shook his head, sliding to the very edge of the stool, drawn forward by the marvelous beauty beneath the lens.

"Jesus Fucking Christ."

He released a sharp peal of laughter, laced with far more hysteria than amusement, leaping up from his seat with graceful dexterity, only to pace tight circles around the lab table. After several rounds he stopped before the microscope and laughed again, silencing himself with a hand over his mouth, eyes wide and gleaming, fixed to the countertop.

"Alright, alright, calm down." He took a steadying breath, swaying on his feet. "Treat this normally. Just like any other formulation. What would you do first?"

He wet his lips, gazing around the green-tinged room manically. "Trials." He nodded to himself, eyes flickering across every surface, chasing some invisible solution just out of his reach. "Living trials."

He dropped his arms to his sides and quickly crossed the floor, stopping before a sheet draped shelf, lifting the corner of the fabric and tucking it back to reveal a gleaming cage to the light. He smiled, reaching for the door in the roof.

"Good evening, Abigail."

He unlatched the lid, flipping it over and reaching carefully inside, the sound of scurrying paws and twitching whiskers growing in volume as the mice in the neighboring cages stirred. His fingers gently encased the squirming ball of white fur, her body going lax in his palm as he drew her free and held her before his grinning face.

"We've got a busy night ahead of us, darling."

Her red eyes gleamed as she braced her paws against his thumb and sniffed the tip of his nose. He wet his lips with child-like anticipation, stroking a fingertip down the back of her head.

"You're going to help me change the world."

---

Ron drummed his fingers along the tabletop, brow raised. "I'm sorry, what the fuck did you just say?"

Harry glanced over his shoulder at the kitchen doorway, shoulders tense. "Your mom is just down the hall."

Ron shrugged picking up his sandwich. "And obviously just as confused. She's not laughing either."

Harry scowled, gazing forward and pushing his own plate aside. "It isn't a joke."

"That's what I just said." His friend took a hearty bite, mustard dripping from between the bread and onto the plate as he spoke around his mouthful. "There's no set up for the punchline."

Harry slammed a fist to the counter, leaning in. "That's because it isn't a fucking a joke!"

Ron chewed loudly, gesturing to the doorway. "Keep your goddamn voice down, mom is right down the hall!"

Harry drew his hands through his hair, shaking his head as he peered unseeing at the woodgrain, attempting to hold onto the final vestiges of his sanity. "Christ, Ron, you saw everything I did, why is this so hard to accept?"

His friend rolled his eyes, taking another bite, tomato hanging over his bottom lip. "So you really expect me to believe we were attacked by a vampire?"

Harry braced his hands atop the table, eyes narrowing. "I expect you to believe the evidence that you witnessed right alongside me."

Ron sighed, bits of bread flying free. Harry cringed, leaning away and crossing his arms tightly over front, gazing through the window. The moon bore down upon him. Relentless in her pursuit. He swallowed heavily, pulled from the surging waters of his mind by his friend's voice, muffled by cheese and deli meat.

"Alright. I admit that fucker was clearly on some sort of performance drug."

Harry's eyes snapped forward with an audible crack, body rigid. "Performance drug? What kind of performance drug allows a man to be shot without flinching?"

Ron shrugged, swallowing at last, setting the rest of the sandwich on the plate. "I've come across some interesting sights out there on the street." He wiped his mustard stained hands on the napkin. "Heroin makes men pretty immune to pain. Combined with cocaine they're basically unstoppable."

Harry arched a dark brow, gaze and voice steady. "He'd have to be pretty fucking high to ignore six bullets to the stomach and chest."

Ron shrugged again, wiping his mouth before wadding the paper into a ball. "Look, I know it's a long shot, but it's a hell of a lot closer to reality than fucking fairytale monsters." He tossed the crumpled heap onto the plate, pushing the dish beside Harry's untouched food. "What did Nott say about your theory?"

"He agrees with me."

Now it was Ron's turn to arch an incredulous brow. Harry rolled his eyes, glancing to the ice box. "While looking at it from a much more scientific standpoint, but even he can't contest the evidence."

His friend sighed, resting his elbows atop the table. "Look, Harry. I know you're just trying to overturn every rock but–"

"He burst into flames."

Ron blinked. "What?"

Harry wet his lips, gazing forward slowly, silent for several beats before continuing, voice cast low. "Nott accidentally exposed the body to sunlight and it burst into flames."

The corner of Ron's lips tugged higher, blue gaze narrowing as he leaned back. "Now I know you're joking."

Harry's jaw clenched. "I would never joke about anything that could lead us to Gin."

He watched as his friend's smile fell like a dead weight, eyes parting wide as he searched Harry's face for signs of jest.

"That…"

Harry held his breath, watching as realization slowly took root at the center of the man's gaze, spreading like wildfire through his broad frame, tensing each muscle in turn.

Until at long last Ron sagged back, swallowing heavily as his arms dropped like dead weights to his sides. "Next time, don't bury the fucking lead."

The crushing pressure lifted from Harry's chest at once, oxygen infusing his lungs as he inhaled deeply, mouth curving in a wry grin. "My apologies. It's been a hectic day."

Ron shook his head, drawing a hand over his mouth, eyes drifting to the remnants of his demolished sandwich, mustard smearing the porcelain like blood splatter. "A fucking vampire." His gaze drifted back up, clouded, lost. "Vampires in New York City. Don't we have enough insane shit to deal with here?"

Harry's tangled thoughts surged and collided, the image of the second body flashing like a street light before his eyes. The mangled corpse of the girl, laid bare before him, pale and brutalized. He inhaled slowly. "Actually, that reminds me."

Ron visibly braced himself, no doubt sensing the weight of the words to come. Harry sighed, tossing his unused napkin to the table and leaning in, holding his friend's gaze with careful intensity.

"I might have buried the second lead as well."

---

All things considered, this perhaps wasn't the strangest evening of Hermione's life… but it was certainly in the running for top five. The others were all courtesy of Harry, and the utter chaos he had the habit of depositing promptly in her lap once his hands ran full.

Nevertheless, this was an unusual encounter to be certain, one that deserved its own special entry in the halls of her memory. Assuming she didn't lose her mind before then.

She took a steadying breath, willing her fever at bay as the stranger leaned in, smile glittering in the street light.

"Please, allow me to introduce myself." She gripped the knob tighter, feeling the tremor of brass echo through her wrist and into her shoulder. "My name is Tom Riddle." His smile deepened at the corners, eyes darkening as a shadow passed across his spectacular features. "And I've been looking for you."

Her stomach clenched, mouth going dry as a barren desert. "For me?"

Her voice sounded faint, breathy. She fought back a cringe, thoughts further disturbed by his next statement.

"You're the city's leading Egyptologist, are you not?"

She wet her lips, shoulders lowering at his light and curious tone. "The country's." She blinked, embarrassed by her automatic statement. But he seemed to delight in the correction, lightning sparking in the depths of his storm cloud gaze.

"Of course. The country's leading Egyptologist." And then those same eyes began a slow and methodical perusal of her person. Static chased along her skin, mimicking physical touch, stealing her breath entirely. "Made all the more impressive by your age. I was expecting someone much older."

His eyes finally met hers once more, pupils wider than before, black swallowing his steel irises. She leaned into the door for support, desperately trying to recalibrate her thoughts, find her footing among the slick stone. "How can I help you, Sir?"

"Please, call me Tom."

Her palms began to sweat, grip slipping from the knob. "Tom." She drew strange satisfaction from speaking the name aloud, briefly closing her eyes, unnerved by her bizarre reaction to this highly bizarre encounter. "The hour is quite late." She opened her lids, standing away from the door, forcing her spine to straighten. "Certainly this matter can wait until morning."

He tipped his head, gazing down upon her with calm intensity, eyes unwavering in their focus. "I'm afraid it can't. I'm terribly sorry to interrupt your evening, but time is of the essence. I'm ship bound for England at dawn."

She leaned back, though her feet remained frozen in place. "What do you want with me?"

A blush overtook her at once, mortified at her own phrasing. She opened her mouth but whatever words she might have spoken turned to ash on her tongue, filling the back of her throat as his eyes flashed, taking on the gleam of a predator in the dark, reflecting the moonlight in a blaze of red.

She blinked rapidly, the image flickering before her eyes, his gaze perfectly normal once more. But her heart continued to race, disturbed by the strange hallucination, mind clouding with fear and confusion. He shifted forward, still situated on the other side of the threshold but seeming to grow in size, her breath caught in her throat–

And then her attention was wrenched to the floor, Crookshanks brushing past her bare ankles to stand between them, hissing with a feral wail, eyes slit and lethal as he pinned Tom with the full ferocity of his golden gaze.

"Crooks!" She stepped forward, nudging him aside with her foot, shaking her head as he refused to budge. "Don't mind him. Please, go on." At last her feline companion relented, awarding her with the same indignant glare before moving aside, taking up residence a few feet away, bushy tail twitching as he watched their exchange with rigid stillness.

She brushed the hair from her face, glancing to Tom with an apology on the tip of her tongue, but her thoughts were once again scattered by his disarming smile. A wave of calm overtook her, flooding her mind and body in a heady rush. Her earlier fear and unease became a distant echo, rattling around the back of her mind like white noise, easily ignored.

"I came to New York to oversee the disbandment of my late father's estate," he supplied calmly, tone deepening until it vibrated through every bone in her body. "He passed away a week prior, you see."

She stiffened, chest quaking as she fought the urge to glance down the hallway, overcome by the sudden need to check on her own father. "I'm terribly sorry for your loss."

He nodded, expression seeming to tense at her wrought voice. "You're too kind. But I don't mean to trouble you with personal details. I merely seek your expertise regarding certain items in his collection. Antiques of what appear to be Egyptian origin."

She blinked, gripping the edge of the door and leaning in without thought. "Your father was a collector?"

His laughter dripped out rich and dark, surrounding her completely and setting her nerve endings aflame. "That's putting it mildly. He was a hoarder with far too much money for his own good. Instead of rubbish, he accumulated trinkets and baubles until the house was practically bursting at the seams. It's a miracle he wasn't buried alive."

She blinked.

Buried alive…

Her nails pressed into the wood grain, leaving crescent indentations in their wake as she was overcome by the strange sensation of burning sand pressing upon her limbs, pulling her down down down–

She closed her eyes, swaying on her feet and placing a hand to her middle, the image evaporating from her mind as quickly as it materialized, taking a bit of her strength and sanity with it.

"Are you alright, Ms. Granger?"

He eyes snapped open. She forced her arm to her side, gripping the door with her other hand until her fingers trembled beneath the strain. "Yes." She took a steadying breath, the strange melancholy fading as she held his gaze. "Please, call me Hermione."

He smiled anew. "Hermione."

Her entire body pulsed with the next heartbeat. She bit her lip, edging closer. He watched her carefully, the intensity of his expression far more appealing than moment's ago.

"As I was saying, a few of the items appear to be of Egyptian craftsmanship." He wet his lips, hands sliding into his coat pockets. "But I have no way of discerning their authenticity or value. I was hoping you might be of assistance, or at the very least put me in touch with someone who can."

She searched his gaze, standing so close she could smell his aftershave, faint and spicy, undercut by layers of earthy wood notes. It reminded her of her father's office. Familiar and comforting, yet darker, more exotic. She wet her lips, dismissing the errant thoughts. "How did you find me?"

The corner of his lips tugged higher once more, eyes creasing with self-deprecating ease. "I visited the Met, I saw the banners for the upcoming collection and thought I might ask around."

Her brow furrowed, pulse thrumming, his casual tone undercut by his words. "And they gave you my home address?"

He blinked, expression freezing in place. And then his smile widened, eyes lit with a keen satisfaction she was hard-pressed to understand. "I admit I had to work a bit of charm on the front desk employee. Shameless, I know. But I'm quite desperate, given the timeframe of my impending departure."

She released a slow breath. Penelope worked the night shift. Hermione held little doubt the girl provided every bit of information Tom sought. She had a stirring suspicion any woman would spill every manner of secret at his bidding. She stood straighter, the thought unsettling. "You're heading back tomorrow?"

He raised a brow, seeming to sense the change within her demeanor, the sudden wall between them. "Yes. I'd love to extend my visit but I must return to work." He tilted his head, tone perfectly placating. "I apologize once more for dropping in unannounced."

She set her jaw, drawing back–

Only to be overtaken by a sudden wave of dizziness. Her temples throbbed with sudden pressure, as though something was trying to drill into her skull. She gazed down, vision tunneling, the pain dissipating in the next beat, gone as quickly as it came. She shook her head, eager for this encounter to be over, to sequester herself alone in her bedroom to suss out exactly what the hell was happening.

"Don't apologize." She inhaled swiftly, holding the air in her lungs as she forced her gaze upwards. "You've come to the right place. I'm happy to examine the pieces." She felt her equilibrium balance out as she met his eye. His irises seemed lighter, molten. She shifted back. "Are you able to arrange for their delivery after your departure?"

He nodded, seemingly oblivious to her brief attack. "Yes. I can have them picked up from storage and brought to your residence."

She stood straighter. "No. Not here."

He tilted his head, eyes narrowing as she took another step back, pushing away from the frame.

"The Museum is equipped with better facilities for examination. They may also be interested in purchasing the items if they prove to be authentic." She leaned towards the entryway bench. "Just a moment, let me get you my card." And reached for her leather bag hanging off the backing post, opening the top flap and feeling along the interior pockets.

Only to come up empty-handed.

Shit.

She sighed, glancing up with an apologetic smile. "I have more in my office, I'll be right back."

He nodded, expression caught between appreciation and amusement. "Of course. Please, take your time."

Invite him in.

She blinked, taken aback by the sudden command in her mind. It was her own voice, and yet it wasn't. She went rigid, tucking a curl behind her ear as her eyes drifted to the darkness of the hallway, wondering if she was in the midst of a nervous breakdown.

Crookshanks mewled at her feet, gaining her attention. He held her gaze, padding closer, back rigid and tail straight. And then Tom shifted in the doorway, drawing her eyes like a magnet.

He's so pleasant, so well-mannered. And his father just died. You're being very rude.

She swallowed heavily, rubbing her temples once more, the invading pressure returning with a vengeance, a metal spike attempting to burrow into the base of her skull.

"Hermione."

His name on her lips was a balm to her nerves, the throbbing pain leveling to a dull ache. Her hands dropped to her sides. "Sorry… I…" She peered up with a wary gaze, relenting to her inner voice's demand. "Please, feel free to wait in the hall. I'll be right back."

He smiled, teeth a brilliant white. She couldn't look away.

"Thank you."

Time slowed to a crawl.

A numb stupor overtook her limbs as she watched him cross the threshold. The air shifted, electricity pulsing in visible waves across the current, only to settle in the next beat. Everything calm and quite. Still as death.

Something inside her dropped away, falling into the pit of her stomach and curdling in a pool of acid. The fog dissipated from her mind at once, a heavy cloud she hadn't even realized was there evaporating in an instant. She saw him clearly, his beauty radiant and lethal, the intensity of his gaze alluring and terrifying.

She opened her mouth but Crookshanks beat her to the punch, releasing a blood-chilling screech before tearing forward, fangs and claws fully extended. Hermione gasped, leaping forward on instinct, catching the feline mid-pounce before he connected with his target.

Tom watched her rear back, struggling to maintain her hold on the twisting, raging mound of fur, his stance utterly at ease, lips curved in wry amusement. She flushed hotly, pinning the thrashing creature to her chest with both arms as she shuffled back towards her office.

"What's the matter with you?" she hissed at the writhing bundle in her arms.

Tom tilted his head, eyes glittering in the moonlight as he pushed her door shut. "My father owned a Doberman. Perhaps he can smell him on me."

She wet her lips, pulse skipping every other beat, vertigo crashing upon her anew as she staggered into her office with the feral cat in tow. "Perhaps."

She swallowed tightly, deeply unsettled by a stranger's presence in her home, the casualness with which he closed her door, silently cursing herself for being foolish enough to invite him in. But she couldn't think of a polite excuse to expel him, not with Crookshanks hungering for his blood.

Just get the business card, then he'll leave.

She swallowed once more, throat tight, holding the feline captive with one arm while she reached for the office door. "I'll be right back."

Tom folded his hands behind his back, grinning amiably. "I'll be here."

She forced a smile of her own, face cracking with the effort, and promptly shut the door, dropping Crookshanks to the ground a moment later. He hissed and snarled, fur standing on end as though electrified, nails raking across the barrier, shredding the wood. She released a sharp breath, still clutching the knob and shifting anxiously as she watched him try to tear his way through.

"Crooks, what is it?" He settled at her voice, padding a tight circle around her feet, eyes never leaving the door. She wet her lips, clutching the knob until it rattled. "Do you smell a dog?"

He stopped his rapid pacing just before the frame, flat face tipping back, amber eyes locking with her own wild gaze. Her heartbeat reverberated through all four limbs, throbbing in her wrists, behind her knees. "Do you smell danger?"

His tail flickered back and forth rapidly, every muscle strung taught, poised for attack.

"Is that man dangerous?"

His slitted pupils expanded rapidly. Her breath released in a rush, eyes closing.

What have I done?

She bit her lip, fist tightening at her side.

Stay calm.

Just ask him to leave.

There's no need to panic.

She opened the door on a surge of adrenaline, forgetting the beast at her feet. Crookshanks slipped through the narrow gap as though boneless, darting into the hallway so quickly he was only a blur of orange, fire chasing a shotgun blast.

She cringed, waiting for the commotion to follow...

But when she peered forward, the hallway was empty.

Crookshanks tore around the corner, disappearing from sight, the rapid tread of his paws fading a moment later. She blinked, heartbeat lodging in her throat.

"T-Tom?"

She gripped the knob with both hands, terror gripping her by the throat, closing off her airway.

Did he leave?

She gnawed her lip harder, unsure of what to do. The kettle began to whistle from the kitchen, disrupting her thoughts, vision dimming in time to her rapid pulse.

"Crooks!"

But the only sound to meet her ears was the whistling kettle and the blood surging through her ears.

Call Harry.

She nodded rapidly, the voice in her head decidedly familiar once more. She staggered back into the office, halfway to the phone when a new sound invaded her mind.

A door opening.

She went rigid with terror, spinning in place so quickly she nearly tripped over her own feet, thoughts pushed violently aside to make room for one earth-shattering fear.

Papa.

She raced blindly into the hall, submerging herself into darkness and tearing around the corner just as quickly as Crookshanks, though far less gracefully, shoulder clipping the wall as she slid across the hardwood, a low grunt of pain bleeding from her lips as she righted her course and charged into the adjoining hall, staggering to a stop before her father's bedroom.

The door was still closed.

She opened it without hesitation, holding her breath, shoulders braced–

The room was dark, shadows drifting along the wall from headlights in the distance, their faint glow seeping through the part in the curtains. Her father's outline was barely discernible, the steady rise and fall of his chest and labored breathing music to her ears. She hovered in the doorway, clutching the frame, glancing around the room for any other source of noise or movement, then peering over her shoulder into the shadows, her entire frame vibrating with latent terror.

Did I imagine the noise?

She swallowed thickly, the lump getting caught in her throat.

He left...

She drew a hand over her face, fingers trembling.

Should I call the police?

She raked her nails across her scalp, grabbing her hair by the handfuls and tugging as her thoughts raced uncontrollably.

Is it worth bringing the authorities to my door for this? With everything else that's hanging in the balance?

Her arms dropped, two heavy weights at her side.

Don't panic. He's gone. There's no need to put yourself on the police's radar.

She covered her mouth with both hands, trying to regulate her breathing as she continued to hover in the frame, shifting from foot to foot, floorboards creaking beneath her weight.

Only to cringe as the kettle reached full blast, a steam whistle set to explode.

Shit!

She glanced over her shoulder once more, reluctant to let her father out of her sight but unable to endure the migraine-inducing screech a moment longer. She closed his door and quickly padded into the kitchen, still awash with bright light from her previous visit. She braced herself once more before entering, but the open space was exactly as she left it, the only movement a cloud of billowing steam erupting from the stove.

She shook her head, picking up a dishrag as she crossed the tiles, carefully lifting the kettle and setting it onto the counter. As the shrill noise finally dissipated she sagged into the center island, pressing a hand to her chest and closing her eyes.

It's okay. He's gone. Just breathe.

But her momentary reprieve was quickly shattered by a soft tapping.

Her eyes sprang open as she pushed away from the island, eyeing the hallway with bated breath.

But the noise was coming from the French doors.

She turned, brows drawn, seeing nothing beyond the glass–

Her eyes flickered to the ground.

And she staggered back, colliding with the counter, the lip of the tile gouging painfully into her lower back as stared ahead in silent horror.

Crookshanks held her gaze through the pane, pawing frantically at the barrier from his side of the garden. She glanced at the handle.

Locked.

Her chest burned with blazing heat, a scream threatening to erupt with the same billowing steam of the kettle. But she swallowed the terror down, launching herself forward to the opposite counter, fingers wrapping the hilt of a blade as she pulled it free of the butcher's block. The metal gleamed in the light, reflecting half her pale visage as she held it aloft, arm trembling violently.

She moved swiftly past the doors, leaving Crookshanks to meow loudly at her back as he watched her dart into the hall, feet compelled purely by terror and adrenaline, only one thought pulsing through her mind.

She leaped across the hallway runner like a gazelle, darting through the shadows and landing with a graceless thud before her father's door once more. The light from the kitchen spilled across only half the narrow corridor, illuminating one side of her rigid form and bathing the other side in darkness. She clutched the knife in one hand and the door handle in the other, pressing her back to the wood as she faced the opposite wall, eyes darting frantically in either direction.

He's here. He's still inside the house.

Her vision clouded with tears, heavy drops overspilling the corners and raining off her clenched jaw.

What do I do?

There was little choice now. She had to call the police, the jar be damned.

But the only phone was in her office.

On the other side of the house.

On the opposite end from her father.

Should I wake him?

She shook her head, quickly dismissing the notion. He wouldn't comprehend what was happening, and her rising panic would only serve to excite him, making him far more difficult to manage. She panted lightly, holding the blade flat to her chest, the metal vibrating with the relentless thrum of her sternum.

You have to get to the phone.

She pressed harder against the door.

I can't leave him unprotected.

She swallowed heavily.

You can't protect him by yourself. You can't even take care of him by yourself.

You have to call the police.

She released the air from her lungs in a sharp hiss, grimacing as she finally pushed away from the barrier, knees quaking with the force of her terror, causing her to stagger like a drunkard. She pressed one hand to the wall for balance, rising on tiptoes, trying like hell to minimize noise, avoiding each creaky floorboard as though it were coated in acid. She reached the end of the hall at last, taking several steadying breaths before peering around the corner.

The path was dimly lit, revealing an empty stretch of wall and floor leading to her office.

She closed her eyes.

Where the hell is he?

She clutched the knife tighter, raising it up, ready to strike as she forced her feet forward, toes cracking as she padded softly along, keeping close to the wall, terror soaking her in a cold sweat every time she passed an open doorway, waiting for a hulking mass to emerge and seize her. But she made it to the end of the line without attack, stopping just before the open doorway, the desk lamp glinting off the trembling blade and reflecting across the opposite wall in a spastic light show.

She edged closer, peering around the frame.

And froze, air seizing in her lungs.

The stranger stood just before her desk, facing away as he studied the materials strewn about the tabletop. She drew the knife closer, the handle sliding in her sweaty grasp as she tore her gaze away, eyeing the phone in the corner of the room with such blatant longing she half expected it to fly through the air and into her hands by sheer will alone.

"Don't bother."

She shrieked, jumping in place and nearly dropping her weapon, falling back into the wall as she stared at the back of his dark head in horror.

He continued to face the desk, running a fingertip along the spines of the books stacked along the edge. "I'll be gone without a trace before the authorities arrive." A brief pause. "Besides, if I wanted you dead, you'd be dead." He tilted his head as though reading the titles. "Your father as well."

She adjusted her grip on the hilt, raising the blade like a shield. "Get out of my house."

His chin lifted. "Happily." He stepped away from the desk, turning at last, movements unhurried and posture relaxed. His expression reflected the same eerie calm, eyes regarding her with cool detachment. "As soon as you give me the relic."

She blinked, arm jolting. "Relic?"

He held her gaze with unnerving stillness. "The jar, Hermione."

She stood away from the wall as a faint buzzing filled the back of her mind, limbs suddenly heavy. She slowly lowered the blade, unable to keep her arm aloft.

"Jar?"

Her thoughts became slow, muddled, the dark cloud returning, settling in a dense fog across her emotions, leaving her numb.

He continued to watch her, eyes taking on the unearthly glow from before, lit from within. "Yes, the jar." He wet his lips, pupils expanding. "Where is it?"

She shook her head, strained by the effort.

No…

She blinked, fighting the pull of exhaustion.

Wake up, Hermione.

She swallowed heavily, trembling in place.

Wake. Up.

She gasped for air as though breaching the surface of a frozen lake, breaking through the ice shelf. His eyes darkened as he watched her raise the knife once more, face aglow with perspiration.

"I don't have it." She struggled to regulate her breathing. "Now get the hell out."

He smirked, seemingly amused by the threat presented. "Impressive."

She scowled, stepping into the office and moving towards the couch, clearing the doorway and gesturing towards the hall with her free hand. "It isn't here. Now leave while you still can."

He arched a dark brow, grinning outright, revealing a row of perfect teeth. "Impressive indeed."

He stepped forward. But not towards the exit.

Towards her.

"But we're at an impasse, I'm afraid." Another step. "You see, I can sense the relic in this house. In this very room." She moved back with his advance until her spine collided with the wall. Still, he continued forward. "I know it's here."

She swallowed thickly, unsure where to begin unpackaging such a bizarre statement. "It was. But now it's not."

He tilted his head, stopping with only a few feet to spare, hands casually tucked into his pockets. "You'll excuse me if I check for myself."

She raised the knife higher, setting her jaw. "You'll leave this residence at once, or I'll…" Her heart stuttered painfully as he stepped closer, long legs easily closing the space between them. The knife trembled in her grasp, glinting blade poised at his chest.

But he didn't appear the least bit hesitant, smiling down with perverse pleasure. "Or you'll what, Hermione?"

Her thoughts slowed again, arm shaking obscenely. She pressed her other hand to her temple, shoulders drawing in. "Stop saying my name."

He wet his lips, voice lowering to an intimate whisper that ghosted through her ears, caressing the inner corners of her mind. "Put the knife down before you hurt yourself."

She released a snarling growl, hardly human, and slashed forward with the blade, causing him to stagger back, handsome features wrought with obvious surprise.

"Get out!" she screamed with the full force of her lungs, skull-splitting pain erupting behind her eyes.

He met her feral gaze for a fractured beat. She braced herself for his anger, his outrage, but her stomach clenched even tighter when instead he presented her with a breathtaking smile...

And then pounced.

He surged forward so quickly she couldn't track his movements, sensing only darkness and a shift in air pressure before the knife was wrenched powerfully from her grip. Cold metal braced her arms and drove her back with such force her heels dragged over the carpet before her spine and skull collided against the wall with a sharp crack, pain screaming to life across her entire body, painting her vision red. Adrenaline surged through her veins, flooding her mind in a heady rush, dulling the sharp edges of the ache and making her dizzy with the sudden onslaught.

She blinked through the haze, peering at the face above her, cast in shadow as he pressed forward, hard chest driving the air from her lungs. She opened her mouth, struggling to find her voice through the terror. "How–"

The iron bands clenched upon her arms, bruising her flesh and waning her circulation. She glanced down, realizing with a shocked gasp his hands were the restraining force, his grip as ice cold and unrelenting as manacles. She cringed, the weight of her situation hitting her square in the chest, weaponless and pinned as she was.

"Please–"

"Shh." He dipped his head low, cold breath chasing along her heated skin as he held her gaze as captive as her body. "As I said, if I wanted you dead, you'd be dead."

She blinked, tears overspilling her eyes for a second time that evening. His chiseled features held no emotion, but his gaze burned bright. "I have no desire to hurt you, Hermione." He wet his lips. "But I will."

Her heart stuttered anew, vision fading at the edges, temples throbbing in time to her pulse. His fingers pressed tighter, eliciting a keening whimper from her throat. "Tell me where the jar is and I don't have to."

She inhaled a short, uneven breath, jaw trembling. "I don't have it."

Her voice was reedy and strained, throat constricted by terror. He sighed, darkness bleeding across the sharp planes of his face. Hermione surged forward, desperate, inadvertently pressing harder against him. "I swear!" She held his gaze firm, voice loud, clear. "I had it last night, but I sent it to the Curator this morning."

His eyes flickered. "Did you now?"

She fought to maintain composure, one second away from vibrating through her skin. "Yes. An anonymous delivery. The police have already been–"

He squeezed her arms like a vice until she was certain the bones would snap. She cried out in pain, pressing back to the wall, helpless and cornered, unable to evade his hold. His grip loosened as soon as she fell silent, biting her lip until the skin threatened to break.

"I spoke with the Met this morning. The jar hasn't been reported missing. The police haven't been notified." His gaze took on the predatory glow she glimpsed in the doorway, awash with hell flame. "And I detest lies."

That same fire took root in her chest, overcoming her pain and terror, spilling forth as black smoke from her lips. "And I detest men breaking into my home and throwing me into walls."

He blinked, hands clenching briefly, seemingly in surprise. And then he smiled, perversely sinister. "I didn't break in, luv." He leaned in further, nearly flush against her trembling form, red gaze scanning her face with methodical precision. "You invited me."

She stomach twisted as he lowered his face beside her own and inhaled deeply, nose and mouth grazing her temple. She squirmed in his grasp, to no avail, pinned like a butterfly to a backer board.

She heard his deep swallow, watched the heavy throb of his Adam's apple as he released his breath, whispering low in her ear. "But if you continue to fabricate tales, I'll do far worse than throw you against the wall."

She paled, rigid as a beam. "I don't have it. Search the house if you don't believe me."

He lifted his head. "I think I will." And arched a dark brow. "Starting with your father's room."

He released her all at once, turning on his heel as though heading for the doorway. Her arms burned with the renewed surge of blood, tingling deep beneath the skin. But she paid no mind to the sensation, awash with blinding terror as he stepped away.

"No!"

She reached forward without sense or care for her own safety, thinking only of her father. She gripped his arm tight and yanked him back, blinking in shock as he skid across the floor, nearly losing his footing as she released her grip, watching mutely as he staggered into her desk, catching himself against the chair, the wood snapping beneath his grip.

He blinked once, twice, the red in his eyes giving way to molten metal as he gazed at her in obvious shock. She blinked as well, overcome by the renewed surge of adrenaline, liquid heat coursing through her veins. Her vision sharpened, focused, every sense attuned to the man before her as he rose to his full height.

He eyed her carefully, as though seeing her for the first time. "How did you–"

"You're not going anywhere near my father." Her voice radiated a sinister energy that made her own skin crawl. But she held her ground, shoulders braced as she held his gaze in the tense silence.

Until at last he straightened his coat, stalking towards her with the sensuous gait of a jungle cat stalking its prey. She widened her stance, blocking the doorway.

"Hermione Granger."

She gasped, limbs turning to stone, feet locking in place. He grasped her by the arms and dragged her against the wall once more, but this time one large hand clasped her around the throat, squeezing in warning, thumb tipping her chin back to hold her gaze.

"No more games. Tell me where the artifact is."

She inhaled deeply, churning heat surging through her most vital organs, bubbling over and seeping through her pores, causing her skin to radiate with an unearthly glow as though her entire body was lit from within. He gazed upon her with wide eyes, leaning back to take in the sudden anomaly.

She seized the opportunity, lifting her arms and ramming the heels of her palms into the center of his chest. Her jaw hung wide as he catapulted back with the force of the impact, entire body airborne as he flew across the room, crashing into the opposite wall and cracking the plaster. Chunks rained down on his dark suit and hair as he fell to the ground in a heap, long limbs quickly gaining purchase as he pushed to his feet, eyeing her in disbelief.

She gazed numbly at her hands, watching as the glow slowly dissipated, her skin returning to its normal olive complexion. He shifted on his feet, bits of plaster falling from his shoulders to the ground. Her gaze darted up, spine straightening at the sight before her.

His lips parted to reveal elongated canine teeth, sharp and pointed as daggers. He tilted his head, never breaking her gaze. "What the hell are you?"

She lifted her chin, fists clenching at her sides. "The nation's leading Egyptologist. What the hell are you?"

A beat.

And then his lips curved into a genuine grin of delight, fangs on full display, glinting as brightly as the forgotten blade. "Intrigued, Ms. Granger. Very intrigued."

There was a knock at the front door. She gasped and glanced over her shoulder, every instinct roaring to life within. Somehow she knew who resided on the other side of the barrier. It was as though she could smell him, sense his heartbeat, the familiar tempo a siren call in the darkness.

She inhaled deeply. "Harry!"

The knob rattled loudly. "Mione?"

Movement across the room drew her gaze. The stranger's smile remained in place, the contrast of his handsome features and lethal fangs a disturbing sight to behold. The shadows seemed to swell at his back, bleeding across the walls like massive wings. His eyes gleamed from the darkness.

"We'll speak again soon, Hermione Granger."

She swallowed heavily, spinning on her heel and racing into the hall, colliding with the door in her haste to wrench it open, fingers frantically fumbling with the lock.

At last the metal slid free, the door swinging wide as she pulled and Harry pushed. He stumbled forward, knocking into her shoulder and sending her toppling into the opposite wall. He blinked, reaching out to steady her frame, quickly scanning her face.

"Mione, what's–"

"He's in there!"

She wrenched free of his hold, pointing a trembling hand to her office. Harry spun to face the open doorway, hands balling to fists as he moved swiftly forward, movements tight and agile, muscles coiled for combat. She held her breath as he disappeared into the room, hands pressing her mouth as she awaited the sounds of a violent altercation.

But only silence greeted her.

She swayed in place, breath held tight as she watched Harry's shadow track across the far wall. He came into view at long last, eyeing the busted wall and toeing aside fallen plaster before meeting her gaze across the hallway.

"Where is he?"

She blinked, heart skipping as she nervously paced forward. "He…" She gripped the frame, peering into the room.

But only Harry stood inside.

A gentle breeze blew past, sweeping the hair from her sweat and tear-slicked face. Her eyes darted to the open window, the sheer curtain dancing in the current.

She inhaled sharply, sagging into the doorway, utterly boneless. Harry stepped towards her, expression stricken.

"Mione? What happened?"

She shook her head frantically, launching forward without warning. He froze in place, catching her as she collided with his chest, pressing her face into his shirt and bursting into tears. He embraced her at once, smoothing a hand over her hair and whispering words of comfort. But they all jumbled together in her mind, interlaced with her own fractured heartbeat pulsing through her ears.

After several moments she caught her breath, lifting her chin and meeting his worried gaze.

"Harry." Her voice was thin, vision hazed by tears, blurring his face. "I know this sounds mad..." She wet her lips, clutching his vest with both hands to stay upright. "But I think I just met a vampire."