Chapter 1: Another Day, Another Galleon

A/N: Confused? Read the foreword. Beyond that, sit back, relax, and enjoy the show.

I own nothing about Harry Potter.

"Emily," someone said, the sing-song voice penetrating the pillow. "Eeeeemillyyyy," the voice said again.

She groaned, her head pounding as if she just took a bludger to the face. Just a minute ago, she'd been in a blissful drunken sleep, and now, the hangover to end all hangovers was slamming through her skull, ricocheting across her poor brain. Someone had better be dead or dying, or she swore on the Master himself she'd hex them with the worst pimple blossom she could conjure.

With a rough swipe, she tossed the pillow to the floor. The dim light burned through her eyes at once. Emily groaned, again. Firewhiskey was the devil's piss, and it tasted just as bad. For not the first nor probably last time, she swore never again to drink. As her vision adjusted to her loft, she rolled off her bed and gave a stretch-bones cracking as she did. Snatching her glasses, she looked at the mirror to see who could be calling her at this hour.

The mirror, standard fare from Chinese ward-makers, was a half-decent knock-off. More importantly, it displayed caller-id, unlike some of the older models. One day, she'd install a portable wireless in her ear to be able to call anyone from anywhere, but with her measly income, the best she could do was this mirror. The name glimmered a bright red: Ronald Weasley. Okay, maybe she wouldn't curse him to hell and back, but he'd still better have a damn good reason for waking her up at… she looked at the clock on the upper right corner of the mirror. Damn. It was already past noon.

Never again, she lied to herself. She tapped the mirror, and saw her groggy face replaced by a smirking ginger staring back at her.

"You look like shit," he said.

"Thanks, asshole," Emily said. She took a cursory glance down at herself. At least she wasn't naked-having at least the common decency to wear panties and a braless tank before hitting her bed last night. Not that Ron would've cared-even though they weren't blood-related, they might as well have been siblings. True, they did go on one date in sixth year, but it went about as well as flirting with almost-family could go.

"Down a hangover potion and come over to the Cauldron," Ron said. "I got a bead on something big," he continued before she could ask.

That perked her up a bit, though she'd need the potion to really get her brain working. "What is it, just tell me."

"Not over the mirror," he said. "Just… remember last night?"

"Barely."

"Well, you saw who I went home with?"

She paused for a minute and struggled to recall. "With an invisible lady?"

"Ha. Ha. No, with Millicent."

"Eww. Buttstrode?"

Ron rolled his eyes. "We didn't do anything. I just walked her home."

"Uh huh. Ron Weasley, if you're smelling like farts, please take a shower first. In fact, take a shower regardless. Or take two."

"Poor girl is never gonna live down my brothers' prank, is she?" Emily shook her head. "Well, as I was walking her, she told me that a friend of a friend who knows someone else needed some help."

"Great. This friend got a name?"

"No. Well, yes, probably. But that doesn't matter. Because I called them up and they let me know they were looking for us. About to contact us, in fact. Judging by what I heard, they need wands."

"All right Weasley," Emily said rubbing her eyes. "Color me intrigued. I'll be in the Cauldron in a bit."

He smiled and flicked his mirror, ending the call. Emily took a look at herself in the mirror, then at her bed, and wanted nothing else than to crawl back inside. Instead, she sauntered over to the bathroom cabinet which contained all her potions. While she was by no measure potion-rich, one thing she always carried plenty of was Maximoff's patented hangover cure. Downing the flask, she resisted the urge to vomit it all back up and waited a half-minute for the potion to settle. As she did, she washed her face. When she looked back up at the non-mag mirror, the potion was already doing its magic.

Her eyes lost their half-dead look, the bright green shining once more. Her skin returned to its normal pink. She could even see her lightning scar on her forehead-a bright red today and standing out. She never knew where she got it from. To hear the orphanage matron speak of it, her parents had dropped Emily on her head one too many times.

Throwing the empty flask into the vanishing bin, Emily made her way back into the main room-part bedroom, part living room, part kitchen, part dining room (rents in Knockturn afforded her little enough space as it was, even with expansion charms). Grabbing her wand, she gave the window a casual flick. The opaque dull dark-grey tone immediately cleared up, transparently showing the chaos of the world beyond.

Knockturn Alley was less a small street and more a compacted city inside a city. It included several haphazardly-slapped on buildings on top of buildings, such that Emily herself lived a few hundred feet off the ground. There was no sense or order to the construction; people just built and built until they reached the max building height-and then they just built horizontally. Some of the richer tenements floated above without any support, for those who could afford the appropriate warding.

To the left, she saw the long slope down leading to Unterlondon-literally, Lower London. While the poor had always called Knockturn home, in recent decades, people kept digging deeper and deeper seeking lower and cheaper rents, building their homes into the literal underworld. As a child, she was afraid of the beasts and threats that dwelled in those darkest holes, but as someone two years a legal adult, Unterlondon was practically a second home to her.

To her right, the ground sloped up to Diagon Alley. There, the same haphazard building architecture, another mini-city but still-everything was cleaner there. More well put. No creatures of lesser repute traveled that far into the light. At the center of it all: Gringotts-the Bank of England, Scotland, and Ireland. To live in Diagon was the highest mark one could aim for-not counting Whitehall, of course.

Her eyes focused on the enchanted propaganda coloring the walls of the opposite building, where two bridges converged and split off into alternating staircases. The Master of Death himself-or just the Master-was giving another speech, flanked by the flags of the Deathly Hallows. His face was youthful, full of vim and vigor. While the sound was muted by her window, she could still hear him pounding through it all. Yet another speech about magical supremacy. Other similar flags dotted the skyline atop the buildings, the skyline shared equally among brooms, owls, flying ships, and balloons. Above it all, the dense reddish-brown fog that always covered London. If she had a window behind her, she'd see the Ministry's pyramid.

There had been a time, before the Master, before the War, that Muggles and magickind were kept separate. Where Knockturn and Diagon had been proper alleys. The histories were vague, though. The few Ministry-approved books on the subject of Pre-Master Time said Wizards and Witches were slaves of the Muggles, willingly and often killed by their jealous cousins. That is, until the Master arrived, threw off their chains, and corrected the world to its proper course: where Might Makes Right, For the Greater Good. And who had more might than those with magic? And who knew the Greater Good better than the Master?

At least, that's what all the books and all the professors and every Ministry official said. Emily knew the world was far less perfect and rosy than the picture they painted. At times, she wondered what it would've been like had the Master been defeated. She would've had parents, for one.

Emily shook her head and threw on her clothes: dark jeans, a thick wool overshirt, and boots. Finally, she threw on her black robe, a mark which made her known to the world as a witch. Without it, most Hitwizards would assume her a squib-or worse, a Muggle. While she could wear any color for her robe, she preferred black-easier to blend in that way.

There had been a time for about a year she had the badge that marked her a Ministry official-basically, a do not interfere sign to anyone not an Auror or more important. Alas, the job wasn't worth the all-access pass. Slipping the wand into her enchanted sleeve-holster, she left her apartment, the locking spells automatically shielding it from intrusion as soon as the door met the rest of the wall.

Flickering lights and the faint stench of molding elf piss greeted her. On the wall facing her, the old graffiti still up: 'Expell-your-ARSE-us,' it said. Still as hilarious as the first time. She could've wiped it clean with a spell in a second, but that was the job of some poor Ministry junkie or Muggle, not her. Emily made her way down, towards the stairs, taking heed not to step on the drunk, passed out Muggle on the way. While most Muggles were used for breeding or as slaves, a large minority were free, living lives as subhuman workers. This chap must've passed out after a long day at a factory, where he probably worked. For his sake, she hoped he made it to his next shift on time.

The stairs only went down two flights before depositing her near the elevator, which she took-thankfully empty-to the street level. While she could apparate or floo or even fly her Cleansweep to the Leaky Cauldron, she lived close enough she could walk. Besides, it'd give her a good excuse to stretch her legs, and no doubt Hooch'd be proud if she could see her willingly exercise.

Knockturn at the bottom was like Knockturn at the top: chaotic, poorly managed, and with the dull boom of the Master above them all. All around, people moved with the hurried pace of tiny bees, or the slow march of uncaring slugs. It was a rainbow assortment-hundreds of thousands moving this way and that, back and forth, here and there. Street shops clogged the ground, selling trinkets, cheap potions, and food. The vendors, loud and fighting for supremacy. While most looked human, she knew more than a few had other blood mixed in there. There: a chained succubus, her legs open to passersby, a sign beneath her which read 'a galleon for a poke', with a snarling Goblin guard above. Across from them, a mother, feeding her babe with what looked like purple Singal blood in a bottle. And there: a crew of little wizards, playing zap the Muggle with their toy wands. And the Hitwizard, staring straight at her.

Hitwizards came in all sorts of shapes and sizes. The most common breed was the Peace Hitwizard. Clad in reinforced warded steel plate, their face covered in black metal, only their eyes visible; they cut a frightsome image. But behind that veneer, Emily knew well enough that they were just human like her. Some were even squibs or particularly well-bred Muggles, relying on enchanted weapons instead of wands, but most who did have magic could cast a half-decent stunner or killer when asked. Once a upon a time, she could've seen herself in that cloth. But a Ministry job, one that meant and paid well, would forever be out of reach with her tainted name.

Not that she was afraid of this, or any, particular Hitwizard. Far more fearsome were the all-red Aurors, one of whom was worth ten steel-worn Hitwizards. And beyond that, there were the Master's armed forces: the Sturmkrieger. They all paled in comparison to the Death Eaters, led by Lord Voldemort. Compared to all that, Hitwizards looked like children with glowing sticks.

Still, her record was mostly clean and she wanted to keep it that way, so she averted her eyes and continued on her way. With a careful glance backward, she insured she wasn't being followed. While she hadn't done anything too illegal recently, she knew arrests could happen at any time for any reason. Which is why her robe always contained enough galleons to make curious Hitwizards look away. It was that, or risk having her wand snapped and herself being condemned to the camps. Just another one of the fun benefits of living in Knockturn.

She continued her climb up towards Diagon. Technically, the Leaky Cauldron existed in neither Diagon nor Knockturn, instead being one of the entry points to Greater London-that part of London where the majority of the Muggles lived. As pubs went, though, it was dingy and battered yet with an air of sophistication enough to cater to both Alleys. Ron swore by the far worse Sportin' Harlots in the upper echelon of Unterlondon (better Quidditch reception, according to him), but they both enjoyed the nostalgia. Her first time visiting the Cauldron had been at age 11, to get her witching supplies for her first year at Hogwarts. She smiled at the memory-and of meeting Ron for the first time. Without him, she'd probably have ended up killing herself a half-dozen times in the twisted and confusing layout of Diagon.

"Emily Potter!" an unfamiliar voice said. "As I live and breathe, it is you!" Emily didn't stop. She suspected what it was before it fully materialized. Before her, a magogram solidified, wearing the face of a wizened old man, clad in a Hogwarts professor's robes. A poor mimicry of Slughorn, she thought.

"Not interested," she said, walking through the ethereal device. Most of them were limited by distance, being tied to a runestone somewhere. It was the same magic that drove Ministry and Master propaganda, though on a smaller scale.

"But Emily, my dear boy, we've got a two for one on enchanted rings over at Snippers," the infernal thing continued.

"I'm not a boy!" she yelled. Obviously, not all magograms had the same quality.

"But Em-" the voice cutoff suddenly as she crossed the threshold beyond the maximum distance. She hated those things. Not once had she actually visited a shop based on those advertisements.

Swinging over to the shaded part of the curved, still-climbing street to avoid any more unwanted ads, she regretted it immediately as she grew yet another tail: a pale-as-moon vampire. Sure, he was trying to be sneaky, clinging to the darker shadows and stepping lightly; but, when your eyes literally glow red, there were limits even to a vampire's natural talent. She entertained his meagre stalk for a little while longer, thinking back to her Defense Against Magical Creatures class on how to slay one of these creatures. Not that she wanted to specifically kill a vampire-she just didn't want to be its afternoon snack.

Her predator followed her for a few steps more when-she ducked behind a less crowded corner. A smart vampire would've seen the sudden movement and abandoned the hunt. Why seek elusive, potentially smart-definitely dangerous prey, when lazy, near-blind Muggles were easier? A hungry vampire though, wouldn't care. They'd charge, and keep charging, into direct sunlight if need be, for a taste of dinner. As luck would have it, it was the latter.

It jumped the corner, swinging around, using its powerful arms as greater leverage, clearly expecting an Emily-sized morsel to be there instead of thin air. Unfortunately for the hungry vampire, Emily had already disillusioned and descented herself, and was a few steps away. Now, she could continue walking, and let bygones go their separate ways, but… No. A vampire this desperate? He'd wind up killing someone. While their bites weren't lethal, particularly hungry ones would feed well past the point of lethality. Not that Emily cared about her neighbors. As far as she was concerned, some of them deserved to get exsanguinated. Unfortunately, that'd bring down the Creature Hitwizards, and all the other Hitwizards down on this community for at least a week.

Rather than deal with the increased patrols, she cast the Full Body Bind, freezing the vampire in place, and made herself visible and smellable again. "Hi there," she said, relaxing the spell a bit to allow the vampire to talk.

"Cur!" the vampire said, spitting on her clothes.

"Now, now. Manners." She applied a small Lumos to the tip of her wand. Not bright enough to cause anything but some mild eye pain if he looked at it. "You look hungry."

He responded by moving his mouth, yet making no real sound save low grunts. Were he not in the body bind, Emily knew he'd be slashing wildly at her with teeth and fangs. As creatures, vampires were technically afforded less rights than that of Muggles-similar to that of Mudbloods, in truth. In reality, officials sometimes released them in populated areas to curb Muggle population and keep them weak through terror and blood-drawing. It was also rumored that the Death Eaters used vampires in their own secret activities. Knockturn had always been a haven for vampires-if not for Muggle population control or Death Eater plots, then to simply keep the other dark creatures like werewolves in check.

"You must be pretty desperate-or stupid-to attack a witch in the middle of Knockturn," Emily said, reaffixing her glare into the vampire's eyes. "Why?"

He spat again, this time missing her clothes by a hastily thrown shield by Emily. "Can't go into Greater London no more. Ministry don't let us pass."

"So, you've all been drinking on Muggle blood too freely then?" His eyes said everything she needed to hear. "And now, the Ministry is looking to curb your numbers a bit."

"Please, noble mistress," the vampire said, now changing tact. "I beg of you. Help me. We're all starving."

Such was the nature of Ministry-vampire relations. During feed years, the vampires would breed new ones, and gorge graciously on Muggles. During cull years, their numbers would be cut down through starvation. There was nothing Emily could do to truly help him, save offer her own blood. Now there was a dumb idea: doing that would give the vampire her scent, and he'd be able to use it to track her back home. It was like giving a Pixie Dust addict the Queen Pixie herself. Clearly, things weren't meant to be.

"Fine, I'll help you," she said.

"Oh?" the vampire said. "Please mistress, thank you, thank you!"

Emily summoned a nearby shard of wood and banished it into the vampire's heart once it was close enough. The vampire froze, then disintegrated into a pile of ash; nothing left but clothes and the stick. There was no other way. The killing curse required a lot of power, and throwing him into the sun would've been too much pain for the poor fool. At least this way, it was quick, and he didn't need to suffer anymore.

With a last flick of her wand, she flung the clothes into the wind, and continued her hike up to the Cauldron.