Serpens & Leo Minor

by Blackmagiccat

After tumultuous times, Draco & Harry bear burdens. The Malfoys' status drops amid Voldemort's return while Harry grieves Sirius' death. Pushed onto unknown paths, they navigate Muggle life, confront personal turmoil. Unexpected allies emerge, challenging preconceptions. Reality blurs-good & evil entwine. They realize nothing is as it seems. Tumblr:@blackmagic-cat

27. Killer In The Mirror

It's been a year since Draco saw that expression on his father's face. A year since the disappointment and inadequacy sunk in deeper than his bones. He doesn't need a magical spell cast on a book to remember that facing it never gets any easier. "Son," the thing who plays a parody of his father says, spreading his hands out in welcome as a saccharine sweet smile masks the disappointment.

The halls he is dragged through look fake just like everything in Draco's life from before Harry. With the pristine corners of the manor and the calculated political moves made by his father locked in his memory – all of it seems fake now that he knows how it feels to really care for someone.

Draco forces his shackle-less limbs to relax, in hopes that they stay that way, and leaned into his father's touch. They separated him from Harry upon arriving at this fortress, and he has been impossibly tense since. His vampiric strength does nothing to ease the vulnerability he feels in his father's presence knowing this version of his father is one too. He is stronger than he's ever been, yet he's never felt more like that scared little boy desperate for approval.

A small part of him from before wants to collapse into his father's arms. To cry about how it's all Potter's fault, that he did his best to capture him but he evaded Draco's grasp over and over again. Even if it means that the look returns to stay because his father will fix it. He always fixes whatever problem Draco ran into. But he doesn't – can't – because that Draco died somewhere between getting trapped in this story and falling in love with Harry. That Draco, who lived and breathed for his father's approval, who measured his worth in proud nods and brief smiles, feels like a stranger now.

Instead he steels his spine as he pulls away, the gesture carrying the weight of months of learning to chose his own path. The marble floor beneath his feet feels no longer feels like home.

"It's been too long father," Draco says in an even voice, careful to keep the bitterness from seeping through.

Each word feels like swallowing venom, burning him from the inside out.

"Son, Bella said that she found you and your…meal in America," his father says in a cultured disdainful voice, "Do elaborate,"

Draco feels every inch of possession and expectation in that one word falling on him like a ton of bricks. He knows how loaded this question is. How the wrong answer will give up his ruse. If he hasn't already. That he came here of his own free will. That he is still loyal to his father. Admitting that he lost his memory comes with its own risks of showing an exploitable weakness so he abandons that idea as soon as he thinks it. Which leaves him with only one option.

Improvise.

When did he become so like Harry and his band of Gryffindors?

"After I got over my tantrum and found myself in America, I felt ashamed to return empty-handed so I decided to integrate myself with the Cullens. I acted ashamed of my old ways and claimed to be looking for a way to redeem myself in their eyes by adopting their hunting practices. Severus feels for it like the bleeding heart that he is. I hope the information I gathered will be a suitable price for my continued absence,"

A satisfied smile spreads across his father's features as those inhuman red eyes light up with hunger and greed.

"Well, if that is the case, son, I'm sure you wouldn't mind tying up a few loose ends for me, then,"

"Of course, father," Draco says in an obedient voice, while inside he feels rising trepidation at what the monster will ask him to do.

A moment later a panel in the wall opens up and a cuffed Harry is dragged into the room kicking and struggling against his captors iron-clad grip and shoved to his knees at Draco's feet. All the bravo that Draco felt at seemingly convincing his sudo father of his loyalty rushes out of him. Leaving him empty with cold dread.

"Draco?" Harry asks in a hesitant voice, his muscles trembling but his brilliant green eyes determined and full of trust.

The emotion hits Draco at his core. That Harry still trusts him even as Draco stands unbound in front of him while the monster that is Draco's father smiles at them.

"Sweetheart," Draco gasps so low that he doubts even the other vampires can hear him.

"I have an assignment of great importance that I need you to complete. But first, your loyalty must be ensured," the monster says with a manic grin the belongs on a horror movie villain, "Kill the human and all will be as it was before,"

"Yes, Father," Draco says in a monotone voice.

Harry's face breaks out into confusion and then fear as he gasps a single, "Draco?"

With the grace and precision of a predator, Draco drops to his knees before Harry. He pulls the other man's frail body closer. Harry's initial resistance is met with Draco's forceful shushing, silencing any doubts or protests. As Draco tangles his fingers into in Harry's hair, he relaxes against Draco's chest and he hears a soft sigh escape Harry. With a fierce determination, Draco tilts Harry's neck to the side and hungrily presses his lips against the exposed skin. Every kiss sears him as he makes his way to the pounding point of Harry's pulse.

He hears a groan from Alecto, "How long does it take to kill one human?"

Draco growls causing Harry to flinch.

"I'm saying goodbye. He has been my chosen prey for a long time. You don't end that quickly," Draco sneers at Alecto, "I request a private last moment with him if that would be possible, father?"

The monster's eyes narrow calculatingly as he accesses Harry and he's positions. Draco remembers hearing Bella talking about the ease of the human prison called the 'feeding chamber' in the many broken car rides to get here, complaining about having to go without it while searching for Tom and Draco. It's a risk weighed on the realisation that he is slowly making.

"Father," Draco calls out just before they leave, his voice carefully measured. "I want to saviour this moment properly. Would you grant me use of the feeding chamber? The ambiance there would make this... special."

Harry stiffens against him at the words, and Draco feels a flash of pain at the fear radiating from him. But he can't stop now - not when their lives depend on this performance.

His father's lips curl into a proud smile as gives Alecto an arrogant dismissive gesture.

"Of course. Alecto, escort them."

As they follow Alecto through the winding corridors, Draco's steps falter. Every turn in the familiar twisting halls confirming his theory. This place is a warped mirror version of his childhood home. The grand staircase curves in the same elegant sweep as Malfoy Manor's, though here it's adorned with grotesque gargoyles instead of serpentine fixtures.

Harry must sense it too, because his breathing becomes more labored with each step.

"Draco," he whispers, "are you sure a-"

"Yes," Draco cuts him off, not wanting to hear his hesitation.

His doubt.

The feeding chamber's location makes his stomach turn - exactly where the Manor's cellars or now 'prison cells' would be, where Harry's look-alike was once imprisoned. Where Draco had stood by and watched as he...

The feeding chamber itself is a nightmarish reflection of the Manor's wine cellar. Where there were once racks of centuries-old vintages, now there are cells of terrified humans. The same vaulted ceiling, but instead of green and silver Malfoy crests, it's painted with scenes of ancient vampire hunts. Even the crystal chandeliers are positioned identically, though these cast shadows that dance like reaching hands across walls stained with darker substances than wine.

"Ten minutes," Alecto sneers, closing the heavy iron-worked door behind them with an echoing thud.

The moment they're alone, Harry jerks away from Draco's embrace, his eyes wide with suspicion.

"What are you playing at?" he demands in a harsh whisper. "The 'feeding chamber'? Really?"

"Trust me," Draco says, moving at vampire speed to break the locks on three cells built into the walls. The imprisoned humans inside cower at his approach.

Harry's hand catches his arm. "Stop! You're scaring them!"

"Run," Draco commands the captives, ignoring Harry's protest. "Make as much noise as you can."

When they hesitate, he bares his teeth.

"Now!"

The humans flee, their panicked screams echoing through the corridors. Harry watches them go, his face a mix of horror and dawning comprehension.

"A diversion?" he asks, but there's an edge to his voice that suggests he's not sure whether to believe this is truly meant to help them escape.

"Better."

Draco can't help the smirk that crosses his face, and he sees Harry flinch at the expression. It's too similar to his father's, he guesses too late.

"Father's pride means he can't let the…fo-prisoners escape. The chaos will force them to split up."

He moves toward a tapestry on the far wall, an elaborate scene of vampires feeding on unwilling victims. His hand shakes slightly in worry, hoping to merlin that his theory isn't wrong as he pushes it aside, revealing a narrow passage.

"And Mother always insisted on having multiple escape routes. She called it 'prudent planning.'"

"Those people - you just used them as bait, didn't you? Like cattle."

Draco's dead heart clenches at the accusation in Harry's voice. Harry doesn't know that they aren't real people. Just creations of the book.

"We don't have time for this. They'll be fine - they will be too busy looking for us to hurt them."

"But what if there not?" Harry's voice cracks.

Before Draco can respond, a familiar scent hits him - gardenias. His mother's signature perfume. He reaches for Harry, but Harry flinches back, clearly torn between the known danger behind them and his growing distrust of Draco.

"Clever Draco," Narcissa's voice echoes from the darkness ahead. "You always paid attention in the areas your father deemed beneath him."

The feeding chamber's door bursts open behind them, and Bella's cackling laughter fills the space as she blocks their retreat. "I told you, Cissy, that the second chance was wasted on your son. Look how he plays with his food - just like his father."

Draco moves to pull Harry behind him protectively and Harry comes with clear reluctance, almost as if he wonders if Draco is any better than them. The wariness in his eyes, when he looks at Draco, is almost worse than being caught.

"Did you really think I wouldn't remember my own escape routes?" Narcissa steps into view, her elegant robes a stark contrast to the gore-stained chamber. "Or that your father wouldn't ask me where you'd likely run?"

Her eyes drift to Harry's defensive stance, noting the invisible distance between him and Draco with a knowing smile.

"Oh, darling. Did you think you could play at being human forever? That you could be his hero."

Draco's jaw clenches as he realizes how thoroughly he's failed. Not just in their escape, but in maintaining Harry's regard. In trying to be clever, to be the cunning Slytherin his parents raised him to be, he'd acted exactly like the monster Harry feared him to be.

"Harry," he whispers, but he doesn't know how to finish the sentence.

How do you apologize for confirming someone's worst fears about you, even while trying to save them?

The room suddenly feels suffocating, the dual weight of centuries of cruelty pressing down on them through the blood-soaked walls and macabre artwork. Draco sees their reflection fractured in the crystal chandelier above - a frightened human surrounded by monsters.

Bang! Bang!

Draco violently jerks awake from his memory-induced trance—the closest he can get to true rest—at the insistent pounding on the weathered inn door. In this place, the air hangs thick with muffled screams and desperate cries that have become mere background noise, a testament to the establishment's darker purpose. He pulls himself up with fluid grace, frustration evident in every movement as he flings open the door to reveal Alecto and Amicus's stern faces. Between them stands a trembling human boy whose uncanny resemblance to Harry sends an electric chill down Draco's spine. You would think he would be used to this but it never gets any easier.

With a calculated shove from Alecto, the boy stumbles forward and collides with Draco's cold frame.

A maelstrom of emotions threatens to overwhelm Draco's consciousness, but he instinctively reinforces his mental shields before any stray thoughts from his victim can penetrate his mind. He finds himself wondering how any vampire survives without mastering such fundamental defensive techniques.

"Feed," Amicus commands with a twisted grin that barely masks the steel beneath his deceptively casual demeanour.

Draco learned his lesson well after his first victim, whose neck he'd snapped too quickly before feeding. His shadows—his constant companions now—demand a performance before death, and he's learned to comply with their dark desires.

"I'm sorry," he whispers to the trembling form in his arms, knowing the futility of resistance. Fighting only depletes precious energy that could make the transition more peaceful.

He attempts to cradle the back of the boy's head with gentle fingers, threading them through dark strands in a last gesture of mercy but abandons the pretence when the boy's struggles make such kindness impossible. A low growl escapes him as he tightens his grip, fingers digging into the scalp like an iron vice, forcing submission against his chest. His lips part as he hovers over feverish skin, each cool exhale revealing lethal fangs that catch the dim light of the entryway. The boy's fear spikes, sending an intoxicating mixture of terror and unwilling anticipation coursing through his veins. Draco drinks in the scent, letting it settle on his tongue as a soft whimper escapes the boy's lips. The sound triggers an unbidden image of Harry pressed beneath him, making similar noises, and Draco's mouth floods with venom.

Overwhelmed by the hunger this mental picture ignites, Draco strikes without further hesitation. His fangs tear through flesh with practised efficiency, and he savours the sweet rush of warm blood filling his mouth. Though a poor substitute for Harry's sun-warmed treacle scent, the desperate need to quench the fire in his throat drives Draco to pull his victim closer, easily crushing any remaining resistance. He feels the pulse fade against his lips as the body goes limp in his arms.

Harry developed a routine for his days to avoid boredom. He climbs out of the massive bed on the second floor and retrieves the tray that has been left for his breakfast from in front of the door on the first floor. Then he climbs up to the library. Each morning the room seems to embrace him with its graceful curves, the walls lined with towering bookshelves that follow the shape of the tower like ribs keeping him safe.

The shelves filled to the brim with books keep him entertained for hours, anything to keep him from analyzing Draco's actions during their failed escape and the nightmares he had about Draco that have suddenly stopped. He only leaves the sanctuary of the plush, worn chair with its fabric impressed with the memory of countless hours of reading to collect each meal as the sun makes its way across the gothic windows.

The morning light filters through the Gothic window differently today, casting unfamiliar shadows across the worn rugs. Harry pauses in his usual path to his reading chair, drawn by some inexplicable force toward the window he usually avoids. The dawn paints the city below in shades of pearl and rose gold, a beautiful prison stretching as far as he can see.

His fingers trace the cold stone of the windowsill, and a sudden draft makes the corner of the nearest rug flutter. Something about the movement seems wrong, unnatural. Harry kneels, pushing aside the heavy Persian wool to reveal what first appears to be ordinary tower flagstones. But there – almost invisible unless you're at exactly the right angle – a hairline crack forms a perfect square.

Heart suddenly racing, Harry runs his fingers along the seam until he feels a slight depression. The stone shifts under his touch, revealing a compartment carved into the floor itself. The space beneath holds secrets preserved in darkness: a leather-bound book, its spine cracked and worn; a slim volume that can only be a diary; and something wrapped carefully in aged linen.

With trembling hands, Harry lifts out the leather book first. It's a comprehensive study of world religions, published in 1910 – but it's what's written inside the cover that makes him frown in confusion. The name sounds familiar for some reason, but his brain refuses to make sense of the suspicion. There, in faded ink: "James" The pages are annotated throughout in the same handwriting, notes about vampiric parallels in various belief systems crowding the margins in messy handwriting so like his own.

He opens the diary next, its pages filled with an elegant script that somehow manages to convey both precision and lifelessness. Harry opens to a random entry freezing as he reads the words:

October 31, 1910

I attacked him. I didn't mean to. I promise no I swear,I didn't want to hurt him. There was blood and a knife. And the rest well… We all know how the story where the lion who falls in love with lamb ends.

Harry is all too eager to put the diary down and pick up the final hidden item. He unwraps the linen bundle. His heart skips a beat as he reveals a clay sculpture – a bust of Draco's face, clearly crafted by masterful but loving hands. The artist captured something in the eyes that Harry recognizes, a hint of vulnerability beneath the aristocratic features. Turning the piece over, he finds a letter carved into the base: J

Harry sits back on his heels, the pieces of this puzzle scattered around him on the floor, feeling a tinge of jealousy shoot through him despite his complicated feelings about Draco. Who was this James and how did his book find its way into Draco's sanctuary, treasured enough to be hidden away with Draco's private things?

The dawn light continues to strengthen, illuminating the dust motes dancing around these fragments of the past. Harry looks between the diary, the sculpture, and the textbook wondering what else he might learn about both Dracos in these pages. The one in the past and his own. More importantly, he wonders why Draco hid and preserved these particular pieces of history – and what it might mean for their future. He opens the diary to the first page and begins reading

July 31, 1900

Father says I should record my thoughts as I begin my new life. I don't see why - everything is so wonderfully simple! The burning in my throat tells me when to feed, Father tells me when to appear at Inner Circle meetings, and the rest of the time I can do as I please.

Last night Father took me to the opera. The vampire's music was lovely, experiencing our culture never gets tiring but the mortal I devoured at Adam's Fall after was far lovelier. Father says I must learn patience, that feeding in such a public place causes unnecessary waste due to his guards having to kill all the other mortals in the Adam that night, for having seen me feed on my victim. He says I must learn to hunt the 'proper' way, by choosing a victim and seducing them slowly or at least waiting until I get them into a private room in the back. I find this way difficult because they taste so delicious and the way mortals tremble when their bodies sense our true nature, even though their small minds can't comprehend it - it's like a wonderful game. One I don't want to draw out.

The Inner Circle members all praise Father for how well he's trained me, even though I am unable to hunt as he does. Apparently, many newborns are savage and uncontrolled, but I find it all so easy. See the mortal, catch the mortal, drink the mortal. They barely even struggle when you smile at them just right. Father says I have natural refinement.

I did get blood on my new mask though. The laundress's progeny helped me clean it - and then helped clean my throat as well! Father laughed when I told him. He says I'm learning the art of efficiency.

Everything is so perfect and simple.

Must go now - I hear the maids bringing up fresh linens and one of them has such a delectable morsel with her for my breakfast...

Harry has to put the diary down for a moment after reading the first entry, his hands shaking slightly. The breezy, almost childlike tone discussing murder makes his skin crawl. And yet... there's something desperately sad about it too. Like reading the words of a puppet who doesn't realize they're being controlled. He wonders when he broke out of it and started hiding mortal books inside the vampire ones. How far has Draco come from this state of blissful, cruel ignorance, and what did that journey cost him?

June 5, 1905

Father has given me the most wonderful gift - a café where mortals gather at night! And every mortal in there is mine to choose from. No more sharing with the vampires who frequent Adam's Fall and having the prized picks stolen right under my nose. The smell of coffee masks their scent just enough to make the hunt entertaining. They're such amusing little creatures, scurrying about with their books and papers, pretending their brief lives hold such importance. Father says I deserve such indulgences after half a decade of good behaviour. I do so love to please him.

Harry shudders at the casual cruelty as he scans through several years of much the same thoughts. Some entries even go into the detailed process Draco employs to kill his victims, subduing them first with sex before taking the deadly bite. After the twentieth kill, he slams the book shut feeling sick to his stomach at all of the senseless death. That night his nightmares are filled with dreams of Draco seducing him into the dark corners of a familiar castle promising kisses, only to bite into his neck.

Draco lets the corpse fall to the floor and averts his gaze, turning his attention to Alecto, who leans against the doorframe with a calculating smirk. Her sharp eyes flicker over Draco's form, cataloguing every detail with predatory precision. Amicus stands next to her his hungry eyes on the drained body.

"I trust your... appetite has been sated?" Amicus inquires, his voice smooth as silk but edged with warning.

Draco offers a curt nod, maintaining a carefully neutral expression despite his internal turmoil. He knows better than to display weakness before either of the twins, especially now when his plans hang by such a delicate thread.

"Follow me," Alecto commands with a bored sashay as she glides down the hallway, her twin following.

Draco maintains a measured distance behind them, already anticipating the true purpose behind this "meal" and their reappearance after days of silence. They ascend three floors and traverse another corridor before stopping at an unremarkable door. Alecto dispenses with the earlier pretence of knocking, instead striding uninvited into the room with its sprawling bed that dominates the space.

The chamber is bathed in shadows that dance across the walls like spectral fingers. Draco enters with calculated caution, his heightened senses processing every detail—the musky aroma of sex mingling with blood's metallic tang, the whisper of fabric as Alecto approaches the bed.

There, a golden-haired vampire with mischievous crimson eyes reclines atop a dishevelled human, his features twisted in ecstasy from some hidden activity beneath the sheets. The vampire leans down to whisper something in German, drawing genuine laughter from his companion before turning to Alecto with condescending amusement.

"Is there a reason you're interrupting my dinner?" he drawls in casual English.

"Inner Circle requests your presence," Alecto replies with a snarl of irritation at his attitude.

The blonde sighs as he rises, every inch the petulant teenager his frozen form suggests.

"The Inner Circle. How quaint. Really brings back memories," the vampire says with a bitter smile that shifts into nostalgic, "Is old Yaxley. still kicking and what of Karkaroff he always did like a good rough tumble in the bed,"

"Kakaroff, is a deserter," Alecto hisses.

"Ah yes, I do remember that, shame, the thighs on that man and the positions we could get into…."

"Focus," Alecto reprimands.

The vampire ignores her as he spots Draco, a sick grin spreading across his face.

"We just need Lu, Bella, and Cissy for a proper reunion," the blonde says as he passes, directing a sneer at Draco. "With little lost Draco finally returned to us. Though I heard your father replaced you easily enough. Tom Riddle, wasn't it? Bright boy, I've been told, I know Bella was certainly taken with him if the rumors are true,"

Draco suppresses a growl as complicated emotions surge through his dead veins. He instinctively knows challenging this vampire would be unwise—anyone who dares call Lucius Abraxas Malfoy "Lu" commands a certain respect. An intriguing light appears in the boy's eyes as they assess Draco's features.

"Though you may wear young Draco's face, I sense profound changes. You've tasted such exquisite heartache and pain. You reek of vengeance."

"Gilbert, we haven't time for your games," Alecto interjects with impatient disgust. "An army awaits our attention."

Draco startles a little at the name, wondering if it is just another Gilbert, or if this is in the famous Grindwaldel that painted blood across his history books, despite looking so young. Gilbert examines his immaculate black-lacquered nails with theatrical boredom. "Well then, enlighten me. Who is this army for?"

"The Cullens," Amicus answers, a vicious grin spreading across his features.

Gilbert releases an uninterested sound as he slides his hands into his pockets with practised nonchalance.

"Figures. Sev always knew how to provoke Lu. Though is such force truly necessary?"

Alecto's expression hardens as she recites from memory: "They have committed multiple violations of the Ancient Accords, as codified in the Vampire High Inner Circle's Statutory Laws of 1463, last amended in 1901. Specifically: Section III, Article 12 - the willful disclosure of our existence to a human without immediate resolution through either transformation or elimination. Section VII, Article 3 - harboring a rogue vampire who refused the Inner Circle's direct summons. And Section IV, Article 8 - the formation of a coven exceeding seven members without express Inner Circle authorization. These transgressions demand response under Inner Circle Law."

"Oh how naughty," Gilbert snickers, a flash of fang catching the dim light, "Well surely all that nasty business can wait until my dinner concludes."

He waltzes back to the bed and stretches languidly across it, trailing possessive fingers along his human companion's jaw.

His crimson eyes glitter with dark amusement as he adds, "I'll meet you around 8? There's a quaint all-night café on Königsplatz that serves the most delightful blood lattes. The barista there has perfected the art of proper temperature control—keeps it just warm enough to be palatable without compromising the more... delicate notes. It's almost as good as Romilda's."

The casualness with which he discusses consuming human blood sends a shiver of unease up Draco's spine giving another point in his favour of being the real Grindelwald.

"Don't mention that traitor!" Amicus hisses.

"Still sore about me winning her affections over you?" Gilbert asks with mocking innocence.

"She never loved you she us-"

Alecto shoots her brother a glare that makes him cut off his retort.

"Gilbert, the law states that—" Alecto begins, her voice sharp with warning.

"Yes, yes, all that tiresome business," Gilbert interrupts with a dismissive wave of his hand, "If Lu got out in the world more, maybe he would see how much it has changed." He demonstrates his point by placing a soft, deliberate kiss on his victim's throat, drawing a shuddering response from the human beneath him. "Now shoo shoo," he commands with aristocratic derision. "I'm useless on an empty stomach."

Without missing a beat, he switches his attention back to his prey, whispering something in their ear that makes them melt into the mattress with a soft sigh of surrender. The display is both a dismissal and a power play—an insight into just how much power Gilbert possesses despite the Inner Circle's laws.

Draco notices how Alecto's fingers twitch at the casual disrespect, but even she seems unwilling to press the issue. There's something about Gilbert's presence that makes even the twins' usual arrogance falter.

"Of course, my Lord," Alecto demurs with a forced smile, the title dripping with barely concealed resentment as she executes a stiff bow before retreating.

Amicus and Draco follow in her wake, but Draco can't resist one final glance back at Gilbert. Their eyes meet across the dimly lit room, and a knowing look plays in Gilbert's gaze as his tongue traces a deliberate path up his victim's throat. The gesture is both a promise and a threat, and Gilbert holds Draco's stare until the door clicks shut between them.

The first bloodcurdling scream tears through the silence barely a heartbeat later.

The sound follows them down the corridor, through the stairwell, and into the street below. A sustained note of pure terror that doesn't falter or fade, echoing off the buildings until they're blocks away from the motel. Only then does Draco realize he's been grinding his teeth, his hands clenched into fists at his sides. The sadistic twins, who enjoy playing with their food, appear equally unsettled, though they hide it better—their forced casualness betraying just how eager they are to put distance between themselves and the ancient vampire who treats Inner Circle laws like gentle suggestions.

The screams continue to ring in Draco's ears long after they've faded into the night.

As the days pass Harry continues to read through the diary noticing a curious change in Draco's demeanor as the first appearance of James comes onto the pages.

May 2, 1910

Something extraordinary happened tonight. There was this delicious smelling mortal at the café - James - Romilda tells me. According to her, he isa bright boy who is comparable to a small sun, always giving her a radiant smile upon entering and laughing every night with his friends. Burning with the sort of goodwill you only see once a century.

I MUST have him.

She complimented me on a good choice for a hunt as she always does, but for some reason that night it rang false, as if she disapproved. It makes me wonder if she wanted James for herself. No matter, her father is not the head of the Inner Circle. She will have to content herself with whatever she can catch on the streets. I continued to watch him the rest of the night, deciding that I finally found a victim to act out my father's preferred hunting style on. A scent so sweet deserves to be savoured.

May 8, 1910

He came back! He spent the night the same way he did all the ones before glancing around at the other patrons and scribbling on what Romilda informs him is a 'pad of paper'. She tells me that mortals use them to draw pictures, which I found funny and primitive. I decided to start my hunt and followed him home, anticipating a quiet night walk. But then I saw another mortal trailing my prey carrying a knife. An influx of strange emotions surged through me and without thought I shoved the would-be attacked against the alley wall and snapped his neck.

I could have let it happen. Cut the hunt short and drained them both, but for some reason, I wasn't ready to let go of my green-eyed mortal.

The strangest thing happened afterwards - I could hear whispers of what I can only assume were the thoughts of a woman walking nearby, worrying about her sick child. It leaves me thinking because I was unaware ofa mortal's ability to think about anything but their own survival, being a little better than animals.

I've never experienced anything like it before. Have I somehow developed a gift like a father? Severus says they do not always happen at a vampire birth, but sometimes a pivotal event causes them to manifest. Could choosing my first prey for a long-term hunt be such an event?

Harry's heart races, thinking about how his mind can't be read by Draco, wondering once again if there is something wrong with him and if the answers lie somewhere in the diary.

A howl pierces the tense atmosphere of the living room, momentarily silencing his children's bickering. Severus's head snaps toward the sound, his heightened senses picking up the rapid approach of two distinct heartbeats - one mortal, one decidedly not.

Through the steady drumming of rain against the windows, he catches fragments of conversation carried on the wind.

"Ginny, you need to understand Ariana-" Aberforth's weathered voice rings clear despite the distance.

"I don't trust you anymore. Vampires are monsters, we live separate from them for a reason," The words are filled with hurt and betrayal rather than anger. "All this time... How could you both keep that vampire a secret from me?"

Beside him, Lily stiffens at the name of her old friend, a name neither has heard spoken aloud in decades. Behind him, he senses the humans' confusion at their reaction.

"Pansy, Blaise," Severus says quietly, "take your….companion's upstairs."

They don't argue, though Hermione's eyes narrow dangerously. Before the human can voice her objection, Pansy has already guided her toward the stairs, Blaise following with a confused-looking Ron behind her, shooting Severus a worried glance over his shoulder.

The sound of running feet grows closer, accompanied now by a third presence - the steady crunch of wheels on wet gravel, moving with deliberate purpose. The scent reaches him then: human, yet steeped in the wild magic of the shapeshifters, undercut with the sharp tang of steel and rubber.

"Father?" Theo questions, tension evident in his stance, beside him Luna looks ready for battle.

"Stay inside," Severus commands, moving toward the door. "All of you."

He steps onto the porch just as Ginny bursts from the treeline, Aberforth several yards behind her. The girl's form shivers with barely contained transformation, but her eyes hold more pain than rage. The exiled shapeshifter's face is etched with a century of protective love, of choices made to shield his sister from loneliness and their brother's hatred.

"Where is he?" Ginny demands, her voice cracking. "Where's Harry?"

Thunder rolls overhead as Severus regards her steadily. In another life, he might have sneered at such brazen accusations, but centuries have taught him the value of patience. Besides, her pain is genuine - he can hear it in her racing heart, smell it in the salt of unshed tears mixing with the rain.

"The Death Eaters-," Severus starts to say when another voice interrupts him, as the third joins them.

"It would appear," Albus Black says, wheeling his chair forward from the shadows of the trees, "That we have a lot to talk about." His dark eyes, sharp despite his age, fix first on his brother, then on Severus.

Decades of bitterness lie in that gaze, born from the day Grindelwald's bloodlust destroyed not just his sister, but his faith in vampire-kind. Severus meets his stare. He recognizes the look of a man forced to confront his own prejudices, and his own past mistakes.

"The Death Eaters have taken both Harry and Draco," Severus finishes simply.

"Like Grindelwald took Ariana," Ginny says, causing Albus to flinch, his knuckles whitening on his wheelchair's arms. "Another vampire destroying a family."

"No," Aberforth speaks softly, years of understanding tempering his words. "Ariana was our sister, Ginny. My sister. After she turned... Albus wanted her exiled, and couldn't bear to see what his beloved Grindelwald had done to her. But I saw her struggle, saw her humanity even in her new form. I chose to go with her, to help her. And over time..." He looks at Severus, then back to his brother, "I learned that being a vampire doesn't make you a monster. The choices you make do."

"You chose her over the tribe," Albus says, but the old accusation holds a note of uncertainty now. "Over our ways."

Severus bites his tongue to not mention the hypocrisy in those words and he imagines Aberforth doing the same.

"I chose understanding over hatred," Aberforth responds quietly. "And I'd make that choice again."

Severus watches the family drama unfold, seeing how Ginny's anger melts into confusion, then dawning comprehension. He can hear his children shifting restlessly inside, no doubt piecing together fragments of this revelation.

"The Death Eaters cannot be fought with ancient prejudices," Severus says, his voice dropping lower. "Lucius is a monster by choice, not by nature. And right now, he has both my son and a boy your tribe swore to protect."

"Yes," Albus agrees, surprising them all. His hands relax slightly on his wheelchair's arms, decades of rigid hatred giving way to necessity. "Perhaps... perhaps it's time I learned the lesson my brother mastered long ago." He looks at Aberforth, pride warring with regret. "That our enemies are not defined by what they are, but by what they do."

The rain continues to fall, washing away boundary lines drawn in pride and pain. Inside, Severus hears Theo whisper, "Father, what aren't you telling us?"

But that's a conversation for another moment. Right now, on his porch stands a family fractured by fear and prejudice, on the verge of healing for the sake of those they love.

"Then perhaps," Severus says carefully, "we should all come inside."

Because if they're going to save Harry and Draco, they'll need to build bridges across chasms dug by generations of misunderstanding and fear.

May 20, 1910

It's becoming a habit, passing over James for some other more worthy victim. I tell myself that I am saving him for a special occasion. I don't want to waste him, but as the father's time frame for stalking prey grows closer to a close I am forced to question my motives for keeping him alive.

He is just so fascinating. Just from following him I learned that he is studying to get his Master in World Religion Studies. Mortals studied! I am unsure what this means, but it is all so different than how father described them all those years ago. Romilda the self appointed mortal expert (or the only vampire who permits my questions) (somehow I know not to ask father) tells me that a Master's program is a form of higher studying that mortal work to achieve. Receiving one is quite rare. Meaning that my prey is smart. Another reason to keep him alive for just a little longer, when I might not get another opportunity to meet another mortal with one easily.

All the while the voices are getting stronger. Ever since the first night I spared James, I keep hearing fragments of thoughts from people near him when I visit the café. Their minds are so... full. They worry about their families, their money, their futures. They think thoughts filled with love and hate with such intensity. I used to think them simple creatures, but their minds contain entire worlds. Father would say this makes them even more pathetic, but I'm no longer certain.

Harry paces the room, processing this revelation. Draco's empathy had grown alongside his power.

May 31, 1910

Something is wrong with James. I followed him home again tonight (still telling myself it's to hunt him, though even I'm beginning to doubt this lie). He does this strange thing where he thrashes about in his sleep, making distressed noises. At first I thought perhaps he was being attacked, but there was no one else in the room. I asked Romilda about it, and she explained the concept of "nightmares" - apparently mortals can experience fear even in sleep! Their minds create horrifying visions that torment them.

How fascinating and terrible. As a vampire, I can never truly sleep, only enter a kind of meditative state. The idea that mortals must face their fears even in rest... I found myself wanting to wake him, to stop whatever images were causing him such distress. Romilda says that's what mothers do for their children. I didn't understand the reference, but the thought stayed with me all night.

Father would be furious if he knew I spent hours watching a mortal sleep instead of feeding. But how can I feed when there's so much about them(him) I don't understand?

June 1, 1910

I spoke to him today. I convinced Romilda to let me deliver his coffee, his order something sweet she jokingly calls a 'love potion'. I knew from the moment I met his eyes through the mask that it was a mistake. I was going to be forever hooked on that majestic green, a marked difference from the sea of red and brown that makes up the rest of my life. And for the first time, their attention was focused solely on me.

I was stunned and couldn't move. When his hand brushed mine to take the cup from my stone-like grip, I flinched back, his heat, so much like all other mortals, yet different in the spark of lightning that jolted from his skin to mine. This resulted in me spilling hot coffee all over the table, ruining his pad of paper. I said a mumbled apology that would have pained my mother and then disappeared into the back to hide.

Gilbert's elegant fingers tap a rhythmic pattern against the delicate china as his crimson eyes study the trio across the table. "Tell me more about these... infractions. What exactly did dear Severus do to provoke such ire?"

"The coven harbors a human," Alecto explains with barely contained disgust. "A boy who knows everything about us. They refuse to eliminate him."

A ghost of something – recognition perhaps – flickers across Gilbert's eternally youthful features. "Ah. And if they turn him, they will exceed their coven limit set by Lu, I mean the Inner Circle, correct?"

Alecto nods, her irritation over the slip clear on her face. Gilbert tilts his face in interest.

"This human... they protect him why?"

"One of them claims the human as his mate," Amicus sneers at Draco, his teeth bared, "Draco here can attest to the... situation."

Gilbert's gaze slides to Draco with renewed interest.

"Indeed? How fascinating. And this rogue human they shelter?"

"Harry Swan," Alecto replies. "Severus has refused multiple summons from the Inner Circle, so we were forced to take matters into our own hands."

Draco forces himself not to snort at the blatant lies. Across from him, it seems that Gilbert is experiencing similar problems.

"Well, well," Gilbert murmurs, lifting his cup with practised grace, "How the mighty have fallen. Though I must say, it does sound rather daring of them."

His lips curl into an amused smile.

"Very well. I'll assist with your little... intervention. But first, I'll need to properly conclude my affairs here. You know how humans are – they don't take well to you up and disappearing."

The casual way he speaks of maintaining human connections startles Draco. He had always believed his adopted family's ability to establish semi-permanent lives among humans was unique – a product of their "vegetarian" lifestyle. Yet here sits Gilbert, his red eyes betraying his traditional diet, speaking of human relationships with familiar ease.

Gilbert takes another elegant sip from his flowered teacup, clearly from another century, releasing a delicate sigh of satisfaction.

"Mmmm, that was refreshing," he says with a delighted smile, "Are you sure you don't want to try it? Ale? Ami?"

"No thank you, my lord," Alecto bites out, answering for both herself and her brother, her usual look of loathing firmly in place at the sound of the nicknames.

Gilbert leans casually back in his chair, crossing his legs in perfect mimicry of human relaxation. His casual grace stands in stark contrast to the Deatheaters, who regard human culture as foreign and beneath them.

"Draco?" Gilbert asks with a smirk, a teasing glint in his eyes.

The offer is tempting. Draco remembers Harry's frequent praise of coffee as his survival tool through high school's demanding schedule and how his reckless uncle seemed to run on the stuff. What harm could one taste do?

"Why not?" Draco matches Gilbert's casual air.

"You always were the adventurous one of us, weren't you? Must be your young blood." Gilbert's voice carries approval as he passes the concoction over.

The liquid slides down Draco's throat in small fireworks of electric sparks, igniting his senses with wild energy. He carefully catches the last drop from escaping his lips with his tongue, understanding now Gilbert's earlier reaction.

"How long have you maintained your... current arrangements?" Draco asks with calculated indifference, turning the delicate cup in his hands.

Gilbert's eyes sparkle with mischief. "Oh, a few decades now. I find humans quite... adaptable when handled properly. My current position at my university has been particularly rewarding." He gestures elegantly to the air. "The students hardly bat an eye at a professor who only teaches night classes and has... particular dietary requirements."

"The university?" Draco arches an eyebrow, genuine curiosity bleeding through his practised nonchalance.

"Medieval History," Gilbert's smile widens. "Rather fitting, wouldn't you say? However I do occasionally have to correct the textbooks. It's remarkable how creative humans can be with their interpretations of historical events."

Alecto shifts impatiently in her seat. "Fascinating as your... hobby is, we have pressing matters—"

"Actually," Gilbert interrupts smoothly, "I could use some assistance with wrapping things up. Draco here seems to have a natural understanding of human dynamics."

His crimson eyes lock with Draco's.

"Perhaps he could help ensure my departure raises minimal suspicion? I have several delicate matters that require... a younger perspective."

Amicus opens his mouth to object, but Gilbert continues before he can speak. "Unless you'd prefer I take longer to sort everything myself? I'm sure Lu, I mean the Inner Circle wouldn't mind waiting another week or two..."

The twins exchanged a look of barely concealed frustration. Alecto's fingers drum against the table, her nails leaving slight indentations in the wood.

"You could spare him for a few hours," Gilbert adds, his tone light but carrying an unmistakable undertone of authority. "Just until sunrise. Consider it my condition for expediting my involvement in your... campaign."

"Fine," Alecto spits out, rising from her chair with fluid grace. "But if either of you attempt to flee—"

"My dear Ale," Gilbert's voice drips with condescension, "if I wished to avoid this little venture, do you really think I'd still be sitting here? Besides," his eyes flick to Draco, "I suspect young Malfoy has his own reasons for staying exactly where he is."

Alecto grabs her brother's arm as he bristles at Gilbert.

"We'll return at dawn," she says tersely, steering him toward the door.

As their footsteps fade, Gilbert's pleasant mask slips just slightly, revealing something ancient and calculating beneath.

"Now then," he leans forward, voice dropping to a whisper, "Shall we discuss how you really maintain a life among humans while remaining true to our nature?"

The days pass even faster now that Harry has the diary for a company, much of his time absorbed in learning Draco's history and getting a better insight into the melancholy he used to sense in him.

June 5, 1910

Something horrifying happened today. James spoke to ME.

I had just brought him his usual caffè con panna (Romilda tells me he always asks for extra cream - some humans prefer to mask the coffee's natural bitterness. How very like prey to soften everything). I was trying my best to set it down without another embarrassing spill when his voice stopped me.

"You know, you could just join me instead of watching from behind that book you've been holding upside down for the past three hours."

I froze. Vampires don't usually freeze unwittingly - we're supposed to be graceful and controlled predators - but I stood there as an unbidden statue, highlighting our every difference. I wanted to flee, but Father always says to never show weakness. So I turned around, preparing to deny everything.

But James was... smiling? Not the fearful grimace mortals usually give when they sense our otherness, but a real smile that reached his eyes. He gestured to the chair across from him.

"I'm James. Though you probably know that since you've been bringing my coffee for weeks now."

I sat down because I couldn't think of a reasonable excuse not to. I hadn't prepared for this. All my years of training about blending in with mortals completely abandoned me. James asked my name and I almost forgot to use the fake one we use at the café.

"Draco," I said, then immediately panicked because I'd used my real name instead. Father would be furious.

"Draco?" James repeated, looking intrigued rather than suspicious. "Like the constellation? That's fascinating. I'm actually doing some research on celestial imagery in different religions..."

He started talking about stars and myths and mortal beliefs, and I found myself completely lost - not only in the confusion about the topic but also in the way his eyes lit up when he spoke about things that interested him. I contributed nothing useful to the conversation. I just sat there, giving occasional nods that Romilda later told me looked more like what mortals refer to as muscle spasms.

The worst part came when he asked what I was studying. I panicked and said "mortal behavior" - which is technically true, I suppose, just not in the way he assumed. He looked delighted and started talking about something called "sociology" and "psychology" and asking my opinions on theories I'd never heard of.

I made such a fool of myself. I knocked over his coffee (again). I accidentally crushed the edge of his table when I got nervous (he didn't notice, thank goodness). When he asked why I only work night shifts at the caffè, I blurted out "I'm allergic to sunlight" - which made him launch into a fascinating but terrifying discussion about something called "rickets" and the importance of sunlight for mortal health.

The whole interaction was a disaster. I should never attempt it again.

...He asked if I would be working tomorrow night.

I said yes.

What is happening to me?

Harry smiles at the entry, imagining Draco just as flustered in 1910 as he sometimes gets now, though the setting and circumstances are so different. It's the same flustered energy Draco still gets sometimes when caught off guard. He wonders if Draco knows he still occasionally breaks things when he's nervous - Harry's noticed the cracked windowsill in his room where Draco gripped it too hard during one of their late-night conversations.

Draco edges his perception around Gilbert's mind frustrated that it still seems blocked to him. He doesn't like going into this situation blind not knowing why Gilbert is pretending to have his best interests at heart. From the conversation in the inn and the cafe, he concludes that Gilbert knew the vampire Draco replaced from his previous life. What does he gain or what is he after by aligning himself with him? And how much should Draco trust him after listening to him kill that boy?

The cold body of the dark-haired curly-haired boy flashes in his mind and he flinches back against the image. It's different he desperately thinks, I didn't have to choice. It was either the boy or Harry and for Draco, that's no choice at all. Gilbert was killed in cold blood. He was heartless just like the history books said, but for now, he was ok Draco's side and he plans on using that to his advantage.

"So what's the plan," Draco asks in a cool detached voice as if he wasn't just contemplating how much of a murderer he is.

Gilbert looks at him, his eyes roaming up and down Draco's figure in a hungry fashion.

"You're my fiancé. We had a whirlwind romance and now we are eloping,"

"Don't people who are eloping generally not tell others?" Draco asks with a raised eyebrow.

"I like to surprise people,"

Draco gives him a dubious look, taking note once again of Gilbert's too-young features. Much too young to pass as a college student much less a professor.

"How do you convince your students and coworkers you are a professor anyway? Are you claiming to be a young genius who skipped multiple grades?"

"Magic," Gilbert says with a secretive smile before he downs a small vial that he dug out of his pocket, knocking it back with one quick gesture.

He shudders as a strange change takes over his face, rearranging his teen face into something older and more mature. Instead of a gangly sixteen-year-old, a twenty-five-year-old that has grown into his features stands next to him.

"What was that?" Draco asks suspicion thick in his voice.

He would be more surprised if he wasn't used to seeing spells like that cast every day. It is surprising to learn that magic exists in this world in more forms than just vampire powers, shapeshifters, and werewolves.

"Insurance," Gilbert says with a tight lip smile as another vial slips past his slips, bleeding blue over the red in his eyes.

"And that?"

"Extra insurance,"

"Are you going to explain that further?"

Gilbert smirks at him as he offers Draco his arm, "I don't kiss and tell on the first date,"

The Victorian townhouse thrums with life as they approach, the sounds of laughter and clinking glasses spilling out into the night. Gilbert adjusts Draco's collar with practised familiarity, his cold fingers lingering just long enough to establish their pretence.

"Ready, darling?" Gilbert's eyes dance with amusement. "Remember, we met at that charming little café in Prague last summer. You were studying abroad – art history, of course. It was all very sudden and romantic."

Draco restrains himself from rolling his eyes at the cliché story, though he has to admire its effectiveness. It explains both his youth and the whirlwind engagement perfectly.

The door opens to reveal a middle-aged woman in a sensible sweater, her eyes widening with delight. "Gulliver! And this must be—"

"My fiancé, Draco," Gilbert announces with a theatrical flourish, wrapping an arm around Draco's waist. The thoughts hit Draco immediately:

Of course, Gulliver would show up with someone barely old enough to drink...

Just like when he spontaneously moved to Berlin for a year...

He really does live like there's no tomorrow...

"Margaret, darling," Gilbert continues, leading them inside. "I'm afraid I have some bittersweet news. I've accepted a position at a private institution in Italy."

The chorus of thoughts intensifies:

Another adventure. Remember when he vanished to Washington?

That poor boy. Does he know what he's getting into?

Just like Guliver – engagement one minute, moving across continents the next...

A distinguished-looking man in tweed approaches, his mental voice cutting through the others: Twenty-two at most. Gulliver hasn't aged a day in ten years, but this is pushing it...

"Charles!" Gilbert exclaims, pulling the man into a careful hug. "I was just telling Margaret about Italy."

"Italy?" Charles raises an eyebrow. "Rather sudden, isn't it?"

"When is anything about Gilbert not sudden?" a young professor laughs, joining their circle.

Her thoughts betray her attraction to Gilbert, tinged with resignation. Of course, he's gay. All the interesting ones are...

"Life's too short to hesitate," Gilbert declares with a knowing smirk at Draco. "When you know, you know."

The irony of his words isn't lost on Draco as the humans murmur in agreement. They see Gilbert as the embodiment of carpe diem, never suspecting that his apparent zest for life stems from an eternity of existence.

"And what do your parents think of this whirlwind romance?" a motherly professor asks Draco directly.

Before Draco can respond, Gilbert smoothly interjects, "Oh, they're absolutely thrilled. Draco's father and I go way back – don't we, love?"

The casual reference to Lucius sends a chill down Draco's spine, but he manages a convincing smile. "Father always said…Gulliver was... unforgettable."

Such an odd dynamic between them...

There's something almost predatory in how Guliver watches him...

Young love – he'll learn soon enough about Gulliver's restless spirit...

The thoughts swirl around them as they navigate the party, Gilbert masterfully weaving their false narrative into his decades-long charade. Every "impulsive" decision, every sudden move, carefully calculated to maintain his human façade while never staying long enough for questions to arise.

A student corners them by the refreshments, her eyes bright with admiration. "Professor Swift, your lectures on medieval torture devices were incredible! Will you be finishing the semester?"

"I'm afraid not, my dear," Gilbert says with genuine regret. "But I'm leaving my complete lecture notes with the department. Though I suspect they may need some... updating."

He winks at Draco, who catches a flash of memory from the girl's mind – Gilbert correcting textbooks with barely concealed frustration, muttering about "historical inaccuracies."

As they make their way through the crowd, Draco realizes that Gilbert has orchestrated a perfect disappearing act. Everyone will remember this night – the passionate professor rushing off to Italy with his young fiancé, living life with reckless abandon. No one will question when they never hear from him again. It's just Gilbert being Gilbert, forever chasing the next adventure, forever young in their memories.

The perfect lie, hiding in plain sight.

"We can buy you new clothes in Italy," Draco says as they climb the stairs to Gilbert's flat, "Surely this isn't necessary."

Gilbert's hand pauses on the doorknob, his expression uncharacteristically serious. "Some things can't be replaced, young one."

The door opens to reveal a warmly lit apartment that feels lived-in in a way he imagines vampire dwellings rarely do. When he steps in he feels a strange film settle over him and sees a security sensor flash over his head. Books are scattered across coffee tables, half-empty mugs dot various surfaces, and family photos line the walls. The scent of rosemary and mugwort hangs in the air.

"Gil? Is that you?" a voice calls from deeper in the flat, "You're home early. Did you forget your house keys again?"

A woman emerges from the kitchen, strange dust covered her dark apron and streaked in her auburn hair. An odd almost bitter herbal smell mixes with her scent repelling any temptation that he has to bite her. It reminds him of the wet dog smell that circles around Ginny and something else that niggles at the back of his mind. Her face lights up at the sight of Gilbert, but there's knowing sadness in her eyes.

"You're leaving, aren't you?" she asks softly.

Gilbert's carefully maintained façade cracks just slightly. "Rachel—"

"Don't." She waves a wooden spoon at him. "I knew this day was coming. You've been antsy for weeks."

Her thoughts flood Draco's mind: Please don't let this be like Romilda. I can't handle another disappeared-in-the-night scenario.

"I brought my fiancé to meet you," Gilbert says, gesturing to Draco.

The word 'fiancé' carries a different weight here – not the casual lie from the faculty party, but something meant to reassure. Rachel's eyebrows shoot up.

"Fiancé? Gilbert Grindelwald, you absolute menace. Were you planning to tell me you were even dating someone?"

She turns to Draco with a warm smile that doesn't quite mask her concern as she glances at the security sensor, replaying the memory of it flashing red in her memory. Vampire just like Gils.

"He's rather impulsive," Draco offers, playing along, pretending his species wasn't just revealed to him in this woman's mind while trying to understand the complex dynamic unfolding before him.

Rachel laughs, but her thoughts betray her: Ten years I've known him and thinks he can fool me with a fake fiance.

"Come in, come in," she insists, ushering them toward the kitchen. "I'm stress cooking. Again. Because someone likes to drop life-changing news on Tuesday nights."

Despite the initial snapshot of domestic life, the kitchen upon closer inspection appears anything but. A 'cookbook' lays open on the counter, but instead of calling for careful measurements of flour and baking soda, Draco sees familiar words like belladonna and henbanet on the page through the woman's mind. Gilbert moves through the space with familiar ease, reaching for cups without looking, knowing exactly where everything is and not seeming bothered by the potion brewing on the oven, as if he too is fooled by the glamour he detects flickering over the scene.

"You're a witch," Draco says without thinking, too excited by his discovery.

Rachel's eyes widen with fear and she turns to Gilbert with an angry.

"What did you tell him," she snaps, "Because I swear to god if you exposed me after I trusted you with my secret,"

"Rachel," he starts, his voice gentler than Draco has heard it yet, "I promise I didn't tell him.

Gilbert steps forward, hands raised in a placating gesture. "Rachel, breathe. He's... complicated." His eyes dart to Draco, a warning clear in his glance. "Let me handle this."

"I can explain myself," Draco interjects, but Gilbert shakes his head.

"No," Gilbert says firmly. "Rachel needs the simplest version. Otherwise we risk putting her in danger," He turns to her, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial tone. "He's like me. Different. Knows things. But not everything."

Rachel's tension doesn't fully dissipate, but her shoulders are slightly lower. The herbal scent around her intensifies – a defensive mechanism Draco guesses as a type of magical warding.

"Pack your things," she says to Gilbert, her voice sharp but controlled. "I want a word with... him."

"Rachel, this is dangerous, you have no idea what you are getting into the middle of," Gilbert says in a frustrated voice.

"Gilbert, I knew you were trouble the second I met you, has that ever stopped me from helping you?"

Gilbert wears a mutantious expression while he nods.

"Then why would I stop now?" Rachel says in a simple voice.

"Do not say I didn't warn you later," Gilbert says before disappears down the hallway, leaving Draco alone with Rachel.

A look of deep concentration comes over Rachel's face and the kitchen comes into sharper focus. Books that seemed like ordinary cookbooks to Draco's eyes reveal themselves as books with old leather bound covers with covered in strange symbols. A mortar and pestle sits beside jars of dried plants – mugwort, rosemary, something that looks and smells suspiciously like wolfsbane.

Rachel leans against the counter, her earlier maternal warmth replaced by a calculating scrutiny. "So. You're not exactly human."

"Neither are you," Draco replies.

A beat of silence. Then she laughs – a sharp, surprised sound. "Fair enough."

Draco's eyes drift to a stack of books. One catches his attention – a leather-bound volume with intricate diagrams of the stars. Another looks like a comprehensive herbology text, but the script is unlike any magical notation he's familiar with.

"You're wondering about my magic," Rachel says. It's not a question.

"I was hoping..." Draco hesitates. "I'm looking for a very specific magical solution. A spell, perhaps, that can release two people trapped within a book?"

Rachel's eyebrow rises. She moves to a small cabinet and pulls out a kettle. "Tea?" At Draco's nod, she continues, "My magic is... practical. Herbal. Protective. I work with the natural properties of things. Enhancing, warding, and healing are the most common. Trapping people in books?" She shakes her head. "That sounds like something from a fairy tale."

The disappointment must show on Draco's face because she adds, "I'm sorry I wish I could be of more assistance,"

"How did you end up with Gilbert?" Draco asks, trying to mask his frustration.

Rachel's smile turns knowing. "Let's just say I found Gilbert when he needed someone to lean on, and I provided him a semblance of humanity he craves."

She slides a cup of tea across the counter.

"Drink," she says. "And tell me why you're looking for a reversal to a spell like this,"

Gilbert's distant chuckle from down the hallway suggests he's listening to every word.

The tea grows cold as Draco speaks, his voice low and measured. Rachel listens without interruption, her fingers tracing the rim of her cup.

"I am from another world. In my world, magic is... different," he begins glancing in surprise at Rachels unsurprised expression, "We use wands. Incantations. Spells that can transform, transport, and even control. My school – Hogwarts – was divided into houses. I was a Slytherin. Harry..."

Draco trails off as the pain in his chest grows at the mention of his name and the difficulty of speaking about what he has told no one else. Rachel nods in encouragement and Draco forces himself to keep speaking.

"-he was a Gryffindor. We were enemies. Rivals. We hated each other with a passion that consumed everything."

He takes a deep breath.

"Then came the war. The Dark Lord– a dark wizard who wanted to purify the magical world, and eliminate those he deemed unworthy. He gave me an impossible task. Kill the head of the other side and kidnap his best lieutenant Harry or watch my entire family be destroyed."

Rachel's hand tightens around her cup, but she remains silent. The shuffling sounds from Gilbert's room die away.

"I was desperate. So desperate to save my family, to protect what little I had left." Draco's voice breaks slightly. "I found an old spell in a magical room. Something ancient and forbidden. A spell of containment that was supposed to trap a single person in a book."

He looks up, meeting Rachel's eyes. "But magic is complicated. Unpredictable. The spell went wrong. Instead of trapping Harry, it trapped us both. Together. In a book. I somehow was able to retain my memories of our world but Harry was not. So I came up with a plan to seduce him and then kill him, fulfilling what I thought was the plot. I didn't succeed in this. Harry's magic in our word was powerful. More powerful than the spell could contain. He warped this world to reflect people from our own. It derailed the this world and storyline in more ways than one and instead of killing him I fell in love breaking many rules that I am just now learning about,"

"And now you're here," Rachel says softly. "In another world with a new threat."

"You believe me?" Draco asks in disbelief, thinking that him of two years definitely would have had them committed to the Janus Thickey Ward.

"The world is infindiantly stranger than you and I know," Rachel says with a shrug and then smiles, "And I can see your aura when you lie, it turns red for vampires,"

"Oh," Draco says feeling stunned to learn yet another aspect of this world's magic.

It feels good to finally tell someone after keeping it all in for so long. Rachel's eyes, sharp and knowing, seem to look through him rather than at him.

"What laws have you broken, that caused the Inner Circle to come after you?"

"How do you know the Inner Circle's involved?"

"If Gilbert is involved in this it must involve the Inner Circle," Rachel says and then frowns in disapproval, "Gilbert has a long history with them. He can't seem to stop himself from helping people who run into trouble with them. No matter the risk to himself."

Draco's laugh is bitter. "Harry's human. And he know I'm a vampire. That my whole family is vampires, but he doesn't want to be one himself. He has a tendency to always at the centre of some impossible conflict." He grumbles remembering their Hogwarts days when it seemed like the year always ended with Harry in the hospital wing. He pauses. "I just want to find a way back. To break the spell. To fix everything in our world"

From the hallway, Gilbert's voice drifts in. "Magic always has a price, young one. Always."

Rachel's hand moves almost imperceptibly – a protective gesture.

"And you think I might help you?"

"I don't know," Draco admits. "But you're the first person I've met in this world who might understand."

Rachel leans forward, her herbal tea forgotten. "Every complex containment spell in this world needs a catalyst. Something powerful enough to anchor the magical binding. Not just any object – something with significant magical potential. Personal significance."

Draco's brow furrows. At first, his mind draws a blank. The spell was so desperate, so hurried. What could he have used?

And then it hits him.

"The ring," he whispers. "Dumbledore's ring."

The memory crystallizes – that moment in the hallway, the headmaster dropping an ancient ring. Black stone set in a curious metal, a hairline crack running through its centre. Something about it had always felt... off. Powerful. Dangerous.

"Tell me about this ring," Rachel commands, her voice sharp with sudden intensity.

Draco describes it carefully. The black stone. The metal – was it silver? Gold? Something older. The crack seemed to pulse with a strange energy.

"My target had it just moments before I attempted the spell. He dropped it – I picked it up without thinking."

Rachel's fingers drum against the table. "A ring," she mutters, more to herself than to Draco. "An object of transition that breaks boundaries between worlds."

Her eyes narrow. "This stone, it was the center of your spell?"

Draco nods slowly. "I think so. I used it almost unconsciously. Like it wanted to be part of the magic."

Gilbert appears in the doorway, silent and watching. His eyes hold a knowing look that suggests he's heard far more than he's letting on.

"Catalysts choose their moments," Rachel says softly. "Just like magic chooses its wielders."

Rachel guides Draco to sit at the kitchen table, her movements precise and deliberate. "Magic isn't a science," she explains, pushing aside the herbal preparations. "It's a conversation. A negotiation."

Gilbert leans against the doorframe, watching with keen interest.

"Close your eyes," Rachel instructs. "But don't force it. Imagine the ring. Not just its appearance – its essence. The weight of it. The crack that runs through its heart. The power that pulses inside."

Draco follows her guidance. The ring materializes in his mind's eye – black stone, aged metal, that curious crack that seemed to breathe with its own life. He remembers Dumbledore's hand, how it looked when he dropped the ring. The way the stone caught the light.

"Feel its connection to you," Rachel continues. Her voice has taken on a different quality – between a whisper and a chant. "It chose you once before. It will choose you again."

Warmth begins to build behind Draco's eyes. Not heat, precisely, but something more – a vibration. A resonance.

Gilbert shifts slightly, his ancient eyes fixed on Draco's concentrated form.

"Magic knows its moment of greatest need," Rachel murmurs. "And you, my dear, are standing precisely at that crossroads."

The vibration intensifies. For a moment – just a moment – Draco sees something. A flash. A location. Something old. Something hidden. Then it is gone.

Rachel frowns at him when he opens his eyes and shakes his head.

"It's not time yet, then, it will reveal itself to you only when you are ready to wield it,"

"But when will I know," Draco growls.

Rachel's laugh is soft, but there's an edge of long earned knowledge behind it. "Magic isn't a servant, Draco. It's a living thing. Capricious. Unpredictable."

Gilbert moves closer, his crimson eyes glinting between amusement and understanding. "She means you'll know when you're meant to know. Not a moment before, not a moment after."

"That's impossible," Draco snaps. "I don't have time for riddles. Harry and I are trapped—"

"The most powerful magic always comes when you've exhausted all other options," Rachel interrupts.

She reaches for a dried bundle of herbs hanging near the window, crushing them between her fingers. The scent of rosemary and something sharper fills the air.

"Desperation is often the key that unlocks the most hidden doors."

Gilbert nods, suggesting he's witnessed this truth countless times across his long existence. "You'll feel it," he says. "A pull. A moment of absolute certainty. When the need is greatest, when you are most vulnerable and open, the catalyst will reveal itself."

Draco's frustration bubbles over that even Gilbert a non magic user seems to know more about this than he does.

"And how am I supposed to know that moment?"

Rachel's smile is enigmatic. "You won't know. That's the point." She turns back to her herbs, fingers working methodically. "Magic chooses. You don't choose it."

The dismissal is clear. The conversation, as far as she's concerned, is over.

Gilbert's hand falls on Draco's shoulder, a gesture both comforting and constraining.

"Patience," Gilbert whispers, his breath cool against Draco's ear. "Not a virtue you're known for, I suspect. But necessary in times like these."

Rachel's abrupt subject change carries the weight of imminent departure.

"Your room will stay exactly as you left it," she says, her voice quiet and laden with unspoken emotion. "Though I do insist on dusting every once in a while. Even when you are here you never cleaned. You would think you would have learned how after as long as you've been alive."

The casual mention of his true age makes Gilbert laugh – a genuine and ancient sound. He leans down to kiss her on the cheek, an gesture of profound tenderness that speaks of decades of connection.

Rachel begins to bustle around the kitchen with practised efficiency, stacking carefully prepared jars of liquid and herb-wrapped talismans into a box. Each movement is deliberate, each item chosen with care. She hands the box to Gilbert, her movements betraying a lifetime of preparation for such moments.

"I added the lengthening spells," she says aloud, her back still turned. There's a professional detachment in her voice that barely masks deep emotion. "They should last you longer than the standard two weeks. And I added the juniper berries you like for flavor."

She finally turns, and the tears gleaming in her eyes tell a story far more complex than her words.

"Promise me something?"

Gilbert is beside her in an instant, moving at vampire speed – the first time he's done so in her presence. The action itself is a testament to their unique bond. "Anything," he promises.

"Write this time?" Her hand touches his face – unafraid, unintimidated by the supernatural being before her. "Even if you can't say where you are or what you're doing. Just... let me know you're still out there somewhere, being your dramatic self."

Her thoughts flood Draco's mind: Don't disappear like she did. Don't let me spend years wondering if you're still alive.

The unnamed "she" hangs unspoken between them – a ghost of loss that Gilbert and Rachel understand intimately.

Draco suddenly understands why they came here, and why Gilbert insisted on this stop. This isn't about clothes or possessions. This is a goodbye to family – one that knows exactly what they're saying goodbye to. A farewell between two beings who have chosen each other, understand each other's true nature and create a connection that transcends the typical boundaries of human and vampire, of protector and protected.

Gilbert's hand comes up to mirror Rachel's, covering her hand on his cheek. For a moment, the ancient vampire looks almost vulnerable.

"Of course," he says simply.

Draco gives Gilbert an accessing stare as they leave the flat and Gilbert smirks.

"You might as well ask, I might not be able to read minds but I've been around long enough to know what you are thinking,"

"To be so close to some but treat others as prey. You were kissing that boy one moment and the next…he was dead,"

Gilbert gets a complicated look, "And you've never wanted to eat this boy of yours?"

"No," Draco says too quickly to be an accurate lie, the first day they met in this world flashing in his mind.

How he did eat Harry.

Gilbert's knowing look says he understands where Draco's thoughts went.

"It's about balance, young one, save what's yours and feast on what's not," Gilbert says in a callous voice, causing Draco to clench his fists and pace ahead, "Or so I'm told, who's to say that that boy wasn't one of my theater students,"

Draco stops in his tracks and whirls around stunned, "You mean you let me think that-"

But all he meets is the distant echo of laughter on the wind.

June 17, 1910

James noticed I never read the books I bring with me and when he asked I didn't know how to explain to him that I don't like reading the dusty tomes about vampire lineages and Council law that Father insists upon. So instead I said I'd never read a book. James's eyes got big and he rushed back to his 'flat' in excitement. He came back some minutes later with a large stack of books that he thrusted at me. He lent me many things he called "novels" one being- Pride and Prejudice. I tried to refuse, explaining that I had no interest but he insisted.

"Everyone should read books," he said, "They allow people to experience things without seeing or doing them in real life."

I didn't understand what he meant until I started reading. These characters... they're not real, yet I find myself caring about their fates. Elizabeth Bennet reminds me of James somehow - so quick to judge, yet capable of admitting when she's wrong. I've never read anything like this. Vampire histories are just endless lists of names and battles and rules. But this... this has life in it.

I stayed up all night reading it, not even tempted to feed. When I returned it the next day, James smiled at me and asked what I thought about Mr. Darcy's pride. We talked for hours. He never once questioned why I didn't order anything to drink or eat.

July 15, 1910

It's been a while since I have sat down to write. I find that I want to spend all of my time with James. Either trailing him as he goes about his day using the city's underground catacombs or spending hours with him exploring the city by night. The radius of minds I can hear expands each time I'm near James. Tonight when we visited a museum I caught the thoughts of someone three streets away. But never his. His mind remains frustratingly silent. I find myself seeking his company not to feed, but to try and break into it. He speaks of his studies in religion and philosophy with such passion, it makes me want to know what he thinks of me.

He is still completely unaware of what I am. Sometimes I wonder what he would think if he knew the truth - that the all-powerful gods in his religious texts walk among mortals every night.

September 1, 1910

Something unprecedented happened today. James was telling me about his studies, about how different cultures view death and the afterlife. I found myself genuinely curious about mortal beliefs - not as weaknesses to exploit, but as ideas worth considering. Then he said something that kept repeating in my head all night: "The more I study different beliefs, the more I realize that what makes us human isn't our bodies or our humanity - it's our capacity to question, to doubt, to change our minds."

I wanted to tell him that vampires can change too. That I have changed, am changing, every day I spend with him. Instead, I asked him more questions about his research. But later, I heard the thoughts of a mother comforting her child after a nightmare, and for the first time, I truly understood what James meant. The woman wasn't just responding to biological imperatives - she was choosing to comfort, to love.

Father says mortals are beneath us, that their brief lives make them insignificant. But what if their very mortality is what makes them capable of such depth? What if their limited time forces them to feel everything more intensely, more genuinely?

The thoughts I hear are becoming harder to dismiss as mere animal instincts. I haven't fed in three days. I can't bear to now that hear my prey's fear echoing in my head every time I take a drank. That I see James every time I look into their eyes. They're lives are made up of stories, every one of them. And James... James makes me want to have a story of my own, not just Father's perfectly crafted narrative of what a vampire should be.

Harry pauses after reading these entries, struck by how Draco's clinical curiosity gradually transformed into genuine empathy. The parallels to their own relationship are impossible to ignore - the way Draco still sometimes asks seemingly naive questions about human experiences, the same careful distance mixed with undeniable attraction. But there's a sadness too, knowing how this story must have ended, given that Draco was alone when Harry met him.