Chapter 48: Draco

Lord, What Fools These Mortals Be

"Captain of our fairy band,
Helena is here at hand,
And the youth, mistook by me,
Pleading for a lover's fee.
Shall we their fond pageant see?
Lord, what fools these mortals be!"
—William Shakespeare, A Midsummer Night's Dream

Later that day—
Saturday, September 15, 2007
Nott Manor

"The rod needs to be perpendicular to the surface. Do you see how you're favoring the left?" Draco observed Timmy closely as he corrected his movements. Upon the third stir, Draco directed, "Now remove it slowly. Don't disturb the simmer."

Timmy carefully lifted the copper rod; only the barest half-drop caused a ripple when he moved it out of the cauldron. Instantly, the potion's color shifted from a cloudy gray to a light shimmering mauve.

"Wow." Timmy shifted his legs in excitement. "That looks right!"

"It is," Draco agreed. "Now, let it simmer for an hour, turn off the heat, and let it cool before bottling it up. I'll have Muffy owl them to the hospital this evening."

"Brilliant," Timmy agreed as he began cleaning the worktop. "Thank you for having me over on a Saturday, Mr. Malfoy. I was so sorry about the elixir yesterday—and the windows—"

"It's fine." Draco walked over to the wall, where he removed his dragon hide apron and hung it on a hook. He turned back to Timmy, who was washing some tools in the sink. "You and Willy should come in late on Monday. I know this wasn't in your contract."

Draco walked over to a parchment-covered desk he had set up near a stained-glass mullioned window overlooking the back gardens. He frowned at his latest owl order receipt. With Westbrook's closed, perhaps permanently, finding some rarer ingredients was getting more complicated. He had inquired with other London-based apothecaries for Demiguise solution without much luck. He only had three vials, enough to produce The Imposter's Downfall for an initial submission to the DMLE but not for the French ministry.

The Guild was ostensibly testing the recipe. Draco wondered if the shortage was due to that, but even so, there should besomeavailable.

He wanted to supply his potion to St. Mungo's. Though circumstances had forced Draco to use the position in a defensive capacity, he had conceived the potion as a method of removing the effects of botched hexes or poorly done transfiguration. The current recipe only allowed for temporary removal, but that's not to say it would not be useful in the Spell Damage ward. He could not shake the itch to cast all his responsibilities aside to experiment and improve the brew's efficacy, perhaps tweaking the temperatures or ingredients to make the effects permanent.

He needed time and more ingredients to do that, neither of which he possessed.

Draco sat down to write a letter. The Malfoy name might be out of favor with the Guild and other certified Masters, but it still held sway with less reputable figures in the industry. Lucius would undoubtedly hear about Draco reaching out to Dom Finster's black market, but Draco could not bring himself to care. Lucius already knew about the Trust—what else was there to hide?

The letter was soon completed and dispatched with Byron, the Malfoy eagle owl. Draco checked the time. He needed to meet Granger in an hour to pick up that blasted vampire, Darla.

He had underestimated Granger's earnest, bleeding heart. And now, they had to follow Granger's foolish plan to use a dangerous vampirewho had already hurt herto find other dangerous vampires who also would not mind hurting her—or him.

It was a disaster waiting to happen, and Draco did not know what to do about it.

Looking down at himself, Draco noted the reddish stains on his rolled-up sleeves from the elixir's required boysenberry juice, the slight wrinkle at the hem of his trousers, and, after a sniff, a faint sulphuric odor.

Draco winced. "Timmy, can you handle the rest? I have an appointment soon."

"Yes, Mr. Malfoy!"

"Let it cool before bottling!" Draco called as he exited the laboratory, only half-expecting Timmy to botch a simple decanting process.

But by the time Draco had made it to the corridor, his mind was already worlds away. He had to get ready and complete one more critical task before meeting Granger.

One hour later—
Sanctuary for Class X Non-Creature Part-Humans, Cornwall

Draco was waiting when a pop heralded Ganger's arrival at the apparition point.

Grander spun around and saw him. "Malfoy," she noted. "Right on time."

"Granger," he greeted neutrally.

Seeing her brought an instant warmth to his chest, which he concealed behind his practiced calm demeanor. It was a professional relationship, he reminded himself—for now. He did not want to scare Granger off.

Draco, who had completed his task, pulled out a flower from behind his cloak: a single stem of blooming monkshood, the spherical purple petals protecting the barest glimpse of yellow stamens. He held it out toward Granger.

"What is that?"

Draco scowled. "Let's not play this game again."

Granger scowled back. "Is this going to be a regular occurrence?"

Perhaps not, if Granger continued accepting flowers as if they were venereal diseases. "Just take it, Granger."

But when Granger reached out to accept the monkshood, Draco did not miss how her eyes softened and her mouth relaxed into something he could confidently interpret as not displeased.

He hoped that Granger had seen fit to learn flower language. With their task ahead of them, today's offering seemed particularly important.

Granger tucked the flower into her bag and nodded awkwardly. "Well—let's fetch Darla."

Three hours later—
Old Town, Edinburgh

"The stones beckon," Darla declared for the fifth time that hour. She dropped to her knees in the cobblestoned public square and pressed her cheek down into the crevices of the grout.

They stood outside St. Giles's Cathedral in the Muggle half of Old Town. Luckily, the sun had just set, and there were enough Muggles walking about that odd Darla, with her black gauzy veil—now pulled back in the dusk—and conspicuous demeanor did not draw too much attention. Across the square, a group of Muggles reenacted an execution on the cathedral's back steps, which was much odder, in Draco's opinion, than sniffing for blood in a paving stone.

Granger hastened to stand over Darla, leaving Draco a few paces away, looking, he feared, equally if not more conspicuous than the vampire. Granger had insisted that he take off his cloak when they had reluctantly followed Darla into the Muggle part of Edinburgh. He had complied, but he felt strange in his three-piece Muggle suit, even considering the diverse and outlandish Muggle fashions around him.

"Darla," Granger attempted indulgently. "Perhaps you could focus on locating more of your kind? The stones here are very old, and their scents might confuse you."

"Is she all right?" a Muggle woman called to them from closer to the roadway. She wore a pair of those rigid blue trousers that Draco had seen Potter wear several times and carried a shopping bag with a printed coat of arms.

"Oh, yes, sorry," Granger replied with heavily affected enthusiasm. "Just—a bit too much to drink. We're getting her home now."

The woman eyed them suspiciously but nodded and continued walking down the road.

Draco sighed and joined Granger by Darla. He desperately wished he could hold his wand openly without breaking a centuries-old global pact of secrecy. His hand itched inside his pocket around the wooden handle.

"Darla," Draco said sharply. The vampire's eyes opened at the sound of his voice.

Draco had not spoken to the vampire directly yet that day. He and Granger had picked her up in Cornwall. Then, they had apparated her to the Wyrd's Wynd—the magical neighborhood nestled parallel to Mary King's Close—where the vampire had proceeded to wander wide-eyed into nearly all the magical shops, knock over a very tall display of quills, and chat for forty-five minutes with a marsh hag enjoying a plate of fish innards in a pub.

Draco's tolerance for antics was officially exhausted.

"Stand, please," Draco told Darla, and his tone made it clear that it was not a request. He crouched, clasped Darla's cold, bony elbow, and heaved the vampire back to her feet.

Granger was predictably quick to come to the deviant, criminal vampire's aid. She reached out as she whispered, "Malfoy—"

Draco silenced her with a firm look. "Stay back, Granger." He would not let the vampire so much as graze Granger's sleeve with a fingertip. He turned back to Darla, who was staring at the cobblestones with open longing.

"What do you sense in the stones?" he inquired. It was the only indulgence he would allow.

"Death," Darla replied instantly. "Blood. Suffering."

"This is where Muggles held executions in past centuries," Granger offered. "I suppose it left a mark."

Draco sighed. Fighting against the cold feeling of perversion that looking into Darla's eyes caused, he met her gaze while reaching to clasp her ice cold wrists with his hands.

Draco's voice dropped into a murmur, forcing Darla to lean toward him. "Yesterday, you said darkness calls to darkness."

"Yes," Darla whispered.

"Do the stones call to your darkness?"

"… It is different."

"Good," Draco nodded. "Close your eyes."

The vampire complied. Draco hesitated, fully aware of Granger watching them intently. It made him sick to recall his Mind Magic lessons from Bellatrix in Granger's presence, but Darla was not getting anywhere with her purportedly natural instincts.

He took a deep breath and continued, "There is darkness and suffering all around us. I can sense it, too."

It was not a lie. Muggles had no defense against Legilimency, and though Draco was not adept at that side of the mental arts, his limited abilities made him aware of the consciousnesses nearby. He presumed it was similar to the remnants of death in the stones for Darla. He closed his eyes along with Darla and recited his next instructions very deliberately.

"Darkness calls to darkness," he said, echoing Darla's words. "We're surrounded by the living—their heat, their suffering breath, their restless energy. But that's not what you seek. Shut it out. Let it fade into a hum." He gave a moment for Darla to make the shift, keeping his eyes closed and his grip on her wrists steady.

"Find the darkness," he said. "The stillness. The absence. Focus on that feeling inside you and call out into the world for more."

Darla took several shuddering breaths. Draco had to grip her arms tighter to keep her upright. Eventually, she calmed down, and her body relaxed. Draco opened his eyes and found that Darla's face had shifted into a smooth blankness.

"Open your eyes," Draco whispered. She did, and he nodded at her lucidity. "Where do we go?"

"This way."

Darla led them down the Muggle thoroughfare. He and Granger followed close behind, monitoring lest Darla make a wrong move toward any Muggles around them.

"How did you do that?" Granger asked. She looked alert and thoughtful, glancing his way in curiosity.

Draco reluctantly replied, "It's a Legilimency exercise. I thought it might be applicable."

"You're a Legilimens?"

"No," he hastened to answer. "Occlumens. But … I've had some lessons." He hoped Granger would not ask for more. He did not want to utter his deranged aunt's name out loud.

Thankfully, Granger let the topic drop, and they continued following Darla, who had succumbed to whatever dark sense she possessed with singular focus. Granger had to redirect the vampire's path so they did not crash into a knee-high concrete pillar emerging from the pavement.

The cathedral and the hilltop Edinburgh Castle grew small behind them. There were dozens of Muggle shops, selling things Draco could not recognize, and just as many eateries selling more familiar things, though in alien packaging. The sky was a dark shade of blue, and the street lamps alighted as they walked.

Theo had once told Draco that he ventured into Muggle shops for things like those biscuits he often shared. Perhaps his friend would make an educational outing for them both, if only so that Draco would not further embarrass himself in front of Granger. Then Draco thought how bizarre it was that he wanted to gain facility with navigating Muggle society—his father would have a fit.

Darla led them across another cobblestone courtyard, one side of which held a line of illuminated automobiles making loud honking noises. The vehicles startled Draco, but Darla continued, unfazed and trancelike, down a steep hill with three-story buildings on either side of a narrow road.

They passed a rowdy pub with electric lights, a beacon of energy against the town's Medieval backdrop. Inside, a man sang loudly while playing the guitar, his amplified voice flooding through the open doors and windows. Visitors with glass pints spilled out onto tables lining the pavement.

Darla walked past them, her focus elsewhere.

They walked down the hill, the sounds of the pub fading behind them. The lamps were dimmer in that part of the town.

Eventually, Darla stopped across the road from a building. At least seven happily chatting Muggles were congregating on the pavement outside.

"There," she declared, pointing a bony finger.

It was a structure of grey stone and black shutters, inconspicuous amid the surrounding buildings save for a cherry red sign with electric lights.

"The Monkey Barrel?" Draco read out dubiously. "Is this a Muggle thing, Granger?" He wondered if the people congregated on the pavement were purchasing primates.

Ganger looked confused, then determined. "Wait here," she said before flitting across the road.

Draco kept his periphery trained on Darla as he watched Granger look into a ground-floor window holding some signage. The other people did not pay her any mind. Draco noticed that her clothing fit quite well with the others—in fact, Granger wore the same pair of shoes as another woman nearby.

"What do you sense?" Draco asked Darla, who had not moved an inch since stopping her march.

"It is faint," she murmured. "But, something is there. The darkness."

Draco eyed the perfectly average Muggle building, odd moniker aside. The thought that Ersilia could be lurking on an upper story, watching them through the shutter slats even then, chilled him to the bone. Draco and Granger had not discussed a plan if they did find Ersilia, both of them implicitly believing that it would take longer than three days to locate the coven.

Draco was certainly not prepared to face and perhaps forcibly incapacitate Ersilia. Possibly, Granger held onto a foolish notion of convincing the coven to turn themselves in to the Ministry, much like she foolishly trusted Darla to maintain her sanity.

Whatever patience Draco had mustered earlier was long gone, replaced by a sharp, simmering anger that coiled at the base of his spine. He did not trust Darla. And the knowledge that she had fed on Granger against Granger's will made his wand hand itch.

"Darla," he said, his voice dangerously even.

She met his gaze, though there was something unfocused about her expression. It didn't matter. Draco would make her understand.

"I recently learned that you kept…" His eyes flicked to Granger, who had drifted off to chat with a couple of loiterers. Out of earshot. Good. He did not need restraint with his anger or with his words. A shiver of pleasure ran through him when he uttered the next syllables. "…Hermionewith you last year. Against her will."

Darla's gaze followed his. When she turned back to him, something in her face tightened—not in defiance, but in sorrow.

"My sister Hermione understands," she murmured. "She listened. She helped me."

"I don't care about what happened," Draco said, stepping closer and suppressing the instinct to recoil from the unnatural cold that clung to Darla's body. "I care only about what will happen."

Darla did not immediately respond, but her lips parted slightly, just enough for him to glimpse the sharp edges of her canines.

"You will not bite her," Draco stated, voice low, eyes cold. "You will not so much as touch her. You will do everything Hermione says. And—" He slid his wand from his pocket, subtly lifting it between them. "—you will help protect her from Ersilia, La Faim Pâle, or whatever name she goes by now, and any other child of the night we come across."

Darla exhaled sharply, the sound almost a hiss. "I do not bite humans," she said. "I made these promises to your Ministry—to Oksana—"

"You will make them to me."

Darla flinched at the force behind his words.

"I don't work for the Ministry," Draco continued, his tone measured but seething beneath. "I don't care about their rules, their guidelines. If you touch Hermione again, I will make you disappear." He lowered his voice, letting menace lace his whisper.

Darla's mouth pressed into a thin line. Then, with something like quiet desperation, she said, "I did not want to harm her."

Draco narrowed his eyes.

"She was… fire, warmth—" Darla swallowed, as if struggling to find the words. "I was starving." Her hands twitched at her sides. "I waited as long as I could. You must believe that. And she… she gave me mercy. Guided me to find help." Her voice dropped to a whisper. "I have not fed on the heart's blood since."

The coil at the base of Draco's spine shifted. He wanted to dismiss it and remain unmoved, but there was something raw in Darla's voice that rang true.

"I shall not harm her," Darla said again, steadier now.

"See that you don't," Draco muttered, though his anger had cooled just enough to keep his hands steady.

Darla studied him, her sudden scrutiny sharp and unsettling. "You would make a good child of the night," she commented. "You have the darkness, too."

"Shut up," Draco quipped, and he was relieved when Granger approached them from across the road.

"It's a comedy club," Granger announced before turning to Darla. "Are you sure you sense vampires here?"

Darla nodded.

"Comedy club—what? Like a vaudeville?" Draco inquired. Perhaps the Muggles had trained monkeys to dance without magic.

"Er—no," Granger replied with an amused expression. "It's called stand-up comedy. A person stands on a stage, tells stories, and makes jokes so the audience laughs."

"In Budapest, as a child, my sire would enthrall the rodents to dance for us," Darla offered, smiling faintly. "We would laugh until the sun rose."

Draco and Granger exchanged looks. Draco's included a disgusted sneer that indicated, Could we ditch her? Granger's was a pathetic pout that indicated, foolishly, Poor darling.

"No rodents or monkeys involved," Granger replied. "This is a Muggle establishment. There's a show starting in fifteen minutes, and I purchased us tickets." Granger held out the papers in her palm.

"What if Ersilia is there, Granger?" Draco asked. He gripped his wand inside his pocket for comfort.

"There must be a hundred Muggles inside right now," Granger replied. "We will be part of the crowd. If anything dangerous happens, I can call for backup. I already alerted Harry to where we are. But for now, we're just looking for a laugh with the other attendees. Reconnaissance."

"I'm sure neither of us will stick out," Draco remarked, gesturing between himself and Darla.

Granger pursed her lips and appraised them. "Darla, take off that veil and try not to smile with your teeth. Malfoy …" Her eyes raked him over. Draco winced, wanting his cloak. But then Granger's cheeks faintly blushed. "You look fine."

The inside of the Monkey Barrel was quite familiar. Were it not for the electric lights and haphazard assemblage of blatantly Muggle steel and plastic chairs, Draco might have believed it was an establishment in Hogsmeade or Diagon Alley. The walls and floors were carved from grey stones, and the ceiling exposed the structure's wooden rafters.

Draco kept one hand on the wand inside his pocket and the other tense at his side. His gaze flicked around rapidly as he searched for signs of deranged, life-absorbing vampires and monitored Darla, who clung close to Granger's side like a pale shadow.

A dim stairwell led them and the other attendees down to a lower level, where a black platform stood before a sea of chairs, about half occupied by mingling Muggles. A bar spanned one wall, while the other held a table upon which more Muggle electronics stood, the wires tangled, dark, and abundant like a Devil's Snare.

Granger led them to a line of empty chairs in the back row, ideal for scoping out the place. Before they even sat down, Draco had already spotted an unmarked door behind the bar and two others in the corners on either side of the platform.

Granger sat beside a Muggle stranger, and Darla began to sink into the seat beside her—until Draco grabbed the vampire's arm and swiveled her into the third spot. He took the middle. Darla lightly hissed. Draco ignored her.

"How many levels do you think this building has?" Draco murmured to Granger, who had missed the encounter because her gaze was on the same doors Draco had spotted.

"Hard to say," she replied. Her head turned slowly about the room, settling on the bar. Most of the patrons had purchased drinks. "I'm going to buy us some drinks. What would you like?"

Draco had only ever imbibed Muggle alcohol with Potter at Poor John's Pub, months ago, and at Wimbledon. He wondered if other options existed besides inferior whiskey or Pimm's Cups. And then he thought that he should probably keep his wits about him.

"Nothing," he replied.

"The darkest, reddest wine," Darla lilted, leaning over Draco's lap toward Granger.

"Right," Granger nodded indulgently, and then she departed for the bar.

Draco and Darla sat in silence. He watched the goings-on of the Muggles around him. They chatted and sipped their libations and watched the empty stage expectantly. Many couples were sitting close, arms touching and hands clasped. A group of young women chittered in the front row by the platform. Many held small metal boxes in their hands, banging on them with their thumbs or holding them up to their ears.

Darla was breathing. Loudly. Her eyes were wide. Draco had been around significantly more Muggles at Wimbledon, but he wondered how many Muggles Darla had been near in her life—or afterlife, as it were.

Fuck, that breathing was conspicuous. Draco hoped she wasn'tsniffing.

Granger returned soon enough, handing Darla a large cup of red wine and something clear and bubbly to Draco. He took the vessel, a flexible overtly Muggle plastic, and sniffed, sensing nothing.

Granger retook her seat, holding a matching cup of clear liquid with bubbles. She spotted Draco looking and said, "Water … we're at work."

Draco held his drink and made no move to sip. Beside them, however, Darla had pulled a vial from her inner pocket and dumped it into her cup. Draco grasped her pale, bony wrist, forced the vial to his nose, and detected a faint coppery scent.

"Granger," Draco snarled under his breath. "Your friend has brought blood."

Granger leaned forward and across Draco's lap to grab the vial from Darla's hand. "Darla," she scolded. "Nothere."

"Only a sip, my sister," Darla murmured, bringing her cup of blood-laced wine to her lips and drinking with a relishing smile.

"Perfect," Draco hissed. "Every vampire in the building will know she's here."

With a weary sigh, Granger subtly pocketed the empty vial and sunk an inch lower in her seat, her expression tense and alert.

A tall man with dark brown hair and a blue sweater ascended the platform. He stepped up to a slender black microphone in a stand and tapped the orb, causing a strange puff of sound to emanate around the room. Draco had never heard such a thing before. Magical microphones worked via object-encased sonorous charms; Muggle electronics were different. He had noticed them at Wimbledon, but in the underground, claustrophobic space of The Monkey Barrel, the distinct quality of the sound was undeniable.

The man cleared his throat and began speaking into the microphone, his voice slightly staticky but amplified.

"Alright, good evening, everyone. Welcome to the Monkey Barrel. My name is Flynn Harrison, and I'll be starting our show tonight." He paused, and the audience applauded.

Draco hesitantly tapped his fingers on the side of his plastic cup, making approximately no sound.

The man Flynn continued, "We have a great lineup for you. The other gents needed more preparation time, so I got shafted with the opener. To answer the obvious question, no, I'm not wearing any makeup."

Scattered chuckles rang out as Flynn cupped his face, pockmarked with some small pustules and tinged with red.

"You ever have one of those days that reeks of bad decisions?" Flynn turned to gaggle of young women in the front row. "I can tell you lot know what I mean. … I had one of those days today. I popped into a chippy—standard, right?—and for reasons I still don't understand, I ordered a full deep-fried fish and chips, a mince pie, and bap.Allof that. If you are horrified at the amount of food, congratulations … you probably have self-respect."

Louder laughter, that time. Draco was not familiar with chippies or deep-fried anythings, so he sat stoically and proceeded with reconnaissance. There had been no movement near any of the doors.

"Not I." Flynn declared. "I haven't respected myself since the womb, if I'm honest. But back to the chippy. Now, I don't know if you've ever eaten something so greasy that your soul starts slipping out your body, but I swear, halfway through, I saw my dead granny shaking her head at me. Like, 'Flynnie, you were raised better than this.' And I had to be like, 'Naw, Granny, … I really wasn't.'"

The crowd laughed louder, clearly becoming more attuned to the comedian's thick accent and the cadence of his speech.

"I recognize that the week-old cruddy fry oil has probably caused this hallucination, but I turn to Granny anyway—and I say, 'Granny, yer the one who raisedyourson.' And for those who don't know, my da resembles a ten-stone walking sentient chip. And so, I say, 'Granny, I hadn'ta any hope, now, did I?' When Da first held me in hospital, my wee body slipped from his grease-covered fingers. No,really," Flynn paused to give the audience a harried look. "He dropped me, and if my mother hadnt'a caught me, I'm fairly sure I woulda bounced and slid down the ward from the residue."

The comedian's anecdote generated the loudest laugh yet. Draco could objectively sense the humor, but he was not moved enough to laugh, tense as he was. Granger kept her expression light as she closely monitored the other attendees. Darla, though, cackled whenever anyone near her made a sound—which was often.

Flynn meandered through several other anecdotes, most of which involved food in some way.

Draco allowed himself to tune out the the comedian's brogue to concentrate on the task at hand. And then, after another ten minutes of staring uselessly and uneventfully at unmarked doors, Draco allowed himself to focus on Granger.

If he tilted his head just so, he could catch a whiff of shampoo wafting off her curls. It was the heady scent of peach blossoms and something naturally Granger. If he slid his pupils to the corners of his eyes, he could look at her, which was even better. Her nose in profile had a round, button-like quality; her lips formed a most intoxicating pout. Draco recalled how the planes of their faces slotted together so naturally, as did the rest of their bodies.

Many other attendees held hands, including a man and woman a few seats down from Granger. Draco envisioned reaching across to clasp Granger's hand in his own, caressing her knuckles, kissing the tip of each of her fingers—

"And hang on—you in the back! What's your deal?"

The entire crowd stilled, causing Draco to jolt back into awareness. He looked at Flynn, who was shielding his eyes from a bright spotlight and peering under his palm into the crowd.

Directly at him.

No—Draco slowly pivoted to follow the gazes of the other guests around him. They, and the comedian, he realized, were looking atDarla.

"Shit," Granger cursed under her breath so that only Draco could hear.

Darla, oblivious to the attention, sipped her wine again and sat with a vacant smile, as if waiting for the laughter to resume. However, when she spotted all the attention on their group, her dark eyes widened, and she shrank into her seat.

"Yes, you," Flynn declared. "You look like you just wandered out of a goth music video. Jesus Christ, it's like the fuckin' black parade back there."

The crowd chuckled, and Darla—at a total loss, as was Draco—merely smiled and chuckled along.

"Too shy to talk?" Flynn inquired loudly.

Draco fought the urge to cover his face with a hand. Would this cursed Muggle vaudevillian move on already?

"She … doesn't speak English very well," Granger called out beside him

Well, fuck. Now everyone was looking at GrangerandDarla—and, consequently, at Draco, who occupied the prime position between them.

Flynn pounced at Granger's comment. "Oh, she doesn't speak English? Right, I understand. That's what I tell people when they start showing me pictures of their babies or dogs."

Granger gave a half-wince, half-smile as the crowd shifted around them.

The comedian paused and looked back to Darla. "But honestly, love, if you don't speak English, I think you've got the right idea. You're not missing much. These days, it's mostly just people arguing about the price of Freddos and whether or not David Tennant is the best Doctor. Or … is that just my jobless roommate?"

The crowd mainly turned back to the stage by that comment, and Draco sighed in relief as attention weaned off them.

"Hang on, though," Flynn began, waving a finger around. "Are you three together? … Gary, can we get a light?"

Draco was too lost to recognize what was happening. A moment later, a large metal electrical light suspended from the ceiling pivoted toward them, bathing him, Granger, and Darla in a harsh yellow glow.

Well, fuck again.

"Ladies and gents—wow, look at this lot."

And they did. Every head in the Monkey Barrel pivoted toward them.

Draco had not felt such pointed social discomfort since that fucking imposter Moody transfigured him into a ferret and bounced him around the Hogwarts courtyard.

Flynn commented, "You look like the cast of a BBC comedy that got canceled after one series."

The crowd had a good laugh at that. Draco wished he knew what a BBC was. Draco looked at Granger; she was pursing her lips uncomfortably, her fingers twitching in her lap.

"What's your name, then?" Flynn inquired, pointing a bulbous finger at Granger.

After shifting awkwardly in her seat, Granger decided that not participating would be more conspicuous than playing along. Draco wished she would have just risen and left the place altogether.

"Jean," she replied reluctantly.

"Jean," Flynn repeated. "And you?" His finger turned toward Draco.

Draco froze. Granger used her middle name, which implied that he should select an alternative name for himself. However, all his names—Draco, Lucius, and Malfoy—were so conspicuously magical that they all seemed out of place for the situation.

"D…Dean," he replied in instant regret.

"Jean and Dean," Flynn monotoned. The crowd burst into hilarity. "Right. ... And Jean, what is the name of your goth friend?"

Granger replied, "Darla." Draco assumed the name was more common in Muggle society, but he had no clue.

"Jean, Dean, and Darla. How did you meet?"

Fuck's sake, how long would the questioning go on? Draco rather thought Muggle comedy was much too involved for his taste.

"Um … we met at work." Thank Merlin for Granger, who, it seemed, would protect Draco from having to speak again.

"Work friends," Flynn repeated into the microphone for the crowd to hear. "Is this a forced bonding situation?"

None of them replied.

"I'll take that as a yes." The crowd laughed. "Oh boy, and on a weekend, too." Flynn supplied for them, causing the audience to guffaw.

"Jean," Flynn resumed after laughter had subsided. "You seem like a leader. Was this your idea? Are you in some sort of managerial capacity here?"

Granger half-crossed her arms over her chest, encumbered as she was with her cup of water. Her eyes flicked to Draco briefly, but it was enough.

"No need to speak," Flynn jumped in. "I can tell. You have intense 'I correct people for fun' energy. I bet you were that kid in school who reminded the teacher about homework, weren't you?"

Draco tried to suppress the reflex, but it could not be helped. He let out a single bark of laughter before clamping his jaw shut. Sure enough, Granger was openly glaring at him. On his other side, Darla chuckled and bounced happily in her chair.

"Yeah," Flynn nodded slowly. "Dean knows I'm right—look at that face."

Draco shrunk into his seat again as all the eyes of the audience fell upon him.

"So we have the pedantic manager, the goth immigrant—where do you fit in, Dean?" Flynn squinted his eyes. "Oh, we have a posh boy. Is that—a suit? At a comedy show?"

Now that Draco looked around, hewaswearing an odd clothing style compared to the other audience members. He reflexively smoothed the lapel of his Muggle jacket. It had been fine at Wimbledon.

"Either you're trying to impress Manager Jean there, or this is your natural state," Flynn commented. "Not sure which is worse. Let's see if we can figure this out, folks. Tell me, Dean—did you go to boarding school?"

Beside Draco, Granger pressed a palm briefly into her face. Draco scowled. When the probing eyes and Flynn's insistent stare did not subside, he reluctantly nodded.

"You did?" Flynn confirmed in apparent delight. "There it is. Posh boy. Boarding school … father probably sues people for fun, does he?"

The crowd laughed again, and Draco suspected his scowl might become a semi-permanent feature.

"Father sues people for fun, but not often enough to get you out of this office-mandated outing with your coworkers. What else—polo? Play polo? No? Own a horse, at least?"

The Malfoys would never own something as insufferably common as a horse. Narcissa had kept an Abraxan mare at the chateau during his childhood, but he did not recall what had happened to the creature.

Granger chuckled beside him. Draco responded with his own glare, which only caused her to laugh more.

Something odd happened, then. A bubble of hilarity bobbed reluctantly up Draco's esophagus. It was like drinking giggle water; it could not be helped. The sight of Granger futilely trying to reign in her smile summoned something from inside of Draco.

He laughed. At himself. And then, feeling safe in the fact that this underground comedy club was far outside Draco's regular orbit—hidden vampires or not—Draco decided to play along.

"My mother has a horse," Draco called to Flynn. He winked a Granger, who looked at him in open shock. "And my father raises peacocks."

"I'm sorry," Flynn said, rubbing a hand over his face to reset himself. "Did you say your father raises peacocks?" he repeated into the microphone.

The crowd laughed again, the loudest of the evening so far.

"That's the poshest load of shite I have ever heard in my life …"

Draco leaned back in his chair, the tension that had coiled in his shoulders finally easing as Flynn used Draco's details to segue into a story about his childhood neighbor—who did play polo and ride horses—before wrapping up his set. The raucous laughter of the crowd hummed pleasantly around him, and for the first time since stepping into the dimly lit club, he felt mostly at leisure.

That was probably why the subsequent development came as something of a shock.

Flynn exited the stage with a hop and a "Thank you for having me this evening. I'll introduce our next performer—ladies and gents, please welcome Ollie!"

The next comedian stepped onto the stage and strode into the spotlight confidently, his black hair slicked back and a thick mustache curling over his upper lip. His skin was pale—nothing overtly concerning. The Muggle audience had no reason to suspect anything, but Draco knew better.

Ollie, if that was his actual name, was a vampire. Draco's moment of leisure shattered like glass.

Darla let out a breathy sigh, her fingers twining together in something like reverence. "My brethren," she murmured, almost dreamily. "I called to the darkness, and it answered." Her cold hand reached to clutch at Draco's knee.

Draco shot her a horrified look, snatched the hand, and placed it back on Darla's lap.

On stage, the vampire took the microphone and grinned.

"So, listen, I've been working on my impulse control," he said, pacing lazily across the stage. "But, man, it's tough, you know? Like, just the other night, I'm standing in line at the coffee shop, and the guy in front of me is taking forever—justforever—to pick a pastry. And I'm standing there thinking, 'I could justtake him out. Right here. Right now.'" Ollie sliced his hand awkwardly through the air as if feigning a fight.

A few uneasy chuckles rippled through the crowd.

"… Just me, then?" The audience laughed louder as Ollie gave a self-deprecating shrug.

Draco worked hard to prevent himself from crushing his plastic cup in a deathly grip. He turned slightly to Granger on his other side. "Do vampires run this club?" he hissed.

"I don't know," Granger muttered back, eyes fixed on Ollie.

Ollie continued, "Anyway, I don't do it. Because I'm working on myself. Self-improvement and all that. Growth. Big journey. But man, some nights? Some nights, it's just really, really hard."

More laughter. Someone whistled.

Draco turned his head just enough to meet Granger's eyes. "We should leave. Now."

"What?" she whispered, barely moving her lips. "No. This is good—Darla knew something was here, and there it is. The question is, is it just him, or is there an entire coven? We can't leave. We wait and finish the show. Then we'll sneak into the back and see what's going on. … Do you recognize him from Ersilia's coven?"

Draco beheld Ollie, considering the question. He had not seen the being before, that was certain. Draco suspected, though, that Ollie was the last type of vampire to be a scion of Ersilia. Ollie wore gray trousers with the hems rolled up and a tear in the inseam, a white shirt with wrinkles in the sleeves, and blatantly Muggle shoes. He looked at the chuckling audience with open admiration—rather than the void-like gaze of Ersilia's life-sucking family.

"No. I don't think so."

Hermione nodded. "Doesn't seem the type, does he?" she whispered.

Draco exhaled sharply, forcing himself to unclench his jaw. He drained his water, wishing it was whiskey, and kept his eyes on Ollie. If they were going to do this, they had to do it carefully.

On stage, Ollie proceeded, pulling off an award-worthy human performance. "I gotta say, I have what you'd call a 'Worst-Case-Scenario Brain.' You know what I mean? That thing where you walk into a room and immediately imagine the absolute worst thing you could possibly do?"

Laughter rippled through the audience.

"Like, I'm at a dinner party, right? And my brain is like, 'What if you just—bam!—flip the whole table?' Or I'm holding a baby and my brain is like, 'What if you just … toss it out the window?' Flynn's greasy-fingered Dad knows what I'm talking about."

The crowd roared, and Ollie grinned as he spoke over them. "Obviously, I don't do it. I don't do it." Ollie insisted, smiling mildly. "I always choose the path of least resistance. So, instead of flipping the table, I'd nod politely. Instead of hurling greasy baby Flynn, I would make stupid faces at him 'til he laughs."

Ollie continued, gesturing vaguely. "But it's hard sometimes. The other day, I was on the tube, and this bloke next to me was eating a tuna sandwich. Tuna. The worst possible thing you could eat in public. And my brain—my wonderful, stupid brain—goes, 'What if you just snatched it out of his hands?' … and then it goes 'What if you punched him?' and then, 'What if you found a witch. Like, a real witch, and cursed his family for all time, leading to generations of suffering and the end of his lineage?' And I have to sit there and remind myself, 'No, Ollie, be a person, alright. Be normal.'"

The audience laughed, and Draco felt ill.

Draco might have blacked out then, because he did not process anything else the vampire comedian said. By the time the next performer arrived on stage—a woman with wavy blonde hair and a leather jacket, thankfully Muggle—Draco was on high alert, clutching his wand inside his pocket and proceeding through several of his own "Worst-Case Scenarios," including the possibility of Ollie and Darla teaming up to drain the entire audience of blood.

Ollie disappeared into the doorway, which was far to the side of the platform.

"Let's go," hissed Granger. "Come, Darla."

She nudged Draco's thigh with her palm, and he did not even get the opportunity to relish in the physical contact before Granger was on her feet and inching down the row of seats. Darla rose as well, following Granger quickly to avoid disturbing the other guests.

Draco followed, whispering frantically into the back of Darla's head. "Don't touch anyone."

She hissed lightly over her shoulder.

Granger led them to a dark corner beside the bar. Most of the Muggles were seated, watching the next performance, but a few mingled and ordered drinks, so their presence did not feel out of place.

"What's your plan, Granger?" Draco said, quiet enough not to draw attention.

"Go talk to that vampire," she declared. Her arms were crossed under her breasts, the fingers of her right hand tapping nervously along her left forearm as she eyed the doorway behind which Ollie had disappeared.

"You want to confront a vampire in a building full of Muggles?" Draco scowled. "Why don't we just burn the Statute of Secrecy—in effigy at least? For the symbolism."

"It's not as if he's under suspicion. We're simply going to talk," Granger snapped.

"And when he goes on a bloody rampage?"

"Merlin, you're so obtuse—"

"You're naive—"

"You assume the worst in a magical being you've never met—"

"I'm sorry. Did we all not just listen to a diatribe on how that vampire has no fucking impulse control?"

"It was exaggerated for humor, Malfoy—that's what this whole enterprise is."

"I would like more wine," came Darla's lilting voice. She was gazing longingly at the bar.

Granger sighed, and Draco resisted the urge to pull out his hair. He kept his eyes on Granger and noticed immediately when she started to shift, eyes flicking between the doorway and Draco.

Draco glared. "What are you thinking?"

And then Granger acted—without any impulse control.

"Wait here," she said, already moving toward the doorway.

"Fuck!" Draco hissed, working very hard to keep his volume down. Granger weaved between a couple of meandering audience members and only hesitated a moment before opening the door and disappearing behind it herself. "Shite!"

Darla was entirely lost, as far as Draco could read. She clutched her empty blood-wine cup, still stained red at the edges, and maintained a blank expression.

Fuck that. Granger was not about to split them up to talk to a vampire of unknown temperament alone, with no magical assistance. The memory of Potter's speech about the Auror's Code tumbled inelegantly out of its box in Draco's mental Room of Hidden Things.

Draco grabbed Darla's elbow and commanded, "Come on."

Darla hissed and dropped her cup, but allowed Draco to usher her toward the doorway.

It turned out that security at The Monkey Barrel was nonexistent. No one looked their way, and they encountered no resistance.

Draco opened the door, pushed Darla gently forward, and shut it behind them.

The back room was not a room at all but a corridor. It stretched toward a bright red, glowing sign reading "EXIT" with several open doorways on either side. Draco kept a firm hand on Darla's elbow and began walking forward.

It did not take long for them to find their destination. The second doorway on the left in the corridor was flung wide open, seeping a bright white-hued light. Voices sounded from within, including one with the distinct sound of Granger.

Draco only registered that he could identify the timbre of Granger's voice for a second before walking in.

It was not, thankfully, a Statute-breaking bloodbath.

Eight people mingled about the room. To one side was a kitchenette with several people standing about, one of whom stuck his head inside a Muggle cooling box. At the opposite end of the room was a small television, similar to what Teddy had in his bedroom to play his Tennis game. The screen displayed a grainy moving image of the stage, the voice of the blonde comedian faintly audible.

A woman with a clipboard sat in a wooden chair by the screen. She wore an all-black shirt and trousers and checked a hulking wristwatch.

At the center of the room were two worn sofas and three padded armchairs arranged haphazardly in a circle with a slight orientation toward the screen. They were unoccupied save for the large sofa, upon which sat Granger, mere inches away from Ollie, the vampire comedian. Draco instantly tensed, his grip on Darla's arm tightening involuntarily.

Granger looked up at Draco and Darla the moment they entered the doorway. Her eyes widened, and her mouth, which was in the middle of speaking, froze mid-word.

Draco glared and half-stomped over to the sofa, dragging Darla behind him.

"Well?" he demanded, unsure what else to say or ask. He was still gripping Darla a bit brutishly, and with the eyes of several onlookers from the kitchenette upon them, he fell into a state of self-consciousness. He released Darla and dropped his hands.

Granger rolled her eyes. "Ollie, these are my colleagues."

The scowl on Draco's face was one of his most severe, even he could tell. The combination of "Ollie" and the word "colleague" associated him with Draco and made him deeply angry. Though it had irked him at the time, "companion" was much preferable.

"Oh, hello," said Ollie. His voice was different than during his performance—softer, more timid. Ollie stood, gave Draco a wary look, and then his gaze settled on Darla. "What's your name?"

"Darla Báthory a Halálban Istvánfi," said Darla, the Hungarian syllables fluidly dancing across her tongue.

Ollie's eyes widened. Granger, too, looked at Darla in surprise.

"Darla," Ollie repeated. "Lovely." He held out a hand, which Darla took, before bowing to kiss her knuckles. Darla audibly shuddered, and her gaze sharpened. Ollie continued, "Oliver Montefiore, child of Benjamin, child of Costa."

Darla smiled and hopped from one leg to another like a giddy child.

Draco, feeling entirely out of place, ground his teeth and muttered to the seated Granger, "What's happening?"

Granger blinked at Ollie and Darla, who were making uncomfortably extended eye contact. "We just started talking."

Darla giggled.

"Fucking Salazar," Draco breathed.

Draco eyed the other room occupants, who mainly seemed lost in their conversations. He took the chance to undo the button of his jacket and then slid his hand into his pocket, inching his wand into the sleeve. He used his other hand to clasp Ollie on the shoulder, nudging himself between the two vampires.

"Sit," Draco ordered. He pushed down on Ollie's shoulder, and the vampire, now visibly alarmed, dropped back onto the sofa beside Granger. Draco sat on Ollie's other side.

And then, Draco slid his wand out of his pocket, tucked it into the fold of his jacket—and pressed the tip through the fabric and into Ollie's ribs. The vampire gasped.

"Let's talk, then," Draco drawled.

"Malfoy," Granger snapped at him softly. "Stop."

"No," Draco quipped. Darla still stood before them, looking slightly dreamy. He said, "Sit down, Darla."

She blinked, and rather than taking any of the other numerous unoccupied spots, sank directly onto the floor, folding her knees into her chest and resting her forearms and chin upon them. She looked up at Ollie, Granger, and Draco, her dark skirt fanning around her body. Draco sighed.

"Malfoy?" Ollie questioned nervously. "As in … Malfoy?"

Draco narrowed his eyes and leaned in close. "Lord Draco Malfoy, son of Lucius, son of Abraxas, son of Magnus, son of Vesperian—shall I continue?"

"No! No … well, nice to meet you then," Ollie stammered.

"Ignore him," Granger hissed, piercing Draco with a disapproving glare. He glared right back.

"Hermione was just explaining that you found me, Darla," Ollie managed to say through the tension caused by trying to pull away from Draco's concealed wand.

"Your shadows called to mine," Darla murmured. "They caressed my mind."

Ollie gaped, and then his face visibly softened.

"Merlin, Morgana, and Circe," Draco muttered to himself.

"How long have you been working here, Ollie?" asked Granger gently. "You're not in trouble. As I saidbeforewe were interrupted, we are conducting an investigation for the Ministry of Magic and this neighborhood was highlighted as a potential point of interest."

"Ten years," Ollie replied. "On and off. Bit of an accident, how it happened."

He did not continue. Draco, frustrated in the face of Ollie's reticence, Darla's open admiration, and Granger's undue patience, decided to give Ollie a centimeter more room between his side and the tip of Draco's wand.

"Start at the beginning, then," Draco demanded.

"I was—well, reborn—in 1926. London," he began nervously. "I was a shit wizard, you see. Poor. Didn't go to school or anything, but I had a wand from my grandfather. I took odd jobs—shoe shiner, theater stagehand on the East End. What I really wanted was to perform, but every time I got on stage with the lights on, I froze—"

"Too far back," Draco interrupted, returning his wand to its previous position. "Get to the point."

"Alright," said Ollie. "Alright … I live with a small coven in Glasgow—registered. Fully registered!" He turned to Granger pleadingly, and she gave him a smile and a nod.

"We're going tocheck on that," Draco insisted.

"Right." Ollie took a breath and said, "I like people. I make friends with everyone if I can. A few years ago, I was chatting with a Muggleborn in a wizard's pub. He brought me around to a Muggle comedy show. I loved it! Met some comedians, and they let me try a fiver here and there. Worked my way up. There's a lot of traveling round, you know—Glasgow, Aberdeen, here. Plenty go to Dublin, London. … I love it."

"Are you the only vampire here?" Granger asked. "What about the rest of your coven?"

"They are not interested in comedy. They don't begrudge me a hobby, but they're not coming around to Muggle venues, you know?" Ollie ran a hand through his hair and then smoothed down his long mustache, which conveniently covered the points of his fangs.

Before Ollie next spoke, he looked around the room and dropped his voice into a hush. "I'll be honest. I'm not cut out to be a vampire. It's been a real struggle. The cravings, the light sensitivity, the dynamics of covens. It's not for me. ... Fucking hierarchy—families." He chuckled darkly. "Family? Really? My sire bit me for a snack and then felt guilt for the first time in a century and turned me instead of leaving me to die. Only kept me in his home for a month before dropping me back on the street and skipping town."

"That's awful!" Granger frowned.

"Thanks. Old news. But this," Ollie gestured around the room, "helps. Joking about my urges helps me control them. Meeting Muggles—talking to them—makes me think twice before I think about biting. I haven't had human blood in more than ten years."

"That's wonderful, Ollie," Granger said, smiling widely.

Draco scowled. "And how much human blood did you have before that?"

"Malfoy," Granger scolded.

"I lived off Ministry supply," Ollie insisted, looking nervously at his side where Draco's concealed wand pointed. "Before that existed … I never killed, but I did what I had to survive. I hated myself. That's the thing about comedians"—Ollie pointed at the screen, where the blonde woman was still walking around the stage with her microphone—"We all hate ourselves a bit."

"I like you," said Darla from the ground.

"Oh." Ollie startled slightly, as if he had forgotten Darla was at his feet. "Thanks."

"Ollie," Granger began, and Draco could tell instantly that it was her serious tone, which she used when studying or explaining or thinking she was right. "You haven't done anything wrong. I believe your story. Would you mind answering a few other questions about our specific investigation?"

"I'm an open book," Ollie insisted. "I promise."

"Malfoy." Granger looked pointedly around the room, swirling her finger. "Would you get us some privacy?"

"Bit late for that, don't you think?" Draco muttered. Granger rolled her eyes, and Draco sighed. He pulled his wand away from Ollie's ribs and cast a nonverbal Muffliato while keeping the wand concealed beneath his jacket.

Granger turned more fully on the sofa to face Ollie and asked, "Do you know of a vampire named Ersilia?"

"I've heard that name before. But I don't know anything about her," Ollie replied. "Mysterious reputation. A killer, so I've heard."

That was an understatement. Draco wished standard methods of Veritaserum and Legilimency worked on vampires. He was having trouble determining whether Mr. Oliver Montefiore, child of whomever, was telling the truth.

"You don't mean … she's here? In Scotland?" Ollie's dark eyes widened considerably.

"We're not sure. She's certainly in this region of the world, though. We're trying to find her coven," explained Granger. "Have you heard anything?"

Ollie looked thoughtful, then nervous, then grim. "I have a mate from London. A he-hag, goes by Durtz. He's a regular at Gurgle Glump's in the Knuttish Corner."

"North of Camden Town?" Granger inquired.

"Precisely," Ollie confirmed. "Anyway, Durtz is like me—good at navigating Muggle neighborhoods, and he makes his way around. Yesterday, he was at the pub over in the Wyrd's Wynd. I say, Durtz, you never make it to Edinburgh! He says there's odd things happening in London."

Draco tensed, and Granger shifted in interest. "What things?" she asked.

"Bad feelings," Ollie said cryptically. "Durtz said the ghosts are leaving Muggle London."

"Ghosts?" Granger repeated.

"Ghosts, poltergeists, spirits—things that like to haunt are leaving their haunts. Haven't met many ghosts, but I hear they like to stick around. If you ask me, staying in one place for eternity sounds boring."

"It's rare for ghosts to move," Granger murmured, and Draco could see the concern in her eyes.

"Durtz was spooked, that's for certain," Ollie agreed. "So he traded a viper's fang with a wizard to apparate him to Edinburgh, just to get away. Not sure if Ersilia is involved, but you might check on the ghosts on the Muggle side of North London."

Granger's brow furrowed. Draco knew she was a Beings Expert, but he wondered if she regularly dealt with ghosts.

"Jackson!" the woman by the screen shouted toward the group of comedians standing by the kitchenette. "You're up—Lola is finishing her set now."

A lanky man with a goatee set down a cup of water and called back, "On it!" before exiting the room.

"Thank you for the information, Ollie. It's very helpful." Granger looked at Draco, then, and gestured with her finger again. Draco cast aFinite.

"Happy to help," Ollie replied, though he nervously glanced at Draco.

Granger reached into her bag and pulled out a Muggle pen and paper. "Would you write down the address of your coven, in case we have any more questions?"

Ollie did, and then Granger tucked the items away.

"Ollie! You have friends!" They all turned to find the blonde comedian in the leather jacket, returning from her performance.

"Why are you surprised, Lola?" Ollie responded, indignant.

"Well, excuse me," said Lola, who plopped on a nearby armchair. "You're so secretive all the time. Who are these folks?"

"Jean, Dean, and Darla," supplied a voice from over Draco's shoulder. He turned to find Flynn Harrison's round face smiling down at them. "Ollie, I didn't know I was picking on your friends during my set."

"Oh, no bother," Granger said. "It was—funny." She smiled over at Draco, and his heart stuttered.

"Darla," Lola said, leaning forward toward the vampire on the floor. Draco tensed. The comedian said, "Love the look. So, are you a fangbanger like Ollie?"

"Oh, shut it, Lola," Ollie protested.

"What?"

"It's fine to enjoy some fantasy in life."

"There's fantasy, and then there's disturbed obsession."

"Disturbed? What's disturbed is you asking Peter on a date last week when anyone with eyes can see that he's flaming gay."

"Hey! Fuck you!"

"Fuck you!" Ollie exclaimed. He and Lola were smiling, so the exchange did not seem hateful. It reminded Draco of how Pansy and Theo would bicker.

"Hang on. Fangbanger?" Flynn interjected.

"Obsessed with vampires," Lola supplied. "Wears fangs sometimes, too."

"No way," Flynn said, leaning forward over Draco's shoulder with his hand on the back of the sofa. "Ollie, I had no idea."

"Your lives are devoid of whimsy," Ollie declared, crossing his arms. "Boring—joyless!"

"You'd better go all out on Halloween like you promised," Lola said. "But Darla looks like she's halfway there already."

Before Darla could speak, Ollie said, "Don't tease my friends. We have plans, and I don't want to spend the night telling the story of how you puked in the Thames."

"You wanker! You said you'd take that to the grave!"

A short while later, Draco, Granger, and Darla had managed to extricate themselves from the Monkey Barrel's staff and stepped onto the cool, dimly lit pavement. Ollie followed, hands tucked into the pockets of his threadbare trousers.

"So, Darla—where are you staying these days?" he asked as the door swung shut behind them.

"Sanctuary," she said airily. "Cornwall."

"The Ministry place?" Ollie tilted his head. "I know it. How are you liking it?"

Draco slowed his pace, letting the vampires step ahead of him. He glanced at Granger, who looked pensive. He moved closer, lowering his voice. "What are you thinking?"

She blinked up at him, as if pulled from deep thought. "The ghosts worry me. I think the last Portkey signature might be our answer."

Draco exhaled sharply. The tales Ollie had shared were unsettling, to say the least, and something cold and certain had begun to settle in his chest. They may indeed find Ersilia soon.

Ahead of them, Darla sighed. "I do like to laugh," she mused. "You have humor."

Ollie smirked. "That's generally the idea. So, Cornwall—you take visitors? I'd love to hear more about Hungary."

Darla giggled, a soft, eerie sound that made the hairs on Draco's arms stand on end.

"Well," Draco muttered, eyeing the exchange with distaste. "That's disturbing."

"Hush. I think it's sweet," Granger countered, watching the vampires with an amused smile.

"You'd think it was sweet if a manticore had you clutched in its claws." Draco was only half joking. An idea struck him a beat later. "May we leave Darla behind tomorrow?" Draco suggested with hope.

"I think you can survive one more evening," Granger denied. Drat.

Draco sighed but didn't press the issue. Instead, they fell into a quiet sort of waiting, letting the vampires converse. He might have insisted on breaking up the group and heading home, but oddly, he felt at ease—standing there on the pavement, outside a Muggle vaudeville club, beneath the golden glow of the streetlamps. A light summer breeze stirred, lifting the loose tendrils of Granger's hair.

He was absurdly aware of her presence beside him, the space between them, and how easy it would be to close it.

His conversation with Theo the day before surfaced in his mind. He had been working so hard to suppress his thoughts about Granger—her warmth, her scent, her infuriating recklessness. Everything about her instincts ran counter to his own, yet the idea of quitting, of getting truly angry the way he once had in her presence, never even crossed his mind.

He ought to say something, he thought. But what?

Granger saved him the trouble.

"Thank you for joining the investigation," she said, still watching Darla and Ollie. "I know I ended up opposing it, but my first instincts were right." She glanced up at him, her eyes catching the light. "You're suited to it."

His stomach swooped.

The stress of the job, the constant tension of monitoring Darla, the looming threat of Ersilia—none of it compared to the fire in his chest when Granger looked at him like that.

"May I make a professional request?" he asked.

Granger turned to him. "What?"

"No more splitting up," he said, facing her fully. He inhaled, steadying himself. "If I'm your partner in this," he said, "and you mine, then we do things together. If you're going to sneak off to interrogate every vampire we stumble upon—I'd prefer to be there with you."

Granger stared at him, and keeping his gaze on her was suddenly overwhelming. She looked conflicted, but then her expression melted into something deliciously soft.

Draco wanted to kiss her. He didn't.

"No more splitting up," she agreed, and it was enough—for now.

Up Next: London calling.