A/N: Originally written for DLP's Q1 2018 story competition.

"You're bleeding on my floor."

Hubert Parkinson didn't even bother hiding the displeasure in his gravelly voice. Rich, coming from him.

"A couple drops of Mrs. Skower's All-Purpose does wonders for blood stains." Harry limped away from the Floo and towards an antique armchair that probably cost more than his apartment.

"Didn't take you for an expert on janitorial supplies, Potter." Parkinson's footsteps followed his words, echoing in the spacious study made oppressively hot by the roaring fireplace.

"You pick up all sorts of things in my line of work." He groaned at the pain in his side as he sat down. "How to deal with belligerent vampires, for one."

Settling into the opposite armchair, Parkinson raised a graying eyebrow. "Vampires?"

"That's right," Harry said, watching the man's lined face. "Neglected to mention that tidbit, did you?"

Parkinson spread his hands vaguely. "I don't know what you're talking about."

Staring him in the eye, Harry allowed the silence to stretch on. "Perhaps," he said at last, lifting his feet onto the coffee table.

"Milly!" Parkinson barked. A house-elf popped in and bowed at the waist. "Clean up Mr. Potter's shoes, then fetch him a drink."

"Ogden's, please," Harry said, smacking his lips. "Oldest you have."

Parkinson grimaced, but nodded at the elf. "Same for me."

A minute later found Harry admiring the liquor's amber hue against the glow of the fireplace as he surreptitiously watched his host peer at him over the top of his own glass. Clad in smartly-cut silken robes, Hubert Parkinson looked every bit the man of power and means that he was—yet his hand trembled as he brought the glass to his lips, took a careless gulp, and coughed into his fist.

"Look, Potter," he said hoarsely, "I didn't know the clans were involved—"

"I never said it was the clans."

Parkinson rolled his eyes. "As if vampires could mean anything else. An outcast couldn't have broken through my protections, nor would they have posed a threat to a wizard of your caliber."

Harry's eyebrows rose. "You flatter me."

"I wouldn't have hired you had I not been certain of your skill," Parkinson said, waving him off. "Enough of this. Have you tracked down the jewel?" He leaned forward, his pale forehead glinting with a sheen of sweat.

Reclining to make himself more comfortable, Harry told him.

Gravel crunched under Harry's feet as he followed the path bisecting the front lawn of Parkinson's mansion. His steps were measured, giving him time to ponder the job he had just taken on. On the surface, the task of recovering stolen property wasn't unusual—it was something he had managed several times in his short career as a hired wand—yet there were two things that stood out.

First and foremost, Hubert Parkinson was a pureblood supremacist who made no secret of his views; not only that, he had been widely known as a Voldemort sympathizer. It was only because his forearm was unmarked that he was spared a stint in Azkaban after the war. Given how there was no shortage of wizards in need of coin, him hiring Harry was puzzling indeed.

Second, there were too many things about the burglary itself that didn't add up. The only item stolen was a family heirloom—a jewel which held mostly sentimental value, according to Parkinson. That meant the theft was personal, yet the man swore he had no enemies (besides Dumbledore's old crowd, as he had said with a humorless chuckle).

What's more, the detection spells Harry had honed during his years at the Auror Office showed no traces of magic along the route of the break-in. Either the burglars' skills exceeded his own, which was a cause for alarm, or they had only used mundane means while somehow evading every one of Parkinson's numerous and deadly traps. Unlikely as it was, the latter would be an entirely new modus operandi in the wizarding underworld, and so concerning in its own way.

The wrought-iron gates swung open at his approach, and he paused to give the estate behind a thoughtful look. Parkinson being a widower, there had been an eerie quietness about the sprawling home—yet it was immaculately maintained, from gleaming bay windows to neatly trimmed grass. The man could probably afford the exorbitant fee he had promised and more. Not only that, it was a chance to dig up dirt on a potential enemy. Whatever his game was, Harry could handle it.

On that bracing thought, he stepped through. He would start the same way he always did for such cases—by visiting an old comrade. Holding his destination firmly in his mind, he spun on the spot.

He reappeared in the depths of Knockturn Alley, before a nondescript door above which swayed a fading wooden sign depicting a Nundu with two horns on its head. He glanced around, took a deep breath, then pulled the door open.

Even though he knew to expect it, the stench hit him like a brick wall. Stale beer, musty straw, smoke from exotic herbs, and worse—the smells mingled to form the aroma particular to less-than-reputable wizarding establishments. Harry walked inside, stooping on several occasions to avoid bumping his head against the exposed ceiling beams. As he passed a table hosting a company of hags, one cackled and blew a cloud of green smoke into his path. He held his breath and marched through, scowling as his eyes watered from the acrid fumes.

He exhaled in relief when he located his target in his customary corner booth. Mundungus was slumped over, his unkempt ginger hair splayed over the pockmarked table, yet his hand still gripped his tankard in some unconscious reflex. Opposite him sat a scrawny balding wizard who sipped his own drink with a doleful expression.

"Afternoon," Harry said, walking up to the duo. "Mind if I borrow Dung here?"

The balding wizard stared at him as though in deep thought, then made a gesture between a shrug and a nod.

Harry shook Dung's shoulder until the ale in his tankard began sloshing, yet he showed no signs of consciousness. Sighing in irritation, Harry lifted him by the collar while attempting to pry his fingers off the handle. It was the imminent danger to his drink that seemed to wake Dung more than anything.

"What the bloody 'ell is going on? Who are you to barge in 'ere and—" He blinked blearily. "Blimey, it's Harry bleedin' Potter!"

"Knew he looked familiar," the other wizard said sagely. "Pete bought everyone a round when news got out Potter quit the force. Gives us common folk some breathing space, he said."

"Bah," Mundungus said, "I liked 'im better when 'e was an Auror. Last time he asked for my 'elp I near lost my—"

"What do you know," Harry said, fighting back a grin. "That's what I'm here for."

"See?" Dung cried, raising a finger. "See what I 'ave to deal with?"

"I see," his associate said. "No gratitude whatsoever."

Harry rolled his eyes. "C'mon, Dung. You'll get your usual share, and this time the pay is"—he glanced around before lowering his voice—"well, it's really damn good."

Dung rose to his feet, teetered, then plopped down into his seat with a groan. "I feel a tad under the weather, Harry. Reckon I need a drink or three afore I'm fit to go anywhere."

Harry shook his head. Mundungus was known to go on three-day benders if he had the coin and no one was there to stop him. "You've had enough already. Come with me."

He grabbed Dung's free arm unceremoniously and slung it over his shoulder, hoisting him out of the booth. The drunkard yelped as ale spilled from the tankard he still clutched in his hand.

"Oi! You 'ave no authority! You can't do this to me!"

His associate nodded somberly, but made no move to interfere. "Fletcher here has rights and everything."

Harry just turned on the spot, pulling the weakly struggling Mundungus along.

They popped into the kitchen of 12 Grimmauld Place, and Harry sucked in a lungful of untainted air. Mundungus stumbled upon arrival, but Harry had no trouble holding the smaller man up—at least until his rattish face turned green and he made a choking noise. Harry's self-preservation instincts kicked in and he jumped away, letting go of Dung who promptly collapsed on all fours and proceeded to retch his guts out.

Kreacher appeared, wearing a look of disgust that Harry reckoned was mirrored on his own face. "Master has brought filth into the house again."

"I need him, Kreacher," Harry said. "Clean him up, then fetch him the potion—you know the one."

Kreacher gave a stiff bow. "Yes, Master. Come, filth."

Dung vanished along with the mess he had made on the floor. There was a shriek upstairs, followed by profuse swearing. The swearing soon turned into pleading and weeping. At last, Kreacher popped back into the kitchen with a dripping-wet Mundungus in tow.

"As Master requested," the elf said.

Harry snorted. "Well done, Kreacher. You may go."

"Bloody b-bastard," Mundungus said, shaking. "Kidnapping—making that fiend t-torture me—"

"Sorry about that." Harry tried not to laugh as he dried Dung's sodden clothes with a wave of his wand. "Kreacher gets creative in interpreting orders."

"You better be sorry, you little shite! I've 'alf the mind to go to the Aurors myself—"

"Guess I'll be keeping all of those five hundred Galleons, then," he said with a shrug. "Here, let me fire up the Floo for you."

Dung's bloodshot eyes almost popped out. "Now, 'ang on a tick... Did you say five bleedin' hundred?"

He crossed his arms. "Thought you weren't interested?"

Dung licked his lips. "Er, sorry about what I said, Mr. Potter, sir. No 'ard feelings, eh?"

Harry let him sweat for a moment, then smirked. "Sure, Dung. We're mates, yeah?"

"Right you are, Harry, bless you," Mundungus said. "Now, what kind of a job pays that bloody well? Because if it's along the lines of 'unting dragons, I gotta tell you upfront, it's not my shtick."

"Relax, Fletcher. You have, shall we say, a pulse on the criminal world."

Dung scratched his bristly jowl. "That's one way to put it, aye."

"There's been a break-in at the Parkinsons' home. Weird thing is, there were no traces of magic, just broken doors and triggered traps all the way down to the study." Harry shook his head at the implausibility of anyone avoiding the undoubtedly Dark protections without the use of a single spell. "I need you to find out who operates this way. I'd have guessed werewolves, but they don't have control over themselves during full moon."

"Don't sound like no crew I know," Mundungus said. "They clean the place out, izzat why Parkinson's paying so much? I haven't seen any goods on the market yet, but I can ask around, all quiet like."

"That's the second thing. All they took was an old family heirloom."

Mundungus whistled. "Sounds personal, that. What was it?"

Harry formed a Snitch-sized circle with his fingers. "A crimson gem about this big. Parkinson claims he doesn't know what kind of stone it was, but it's uncut and not set into any jewelry..." He trailed off, watching Mundungus go paler by the second. "Hangover potion not agreeing with you, mate?"

"You're wrong," Dung whispered with bloodless lips.

He frowned. "Come again?"

"It was no bleedin' werewolves, Potter—it was vampires!" Mundungus pushed past him and strode towards the fireplace.

He blinked, then hurried after. "What are you talking about?"

Mundungus fumbled for the Floo powder and threw a good palmful into the fireplace, making the flames surge green. "I smelled something rotten from the start! I want nothing to do with this, you 'ear me? Nothing!"

Stunned as he was by Dung's reaction, Harry nevertheless managed to seize him by the shoulder. "What do you know, Fletcher?"

"All I know is that if you 'ave any sense at all, you'll leave this be and tell old man Parkinson to kindly feck off!" Mundungus shrugged his hand off and stepped into the grate.

Harry reached for his wand, then realized he had left it atop the table. "Hold up!"

"Horny Nundu!" Dung howled, vanishing in a blaze of emerald.

Harry's hand grasped at empty air. He doubled back for his wand, then ran to the fireplace again, stopping short of stepping inside. As he vacillated, the flames gradually died down and lost their emerald hue. He pushed off the mantelpiece. With Dung spooked as he was, Harry doubted he could get anything more out of him; and, really, the drunkard had already told him everything he needed to know.

He sighed as he considered his next move. If vampires were involved, there was just one person he could turn to. He would rather chop a barrelful of flobberworms than speak with Jean Vautour again, but to say that Dung's reaction had him intrigued would be an understatement.

He pinched the front of his robes and pulled them up for a sniff, scowling when he caught a whiff of smoking herbs. Fresh clothes first, or that ponce would never let him hear the end of it.

It was early evening, and the restaurant was filling up, but not a sound carried between the tables; the patrons came here expecting privacy, and that was what they got. The proprietor received him at a small table in the corner, a couple of waiters hovering nearby but not intruding.

"It's such a pleasure to see you again, Mr. Potter," Jean said, his long fingers swirling a glass of wine by the stem. That was one drink besides blood that vampires tolerated, if not outright enjoyed. "Can I interest you in a drink? We recently received a delivery of the most delightful—"

"I'm working." Harry grimaced in an approximation of a smile to soften his words. "Maybe some other time."

"Ah, yes." Jean brought his glass up to peer at it, his eyes glinting red as though in reflection. "Your little solo enterprise. What do you call yourself these days? Mercenary? Private investigator?"

He shrugged. "I've done work that warranted either description."

"So I heard." Jean took a sip and made a tiny sigh of contentment. "I hope it is the less barbaric kind of work that brought you to me this time."

"A burglary. I have reason to believe it was perpetrated by those of your kind."

Jean lifted a single, styled eyebrow. "What makes you think that?"

"No remnants of magic at the scene. And..." Harry shifted, peering at Jean's face. "It's about what was taken. A crimson gemstone the size of a quail egg."

Had he not been watching the vampire so carefully, he would have missed the surprise that crossed his gaunt features.

"Indeed," Jean said, setting down his glass. His honeyed voice became a degree colder. "Mr. Potter, it occurs to me that I'm under no obligation to tell you anything. As you well know, my arrangement is with the DMLE."

Harry withdrew a small pouch from his inner pocket and chucked it on the table with a jingle of gold. "How about some incentive?"

Jean clicked his tongue. "How utterly boorish." His manicured hand swiped the pouch off the table, weighed it, and stashed it into his robes in the time it might've taken a slower man to blink. "Very well, ask your questions."

There was no point in beating around the bush. "You're the second person to freak out after I described Par—the stolen item. What is it everyone knows that I don't?"

"Not altogether much, I'm afraid." Jean took his time to dab at his lips with a napkin. "About two months ago, rumors surfaced of a gemstone capable of restoring vampires from the gravest of injuries and bringing out our full potential. Red Amber, they called it. I do not know how much of the story is mere fiction, but even if a fraction of it is true, you can see why such a prize would be desirable to our kind."

Harry's mind reeled. He couldn't see why Parkinson would have one: the man was no vampire, of that he was certain. A bargaining chip, perhaps? "And how many of these... Red Ambers are there?"

"Precious few, I expect. The first was smuggled in from the continent. The rest, if they exist at all..." Jean looked away and pursed his lips. "Those jewels are said to be products of the Darkest blood magic. No law-abiding Living Dead would dare attempt it on British soil—certainly not any of my associates."

He planted his palms on the table. "But there are those who would."

Jean's face soured. "Perhaps. Not every one of our kind holds themselves to the same standards."

"Well, do you know who they are?"

Jean's hand stretched towards his glass and he took a decidedly unrefined gulp. "You've always been civil in your dealings with me, Mr. Potter, so I'll say this: you're treading on dangerous ground. Why not sit back and let your former colleagues stick their necks out? They're getting paid to do it, after all."

"So am I," he quipped.

Jean's mirthless laugh rang in the privacy bubble around their table. "Do I need to spell it out for you? Whoever hired you is either desperate or wants you dead."

"I suspected as much, but I wanted to know what their game was," he said with an impatient wave. "Tell me, Jean. You have ears in every clan this side of the Channel. If it's been two months already, you must at least suspect who's dealing in those things."

Jean gave him a long, searching look, then raised his hand. A waiter glided over, handed him a quill and a parchment in a quick bow, and departed. Only then did Jean break eye contact with Harry in order to jot down a couple of lines. Folding the parchment over, he slid it across the table.

"An address of a presumed hideout. I do not recommend going in with anything less than a dozen armed Aurors."

Harry grinned. "What's life without a little danger?"

"Being dead, I would hardly know," Jean said, baring his fangs in a smile of his own.

Nodding his thanks, he pocketed the note and rose to leave. "Until next time, Jean."

"Mr. Potter!" Harry glanced over his shoulder to find Jean toasting him with his glass. "A bit of free advice: don't get bitten. The Blackskulls are not known for Turning outsiders, so the best you can expect is a slow and painful death."

For a while, the only sounds in the study were produced by the crackling logs in the fireplace. Harry laid his palms atop the armrests and observed his host with feigned nonchalance.

Parkinson squirmed in his seat, then set his glass on the coffee table to pour himself another measure of Firewhisky. Picking up the tumbler with a shaking hand, he downed it in one go before deigning to meet Harry's eyes.

"Potter—"

"It was no heirloom, was it?"

"That gem is mine by rights," Parkinson said tensely. "Potter, listen. Given your history, it should be obvious that you weren't my first choice. Yet everyone else I contacted refused outright when they heard those damned leeches were involved, no matter the pay."

"So you thought you could sucker me, is that it?" Harry managed to keep his voice level, even curious.

Parkinson's mouth opened, then closed again. "There's always an element of danger in your occupation... If you get me what I want, you will be compensated more than adequately, I assure you."

"Let's say I buy that." He didn't miss the flash of relief on Parkinson's face. "Why would you have this Red Amber in the first place? According to my source, the thing's made by Dark magic."

"I don't know its origin, but I'm sure the stories are exaggerated—people are so eager to title things Dark nowadays. I wouldn't believe a single word coming out a bloodsucker's mouth either." Parkinson sat up straighter, apparently confident that Harry wasn't backing out of their agreement. "Enough. I'm not paying you to question me."

He spread his hands. "You haven't paid me anything yet."

"You haven't accomplished what I asked of you."

Harry opened his mouth to retort, but a cough erupted from his chest. Clearing his throat, he drew in a breath, but a spasm seized his body and he doubled over, hacking his lungs out. Eyes watering from the pain in his flank, he pressed a fist over his lips.

Parkinson's gaze strayed to the stain on Harry's robes. "Do you need a Healer?"

"Didn't know you cared," Harry wheezed. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, absently noting that there was no blood. Hopefully, that meant his lung was intact.

The man scowled. "Only insofar as having you die here would raise questions."

"I'll—" He coughed a couple more times, then drew his wand. A nonverbal Aguamenti filled his empty glass with crystal-clear water, which he gulped down greedily. "I'll be fine. Heading to St. Mungo's after we're done."

Parkinson snorted. "Get to the point, then, while you still have your wits about you. I'm hardly interested in your dalliances with Britain's lowlifes."

"Patience, Hubert. All in good time." Harry's hand dipped into his inner pocket, this time to withdraw a handkerchief to wipe his sweaty brow with. His host still appeared pale and clammy despite the sweltering heat. "I'll spare you the details of how corrupt and inefficient the Ministry is. It's what happened afterwards that you'll be interested to hear."

Parkinson stilled. "Did you involve the Aurors?"

"Oh, I tried to," he said mildly. "Got red taped. The current Head, the prick that he is, still holds resentment over my departure. Suffice to say, I wasn't interested in submitting a report through the official channels and have it sit in some bureaucrat's drawer for weeks before anyone deigned to look at it. No, I took matters into my own hands."

Harry sneezed, rubbed his fingers together, then reached for his wand to create another gust of heat under his invisibility cloak. It helped, until the crisp night air inevitably intruded through the gaps. Here atop an abandoned three-storey office building, the cold was made worse by a persistent breeze off the North Sea.

About a hundred yards ahead loomed a run-down wooden warehouse Jean's note had led him to. This was his second night of staking out after a day spent bashing his head against the bastion of bureaucracy that was the Ministry, and so far he had achieved nothing but nearly freezing his bollocks off. A couple of robed figures had entered the building last night and never came out, and that was the only thing that kept him from poking about.

An engine rumbled in the distance. That by itself wasn't unusual, but the noise drawing closer was; straightening up from his seat on the parapet at the edge of the roof, he glanced down the road leading to the warehouse. Seeing nothing, he frowned.

The reason became clear when a van with its headlights off emerged from the shadow of the building he was perched on and into the moonlight. It screeched to a halt on the cracked tarmac before the warehouse, and its sliding door opened to disgorge three men dressed in black leathers. One proceeded towards a small side-entrance in the warehouse, while the others reached into the van to unload their cargo.

Harry held his breath when the first body hit the tarmac. It was difficult to make out the details, but it appeared to be a scantily-dressed woman with her arms bent unnaturally behind her back. She wriggled but made no sound he could discern while three more bodies followed. The men then slammed the van shut and proceeded to drag their victims towards the warehouse. Their comrade held open the entrance, casting a wan, flickering light on the pavement.

"Shit," Harry murmured. Indecision warred in him—he was alone, he had to get help—then he climbed onto the parapet resolutely. If they kidnapped those people to feed, by the time the Aurors got here it would be too late.

He tapped his wand against his chest as he whispered a Featherweight Charm, then aimed a Cushioning Charm at the murky ground below. Taking a deep breath, he stepped over the edge. His stomach plummeted as the concrete under his feet was replaced by thin air—the fear never went away, it only got easier to subdue—and he dropped the thirty or so feet with a flapping of fabric, landing almost comfortably on the bespelled spot.

He took a moment to smooth down his cloak, then broke into a sprint, pounding the ground with no sound. He would have preferred to renew the hours-old Silencing Charm, but there was no time to waste: the kidnappers had already brought the first pair of victims into the warehouse and were now returning for the second.

He caught up as the last captive was being dragged through the door, noting with no surprise the cadaverous pallidness of the kidnappers' faces. The tracksuited teenager in their hands whimpered through the gag in his mouth and strained against the ropes tying his wrists, but his efforts were wasted given the supernatural strength of his captors.

"Wait," hissed the vampire holding the door. "Did you hear that?"

His comrades whirled about, two sets of crimson eyes gleaming in the twilight. Mere inches away, Harry froze, trying desperately to control his breathing as his heart hammered in his ears.

"Nothing's there, Darius," said the one on the left. His face was tattooed in the grotesque likeness of a skull.

"I'm telling you, I heard something!" The one called Darius was looking towards the van rather than Harry's invisible form. "We should go and check."

A few tense seconds passed, until the skull-face scoffed. "You're not getting out of explaining your fuck-up to Marcel. I'll check outside, while you two bring the Muggle in."

"Fine." Darius glared at his departing comrade, then let go of the door to grab the sniveling teenager by the arm.

Having sidled away to let the skull-face through, Harry hastened inside before the door closed. As he crossed the threshold, he felt hair rise on the back of his neck. Anti-Apparition. That meant a Turned wizard or witch still in possession of their wand; illegal, but not unexpected. He thought back to the length of enchanted cord in his pocket, hoping Portkey travel wasn't barred.

The warehouse was cavernous and gloomy, stripped of whatever Muggle equipment it once housed. The windows were boarded up, and the only light was provided by guttering candles scattered around the dirty plank floor. Unaware of the intruder behind them, the two vampires marched onward with the teenager in tow. Harry attempted to match their creaking steps, his nose wrinkling at a metallic smell in the air.

They arrived in an area closed off by a shabby wooden partition. There was some furniture here that had seen better days, including a table and some chairs, on one of which sat a grizzled vampire in silken robes and a thick gray cloak. His attention was focused on a hidebound tome in his hands.

The three captives huddled around a support column as a vampiress in dark robes hovered over them, sneering at their terrified whimpers. At the arrival of the black-leathered men, she straightened up and sauntered towards the teenager between them.

"Oh, I like this one," she purred, leaning in to run her tongue along the boy's cheek. "Young and fit, he would last for hours."

"You don't get to drain him, my dear, not when we are short on cattle," the vampire at the table said in a deep voice. He lifted his gaze off the tome, and the two newcomers shrank down. "You were to bring seven. In what way were my instructions unclear?"

The pair exchanged glances, and the one on the right gave Darius a nudge.

"Sorry, Marcel," the vampire stammered. "Some bloody Muggle saw me at work and called the police. They came in droves, so we had to bail." He ducked his head and swallowed. "I—we can fix this. Raid the towns up north, plenty street trash there no one will miss—"

The noise of a heavy book slamming shut made the lackeys flinch, and Harry along with them.

"It is too late for that," Marcel said. "I have learned that the ritual gains strength under a full moon. This is why we failed last time, I am certain of it." He glared at the two in turn. "Go downstairs and dispose of the husks. We start in an hour, when the moon is at its apex."

The lackeys shoved the tracksuited teen towards the rest of the victims, then made themselves scarce. Harry sidled towards the hapless Muggles, eyeing Marcel and the vampiress warily. The man was brooding, his bone-white fingers tapping the table, while the woman was baring her fangs at the Muggle teen. The way he kicked his bound legs in a futile attempt to get away seemed to amuse her.

"Stop playing with the bloodbags, lest they soil themselves," Marcel said. "Why don't you go and make sure those simpletons don't botch the preparations?"

The woman mimed a bite at the boy and cackled when his eyes went wide as saucers. Pivoting, she sashayed up to Marcel and perched on his lap.

"Taking out the rubbish doesn't take much skill," she breathed into his ear. "We could spend the time in a more entertaining manner."

"You have the best ideas, my dear," Marcel murmured, his hand sinking into her sleek hair to pull her into a kiss.

Harry rather agreed. With the two sufficiently distracted, he tiptoed towards the captives and squatted down, fumbling for the cord in his pocket. Gingerly parting his cloak, he shoved one end into the young woman's bruised palm.

"Hold on," he whispered, keeping an eye on the embracing couple.

With the Silencing Charm on his person, he wasn't sure if she heard, but her fingers clenched around the cord nonetheless. Encouraged, he proceeded to run the cord along the palms of the others, balling their fingers into fists as he repeated the instruction. He briefly considered cutting their bonds with the knife he carried in his boot, but he couldn't risk them flailing about.

The teenager was last, having wriggled apart from the rest, and Harry had to tug him closer before the taut-stretched cord would reach. The boy's eyes bugged out at the unseen force, and he made a muffled noise. Harry shot a fearful look towards the vampires, but they were otherwise occupied.

He knelt down and leaned over the boy's ear. "If you want to live, stop floundering and take hold."

The boy's eyes darted around frantically, making Harry fear he was too panicked to listen, but then he gave a jerky nod and groped around to grab the cord.

Releasing a shaky breath, Harry parted his cloak to take hold himself. "Sanc—"

Something crashed into him with the force of a lorry, lifting him clean off his feet and laying him out with his cloak ripped off. Pushing up with his hands, he wheezed in a breath and winced at the stab in his ribs. He turned his head to find the tattooed vampire circling him.

"You left footprints," the skull-face said as he cracked his knuckles. "I should've known—Darius's hearing was always sharper than mine."

Behind him, Marcel and his sweetheart had separated and were now gaping at Harry. The vampiress glanced to the captives, who were craning their necks to stare at the proceedings.

"Look!" she cried, pointing at the cord connecting them.

Springing to his feet, Harry lunged towards his lifeline, but had to bring his forearms up to defend from skull-face's swipe which sent him stumbling backwards. He saw Marcel brandish a polished ebony wand at the Muggles, and made a split-second decision.

"Sanctuary!" he bellowed.

The huddling figures blurred and shot skyward in a whoosh of displaced air. How was St. Mungo's going to react to an illegal Portkey dumping a quartet of Muggles into their lobby, he had no idea, but there were more imminent problems.

"Insolent whelp!" Marcel roared. He trained his wand on Harry, his chest heaving with breath his body didn't need. "Alive, I want him alive!"

Shaking off their stupor, the vampiress and the skull-face moved to catch him in a pincer. Harry's gaze darted between them and the back of the warehouse, where another pale mug poked up from a staircase. The vampire's eyes bulged out as he took in the situation, and he bounded towards his comrades; the trio spread out in a semicircle around Harry, who retreated until his back pressed against the partition.

"Extracting the hostages was a signal for the Aurors," he said quickly, wand flipping from one target to other. "The building is surrounded. Come quietly, and I guarantee you a fair trial."

The skull-face halted. "All was quiet outside—"

"He's bluffing." Only a hint of rage remained in Marcel's deep voice. "Aren't you, Mr. Potter? It's been years since you had anything to do with the Ministry."

The trio glanced back at their master before considering Harry again. The woman laughed.

"Quite a catch, isn't he?"

Marcel nodded as his underlings inched ever closer to the intruder, their bodies rigid with tension. "A wizard's blood is worth that of a dozen Muggles. I don't know how you came across this place, but you're not leaving it. Seize him!"

The vampires exploded into motion. Harry dived aside, feeling the partition behind him give out as somebody smashed into it feet away. He fell on his back with a yelp, fortuitously avoiding a jet of light hurtling overhead. Thunderous footsteps converging towards him, he thrust his wand upwards and pressed his left sleeve over his face.

"Insolare!" he screamed, squeezing his eyes shut.

The world went white, heat prickling the exposed parts of his skin; an instant later, screams filled his ears. Harry flipped over and sprang to his feet, squinting through the red afterimages.

The burns on his face and hands would pain him later, but it was nothing compared to the effect the spell had on vampires. Two of the leathered kidnappers were nothing more than smoking corpses. The woman was curled up into a ball, wailing as she clutched her head, her previously lush hair a smoldering ruin.

He sought out the elder, and saw him straightening up and lowering the gray cloak he had wrapped himself in, looking none the worse for the wear. Harry's pulse raced at the look of absolute fury on Marcel's face, and his wand rose to meet the attack.

Curses came hard and fast, sizzling with the wrath of their caster. A blue jet of light bounced off his Protego, but the next hex punched through, forcing him to deflect. He parried a Blood-Freezer, then side-stepped a volley of Cleavers, one of which clipped his forearm and threw off his counter-attack. Marcel didn't let up, pummeling him with curses each more vile than the last.

It was taking all Harry had to withstand the onslaught, but as he batted aside one spell after another, he saw the growing frustration in his opponent's eyes. Marcel appeared unaccustomed to an enemy lasting this long. Given how a wizard's powers dwindled after their Turning, Harry shuddered to imagine just how strong the man had been in his first life.

"Avada Kedavra!" Marcel cried, emerald light bursting from the tip of his wand.

Already on the move since the first syllable, Harry jabbed his wand at the table and yanked it back. The heavy piece of furniture rocketed towards him, just in time to block the Killing Curse and spray him with chips of wood. His wand sketched a circle, gathering up the material before banishing it at his enemy and following up with a channeled cone of fire.

Marcel snarled, splitting the cone in half with a downwards slash before quenching it altogether with a stream of water. "Cease your blubbering, love!" he snapped, brushing a burning sliver off his shoulder. "His blood is key to restoring you!"

Sobbing and swaying, the vampiress stood up. Harry stepped back involuntarily when he saw the burns disfiguring her ashen face. Rather than firm surface, his heel encountered a pool of slippery fabric, and he stumbled even as the vampiress pounced.

He leapt back, a twitch of his wand scooping his invisibility cloak off the floor and another sending it to wrap around her neck. Suspended by the improvised noose, she choked out obscenities as her nails scrabbled against the fabric Harry knew to be virtually indestructible.

Something slammed into his abused ribs, twisting him around, and he couldn't help the cry that escaped his lips. Bringing up a nonverbal shield, he assessed the damage. His right flank was slick with blood; a tap of his wand stemmed the flow, and another numbed the pain enough to return him to fighting condition.

The shield dissolved in a shower of sparks and Harry went on the offensive, pelting Marcel with low-level hexes that would barely slow him even if they hit. The vampire vacillated between defending and taking them on outright, and that's when Harry's wrist flicked up, plucking a long plank from the warehouse's flooring and smacking him in the face. Growling, Marcel slapped it away, but the distraction allowed Harry's Disarming Charm to slip under his guard. Ripped from his fingers, his wand clattered on the floor yards away.

For an instant, all was still save for the thrashing of the hanged vampiress; then Marcel dashed towards where his wand lay.

"Confringo," Harry said. A deafening blast shattered the woodwork and sent Marcel and his wand flying in opposite directions. He glanced towards the struggling vampiress and brought up his left sleeve. "Inso—"

The floor underneath him gave way with a crack. Swinging his arms to regain balance, he tried to backpedal, but something latched onto his right leg. Glancing down, he saw to his shock a clawed hand clamped above his ankle.

"Hold him!" Marcel cried, rising unsteadily.

Harry whispered a spell that would send the clan leader wherever vampires went after their second death, but the agony of the claws sinking into unprotected flesh above his boot spoiled his wand motion. Hissing, he brought his hand down sharply and snapped off a Piercing Curse.

One, two, three yellowish streaks perforated the planks with dull thuds, resulting in a muffled scream. Another, and the hand went slack, separating from Harry's blooded calf with a squelch and disappearing below.

Harry sought out Marcel and found him snatching his wand off the floor and bringing it to bear. He reacted instinctively, erecting a shimmering sphere around himself.

The attack never came. Marcel made a broad sweep with his arm, and the warehouse was plunged into darkness as every candle was extinguished.

Swearing inwardly, Harry raised his wand like a baton—yet before he could pronounce the deadly incantation, a jet of bright azure whizzed at him from an unexpected angle, and he shrank back. In that fleeting moment of illumination, he caught sight of Marcel prowling along the wall, wrapped in his cloak save for his eyes.

Everything went pitch-black again. There was a murmur of an incantation, then a hacking cough.

"Come, love," Marcel said.

Harry thrust his wand in that direction. "Confringo!" A fiery explosion impacted the floor, giving him a glimpse of Marcel holding the vampiress in his arms. He adjusted his aim. "Confringo, Confringo!"

The angry orange of the Blasting Curse lingered in his retinas. He backtracked as he whipped his head about, hearing nothing but his own labored breathing. The blackness weighed on him with an almost corporeal presence. A perfect hunting ground for vampires.

He gritted his teeth. Even if he found the opportunity to verbally cast the Solar Flare, closing his eyes was tantamount to suicide. He had to even the playing field first.

Hearing a creak behind him, he whirled about, only his prompt Protego saving him from getting blindsided by a Cleaver. He retaliated, spying a shadowy figure duck behind a column before his purple ribbon sliced uselessly into the far wall. Firing several more to keep Marcel pinned, he focused on the image of his invisibility cloak and mouthed a silent Accio.

There was a flutter of fabric, and something cool and satiny brushed his fingertips. Dropping to a crouch, he draped the cloak over himself. A curse sailed overhead, revealing Marcel to be closer than he had expected.

Harry broke into a sluggish run. A torrent of fire charred the spot he just vacated, leaving the planks to smolder. He risked lowering his wand to put a Silencing Charm on his feet, then one over his chest, before changing course abruptly.

"You can't hide from me!" Marcel's next curse went wide, the flash of light casting his aquiline features in stark relief. He was peering towards the front of the building and not anywhere near Harry, who now lurked a dozen steps to his side.

Harry's lips quirked into a savage grin. Skirting a column, he extended his wand from between the folds of his cloak.

"I smell your blood," a voice rasped into his ear.

He rolled forward even as claws raked his back. Coming to a halt on one knee, he brought up his wand, but the point of a boot slammed his wrist and it slid out his fingers. Heedless of the silhouette looming over him, he dived to retrieve it, but it zipped away before he could do so. The same small boot smashed into his chest with an audible crunch, and the back of his head hit the planks, causing stars to swim in his vision.

He missed the exact moment the candles lit up again, bathing the warehouse in dim light. Someone was clapping. Grunting, he rolled onto his side to find Marcel approaching unhurriedly. The vampiress stood nearby, her gnarled face twisted in a sneer.

Marcel tossed Harry's wand to her. "A souvenir for you, dear. See if it responds to your touch."

Harry snarled and tried to rise, but a kick from Marcel sprawled him on his back again. A foot pressed down on his chest. Gasping, he strained his arms to push it off, but the weight only increased. He couldn't breathe.

"Why, Potter?" The vampire watched him flail, only letting up when his hands began losing their strength. "Why have you come here? Surely it wasn't to save those guttersnipes."

"You... stole." Harry gulped down air. "From my... employer."

"Parkinson. Parkinson sent you?" Marcel barked an incredulous laugh.

The vampiress stomped her foot. "That decrepit windbag refused to pay us! We merely took back what was ours!"

"Hush, now. He will get his in due time." Marcel stared at Harry. "It would be remiss of us not to use the opportunity Potter has presented."

"Your... ritual?" Harry gasped out in between breaths. He had to keep him talking.

Marcel sneered. "The deaths of my scions will feel like the gentle embrace of sleep compared to yours. As your blood seeps out your pores, take solace in knowing that it will serve to raise our clan to heights of power."

Harry flexed his muscles experimentally, then contorted his lips into a grin. "Blackskulls, was it? Bit cheesy if you ask me."

Marcel pointed his wand down. "Cru—"

He tucked his knees to his chest, fingers grasping the handle of his knife, then kicked hard at Marcel's shins. Vampire or not, gravity took hold and he fell forward, impaling himself on the blade Harry brought up just in time.

Marcel's eyes practically popped out of their sockets, and his lips parted to release a bubble of red spittle. Him being a vampire, the chest wound didn't so much spurt blood as ooze it, but a length of silvered steel through the heart killed pretty much everything short of a Dementor.

A scream assaulted his ears—a shrill reminder that there was one more enemy to deal with. Hauling Marcel's corpse off himself, he wrested the ebony wand from his insensate fingers and trained it on the vampiress. With her disfigured face twisted in rage, she seemed more beast than person as she charged at Harry.

A flick of his wrist, and a pulse of energy erupted from the wandtip, propelling the vampiress backwards until she hit a column cracking it in half. Collapsing at its base, she remained still for a moment before scrabbling at the ground feebly.

Breathing heavily, Harry got to his feet, eyeing the vampiress until he was certain she posed no immediate threat. He summoned his own wand from where she had discarded it in her frenzy, and sighed in pleasure as it warmed his palm and restored some of his flagging strength.

Pocketing Marcel's wand, he summoned his invisibility cloak and limped towards the back of the warehouse. All was quiet, every nook and cranny empty, but he kept his eyes peeled, his heart still pumping with adrenaline. He paused atop the crooked staircase to sweep the warehouse with his eyes before proceeding downstairs.

"Lumos," he murmured, pointing his wand forward as he descended.

The basement appeared to be dug out long after the warehouse was built. The wooden stairs groaned under his weight, and the crude earthen walls were crumbling. The sickly tang of copper he smelled upstairs intensified, acquiring a putrid quality.

He stepped off the last stair and onto packed dirt, arriving in a wide, claustrophobically low-ceilinged space. Hesitantly, he raised his wand above his head.

He lurched back. Five corpses hung suspended from the ceiling, their mouths frozen in screams of palpable suffering, desiccated eye sockets staring with silent accusation. Underneath them was a circular stone platform carved with labyrinthine grooves which were crusted with dried blood, and at its center stood something resembling an altar—a rune-inscribed pedestal with a small hollow in the middle.

Swallowing back bile, he wrenched his gaze from the macabre scene. He barely registered the vampire with a hole through his skull slumped next to the platform. Wheeling around, he ascended the stairs rather more quickly than he had gone down, ignoring for the time being the twinge in his right leg that made itself known with every step.

Upstairs, the vampiress had surmounted the distance to her deceased lover, and was feeling for something around his neck. As Harry approached, he saw her pulling weakly on a golden chain under Marcel's robes. She hissed as he brought his wandlight closer.

Bending down, Harry extracted the chain to find it held a lustrous red stone in a simple setting. His eyes narrowed. Turning it over, he tapped it with his wand.

"Relashio."

The tiny metal prongs loosened, releasing the gem onto his palm. It felt warm, just about body temperature. He shivered. How many lives had gone into its creation?

"Please..." the vampiress whispered. Her hand rose an inch only to flop down again.

Harry crouched over her, wand in one hand and stone pinched between the fingers of the other. Her blanched lips parted as her dulled eyes peered at him expectantly. Furrowing his brows, he extended the gem over her mouth.

Nothing seemed to happen at first. Then, as if in response to his intent, a tiny carmine droplet gathered at the stone's base. Gleaming with its own inner light, it lingered before plummeting towards the vampiress's waiting mouth.

A shudder went through her limbs, and her eyes brightened. Harry watched with morbid interest as little flecks at the edges of her burns started sloughing off, revealing unmarred skin.

She pushed up with her hands, then sagged again. "More."

"Answers first." He hid the stone in his fist, and her gaze flicked to his face. "Who else is making these things?"

"In Britain, no one. It's long-lost knowledge of our forebears from the east of the continent." Her eyes drifted to the corpse besides them and she spat on Harry. "Marcel was the only one capable of deciphering the manuscript."

Harry's gaze strayed towards the hidebound tome lying on the ground. "And what would Parkinson want with one of these?"

"Vitality. Youth. Same things every one of your pathetic kind craves." She licked her lips, staring at Harry's fist. "Unlike for us, it won't provide sustenance, but it will grant everything else."

He goggled. "Like the Philosopher's Stone?"

A gurgling laugh came from her throat. "Silly wizard legend. Death cannot be overcome, only... embraced. For humans, the gem's blessings last days at most."

"I see," he murmured, moving to pocket the jewel.

Her eyes went wide. "You promised. You promised!"

Harry studied her, then sighed and extended his hand again, allowing another droplet to fall on her eager tongue. "I'm torching this place. If you're able to, leave."

He turned his back on her and started walking towards the exit, eleven inches of holly gripped firmly between his fingers. Eight steps, nine... A rustling of fabric, then pounding footfalls. He whirled about, his hand tracing the simple jab of the Piercing Curse.

Struck in the chest, the vampiress slumped against Harry rather than slamming into him. Her fingers scratched at his robes, failing to do any damage, and her bared fangs clicked together inches below his throat.

"Did you think... I'd let you walk?" she rasped.

Shaking his head, he shoved her off. Her dimming gaze met his, crimson fading into a lusterless brown.

He pivoted and trudged towards the exit, imagining her unseeing eyes on his back. The weariness and revulsion caught up with him all at once. He wanted out. More than that, he wanted this place gone.

He nudged open the door, welcoming the breeze of fresh air, and considered his options. A basic Incendio would not do a good enough of a job until the Muggles inevitably came with their screeching fire engines.

The answer came to him as he turned to regard the wrecked warehouse, and despite everything, his lips twisted into a wry grin. How appropriate. Bloodfire was, after all, invented by vampires.

Drawing Marcel's wand—it responded well, and he didn't fancy leaving traces of the forbidden magic on his own—he aimed it at the blood-stained planks. In order to summon the cursed flame, Jean had taught him, one had to imbue it with the desire to consume. Given that perpetual hunger was the normal state of being for vampires, those of their kind who retained their wizardly abilities had an affinity for the spell.

Hunger, however, was the furthest thing from Harry's mind. He concentrated instead on his need to cleanse this place of slaughter, on his earnest wish to scour it off the face of Earth...

"Sanguisigni!"

The ebony wand produced a single spark, a globule of deepest ruby. It floated gently, almost languidly towards the floor; then, inches away, it swooped down like a predator onto its prey. Harry squinched his eyes as the flames surged, racing to devour every drop of blood in the vicinity. Stepping out the door, he Apparated even as the myriad of questing ruby tongues threatened to lap at the hem of his robes.

Reappearing atop the abandoned building, he watched until the warehouse's roof went ablaze. Bloodfire burned fast and fierce, but died just as quickly without fuel to sustain it. With its immense heat spawning mundane fires, by the time anyone arrived to investigate there would be nothing left but ashes. Parkinson didn't need to know the details; no one did.

Wincing in pain—his Numbing Charm seemed to have dissipated—he was about to attempt what little healing magic he knew, then hummed thoughtfully and stayed his hand. He turned on his heel again.

"So you know," Parkinson said. His hands, clasped together so tightly his knuckles had gone white, separated, and his fingers snaked into his left sleeve, where the more old-fashioned wizards tended to holster their wands.

"I do." Harry tried to keep his face impassive. Few could beat him on the draw, but he wasn't exactly in shape for a fight. "Do you know how many people were killed to make that thing?"

"People?" Parkinson scoffed. "Muggles, Potter."

His jaw clenched. "Ah, forgive me. For a moment there, I forgot who I was speaking to—"

Parkinson slapped his palms on the armchair rests. "Don't you dare moralize to me. How many laws did you break on your latest rampage? I could make your life very unpleasant if I were so inclined."

Harry sighed and reached into his trouser pocket to withdraw the jewel. The feel of its lukewarm surface made his skin crawl. "Let's not be too hasty, now."

Parkinson half-rose, his nostrils flaring. "Hand it over!"

He palmed the gem, hiding it from sight. "So eager for your next hit?"

Parkinson snarled, his hand dipping into his sleeve in a move which had Harry whipping out his wand. The man froze, then sagged in his seat and adjusted his lapels. "Milly!"

The elf appeared, bowing so low her nose almost scraped the floor.

"Fetch the bag from my nightstand," Parkinson ordered, not taking his eyes off Harry's slightly wavering wand.

The elf returned but a few seconds later, her spindly arms trembling under the weight of a drawstring pouch.

"This is double the amount we agreed on," Parkinson said. "I trust it is sufficient compensation for the... complications you encountered."

Eyeing the bag, he nodded slowly and stowed his wand. "It is."

"Excellent." Parkinson extended a quivering hand. "The stone, then."

He pushed himself out of the armchair with a wince and staggered towards his host, his right boot sloshing with fresh blood. Parkinson's face took on a look of dismay when he saw the state of the rug underneath, but when Harry set the gem atop the table, his expression cleared.

"Good man." Parkinson snatched the stone to cradle it in his clammy palms. "I knew I was right to hire you."

"You know, if you just paid them what they asked, all these 'complications' could've been avoided."

"Bah—I'd sooner hand my money to a Mudblood than those parasites." Parkinson blinked, then raised his gaze to stare at him. "Well, Potter? Take your payment and go."

Harry glanced at the elf, who proffered the bag to him wordlessly. Her fraying sleeves slid back, revealing forearms criss-crossed with old scars.

"Could your servant deposit it into my Gringotts vault?" Harry clutched his ribs. "I'm not in any shape to do it myself, and I don't feel comfortable carrying that much gold."

Parkinson squared his jaw. "If that's what it takes for you to leave. See to it, Milly."

Harry inclined his head, then hobbled towards the fireplace, feeling Parkinson's gaze bore into his back. Leaning heavily on the mantelpiece, he pinched some Floo powder from an ornate bowl. Only then did he glance back.

Parkinson was no longer paying him any heed. His hands shook as he placed what looked like an absinthe spoon over his tumbler, setting the Red Amber on top. Licking his lips, he bent forward to watch as beads started forming on its surface.

Harry wasn't sure what drove him to speak; perhaps he was looking for an excuse to avoid going through with what he had planned. "Aren't you worried your daughter will see you like this?"

Parkinson jerked back, then glowered at him. "That ungrateful wench never visits anymore—not that it's any business of yours. Why are you still here?"

"My bad." He raised his left hand in a placating gesture while his right tossed the Floo powder into the grate, causing a loud whoosh. "Pansy's an old classmate, is all. Enjoy your evening."

He hardly needed to stoop as he stepped backwards into the fireplace, emerald flames dancing across his vision and tickling his skin. Parkinson gave him one last glare before returning to coaxing the precious liquid from the stone. Harry drew the ebony wand and pointed at a crimson stain on the floor a couple steps ahead.

"Sanguisigni," he whispered.

A single spark burst into being, its characteristic hue muted by the curtain of green around him. Hunched over the stone, Parkinson didn't look up as the cursed flame slithered hungrily along the trail of Harry's blood and towards the largest source of fuel in the room. It wouldn't be satiated, couldn't be satiated; it would only die after consuming all it could.

Harry spoke his destination, leaving Hubert Parkinson to his fate.