"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 ornate 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 warm by the crackling 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 before sending me to track down your little heirloom, 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 off the hardwood floor and onto the coffee table.

"Milly!" Parkinson barked. A house-elf popped in, bowing 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 turning over a tumbler in his hand, 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. What have you found out? Do we stand a chance of tracking 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 agreed to. On the surface, the task of recovering stolen property wasn't unusual—it was something he had successfully managed several times in his short career as a hired wand—yet there were two things that made this case special.

First and foremost, Hubert Parkinson was a pureblood supremacist who made no secret of his views on Muggleborn and Muggles; 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 choosing Harry was puzzling indeed.

Second, there were too many things about the burglary 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 tracking spells 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 stepped out, giving the estate behind a thoughtful look. With Parkinson being a widower, the massive ancestral home had the eerie quietness of a crypt—yet it was immaculately maintained, from the gleaming bay windows to the 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.

Decision made, he stepped away from the gates. He would start the same way he always did for such cases—by visiting an old war comrade. Holding his destination firmly in his mind, he spun on the spot.

He reappeared in the depths of Knockturn Alley, right 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 blow to the face. Stale beer, musty straw, the smoke from exotic herbs, and worse—the smells mingled to form the aroma particular to less-than-reputable wizarding establishments. Craning his neck around, Harry walked inside, stooping several times 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. Harry 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 booth in the corner. Mundungus was slumped over the table, his unkempt ginger hair splayed over its pockmarked surface, 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 on his face.

"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 the man 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 losing his drink that seemed to wake Dung more than anything.

"What the bloody 'ell is goin' on?" he said, blinking blearily. "Who are you to barge in 'ere and"—his bloodshot eyes widened—"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 he 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 have to deal with?"

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

Harry rolled his eyes and yanked Mundungus up by his robes. "Get up already."

The man rose to his feet, teetered, then plopped down into his seat with a groan.

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

"I feel a tad under the weather, Harry," the man slurred. "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. "I think you've had enough already. You're coming with me."

He grabbed Dung's free arm unceremoniously and slung it over his shoulder, hoisting him up and out of the booth. The man yelped as his ale spilled from the tankard he was still holding with all his strength.

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

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

Harry just turned on the spot, yanking 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 a curious shade of green and he made a choking noise. Harry's self-preservation instincts kicked in and he jumped away, letting go of Mundungus who promptly collapsed on all fours and vomited.

Kreacher appeared as Dung was retching his guts out. "Master has brought filth into the house again," he said with a look of disgust that Harry reckoned was mirrored on his own face.

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

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

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

"Kreacher does as Master requests," the elf said.

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

"B-bloody h-hate you," the shaking Mundungus said as the elf departed. "Kidnappin'—gettin' your elf to 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, hang 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 absently. "Now, what kind of a job pays that bloody well? Because if it's along the lines of 'unting Nundus, I gotta tell you upfront, it's not my shtick."

"Relax, Fletcher. You have, shall we say, a pulse on the criminal world." Harry looked towards him expectantly.

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

"There's been a break-in at Mr. Parkinson's home. Weird thing is, there were no traces of magic, just broken doors and triggered traps all the way down to his 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 guess 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 thing," he said. "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 jewel about this size. Parkinson claims he doesn't know what kind of stone it was, but it was uncut and not set into any jewelry..." He trailed off, watching Mundungus go paler by the second. "Hangover potion not agreeing with you, Dung?"

"You're wrong," the man whispered with bloodless lips.

He frowned. "Come again?"

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

He blinked, then hurried after him. "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 it, 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 to extinguish the Floo, then swore when he realized he had left it atop the table. "Hold up!"

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

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 man 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 glanced down, pinched the front of his robes, and pulled them up for a sniff, scowling when he caught a whiff of smoking herbs. He would have to change 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 had received him at a small table in the corner, a couple of waiters hovering nearby but never intruding unless signed otherwise.

"It's such a pleasure to see you again, Mr. Potter," Jean said, his long, white fingers swirling a glass of red liquid by the stem. Harry hoped it was wine; 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. There was something about Jean's honeyed voice that never failed to irritate him. "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... other reasons." Harry shifted, wondering if he should share the information, then decided to plow ahead. "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 voice still sounded smooth, but was now 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 own robes in the time it might've taken a slower man to blink. "Very well, ask your questions."

He went straight to the point. "You're the second person to freak out after I described Par—my employer's 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 that was 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."

"And how many of these... Red Ambers are there?" 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?

"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, right?"

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 civilized 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 broke eye contact with Harry in order to jot down a couple of lines. He folded the parchment over and 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 hands atop the armrests and watched his host with feigned nonchalance.

Parkinson squirmed in his seat, set his glass atop the coffee table, then poured himself another measure of Firewhisky. Picking 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. You weren't the only one I contacted. Given your history, it should be obvious that you weren't my first choice. Yet everyone else 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 eager to title things Dark these days. 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 done what I asked," Parkinson retorted.

Harry opened his mouth to speak, but a cough erupted from his chest. Clearing his throat, he drew in a breath, but an even stronger spasm seized his body and he doubled over, hacking his lungs out. Eyes watering from the pain in his flank, he clenched a fist over his lips in an attempt to suppress the fit.

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

"Didn't know you cared, Hubert," Harry wheezed. He wiped his mouth with the back of his palm, 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—" Harry coughed a couple more times, then reached into his robes for 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 again, 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, and most of my buddies left shortly after I did. Suffice to say, I wasn't interested in submitting a report through official channels and have it sit in some bureaucrat's drawer for weeks before anyone deigned to look at it. I took matters into my own hands."

***

Harry sneezed, rubbed his numb fingers together, then reached for his wand to create another gust of heat. His invisibility cloak acted almost like a tent, maintaining a bubble of warmth around him until the crisp night air inevitably intruded through the gaps. Here atop an abandoned three-storey building, the cold was made worse by the frigid 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 dim moonlight. It came to a halt on the cracked tarmac before the warehouse with a screech of brakes, 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 slightly but made no sound he could discern while three more bodies followed. The men then slammed the van shut and proceeded to half-drag, half-carry 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 stepped onto the parapet resolutely. If they kidnapped those people to feed, by the time the Aurors got here it would be too late.

Holding down his cloak with one hand, 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 spot he'd bespelled.

He took a moment to smooth down his cloak, then broke into a sprint, heavy boots pounding the ground with no sound. He'd 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 peering straight through Harry, nostrils flaring almost in unison. Mere inches away, Harry froze, trying desperately to control his breathing as his heart hammered in his ears. His Odor-Masking Charm should still hold...

"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 to Marcel how you fucked up tonight. I'll check outside, while you two bring the Muggle in."

"Fine," Darius grumbled. He watched his comrade depart towards the van, before letting go of the door and grabbing the sniveling teenager by the arm.

Having shuffled away to let the skull-face through, Harry hastened to slip 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 as well.

The warehouse was cavernous and gloomy, stripped of whatever Muggle equipment it once housed. Its 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 ahead with the teenager in tow. Harry attempted to match their creaking steps, his nose wrinkling at a metallic smell hanging 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 an old-fashioned grey cloak. His attention was focused on the leather-bound tome in his hands.

The three captives were huddling 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 sashayed towards the teenager between them to give him a once-over.

"Oh, I like this one," she purred, leaning in to run her tongue along his cheek. The boy trembled. "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 book, 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 damned Muggle saw me at work and called the police. They came in droves, so we had to bail." He looked up, then ducked his head again and swallowed. "I—we can fix this. Raid the towns up north, plenty of street trash there no one will miss—"

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

"It is too late for that," Marcel said. "I have deciphered more of the ritual and learned that it 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 remove 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 four 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 cattle, lest they soil themselves," Marcel said in a bored tone. "Why don't you go and make sure those simpletons don't bungle the preparations?"

The woman mimed a bite at the boy and cackled at the way his eyes went as wide as saucers. Pivoting, she sauntered towards 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 inwardly agreed. With the two sufficiently distracted, he tiptoed towards the captives and squatted down, fumbling for the cord in his pocket. Carefully 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 nevertheless. Releasing a shaky breath, he proceeded to run the cord along the palms of the others, physically 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 he could reach him with the taut-stretched cord. 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 on the floor 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 with his fingers 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 on the floor with his cloak ripped off. Pushing up with his hands, he wheezed in a breath and winced at the stab of pain in his ribs. He turned his head to find the tattooed vampire circling him.

"There were extra footprints inside," 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 was forced to bring his hands up to defend from skull-face's swipe which sent him stumbling backwards. He saw Marcel retrieve a polished ebony wand and brandish it at the Muggles, and made a split-second decision.

"Sanctuary!" he bellowed.

The four 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.

The vampires stared at the spot their captives had vanished from in stunned silence.

"How dare you!" Marcel roared, stomping towards Harry to unleash a trio of Cleaving Curses with vigor which belied his apparent age.

Harry brought his own wand up to shield the first purple ribbon, allowing the rest to pass by and gouge the floor. He flicked his wrist to counter-attack, but stayed his hand as he saw Marcel still. The elder vampire's eyes burned crimson, his chest heaving with breath his body didn't need.

"Marcel, what's—"

Harry's gaze flicked towards the back of the warehouse, where Darius's pale mug poked up from a staircase. The vampire's eyes bulged out as he took in the situation and bounded towards his comrades. At Marcel's mute gesture, they spread out in a semi-circle 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 mid-step. "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 younger vampires glanced at their master before considering Harry again. The woman's eyes widened in recognition and she gave an incredulous laugh.

"Quite a catch, isn't he?" she said.

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!"

Three vampires exploded into movement, almost too fast for a human eye to track. Harry dived aside, feeling the wooden partition behind his back give out as a blurred figure smashed into it feet away. He went down with a yelp, collapsing on his back as a curse from Marcel sailed overhead. Thunderous footsteps converging towards him, Harry 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 leader, who'd stayed back as the underlings rushed in, and saw him straightening up and lowering the grey 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 instinctively to meet the attack.

The curses came hard and fast, sizzling with the rage of their caster. A blue jet of light bounced off his Protego, but the next hex punched through, forcing him to deflect. He managed to parry a Blood-Freezing Curse, 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 one more vile than the next.

It was taking all Harry had to withstand the onslaught, but withstand it he did. He could see the growing frustration in his opponent's eyes as he batted one spell out of the air after another—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.

Harry was already on the move since the first syllable, jabbing his wand at the table and yanking it backwards. The heavy piece of furniture rocketed towards him, just in time to block the Killing Curse and spray him with decaying chips of wood.

His wand sketched a circle, gathering up the material before banishing the splinters and sawdust at his enemy. Marcel snarled, splitting it in half with a downwards slash, then was forced to quench the channeled cone of fire that followed with a stream of water.

"Cease your blubbering, love!" he screamed, brushing burning slivers of wood of his shoulders. "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 floor, his heel encountered a pool of slippery fabric, and he stumbled even as the vampiress pounced.

He leapt back, a smooth arc of his wand yanking his invisibility cloak off the floor, and a twitch sending it to wrap around her neck like a noose. Suspended in the air, she choked out obscenities as her nails scrabbled against the fabric Harry knew to be almost indestructible.

A spell slammed into his abused side, twisting him around, and he couldn't help the cry of pain that escaped his lips. Bringing up a nonverbal shield, he used the moment of relative safety to assess the damage. His right flank was slick with blood; he stemmed the flow with a tap of his wand, then cast a Numbing Charm to bring him back to fighting condition.

The shield dissolved in a shower of sparks after blocking Marcel's Organ-Liquefying Curse and Harry went on the offensive, pelting the vampire with low-level hexes that would barely slow him even if they hit. Marcel vacillated between shielding or taking them on outright, and that's when Harry's wrist flicked up, plucking a long plank from the warehouse's floor and smacking him in the face. Marcel growled, slapping 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's figure blurred as he lunged towards where his wand lay.

"Confringo," Harry said. The blast echoed through the building, shattering the floor and sending Marcel and his wand flying in opposite directions. He glanced towards the struggling vampiress and gritted his teeth, bringing up his left sleeve. "Inso—"

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

"Hold him, Darius!" Marcel cried, rising to his feet unsteadily and staggering towards his wand.

Harry whispered a curse that would send the clan leader wherever vampires went after their second death, but Darius's claws sank into the unprotected flesh above his boot, and the agony lancing through his leg spoiled his aim. Hissing, Harry brought his wand down sharply and snapped off a Piercing Curse.

One, two, three purple jets of light perforated the floor with dull thuds, drawing out a muffled scream. Another, and the hand went slack, separating from Harry's blooded calf with a squelch and disappearing below.

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

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

Swearing inwardly, Harry raised his wand like a baton—yet before he could pronounce the deadly incantation, the building was lit up by a jet of purple whizzing at him from an unexpected angle. He shrank back, catching sight of Marcel prowling along the far wall, wrapped in his cloak save for his eyes and his right hand. Everything went black again.

There was a murmur of an incantation, followed by a gasp and a hacking cough.

"Come, love," Marcel said softly.

"Confringo!" Harry snapped, aiming for the voice. The 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 vision. He backtracked gingerly 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 wasn't yet able to use the Solar Flare nonverbally, and nothing else would work without a visible target. A Lumos would be extinguished as soon as he cast another spell. What could he...

A distant memory of Hermione chasing away slithering vines came to mind, and he spoke a half-forgotten incantation, pouring oodles of Bluebell Flames onto the floor. The light they gave off was bright but flickering, causing shadows to dance on the walls.

Their cold azure glow almost blinded him to a Cleaving Curse coming in from a shadowy corner, and he dropped to his knees, allowing it to sail overhead. He retaliated with a pair of Cutters, but all he accomplished was spying a dark figure ducking behind a column. He couldn't tell if Marcel still carried his sweetheart or if she was skulking elsewhere.

He limped perpendicular to his opponents last location, throwing out more Bluebell Flames. Hearing a creak behind him, he whipped about, only to nearly get blindsided by a curse from the opposite direction. He hissed in frustration as he blocked and fired back, his purple ribbon slicing uselessly into a far wall. Its short-lived light did not reveal any sign of Marcel.

Harry gritted his teeth. His Bluebell Flames were failing to illuminate the far reaches of the warehouse and ruined his night vision. He had managed to react to the attacks by a hair's breadth, but it was only a matter of time before his luck ran out. He backed away from the circle of light to present a less obvious target.

"Why did you come here?" Marcel's voice rang, making it difficult to zero in on his location. He lashed out with another curse, revealing him to be closer than Harry had guessed. "Surely it wasn't to save those guttersnipes?"

Keeping his eyes peeled, Harry patted the shoulder the curse had clipped, finding that it only sliced through his robes. "I'm here because you stole from my employer."

"Parkinson. Parkinson sent you?" Angry jets of light streaked from Marcel's wand towards Harry, so bright they seared his retinas. "That decrepit windbag refused to pay us! We merely took back what was ours!"

Harry's Protego fractured under the onslaught, and he grunted as he took a step back. "You mean Red Amber, right?"

The assault ceased abruptly. "That swine told you even that? After I'm done with you, I'll hunt him down personally!"

Harry risked lowering his wand to put a Silencing Charm on his feet, then one over his chest to mask his heartbeat. Focusing on the image of his invisibility cloak, he mouthed a silent Accio. There was a flutter of fabric, and a second later something cool and satiny brushed against his fingers. Donning the cloak, he broke into a sluggish run.

"Where are you going, Potter?" A torrent of fire charred the spot he'd just been in, leaving the planks to smolder.

He changed course, skirting the Bluebell Flames to advance towards his enemy.

"You can't hide from me!" Marcel's second curse was aimed towards the back of the warehouse and not anywhere near Harry, who was lurking a dozen steps away.

Harry's lips quirked into a savage grin as he extended his wandtip from between the folds of his cloak.

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

He rolled forward even as a vicious swipe raked his back. Coming to a halt on one knee, he brought up his wand, but the point of a shoe slammed into his wrist and it slid out his fingers. Heedless of the shadow looming over him, he dived to retrieve it, but it zipped away along the floor. A second later, the same small shoe smashed into his chest with an audible crack. 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 their dim light. He heard clapping and slow, deliberate footsteps, and rolled onto his side with a grunt to find Marcel approaching. 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 as he tried to rise. A kick from Marcel sprawled him on his back again, and his foot pressed down on his chest. Gasping, he struggled to push the vampire away, but despite straining his arms to their limit the weight only increased, making it impossible to breathe.

The vampire watched impassively as Harry flailed, only stepping off when his hands lost their strength. "It would be easy to end you here, but I have use for you yet. Fueling the ritual won't outweigh slaughtering my scions, but it will make their deaths feel like gentle embrace of sleep compared to yours."

"What?" Harry gasped between greedy gulps of air. He had to keep Marcel talking.

"Do you know why Red Amber is called so?" Marcel's arms were crossed, his wand held between his fingers. "The process of its creation is rather... spectacular. Your blood will seep out your pores, like sap from a tree, and the life it carries will begin to crystallize before your very eyes. You being a wizard, we can use potions to keep you alive and conscious until your body can bleed no more. And then, Potter, the gem your life beget will restore our clan and raise it to new heights of power."

"I've... been wondering," Harry whispered. He could see Marcel bend slightly at the waist. "Was it you who came up with Blackskulls? Bit cheesy, innit?"

Marcel sneered, pointing 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 just brought up in time.

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

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

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 clawing at the ground feebly.

Breathing heavily, Harry got to his feet, eyeing the vampiress until he was certain she posed no more threat. He summoned his own wand from where she had discarded it in her blind fury, sighing 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, peering about cautiously. All was quiet, every nook and cranny illuminated by the candles empty, but he remained vigilant, 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, and without much skill nor regard for safety. The wooden stairs groaned under his weight, and the earthen walls were uneven and crumbling. The sickly tang of copper he smelled upstairs intensified, acquiring a sour, rotting quality.

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

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

Bile rising in his throat, Harry wrenched his gaze from the macabre scene. He barely perceived the vampire with a hole through his skull 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.

Things had changed upstairs. The vampiress had surmounted the distance to her deceased lover using her hands alone, and was feeling for something around his neck. As Harry approached, he saw her pulling on a golden chain partly hidden under Marcel's robes. She hissed weakly 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. He chucked the chain away and regarded the stone. 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 dull crimson 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 ruby 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 body as she received the droplet, and her eyes brightened a fraction. She half-rose, pushing off the floor with her hands, then slumped again. Harry watched with morbid interest as little flecks at the edges of her burns started sloughing off, revealing unmarred skin.

"More," she said greedily.

"Answers first." He hid the stone in his fist, and her gaze flicked from his hand 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 lingered on the corpse besides them and she spat on Harry. "Marcel was the only one capable of deciphering the manuscript."

Harry's eyes strayed towards the leather-bound tome laying 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 give 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 stone'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 to her eager tongue. "I'm torching this place. If you're able to, leave."

He pointedly 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 wand tracing the simple jab of the Piercing Curse.

Struck in the chest, the vampiress slumped against Harry rather than slamming into him like she had intended. Her hands scratched at his robes, failing to do any damage, and her bared fangs never reached his throat.

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

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 at how appropriate the magic was given the situation. Bloodfyre was, after all, invented by vampires.

Drawing Marcel's wand—it responded well, and he didn't fancy leaving traces of the forbidden curse on his own—he aimed it at the blood-stained floor. In order to summon the accursed 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 a great 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 place of Earth...

"Sanguisigni!"

The ebony wand produced a single spark, a tiny 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 crimson tongues threatened to lap against the hem of his robes.

Reappearing atop the abandoned building, he watched until the warehouse's roof went ablaze. Bloodfyre burned fast and fierce, but died just as quickly without the 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—the Numbing Charm he had cast during battle seemed to have dissipated—he was about to attempt what little healing magic he knew, then hummed thoughtfully. Stowing the wand, he turned on the spot again.

***

"So you know," Parkinson said. His hands, clutched 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 not to let his tension show. He was confident he could beat Parkinson on the draw, but he wasn't exactly in top shape right now. "Do you know how many people were killed to make that thing?"

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

"Ah, forgive me," he said sarcastically. "For a moment there, I forgot who I was speaking to."

Parkinson slapped his palms on the rests of the armchair. "Don't you dare moralize 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 blood-red jewel. Now that he knew its nature, feeling its lukewarm surface on his skin was revolting. "Let's not be too hasty."

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

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

Parkinson snarled, his hand dipping into his sleeve in a move which had Harry reaching for his own wand, then froze and visibly collected himself. He slumped back to 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 clenched hand.

The elf came back but a few seconds later carrying a leather pouch, her spindly arms trembling under the weight.

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

Eyeing the bag, he nodded slowly. "It is."

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

He pushed himself out the armchair with a wince, then staggered towards his host, his right shoe sloshing with fresh blood. Parkinson had a look of dismay on his face when he saw the state of his rug, but when Harry set the Red Amber atop the coffee table, his expression cleared instantaneously.

"Good man," Parkinson breathed, snatching the stone to cradle it in his clammy palms. "I was right to hire you."

"You know, if you just paid them what they asked, this all 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 won't be in shape to do it myself any time soon, and I don't feel comfortable carrying that much money."

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

Harry nodded, then trudged towards the fireplace, feeling Parkinson's gaze bore into his back. Leaning heavily on the mantelpiece, he pinched some Floo powder from the ornate bowl atop. 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 of liquid started forming on the stone's 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 behind him, causing a whoosh. "Pansy's an old classmate, is all. Enjoy your evening."

He didn't even need to stoop as he stepped backwards into the fireplace, emerald flames dancing across his field of vision and tickling his skin. Parkinson gave him one last glare before returning to his task of coaxing the precious liquid from the stone. Harry drew the ebony wand, pointing at a crimson stain on the hardwood floor a couple steps ahead.

"Sanguisigni," he whispered, his voice drowned out by the roar of the Floo.

A single spark flashed into being, its characteristic hue muted by the curtain of green around him. Hunched over his 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.

 

Plot and Pacing: 4/5
This worked pretty smooth. Events flowed into each other nicely, the chain of events makes sense.

That action scene with the vampire in particular was great, maybe lacking a bit in viscerality, but not all fights have to be visceral. The tension is certainly there and it's paced properly to propel the reader forward.

The exposition detracted from this a bit, I think you needed to show more and tell less.

The ending was good, although your last line could use some more snappiness to it so you end stronger.

Characters: 4/5
Harry's character works, and Dung is in canon, but your main antagonists have nothing really going for them. Couldn't envision how Marcel was any different, personality wise, from any of his lackeys and it turned them into sterotypical antagonists that are utterly replaceable.

Hubert, on the other hand, was well developed with motivations that could be understood.

Prompt Use: 5/5
Turning the the first line from simply an opening into an integral and inseparable part of your story was well done. Full marks for creativity on that one.

Others: 3/5

Technical writing could use some polishing up. There's still the tendency to emphasize too much and not actually trust your reader to come to their own conclusions about how certain things are said or how certain people feel. You could have cut down on quite a few adverbs with strategic use of italics, for example. Doesn't hurt it too much overall, but could be much better.

Also -1 for Bloodfyre.

Total score: 16/20

 

I was definitely impressed with this. There aren't many gritty noir fics that focus on the finer aspects of I would guess you'd call it Anti-Hero Harry. He's fucking shit up in his path to do good, but he's still doing good.

I liked how you worked the prompt into the story. Even though it was still a first line entry, the way it was worked through out the story was much better in execution than I would have expected.

I also like that its not taken in humor. I can't stand humor fics because if you have to try and be funny, you're not funny, and authors have a hard time finding the humor in real life, because they're too caught up telling the story.

Pacing and Plot: 5/5
There was a distinct flair of completeness that I appreciated about this. It could have been a chapter in a larger story, for all the information that was present, but it felt like the culmination of an act. It was well executed.

Characters: 4/5 Noir Grim Dark!Harry is a decent change in pace. He's not perfect, but that's intentional. His execution was flawless.
Hubert as a decrepit needy old fool. Well done. I only give you lower because I don't like vampires, and there is no matter of execution that can make them appealing to me.

Prompt Use: 5/5 As I stated earlier, you did a good job of turning the intro into something more. You were given few words to work with, yet you were able to finish a pretty comprehensive piece. Good job.

Others: 4/5 I'm not expert on grammar, but what was there read well to me. I didn't have to pause to make sure I understood something in how it was stated. Formatted well, and it flowed.

I'm sure I could nit pick more on other things, but there are far better people for doing that than I.

18/20 total.

Thanks for a good read.