The Toxicologist

The First House

The House of Life

Healers. Produce Life Mages who specialise in matters of the body, blood and nervous system. Until the 1500s they worked closely with the Tenth House, whose members have since been labelled as heretics. Often deeply religious, many Life Mages joined the Church during the Inquisition; and experts attribute the House’s actions within this time, and indeed over the late middle era, to the darker history it espouses than is commonly attributed to the healer archetype.

Members of the First House are known as Life Mages, Clerics or Templars

— Magical Minds and Where to Find Them! A Guide for 'Muggles' (Normal Folk). Alice K. Fisher

Lucius Malfoy scanned the room, his frosty gaze landing on Harry, sitting defiantly in his chair and refusing to greet his visitor.

Lucius waited, giving him ample time to amend the snub. Harry did not; his chair, right now, was exceptionally comfy.

A subtle tension gripped Lucius’ jaw, more than displeasure but less than fury. His gaze wandered to the wall, adorned with photo frames featuring Harry's friends and colleagues. Mostly just Harry, Ron, and Hermione from their school days.

Even though Lucius invaded another man's office, clearly unwelcome, he strolled around as if he owned the joint. He passed by those precious photographs uninvited, his attention fixing on Neville's beaming face beside a huge cactus. Lucius arched a pale eyebrow and redirected his gaze to Harry.

"Mr. Potter, I presume?" he said, with a mocking lilt, enough to turn a simple question into a taunt. "Dreadful business with Longbottom. Last of his House, I hear. You were school friends, yes?"

Harry remained tight-lipped. Today was not the day to dwell on Neville, or the Eleventh House.

Lucius shifted his attention to a picture of Hogwarts, radiating in a golden sunset. Both of his eyebrows lifted ever so slightly. His following words were crisp and inquisitive, as if something puzzled him.

The ostentatious silver-tipped black cane tapped the ground as he walked.

"While we were tackling minor grievances like selecting a tutor or, God forbid, figuring out how to balance our son’s schedule, Hogwarts was having a grand time: three near-death experiences, and one real one. A school where half-giants teach freely—rumor has it, even a werewolf does too. A poltergeist attacking students, an acromantula behind the games shed, all crammed into a Scottish academy in a far-flung region of the country, where Divination professors predict the death of forty percent of the year... before luncheon. Who needs modern, state-of-the-art facilities when you can live like a deranged peasant serf?"

Lucius halted at a picture of Hermione. The vampire took a moment, lifting the free-standing frame and staring down at it with a detached expression.

"What a loss it would be for our world if Muggleborns were confined to their own kind. Or... would it? Now that everything is out of the broom closet, so to speak, perhaps mixed schools are unnecessary. Some argue that separation is cruel. Being away from their Muggle families and world for so long feels like an erasure of their identity."

Harry got up furiously, and crossed the room to put down the frame Lucius had picked up. Satisfaction flared behind the vampire’s gaze.

“Muggles have boarding schools, you know,” Harry snapped. “They don't create lasting trauma beyond school dinners.”

“Well, you’d know all about that,” said Lucius gently. “I suppose there has to be — somewhere — to go when one cannot afford a proper Guild education."

That pointed, arched look fixed on Harry.

“I am just making conversation,” Lucius said, as mild as his surprise. “I am not putting you in your place. It's intriguing, really. You chose to ally yourself with Muggles, Mr. Potter. I must admit, it baffles everyone that you'd continue working with them, considering your family's history. Particularly your father's history—and his friends. 'Trust the Muggles,' they said. Look what happened. Yes, well. I'm sure we all trust the Muggles a lot less now. Thanks to James Potter, we've seen just how dangerous they—and the Ministry—can be."

Harry stared at Lucius Malfoy, long after the man had stopped talking.

Grief and anger and futility went through him. Harry could feel violence – right there at the edge of him. For one blissful moment he felt his skin livening. Lucius tilted his head in false concern, as if Harry was just a staring simpleton. Meanwhile, Harry’s pupils had blown wide and his hackles raised and his depth of field flattened. He wanted to fight. 

Polite rejection was not working.

Lucius seemed to intuit it, because suddenly his expression dropped. The pureblood’s mouth opened fractionally, and his body tensed. "Mr. Potter — are you quite well?"

The smell of warm asphalt and rubbish came in through the window through the broken blinds. A sudden whiff of piss-soaked concrete. Harry hated it. Their office faced out onto the alley with the bins. Crab and Goyle got top office, facing the park, with a water fountain. They got an espresso machine.

Harry's clenched fist had gone big and heavy.

In his mind was a mishmash of all the times he'd imagined confronting a vampire and saying plenty of things and doing plenty more. But it was hard to imagine doing any of those things now. Now that one was here, in this wretched room, doing those things would... It was as if those things weren't big enough. Nothing he could do would be big enough.

Harry looked down and away, exhaling sharply, his fist unclenching — and took a rough step back, putting more distance between himself and Lucius. He'd always hated any form of dominance, of ownership, even just a look. This was his office, his and Ron’s space, and he shouldn’t have to deal with cadavers . Something vulnerable and fierce tickled high in the back of his throat. Desperation washed over him, raised the ghost hackles and dug animal claws into his belly.

So Harry jammed his teeth together and back-tracked to where he'd been standing, behind the swivel chair and separated by the desk, before affecting his best blank expression. When he spoke, his breathing was only a little irregular.

“I’m fine,” Harry ground out. “Besides, you really have no leg to stand on. You’re the one advocating for a Dark Lord.”

Lucius adopted a more nonchalant expression. Outrageously, he tsked. “That is not the politically correct term.”

Harry had had enough.

“Fuck you.”

That haughty expression turned blank and stony. Lucius abandoned any pretense, finally taking his seat and opting to dive into business before Harry could insult him enough to elicit a response. “I am not here on behalf of his Lordship.”

Harry blinked. “... Excuse me?” 

He noticed then that Lucius hadn’t said ‘my’ Lordship.

Lucius tried to appear nonchalant. “My latest patron would consider it a personal favor if you took up the mantle of her case, which I'm sure would pique even your interest, given your penchant for attending grisly scenes. I dare say it would satisfy even the most stalwart, gore-lusty of appetites.”

He laid out a selection of photographs on the table. Harry felt sick.

He couldn't tell if the cause of death was drowning. Despite being waterlogged and bloated – his ballooned skin desaturated and taut, mottled for colour in places – his face was missing. Grotesquely missing.

"The coroner believes he was eaten," Lucius stated.

“After or before his death?”

"During."

Merlin's beard. This was a gruesome way to go, even for a vampire. Harry scrutinized the rest of the picture. “Is this his living room?”

"It is," said Lucius calmly.

“So he was off-site but brought home,” Harry murmured. “Where do they think he was killed?”

“In his living room,” said Lucius. Harry looked up. “He did not leave it. His wife was only upstairs. The victim you see here had just risen for the night, going downstairs for no more than ten minutes to prepare breakfast.”

“Pretty late to be getting breakfast.”

Lucius set a weary gaze on Harry. “They are vampires. All of the victims are vampires.” With characteristic grace, he arranged the photographs on the desk to reveal another, and another, and another.

Despite himself, Harry leaned forward. “They've all drowned? In the middle of their homes?”

"It certainly looks that way, Mr. Potter. To that end your guess is as good as ours. The scene of death, in all cases, was bone dry. As to cause of death, the police seem to think that the drowning occurred simultaneously with the..." he waved.

Lucius opened his mouth as if to speak again before pausing mid-gesture, tilting his head at an angle. His gaze was fixed on the empty, scooped-out skull in the photograph. “— consumption.”

Harry studied the mangled bone and face, disturbed. 

“Some perished more quickly than others,” Lucius said. “It depends on how much the victim struggled.”

“While their face was being eaten?"

“Mn,” Lucius hummed. “They were conscious. Each inhaled a great deal of water. The thrashing shows signs of lacerated and missing fingers, as though they got in the way of a jaw with teeth. Torn wrists, punctured shoulder cavities. Mechanical stress; their body was shaken. Wolfish, even.”

“Could it be a wolf? I mean — a werewolf.”

“No. We are positive about that.”

The light caught the damp sheen of a soaking wet dressing robe; another, a smoking jacket, the brocade discoloured.

"You said the scene was dry — and they weren’t moved. They just drown in thin air?"

"Or the offender removed the water very rapidly from the environment,” Lucius said.

Harry made a small noise. “What, from all the furniture, drapes, and carpet? That's not possible with magic, not to this extent, not in ten minutes.” Even fire elementalists would struggle for that level of control. And muggles couldn't do that, right? Speed-dry a room with sofas and stuff? “How quickly were most of these bodies found?"

“The victim whose body was located fastest belongs to the set of images I showed you first. His wife came downstairs just ten minutes after her husband failed to return with breakfast. He died somewhere in that time. All the victims took in a tremendous volume of water. There was no 'dry-drowning'. Rather they gasped —or at least opened their mouths— and water filled their lungs. Presumably in response to the thing consuming their face.”

That would indeed make Harry scream. The coroner’s report, tucked under the photographs, claimed that any clothing was deeply waterlogged. 

“What could do this mechanically?" Harry wondered aloud, awareness knocking along his spine. "It punctured right through their skulls. I can see the bone in that picture."

He gestured. Courtesy of the water having cleaned out a lot of the sunken bowl of his skull, there was nothing left to see, except the back of it. 

It was probably the cleanest visually — the others all had wet flaps of flesh left, hanging off the jaw, gaping around the mouth. No nose, no eyes. In all cases: no soft tissue left on the inside. Brain gone. The teeth from the first one had been cracked and moved aside, like a melon opened up, to get past them directly. Some of the teeth were around the room, actually, and had gotten quite far from the body, either broken or whole.

“Well, how do you know it’s not a werewolf? Something capable outside of the full moon — or involving water magic, I don’t know.”

“My benefactor is certain it is not lupine in nature, given other corroborating variables.”

Harry waited. “... possibly a good idea to tell me those.”

“Possibly,” agreed Lucius, one of his eyebrows raised boredly. He did not elaborate.

Harry snorted. "I guess this confirms the conspiracy," he said, breaking the uneasy silence. "You can drown."

"Not — ordinarily," said Lucius carefully.

“You breathe though, for drowning to work,” Harry said.

“Yes.”

Fucking — “Elaborate, please, Malfoy.”

Lucius inclined his head. "Vampires can go without air for quite a while, but if someone... encourages us to inhale water... that changes things. Unlike mortals, we don't need as many breaths per minute, though we recycle air at the same rate when talking. It's a cringe-worthy sight when a vampire takes less breath than they needed to speak. The sound is quite grotesque. Many of us practice the habit of matching a mortal's breath pattern so we can speak naturally. For the most part our functions remain, as your papers so aptly deride, intact."

Harry did know. The vampire fledgling could rest assured that most human functions – be they erection, respiration, mastication – would all be retained or enhanced. Whether the new, undead creature chose to use any of those functions was a different matter.

The question of whether subsets of cells, such as sperm, were retained intrigued the muggle world; well, actually, they had a lot of questions — and hearings, UN meetings, threat-of-war conferences, inheritance issues, human rights lobbying, and ongoing legislation changes...

Some even got off on exploiting vulnerable cancer patients by offering them a "cure", saying vampirism was the next step, a way to a truer life, a fix for all disease and hardship.

Harry frowned. He looked at the pictures again, the ornate fireplaces, the deep chaise lounges, the unnecessary level and self-gratuitous vomiting up of wealth from every vase, dresser, rug or wood-panelled wall. And across them all: one repeating insignia.

Harry’s eyes widened. "These were all members of your church?"

Lucius’ gaze fixed on Harry. "Yes."

Couldn't have picked a nicer bunch of people. Harry felt guilty thinking it, but it was there. It was no secret that hating on vampires meant you could freely hate on the Church of Eternal Life. They supported vampirism way too much to be a coincidence. Now, looking at these pictures, Harry could see why. A bunch of them were vampires. More than just their leader. More than he’d expect.

Lucius stirred him from his thoughts.

"I should remind you, Mr Potter, that I am not acting on behalf of my previous Lord. He, in fact, does not know that I am here."

Harry sat up. “What? I don’t believe you. Surely he would have investigated this. It's got to be half his bloody followers!”

“His Lordship is... indisposed.”

Harry faltered. “Pardon?”

"My new patron would prefer his Lordship to remain… peaceable in this difficult time of transition. His Lordship is under safe custody, and will reawaken when it is appropriate."

"Lord Voldemort was... knocked out?"

A flicker, but Lucius' expression remained stoic.

"He's torpored, if you will. That's the correct term. Shortly after turning his inner circle into undead, he was plunged into a deep sleep. That's where he'll stay while we handle the press and neighboring domains. A Prince can only allow so many new vampires in a region before it hits feeding constraints, leading to territorial issues and—"

"—border disputes," Harry echoed, the article dawning on him. "You were the vampires in the news. The group that got turned. I thought Violetta embraced you. Voldemort turned you all? You’re the reason everyone’s talking online?"

Oxford's Prince Violetta, one of the master vampires, claimed them as her fledglings. Harry could only presume her motive—perhaps to save face after letting a bunch of embraces happen under her nose. Better that she turned them all, than appear weak, than have let someone like Voldemort mass-embrace a group of mages in her territory. Even if those mages were Voldemort's followers, it went against the law of getting a Prince's permission to embrace.

So Lucius’ patron was a bloody elder.

The First House. The House of Life.

Huh. Harry thought the Church of Eternal Life was all about vampires. He supposed he'd only started focussing on it when Voldemort became a vampire, as of a few months ago. He didn't really know anything about their mad church before then.

They definitely were all about vampirism now.

"You're — healers?"

Lucius twitched. "Yes, Mr Potter."

"All of you?" Harry said suspiciously. "Bellatrix, Rodolphus..."

"Macnair, Rookwood, Mulciber, yes, Potter. We are all healers."

"Right. Forgive my doubt. Some of you have pretty questionable track histories, is all."

Lucius’ chest fell in a silent sigh. He was looking at the sunset picture of Hogwarts. "As does the House, Mr. Potter, as does the House."

There were countless hoops you had to leap through to become a vampire, at least legally. Even muggle laws required you to get an embrace agreement with HMRC. Like a damn marriage contract with informed consent given between both parties; there were prenups and early-embrace support. There are feeding classes, for Christ's sake. No one’s in it alone. Embracing outside of this is illegal and a class A crime, or whatever infraction it was.

"Of course they are," said Harry, his mind racing. Violetta was silencing it. All of it. The size of this...

Lucius studied the glinting head of his cane, one leather-gloved hand firm on its head. "My — his Lordship has been permitted to wake since. However, following his… ah, mass welcome of our church to the night, my patron has since encouraged his Lordship to rest. Deeply. And frequently. He is at rest more than he is awake."

Until he learned to behave. Harry was left reeling, not able to marry up the powerful image of Lord Voldemort being put into Torpor.

“Who Embraced him?” Harry asked despite himself for curiosity. “Violetta? Someone else in her court?”

It has to be Violetta. Why else would she go to these lengths to protect Voldemort unless she embraced him, unless she wants him as her childe? From what Harry remembered, although it was completely illegal, elders privately killed off vampires who embraced in their domain outside of their permission. It's why the government, muggle and Ministry alike, forced you to get permission from your domain's Prince, if you intended to keep on living there. Too many people kept getting killed for embracing their wife or husband or brother. Rarely could the police or aurors find the perpetrator.

“I am being entirely honest with you when I say I do not know. I am not privy to that information.” Lucius looked a decade older, suddenly. “His Lordship will adjust to the changes, as will we all."

“They weren’t muggles,” Harry said as it really dawned on him, staring at the pictures. He looked up to Lucius in shock. “All of your church is our lot – sorry, I mean, wizards, right? Mages, whatever you wanna call us now. They might be vampires, but they were wizards once, all these bodies?"

"Mn. And witches."

The ostentatious silver head of Lucius' cane tapped a couple of photographs, whose victims were too mauled for Harry to even recognise them as women. His stomach twisted.

"Why don’t you go to the Guild?” Harry blurted. “Isn’t that what it’s for? If not the Ministry, go to the Guild! Aren't they meant to protect its members when stuff like this happens, especially the old Houses?"

Something complicated happened to the shape of Lucius' mouth. "The Guild has no affiliation with vampires."

Five seconds passed. Lucius said no more.

"Well, you're one, so…”

For a brief moment there was a hint of genuine emotion that flickered across Lucius’ frosty expression. His pale eyes seemed to darken – heralding a storm. “I was.”

Incredulity didn’t enter slowly, but spectacularly. “They kicked you out,” said Harry. “You. Malfoy. They kicked you out?” And after a beat. “What about your family?"

"As the patriarch of my family, I have removed the name Malfoy from our ancestral seats."

Harry’s jaw felt slack. "But what about Lady Malfoy? Don't you have children? Why should they have to suffer for whatever mistakes you’ve made?"

“Just a son, who is another matter entirely. If by mistake you mean joining my previous Lord in his regime, then I can assure you, it is both a decision I made with the utmost desire to enact positive change in our society in the face of muggle awareness – and one I will carry for the rest of my life.”

Distantly, a cat yowled.

Christ. That created a whole worm can of implications. Not least that someone could theoretically… politically weaponise vampirism. Just target a pureblood whose interests didn't quite match out, turn them, and in doing so outcast a lord or lady from the Guild. Get someone turned into a vamp, and out they go.

“Why didn’t it pass onto your son?” Harry asked. “The seats, the power.”

“He — rejected the transfer.”

“Rejected it? Your son rejected his hereditary seats?”

“Exactly as, Mr Potter. Now, if you would not mind, we are not here to discuss my —”

The space between Harry’s eyebrows was fast vanishing. “Why did your ‘patron’ have you find me? I’m a funny choice for a hire.”

“She became…. interested in your presence.”

What? Why.

Lucius’ tone was clipped – he seemed irritated at being cut off so abruptly. 

“This is all rather ominous, Malfoy. Your situation, the amount of parties involved in this…”

Internally, his mind was stumbling. What would a Prince want him for?

“Potter you are perhaps too paranoid. Fate simply works in funny ways. You and the Prince share a certain common acquaintance.”

“I don’t know any damn vam—” but Harry shut his mouth, his eyes widening a fraction.

Lucius smiled, slowly, an indulgent parent. “Don’t you?”

In a dawning thought, Harry realised he did know a vampire. One who hadn’t stopped bothering him since this earlier this year, around the time all this started.

Voldemort crashed into Harry's life the moment he was embraced. Did Violetta have an interest in Harry? Was she the reason Voldemort was bothering him, acting under some bizarre orders to... annoy... Harry?

“No," said Harry, alarmed.

Lucius’ smile dropped. “Perhaps I did not make myself —”

Lucius darkened. “You would be wise not to reject this.”

“I’d be wise to run a mile."

Another twitch. I knew it, thought Harry. The Guild, too. This is even worse. “You want me to go poke into a case that even a Prince can’t contain — two Princes — while literally the rest of the country is watching right now, all so I can, what? Bring to justice someone who is clearing up the problem?”

“The 'problem'?” 

“Vampires? ”

“You cannot mean it,” said Lucius, his eyes widening slightly. “Many more will die if we cannot resolve this. We could bring peace to the families of those who were slain. We could —”

“No offence, but your church was behind some pretty disgusting rumours.”

Lucius barely repressed a hiss when he was interrupted again, his lip curling. “Rumours.”

“I know what’s behind those rumours, Malfoy,” said Harry. “That should tell you all you need to know about my stance on your problem."

Harry stood up, and gestured to the door. “Now, if you wouldn’t mind. I’ve other things I need to do.”

Lucius rose, faster than Harry had expected. “You must accept,” Lucius urged in a rush. His low timber was thicker now, rough with emotion. “You do not understand the gravity of which —”

“I do, Malfoy. I just don’t care.”

Lucius’ cane tapped the ground as he moved toward Harry, trying to comprehend, his head tilted to one side and his mouth slightly slack, incredulity or anger or something else entirely, Harry wasn’t sure. He was sure about the wall, too close to Harry’s back; and how far the door. Lucius had put himself between them.

“You will care,” said Lucius. His voice was a whisper; Harry hated that he listened to it more. It carried all too easily in the office hush. “These creatures do not like being denied, Potter.”

“Creatures like you?” said Harry innocently.

Lucius searched Harry’s expression. For one immensely uncomfortable second. Then his lip curled, and his arctic eyes flashed. 

“You insolent boy. She will come for you — and me —”

“Gotta remember to thank her, then.”

Lucius moved, whiplash fast. Harry had seen snakes move like that, in zoos. One moment Lucius was a metre or more away, the next, up against Harry, his cane on the wall beside them, thudding by his head. Harry hadn’t realised he’d backed up.

“I appreciate humour, Mr Potter, at another time I might even appreciate your spine — but this brave display is not a canny exertion of self-preservation. They will hunt you. They will find you. And they will go through your allies and dearest friends to make themselves known.”

Maybe it was how close they were pressed. Maybe it was the image that the words lodged, deep in Harry’s subconscious. But this time, when Lucius lifted his cane — its silver head dragging along the wall to thud upon Harry’s shoulder, at the tender junction between his neck and shirt, directly on skin — Harry hiccuped, a tiny vulnerable sound that escaped him in a knot of shock and anger, and his magic rose. It was hot, for the first time in years, so hot it was almost cold, like sticking his hand into a boiling bath full of water.

Lucius stepped back sharply, his nostrils flaring. His head lifted like a horse spooked.

There had been something — there — in the essence of space between them. Whatever it was it was gone in the next, but for a blink of time, the air had dimpled, almost... opened.

Lucius stared at Harry with a wiped-clean, nude look of wonder.

"You are no more human than I,” he whispered.

Harry bristled. “I’m human. You’re the monster.”

“Indeed?" Lucius murmured, pensive. Gone was the malice from his tone, the urgency. He did not close the distance between them again. “Perhaps,” said Lucius softly, “monsters and humans both can be food for the horrors of our world.”

Harry swallowed with difficulty, aware peripherally of the door. “Bye, Malfoy. I hope your wife brings a date to your funeral.”

Lucius snarled — but turned on his heel and left, his cloak snapping behind him. The door slammed.

Harry trembled all over, and finally, slid in a heap to the ground.

* * * * *

Moody and tired and fresh out of his first A case (no idea how he’d tell Ron), Harry got home. 

It was late. Sleep gnawed at his focus. Harry fought with his bundle of keys, their jangle echoing down the empty hall, bouncing off bare walls. He lived in a cheap flat and though Harry could see several other doors, he didn’t know anyone. 

Inside, the light revealed a roomy one-bedroom flat. Open plan and bright, the bedroom door to the right, kitchen to the left, a breakfast bar dividing the kitchen from the space where he’d put a table to eat. Straight ahead, though, the lounge was prettier with its two large white sofas. Beyond them, the double doors of a balcony.

Harry abandoned his shoes and coat, dumping his keys on a pile of letters by the phone. More bills littered the room: two were stuffed into a magazine rack, tucked between dog-eared copies of Nature, Chemical Reviews, and several issues of the International Journal of Toxicology. One bill was lost down the back of the settee, and several lay haphazardly across the large glass coffee table in the center of the lounge, with the teak stump—a present from Lavender. The sofas had been hers too. Harry had taken the apartment off her.

Kickboxing membership fees were due. There was a final warning on the phone bill—cut next week. Even a notice about the stupid book he needed to return to the library because it had an attached fee. That one he could actually pay but just kept forgetting, since it was a stomp to the other side of town.

Harry microwaved one of the treacle tarts from an offer at Sainsbury’s, a little single-person pot, finally able to curl up on his bed. In the deep hush of the terracotta den, amidst the old spirits of his life — the long red and gold banner with its roaring full-maned lion, Neville’s gifted Remembrall, the photographs of Hermione and Ron, even the Quidditch House Cup with its place of prime retail up on the highest shelf — Harry could at last relax. Rainshadows decorated the floor-length double windows, casting little shadows across his face.

He had never thanked Lavender, actually, feeling shy of the charity. Lavender was the type of girl to buy decorations. The fluffy rug, the wood and glass rectangle that imprisoned a pillar candle, she’d left it all behind for Harry, for free, or because she got a company to pack for her; so the random fake orchids and silk flowers on the shelf were there to stay. Harry loved it, though might have chosen red. So much stuff made it feel like a home.

It was no Hogwarts, but it was more home than the Dursley’s ever was. He couldn’t bother the Weasleys; even Ron sorted himself out with his car and his place, and everyone else had grown up and moved out. It would look very poor for Harry to be living with them. He was an adult now. 

His chest, too, felt incredibly tight.

Harry set the empty pudding pot down on the bedside table, annoyed as the spoon thunk the pot under its weight and tip the plastic over. He was just about to strip and crawl into bed — when he heard something in the house.

Two very distinct sounds.

He couldn’t hear it any longer but he was sure it had been there. The sound of a set of nails, almost claws, clicking on the kitchen laminate.

Harry stiffened. Adrenaline zero to sixty, instantly. 

There was no further sound, just the rain on the window — and Harry’s own shallow breathing. He opened his eyes wider in the dark, to see better around his apartment, now subtly altered.

Slow, slower than he’d ever been, Harry slid off his bed, each of his muscles whipcord taut. Silent, he crept across the bedroom floor, and stopped at his door.

He daren’t touch his ear to it — fear making loud the smallest of his movements — but Harry came close, his heart pounding, one hand hovering, his breath paused, all the tiny hairs along the back of his neck standing on end.

On the other side of the door came one long lone breath. A rattling breath, as though the chest were not correct. Followed by a thud — as of an incredible bulk — that hit the ground wetly.

Harry jerked back.

He choked in a sucking inhale of shock, thoughts of bloated yellow bodies and broken white skulls full of murky water.

As was common for Harry, faced with fight or flight, he chose fight.

Harry threw open the door with his heart in his throat, adrenaline hot in his belly —

— to his hushed, still apartment. The lounge was empty of intruders, the kitchen hummed gently, the fridge murmuring.

For five aching seconds Harry did nothing; he stood there with his twitching muscles and his senses spread wide. Nothing moved.

Harry stealthed into the lounge, looking left, looking right, into the hall, and then deeper, toward the sofas. The curtains were open by the balcony and he couldn’t remember if he’d shut them. Beyond the glass doors twinkled the distant city lights, Bath glimmering in the valley.

He tested the balcony doors and found them locked. Harry pulled his hand away, staring through the glass to the city’s sleeping centre, the shadows of the abbey’s rise. He let his heart rate come down, his breathing even. Eventually, Harry found himself looking at his own shadowy reflection.

The outline of his head was dark, with its wild mop of hair, spiked in a multiple of directions and without a care for caution. No amount of water or fancy gel worked.

He exhaled an explosive sigh of relief. Harry laughed, for how dry his throat was; how tense his body had become. He rolled his shoulder, and took a hand to his hair, scratching sheepishly.

But his reflection did not.

His reflection stayed absolutely still, the arm dropped at its side, unmoving.

The relieved smile fell from Harry’s lips. He lowered his arm all the way, watching as his reflection did nothing. Then, the shadow put its own hand forward, and touched the sliding door’s handle.

Harry dragged in a shocked gulp of air, and lunged, dragging the heavy curtain across the glass.

Idiot. Bloody idiot. Of course.

Harry backed away from the balcony. He bumped into the coffee table and cursed.

Not a monster, not an invader, just his own stupid magic. Angrily, Harry stalked back to his bedroom, no longer listening out for stray sounds, just his own beating heart. He pulled the bedside drawer open with more force than necessary. He rifled around inside it, dismissing the broken panflute, the shopping receipts, to pull out an amber glass pillbox, perhaps two inches in length, with a white screw cap.

Half a dose left. Two little tablets sat at the bottom. He shook the pills, and peered closer through the dim glass, as if it would replenish them. He continued to stare at it for a long time, horror entering slowly. Tossing the case onto his duvet, Harry pulled out the drawer, and shook it loose. He practically upended it, his search becoming more frantic as no new pills presented themselves. Perhaps some had fallen out?

After five minutes of searching, and a further ten minutes of staring at the drawer, Harry pressed his back against the bed. A vein at his temple leapt, and his hands felt clammy. Sweat cooled on the back of his neck.

Numbly, Harry pushed himself to a stand, to sit on his bed. His gaze found the two remaining tablets at the bottom of the pillbox. He was fucked. He reached under the bed for the water bottle that he’d kicked in his search, his fingers closing over the wide lip with its strap. Straightening up, he upended it, and sucked back a mouthful of lukewarm water, emptying the tablets into his palm, before tipping those back, too.

Harry looked from his rain-speckled window, to the bed, which suddenly loomed, alien, and unhappy. Sleep now felt a million miles away.

He couldn’t remember the last time he’d run out. Oh wait, briefly, earlier that year. Harry was furious at himself. Equally so, at Malfoy. If he’d had a different client, a different night — perhaps — but he’d rejected the only well-paid case. 

He had a funeral tomorrow, too.

Harry sniffed. Abandoning his bed, he turned on his computer and settled in for a night of doom scrolling.

* * * 

Gellert Grindelwald reclined at his leisure, sipping champagne in his private box at the Royal Opera House in London. The velvet upholstery complemented his deep blue robes splendidly — for he loved beauty. Beauty and excess in equal measure. And after all, wasn't that opera in a nutshell?

He was enjoying a double bill of Cavalleria rusticana and Pagliacci, his box surrounded by a mild muffling charm that allowed him to enjoy the music while also making the space an appropriate place for a meeting. The show had been going on for a while now — Gellert smiled and leant forward as the soprano began an aria he loved; his long, blonde curls shifting around his face.

He had intentionally allowed himself a bit of private time to enjoy the opera before his guest arrived. Which, to the man’s credit, was on time.

Stooped in the wan light of the poorly lit box, Mundungus could not look more out of place even if he tried. He slithered through the discreet door, having had trouble convincing the usher he was meant to be here. All at once he was hit by it; the noise, the lights, the sheer ad nauseam of the opera, with all its drapes, varnish and polish-reeking upholstery, a thousand clashing scents and suffocating sounds and — oh bleedin' hell.

There he was. The current (and long-standing) leader of the Tenth House. Mundungus sat down, a picture of unease. All of his alarm bells went off at once. Would Grindlewald do something in view of muggles?

“How's yer show?” Mundungus asked, his throat horrendously dry. He wiped his hands along his thighs nervously. “Mr. Grindlewald.”

Gellert's nose wrinkled just a little at the characteristic reek of tobacco. “Beautiful as always, but I have seen it many times before."

Gellert waved a dismissive hand before pouring Mundungus a flute of champagne with an elegant flourish. “And how are you?”

"I'm doin all righ'," said Mundungus. "Doing all righ'.” 

As the glass began to full with something bubbly, Mundungus began to relax, the itch between his shoulders finally starting to ease. “The bizz is tickin’ over, things are slow but we got suicide season in a few months; plen’y to be chuffed about. That’s when you get yer parents looking faw all their nippers. I look forward to winter, I do. Missing person cases coming out yer ears. Money's good in winter.”

Gellert raised one blonde eyebrow at Mundungus' mention of 'suicide season' and his lips curled into a smile for a moment. Fascinating business, really.

Mundungus fidgeted. "I had, erm, hoped to talk to you — about our agreement. And before you say nuffing, before you go troubling yer fine self, I thought I should just show you how solid I was. I turn up, you know, Dung always turns up. I'll be here for you Mr. Grindles. I won't be running off or nuffin like some dustbin lid."

Gellert’s curious expression disappeared. "Do not call me that," Gellert said, but very carefully, and so quietly it made Mundungus tense. "Always here for me, are you? That isn't a lot of use to me when you can't meet your deadlines."

A twitch at the corner of his mouth as his fingers played on the stem of his glass. "I want your money, Fletcher. Not your company."

Mundungus could feel his stammer coming back, the old blasted childhood rearing its head. He focussed on the wizard's flute of champagne.

"I have it! It’s just — it's all a big Cadbury Flake, I mucked up the dates you see, on account of this mental plonker who’s giving me grief. I'll get it for yer Mr Grindlewald, I will.”

Gellert set his drink down and in one deft motion, leant across the space between them and grasped Mundungus firmly by his coat lapels. 

"Are you lying to me, Dung?" Gellert murmured, his voice soft and low as his free hand rose to brush Mundungus' red hair away from his eyes. "You know that I can always tell when you're lying."

“I’m not lying I swear! I wouldn’t lie to yer, never .”

Dung felt his life flash before his eyes as his brain rattled around in his skull. This close and he could see the starburst crack of silver through the ring of Gellert’s blue irises.

“There’s a lump from Potter. He’s paying me nex’ week and all — a few months up front, and he’s got this posh gig for his next client. I swear . He buys his shit all at once and likes stockin’ up. Lad gobbles through what I give him like a Beauxbatons girl on a cock. Just gimme a week.”

Gellert made a small sound in his throat and exerted a little pressure on Mundungus' mind, as well as his lapels. His blue eyes glinted close to Mundungus's face, cold and clear and curious again.

"Good man. A week I can just about suffer."

Gellert relaxed his grip on his jacket and moved back a little. Just before he let him go, he slipped his magic around Mundungus’ skull like a cold rivulet of ice water running over his scalp.

"This is your last chance, Fletcher. If you're late paying me back again, I'll be taking my interest directly."

Another squeeze around Dung's skull and then Gellert let him go.

"Understand?"

“Crystal! ” Mundungus urged, his brown eyes wide. A lock of his hair stuck to the sheen of sweat on his upper lip. “I’ll get it, all of it!”

"Don't give me cause to doubt that."

Gellert adjusted his position in his seat and relaxed back again, retrieving his glass and relishing a long sip. "Now. Tell me about Potter. What's he busy doing, spending all of my money hm?"

Mundungus, who was still going a mile a minute in his head, was all too happy for someone else to be under the bus. He nodded eagerly.

"Boy's only a necro aint he! It's what killed his effing mum to boot, she had the same old thing and fucked herself with it. Spooks him to use it. With the ministry crackin' down on even your House, you can't blame him faw wanting necro-fucking-mancy gone. Potter’s on some pills I give him. Same as what I give the ova lads with Mind magic when they can't tough it, when they want it silenced. Old Dung's happy to oblige, no matter yer House. I like to help the little ones.”

Gellert bristled at the mention of the Ministry placing sanctions on his Houses' magic, drumming his fingers on the edge of the balcony before they froze at Dung's next statement.

"Silenced? You give your mind mages something to silence their magic?"

Gellert put his drink down and rounded on Mundungus again, his eyes glittering with a hint of menace. "Pray tell, Fletcher. What is this pill that can render my House impotent with such ease?"

Mundungus  clocked his mistake just as Gellert rounded on him.

"They aint my mind mages," he placated. "They ain't much of anyone's. You wouldn't even recognise them as mages, livin' on the edge of kind society innit. They want magic gone, wanna live a normal life. Half squibs a lot of 'em. There ain't issues for taking the meds. Just a couple side-effects."

"I get two types. The ones who want it gone because it's barely there in the first place, they won't build much of a life with it anyway, no good career from crap juice — and remember it’s always summin’ people dislike, scary shit, so it fucks their rep having it come out anyway — and the second type. The second type have a truckload of power, too much to use safely. And because it's either frowned upon or in some rarer cases, downright illegal, they aint getting practice anytime soon. The good samaritans or whatever you wanna call ‘em, the martyrs, the ones who don't wanna practise on their mates and pets."

"When they ain’t on the meds, I've seen your type fry their own mind, no offence. Made vegetables out of their dear old Nan or melted the cat's mind. And that's just mind magic. That aint necromancy . Let's not get started on summoning when it starts bringing up effing demons."

Gellert didn't interrupt as Mundungus spoke — didn't even attempt to. He sat stock still and listened intently, one leg crossed over the other and his hands folded neatly in his lap. He remained silent for a few long moments after Mundungus had finished and then finally, he spoke.

"Send the strong ones to me," he stated firmly, watching Mundungus. "Give me the ones with real power and I'll cut the interest on your late repayments — it has racked up quite significantly, Dung."

Dung's eyebrows were in his hairline and he spread his fingers, palms facing down, as though he were shushing some wild animal — or, as his fingers twitched and his eyes gleamed, greedily reaching for it.

"Yeah, yeah! I can do that, Mr Grindlewald sir! If you cut my interest, I can do that. Rogue mages are my business, at least my side hustle, heh heh. You take off that interest, and I’ll bring yer the rogues.”

Gellert retrieved his drink and had another sip, watching Mundungus over the rim of the glass.

"As for Mr Potter... he doesn't show any signs of Mind Magic at all?" 

Dung turned his palms up and spread his fingers. His shoulders lifted in a shrug. "Potter's a good lad, but if you don't use it ya lose it. If there was any chance of mind magic developing, I bet it's gone now. He's too busy trying to act like he's from the fifth house. Got the media on him, ain't he, so he can't slip up and be raising zombies.” 

Dung’s attention was on the champagne; he’d apparently developed a taste for it, since he’d finished his and was now eyeing Grindlewald’s. “Potter’s popular with the muggles, lad's a relatable mage — cause he's bumming around paying rent and failing his driving test."

 A long pause and a twitch around Gellert's mouth. "How's his father?"

"What fartha?" Dung snorted. "He's not anyone anymore. That whole stink did a nutjob on the aurors, though; half of 'em broke away overnight, quit the force. The Guild gained a fair bit of power after all that."

Gellert ignored Mundungus' eyes on his champagne, finishing it up with relish.  "Relatable. How gauche. Gods, I wish we had never gone public."

Gellert rolled his eyes and sat back in his chair. "So no change then. Pity."

For a moment Gellert looked as though he really did think it was a pity, his eyes shaded with anger or the briefest hint of grief before he continued.

"But his son remains intent on playing the alchemist and refuses to embrace his true powers? How disappointing."

And with that, Gellert's attention was on the opera.

Mundungus suffered, possibly for the first time in his life, a strange, even tickling sense of injustice – on behalf of someone else. 

It was not a large feeling, at first. But nor was it a happy one. It played at the periphery of his focus, like something irritating or slightly out of place. As he watched the powerful wizard dismiss his spunky young detective, already moving onto the show and plentiful other matters in his mind, Mundungus felt his own magic rise. Just a little.

"Here, he's not all that bad," said Mundungus gruffly. "He's a good lad at the end of the day. There ain't exactly necromancers falling out the air, hopping on Twitter beggin’ for students. I fink this is best he's gonna get, and he does what he's told." 

For the most part.

Gellert raised an eyebrow, feeling Mundungus' magic rise. He was defensive about the boy. Interesting.

"So he's a good detective as well as a professor, then? Fascinating combination of careers."

Gellert stretched in his seat, catlike as he invaded Mundungus' space with his long legs and well-shod feet.

"Why doesn't he just stick to the lecturing? I suppose it doesn't pay well if he's also working with you at Saviours'. I never thought I'd see James Potter's son working at all, let alone in two jobs."

“Three jobs,” corrected Dung. “The blighter does some odds and ends for the muggle brigade, too. Muggles got aurors, you see — they call ‘em police — and they keep a few mages on hand from a variety of Houses, to advise ‘em when shit gets mucky. Potter turns up on their crime scenes when muggles get blown up by our kind.”

“And yer right; the uni bizz don’t pay much. These drugs are effing pricey. Costs me an arm and a leg just to fence it, it’s also effing hard to get it into the country. The shit that goes into making it’s expensive; the making it part’s expensive; the smuggling of it’s expensive; it’s just fucking expensive. If it wasn’t for Potter in the first place I’d not have bothered with it. But now I’m in it, might as well branch out. Widen the net of clientele, so to speak.”

Dung rubbed his palms on his thighs, that amber glint returning to his eyes. “Speaking of, you ain’t needing anything like it for yerself, right? A sister, perhaps, or some nice distant relative? I source friends, even, especially when they’re punting.”

Gellert's eyes narrowed and Dung straightened.

"How dare you? No one in my family would ever need such a thing. We are in control of our powers. Such a substance would only be used against us by our enemies, not willingly to castrate us of our magic."

Dung cowed immediately, his hands flying up, his whole body cringing and ducking as though expecting some onslaught.

“Easy there, easy!” 

He lowered his arms only slowly, peering suspiciously at the German wizard. “Arite — you got no need for it. I’m saying no more.”

Gellert hissed at Mundungus, his power extending again like a psychic wall pressing against Dung's skull. He held Mundungus' gaze for a moment as though considering what to do with him but then he looked away, as if distracted by an aria from the stage.

"How long does this poison last?" Gellert finally spoke again, thoughtful this time. "And is there an antidote?"

Dung winced and rubbed his head, his skull beginning to split for the headache that was coming on. Sometimes, he thought privately to himself, having fewer mind mages about wasn’t such a crying shame.

“Depends how long you've been on it,” said Dung. “It needs to accumulate in yer blood, so it’s no good for one-offs. Takes a couple weeks to really get going, then you stay on a maintenance dose once the lights have gone out.”

“To ‘get going’?” questioned Gellert, his gaze narrowed.

Dung hesitated. "There's an adjustment phase, probably the worst bit. After that it's clean sailing. You'll feel sick, some lads get a fever, others a teensy tiny breakdown of reality; they're not sure what's magic and irrational compared to what's mundane and muggle. The worlds start to bleed. Feels like lucid dreaming, I hear. My House get it the worst — illusionists go a bit bonkers. You mind mages have it easiest, you just start feeling everyone else's minds shutting down to you; those semi-translucent divides you see around people's heads just ain't there. The world's private again. No idea on the others."

Gellert was looking at Dung with a dangerous, even warning light in his eyes. "How long does this take to leave one’s body?”

Dung fidgeted. "It leaves the system differently, easy as larry. Quick as you like! You stop taking it, within twelve hours you'll have bits of your power back. Give it a week or two, it's like you never took it. Cross me heart. Issue is it's like…ah… gastro drugs; you get a rebound. You get a serious rebound. It's the power coming back in, all of a sudden, that people hate. S'why you don't stop it if you can afford it, not least cause it takes effing weeks to get in your blood again."

Again, Gellert didn't interrupt as Dung spoke at length about the pills. His eyes remained narrowed, his expression suspicious as he listened but he said nothing for a long while. 

“A rebound?” Gellert said, his tone a thin hiss. “You are caging magic such that it responds with aggression? You fool. This is how we create Obscurials.”

Dung threw up his hands. "Naw, naw! You get your magic back real snappy. It's just a bit — cagey — at being cooped up. Not always! Only one plonker stopped taking it after a year without weaning himself off, and I haven't heard from him since. But I'm sure he's fine."

Dung either hadn’t remembered the point about the antidote in all his sales pitch, or he selectively, conspicuously, left it out. "You're not gonna be weaponising it against someone like you, Mr Grindlewald sir. One dose might make you feel a bit iffy, a bit sick, but you've got magic in spades. You'd need a month or more to go down!"

"There is no way on earth,” Gellert snapped, “that you can possibly say that such a substance cannot be weaponised. And the antidote? Is there an antidote? Two weeks is still a long time to be without one's full powers. If a decent alchemist with poor intentions gets their hands on it then they might be able to adapt or concentrate it so that it has a more rapid onset. You're not stupid, Mundungus. For all of your shortcomings, intelligence isn't one of them. How could you miss this?"

"Some folk don't have the luxury, do they?" bit out Dung. "Sometimes you just gotta do what you have to do, and that might be shit."

He sounded uncharacteristically angry – almost cagey. "I don't care about the rest of the world. I got my own matters, and that's all that matters."

"Not everyone's got a situation like yours, with your powerful Guild and powerful friends. Some people get dealt a card in life that means they get West disease or tubey sclerosis or their own effing magic fucks them up. I didn't say it couldn't be weaponised; I just said it's not gonna be weaponised against you now is it. You know about it, so you’re all forewarned. I'll get you some if you want, if it’s that's much ov a nightmare. Find a bleedin' alchemist, mess it up, do whatever you want with it. Try it out, learn how to defend against it. But it's not going away, more people are shipping it in each month."

Dung’s eyes were locked to the stage but unseeing. “I’m just ahead of the game, for once.”

Gellert considered for a moment and then uncrossed his legs and sat forward in his chair. Without hesitation, he reached forward and slipped one hand around the back of Dung's head while the other grasped his chin. Gellert was tall even when sitting so he put pressure under Dung's chin to force the man to look up at him. His face was very close to Dung's now and he spoke in a low, menacing voice — finally tired of asking nicely.

"The antidote, Dung. Is there one?"

His lip curled into a nasty snarl as he spoke, his fingers gripping Dung's straggly hair as he applied more pressure with his mind — looking for a weak spot so that he could slip in and see the truth for himself. 

"You might not have to care about the rest of the world, sir -- but I do. Is all you have said true? Let me in. Show me."

Revulsion coiled all of Dung’s muscles, every fibre of his being shying away from being touched. Behind it: sudden, undiluted fear. “There’s not! Okay! I swear — I’m telling the — you don’t need to – ”

Gellert hissed and ignored Mundungus' pleas, pushing past the man's mental defences and breaking through the surface of his consciousness with relative ease. Gellert's eyes lost focus as he sorted through Mundungus' thoughts, a half-smile on the corner of his mouth as he held him still with pressure on his chin and the back of his head.

The smile dropped from Gellert's expression quite suddenly and he withdrew, frowning and regarding Mundungus with a mixture of surprise and even sadness on his face.

"This could have awful ramifications, Dung. I see now that you realise that; but you are also… distracted."

Gellert's tone was measured and even understanding, if laced with caution. “This is not a solution I will bear, even if there are painful exceptions to the rule."

"Send them to me. Not just the powerful ones. Send to me any of our kind who would learn to control their magic — and who struggle under the current governance of our society."