She had just finished a quiet meeting in the back corner of the pub... as quiet as a meeting could be, in such a setting. But if the higher ups at the mass media conglomerate that housed Runwitch favored this bar (and favored vodka even more), who was Violet Islington to protest? There were people more powerful than she, and those were the people with the purse strings. Keeping them happy was a sharp skill.

Besides, this particular pub welcomed her kind. They charged a fortune for a Bloody Mary, vampire style. Which was very bloody, and not particularly alcoholic. Violet, having moved from the table to the bar, took measured sips, just enough to put a tinge of natural blush into her cheeks without alarming anyone. It was a learned skill, essential for vampires who chose to mix with human company. She needn’t throw back goblets and bring that legendary Bloody Mary to life. It couldn’t be good for business, or for vampires.

The Evening Prophet was folded neatly before her, perfectly halved so that Violet could peruse it without interruption. There was more on the unicorn-hunting epidemic; vampires were suspected of yet another attack in Scotland, not far from Hogwarts. With dementors roaming, this was all they needed: people conflating the danger of the two.

Violet didn’t doubt that it was vampires who were preying on the unicorns. Unicorn blood had mystique for all. It was highly valuable, and while vampires needn’t its healing properties, it came with a sort of high, its potency similar to a shot of hard liquor, if not particularly nutritious. Humans might have wanted its power, but there were still reservations, by and large, about drinking blood. Vampires, on the other hand, dove into the feast, wholly unafraid. The hangovers were terrible, or so she had heard. She was not careless enough to go on a hunting trip with reporters salivating for drama. She also knew that if she wanted unicorn blood, she could find a less messy way to procure it.

Violet finished the article and reached for the goblet again, taking another small sip and glancing down the bar. She noticed the man beside her was familiar. Someone who worked at the Ministry, but not with vampires. She stared. “Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures?” Her voice was mild.

For the last month, Alphonse had been toeing the line between feeling stressed out, and being worried. It was rare to see him after work hours, without a drink in his hand and a furrow in his brow. The dragons were only growing sicker. Not only that, the illnesses were popping up all over the place, seemingly unconnected. They were laying cold eggs, unable to produce flame, and confused. The confusion and pain from this illness were only heightening dragon aggression, and many handlers had been severely injured over the last couple weeks.

This pub was his escape when work followed him home. Cupped between his hands was a glass of amber colored liquor with a rather strong smell.

“Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures?”

He nodded stiffly, “I’m a dragon handler.” And a fairly well known dragonzoologist in his field. “If you couldn’t tell by the burns.” He smiled briefly, motioning towards the shiny scars on his forearms.

Even though he was familiar to her, she was only barely recognizable to him. “I’m Alphonse Zephyr, and you are..?” Al eyed her up and down, and the contents of her goblet looked thick and crimson. She was probably a vampire, though that honestly didn't phase him in the slightest.

Violet’s eyes moved over the man’s arm as he gestured, though she offered only the smallest tilt of her head by way of answer. Dragons. Yes, it made sense. Her pale gaze continued, sweeping over his the drink. It was a very human drink, a human vice. Its pleasant, translucent sheen was so unlike the murky— but uniformly murky— contents of her own cup. But Violet hardly lingered in her appraisal, her eyes not pausing again until they settled once more on his face. And there they remained, still as a summer day, an empty lake.

“That sounds like a cozy position.” By reputation, Violet was arguably more likely to be the beast than the handler. The irony, or lack of irony, in that assessment, was that she was regulated by the very same department. “I deal more often with the Beings division.” She seemed to gesture, minutely, with her eyes. It was a flicker, nowhere in particular, but it was obvious: she meant herself.

Zephyr.

It was the name, more than the burns, that held the editrix’s attention. “Violet Islington.” A very small smile, or at least a pleasant expression, took residence on her anemic features. She laid claim to the glass with agile blindness, nearly shiftless. It remained in her hand, as if valueless. It wasn’t. “I’m the editor for Runwitch.” Like the blood in her cup, this could mean everything or nothing. It merely depended on her audience.

For the moment, Violet was more interested in said audience.

“You must be related to the Minister, Alphonse Zephyr.” It was hardly the sort of thing one had to guess. The name alone was enough. While the man had been familiar due to Violet’s numerous trips to the Ministry, his features now held another familiarity, shared something with the face most often plastered in the Prophet. Indeed, there was a photograph of the very same Minister of Magic folded opposite the article on the unicorn situation. Violet raised her cup the tiniest fraction. “How lucky for you.” She took a sip, minuscule, leaving not a dot of blood on her lips. Humans did not tend to overlook deficient manners when blood was involved.

Al chuckled. Cozy was one word one could use to describe his job—if nearly getting your head bitten off—literally—on a daily basis was considered cozy. He nodded in acknowledgement at the Beings department. Al was someone who had mixed feelings regarding the way the government handled ‘beings’. They were people, too. With thoughts, feelings, dreams, and needs just like humans. To label them as so wholly separate and in need of control was degrading.

“Ms. Islington. It’s a pleasure to meet you.” He had never read ‘Runwtich Magazine’ though he was well aware of it’s existence.

“You must be related to the Minister, Alphonse Zephyr….. How lucky for you.”

He very visibily cringed. Yes. He was related to the minister. As much as Al loved and admired his sister, he didn’t like his accomplishments being overshadowed by her own. “She’s my sister.” Alphonse replied stiffly before downing the rest of his drink.

“Ms. Islington. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

Violet inclined her head again, or at least seemed to be on the verge doing so.

It was not so noticeable a thing as the expression the off-duty dragon handler wore when her words sunk in. Family was a complicated thing, even for those who had died. To meet Islingtons or their ancestors years after her own parents had gone through the veil, so to speak, could be strange even for Violet. Or especially strange for Violet. Growing accustomed to the pace of time while aging not at all did not mean that she didn’t experience jolting feelings, things that everyone else felt. She supposed if she’d ever had children, they might be enjoying the latter decades of their retirement now. Bickering like siblings did.

Growing with one’s family was a different and perhaps more complicated thing.

“Don’t rush to sound as if you’ve won the lottery,” she drawled, with the tonality of a patient spider. Violet could not get drunk on human vices (unless one took that phrase quite literally), but she often sounded as dry as any whiskey on the shelf. “How does the Minister’s brother come by such a dangerous occupation? I always assumed they spent years grooming the entire family before one even thought to run…” She smiled, close-lipped, over her cup. She knew this was not true, only a stereotype, but it humored her to speak of it. Politics often went that way, but not always. Recent wars had proved as much. “But then her position might be more dangerous than yours at times.” Certainly dragons were more appealing to the masses. But to do his job took a certain kind of wizard. That much was not lost on the vampire.

Her eyes moved back to the burns. “What kind gave you those?"

Alphonse forced a smile. It was true, many political families did tend to groom their children for politics. But that wasn’t the case for Alphonse and Persepolis. “Our parents weren’t politicians.” He said easily ,”Our mother stayed home to take care of us, our father worked on a potions assembly line.” He took a sip of his drink, “I don’t know where my sister got it from, but it suits her. I guess we both inherited a bit of fire, we just channel it in different ways.” 

He looked down at his burns. It wasn’t the first time someone had asked him similarquestions. Usually he shrugged them off, but today he was feeling social.

Al rolled up his sleeve a bit more on his right arm. A burn that started at the elbow and went up to his shoulder was just visible. It was by far the oldest burn on his body, “This one was from a young Chinese fireball. I was in training to work with dragons when I got that one. I made the rookie mistake of looking away for one moment.” He grinned, and motioned towards the others.

“The rest…” The rest had stories of their own, but he could talk all night about them. “The rest are acquired as hazards of the job. Several different dragons, several different situations.” Alphonse shrugged. “Dragons are straightforward, their actions are honest. In many ways, I’d say they’re safer to be around than people.”

If the man’s smile did not seem easy, for a moment, it was an observation that almost made Violet smile.

So, the Zephyrs sincerely weren’t politically born and bred. And it was showing in his face. But it needn’t, as he spoke the truth plainly a pulse beat later. Something in the dragon tamer's voice gave the assurance that so many unofficial biographies and newspaper blurbs did not. The Minister’s brother did not seem to be an iron-clad, poker-faced man.

“That is a rarer sort,” she observed, taking another sip of her drink. Her eyes flicked back to his. “The kind who makes herself.” It was also the sort of information that making good on one’s favor with the Ministry could rarely produce. Some people were very good at shrouding themselves. But he was right that it did suit his sister, the job— whatever Violet’s general opinion toward the government. “She does seem as if she might hold water for quite a while to come.” Fire aside.

As a vampire, Violet knew the dangers of fire. Heat and light were among the few things to which her kind was susceptible. She could pass her fingers through a candle flame like anyone else, but if they lingered, she would feel the sting, and it might spread. The difference was that, short of sunlight or a burning stake, her flesh healed much faster than theirs. Which was fortunate, as St. Mungo’s staff were not thrilled with their kind.

Most people weren’t, but something about the excess supply of blood… bagged and otherwise… made vampires a special threat to the hospital. It was also true that few witches and wizards, bleeding profusely in reception, dreamed of the soothing sight of fangs while they waited to be seen. Those in peril viewed vampires like circling sharks, creatures drawn to open wounds. They were not always wrong.

Violet had had many years of practice keeping herself in check. Unlike a young or perpetually rogue vampire, she had made herself at ease among the sunlight-walking crowd. They were not an open feast. The man’s scarred flesh was eye-catching, but more so because of the wizard to whom it belonged. And so she looked at him again, now that his name had been explained. Her eyes trailed over the faint, blooming mark as he rolled up his sleeve. It was much more aesthetically pleasing, in its own way, than most tattoos. “The Liondragon[1],” she said, thinking of the scarlet beasts. “Their females are fierce.”

It was intriguing, that he should find dragons safer than people. It made sense, given his career, but it was not a common sentiment among people who were still allowed to have wands. “Certainly. People are the biggest variable in everything.” She raised her glass a bit toward him in agreement. People were often loathe to blame themselves for their burns. Lying was cheapest form of currency. Wars were the fault of the other: trolls, goblins, muggles (the other kind of human, with their own self-designed disasters), dragons, house-elves. Violet’s kind. “No doubt you’re constantly chasing them away from fire-breathing beasts. How bad is the illegal egg trade these days?”

1.	Nickname for a Chinese Fireball

“They are fierce.” Alphonse agreed, “Fierce and aggressive, yet not as territorial as other dragons.” He said fondly, “It’s one of the few breeds where the females are larger than the males.” And the mothers were especially fearsome.  He rolled his sleeve back down and eyed the vampire carefully. She would know, better than anyone, that humans were the biggest variable in everything.  Al raised his glass back and put it back on the table at the mention of the dragon trade.

“It’s… Not as bad as it could be.” Especially not now. “It’s not what we’re worrying about now.” He cleared his throat, “Dragons are getting sick, and dying. The sick ones are laying eggs that… Have problems.  It’s not just in this area, either.” Alphonse’s voice was unmistakably tinged with sadness. “We’re doing our best to help, but…”

While Violet knew of the breed, could point it out, could reasonably call them fierce, the more intricate details intrigued her. Not as territorial. That dragons had such layers, that each breed had its quirks, was proof enough of their intelligence. It was as good a reason as any to treat them with respect— something of which people often seemed in short supply. “It’s an evolutionary phenomenon I’m sometimes shocked isn’t more common,” she concluded, on the topic of larger females. They were in many other ways. Violet smiled a little.

If there had been a few mentions in the newspapers of a sickness spreading amongst dragons, they had been buried by other things. Violet kept up with the news, but there were some events that were more pressing than others for the vampire. And yet, the result, if it spread… “And you don’t know how it’s being spread? Besides the eggs being effected. Is it more common in certain breeds?” She had caught his tone, and looked at him with a kind of softness, almost. There was something rather likable about people who were so sincere in their concern for beasts.

“We don’t know how it’s spread. It could be airborne. It could be transmitted through the handlers themselves… Couldbe the food. We’re still looking into all the possible causes.” Those involved included all the dragonzoologlsts and handlers who were currently dealing with the current catastrophe. “We haven’t noticed it being more common in certain breeds, but it looks like it started with some vipertooths in Peru, but then it jumped to an Ironbelly in wales. Whatever it is, it spreads fast.”

He took a deep breath, “We’re thinking, maybe infected eggs can somehow spread it. Right now we’re been quarantining them, but…” He shook his head. “This is more disastrous than you’d think. We can’t harvest anything from dragons who are ill—it’s dangerous to the dragon’s well being and it’s risky if harvested scales are used in potions. Especially because we don’t know the cause.”

Treating a symptom when one did not know the cause was a vicious cycle. Violet had seen it time and time again—having plenty of time to observe the phenomenon. “I suppose the fact that they can fly doesn’t help,” she said, not darkly, but with a kind of sympathetic, dry humor that was almost dark. Nor, she presumed, did the illegal egg trade… even if it was not at the top of the list of problems for the department.

“I hope the infected ones and their eggs are immediately distinguishable,” she offered, gesturing calmly with her head; it was accompanied by a sympathetic gaze, however overly calm the hue. “The last time I discussed it, I learned wholesale market for potions ingredients is risky enough on a good day. Money seems to speak louder than anything…” It was perhaps the biggest lessons one learned in one’s professional life, however many times one sought a new career, however different the new path was from the last. People always wanted money. Laws, ethics, morality, caution.

The pair continued to discuss the disease for a good fifteen minutes, during which time the subject of a charity gala came up. If there was little she could offer the dragon handler in his area of expertise, she was not bad when it came to helping raise awareness, in general. She offered her card, and an unasked promise to make inquiries about a few moneyed patrons.

Whether or not one should think it, there was crossover in the saving a species like dragons and the protections and rights Violet pushed the Ministry for. Wizards could become shockingly desensitized if one let them. Which was not to say that Violet didn’t spare her emotions in arenas that baffled humans, or made them wary of the seemingly icy editrix.

“I must be returning to the office,” she said, after draining her glass. “It was a pleasure, Mr. Zephyr. I’m sure we’ll cross paths again. Best of luck with your dragons.” And with that, she swept out of the bar, and back toward work while others ambled their way to bed.