Quote taken from Winston Churchill: "The truth is incontrovertible. Malice may attack it, ignorance may deride it, but in the end, there it is."

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One of the few windows still lit at this time of night belonged to Malkin’s.  Cora was used to keeping certain hours, but when Violet Islington called for an appointment: she made sure to make time, even if that meant she had to take an impromptu nap in the middle of the day… in the back room… without her grandmother knowing. 

So, now, Cora was standing in the middle of the fitting area with several mannequins wearing a variety of new looks: a cloak, a dress, and some lingerie.  Pulling at the fabric of the cloak, Cora looked to Violet for affirmation, criticism, or anything in between.  “I decided to do a play on soft and hard – the wool with leather edging creates a lot of movement when you walk.  If you want to try it on, you can see.”  She smiled brightly and bobbed behind the mannequin, getting ready to remove the fabric if she was asked to.

“Or I can set you up in this, “ she poked her head out between the two and motioned to the form fitting dress with shimmering scales on the hips that would accentuate any woman’s natural figure.  In the right light, they went from emerald green to deep red in the right light.  “I can also customize that,” she motioned to the strappy piece on the third mannequin.  It covered just enough that she thought Violet might be interested.  Whatever the case, she awaited instructions and smiled – she was always smiling. 

Violet glided deftly toward the mannequin in the starring cloak, every bit the smart swan on a moonlit mission. If that happened to involve closing the space between herself and Coralie, ghosting feathers near the young seamstress— and if any a human should stumble or flinch at such closeness to Violet’s pallid, commanding flesh— she and the young designer were quite accustomed to one another by now.

And Violet was quite accustomed to people in general, a lesson she was forever imparting to ingenues like Coralie.

A bloodstone on her bloodless finger glinted in apparent appreciation as it swept over the material, absorbing the contrast in textiles as if they were imbued with... blood magic. The sacrifice in this instance was gold, but Violet had plenty, and Coralie was a sweet, eager-to-please sort. Money was a small thing for hand-tailored splendor, whose magic was hardly understood by the masses. A good cloak was a weapon as much as a bodiced dress was a cage.

Besides, the mission here was not simply to sell. Many of these pieces could be curated for the runway, the pages of Runwitch, the window shadowboxes of London museums.

Fingers pinched down softly— no nail making a mark, only the tips of her flesh claiming. “Please,” she said, in response, not a preface to some request. Only an affirmation. She stood still, in that eerie way that her kind tended to learn over time. In the way of professional chess players or bearded alchemists.

Her eyes were the only thing to follow Coralie as she moved on to the dress. It had a metallic iridescence that would make for the most enviable red carpets. And further on, the garments that might hum beneath it…

Violet almost smiled. “The cloak first, but I will certainly want to—”

Glass shattered, and the whistle of dense matter flying at a dangerous speed brisked past her peripheral. A brick hurtled into the handsome counter where the register sat, thudding and leaving a sizable dent. Violet’s eyes moved preternaturally toward the window, her body turning a millisecond later. The billowing end of a black cloak whispered against the road in front of the shop, the latter of two culprits. It was definitely two. Three, perhaps. She could smell them.

Her arm flew up, fingers bending a dangerous grip upon the air. Tendrils of predatory rage rushed invisibly from her form, tripping the slowest wizard like angry roots. In a panic, he fell, and did a double take over his shoulder, his hood slipping to reveal half his face. He lifted his wand and shot a jet of red light. Violet pressed against it, diverting her power. The man pushed himself to his feet and began to run as she stepped forward, ignoring the glass that crunched beneath her feet. Forgetting Coralie behind her.

Rated M for language.

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While some people were uncomfortable with long, drawn out silence, Cora didn’t mind.    She understood how Violet was and honestly, if she was talking too much that was a bad thing.  That was really Cora’s job, so when she indicated she wanted to see the cloak first, Cora nodded immediately and darted around the backs of the mannequins back to the cloak. 

The piercing crash stalled her steps, however and Cora looked up with wide, horrified eyes.  While Violet’s reaction was immediate, Cora froze.  She stared at the brick on the ground, blue eyes darting to trace the path it had just taken.  The register dinged and opened, some coins clattered in the drawer and it was then that she realized the floor…

Shards of glass, everywhere! 

Though it felt like an hour had passed, it could only have been a couple of seconds.  “Violet!” she suddenly yelped, kicked into action by the sound of her feet crunching on glass.  Cora trailed behind, heels clattering against the broken shards.  She was no match for the vampire’s speed, nor her strength and capability, but she did have a wand. 

Pulling it from her hip, she held it out in front of her as she dashed through the door, the little bell tingling pitifully in her wake.  The dim lighting on the street was enough to catch sight of the fleeing culprit and she fired off a confundus charm, hoping it would meet its target.  She did it again, just for good measure and watched helplessly as he darted down an alleyway and the charm hit a lamppost, shattering the glass around the flame. 

Her heart was pounding in her chest as she pointed her wand toward the sky and fired off red sparks.  That was what one was supposed to do in these circumstances, wasn’t it?  She wasn’t sure of anything in that moment, least of all why this would happen.  That was at least until she turned to the shattered storefront and saw the dripping red letters across the sign. 

Bertie had been at the office, finishing a report with the help of a quick quotes quill when his badge alerted him to a call. Without hesitation, he apparated to the scene, prepared for the worst but hoping for something less. The world had been a scary place lately, what with the kidnappings, the leaky cauldron exploding, and the poisonings... There was too much going on, and lately it felt like the aurors could not get a win.

Not that justice was about winning.

He quickly took in the scene before him. Shattered glass, brick in the window. A graffitied sign. Madam Malkin's shop.

First things first, "I'm Auror Hughes," Bertie began, "Is anybody injured?" The owner of the shop didn't look injured, but some spells didn't necessarily show at the surface.

Violet heard Cora plainly, the fear and warning in her voice, but her senses were devoted to stopping the cloaked figure, and so she ignored the seamstress. She wasted no time wondering whether the witch could protect herself. She already knew that to judge Coralie Malkin by her facade was to underestimate her strength. More salient was the fact that her huntress instinct outweighed any eagerness to play a protective role.

But she wasn’t stupid. Or young. Much as her Being inclinations were in overdrive, much as the red lights did not phase her in her stalking, she was not on a mission to kill or bleed. There was, beneath the iron-willed stride, a desire to protect the community as a whole— Coralie Malkin, the residents of Diagon Alley, the marginalized shadows of her own kind, and herself. Over a century of life and its lessons prohibited her victimhood.

The unvarying pools of her eyes perforated uneven corners born of cobbles, strangely charmed infrastructure, and the bits and bobs that wizards left out in the dark. What was pleasantly shabby or imperfect in the daylight made for wary nests in the night. Violet’s mind pressed against the dead-ends of each twist and turn, trailing wisps of cloak, the echo of running feet, and the firing spells.

Only when she reached the mouth of Knockturn Alley, her magic vibrating against stacks of wooden crates, did she come to a halt— mostly because of the sudden appearance of a moonlighting hardman in a ridiculously ill-fitting apron. He looked part troll, which was a disservice to her fellow sentient creature. In one hand, he held a giant cabbage, in the other his wand like a knife.

 Violet met his eyes, unblinking.

“I would summon the Ministry, but it seems my friend already has,” she said, finally acknowledging the now-off-stage warning light Coralie had issued. “If they come back this way, you might warn them.”

He stared back, not phased by her now-unmissable teeth. He was not a wizard concerned with the possibility of vampire bites. He had more blood to lose than most. He might have been a cook, or paid protection for the dubious businessmen of Knockturn, probably both, but his lack of allegiance to the vandals did not mean he meant to let Violet through without a fight. If she could overtake him with her wits and dark magic, she did not want to waste the energy… or the bad publicity. Her lofty position came with a few setbacks.

_____

By the time Violet returned to the storefront, where glass and blood-colored paint made plain the hooligans’ intentions, Coralie had been joined by the Ministry’s envoy. A single wizard with a soft disposition seemed to be sizing up the damage. If his presence was not comforting, Violet supposed she preferred it to the too-aggressive, hot-headed sort with whom she often dealt. He looked as if he might shut up and listen before offering his own two knuts.

“There were three,” she said simply, stepping over glass again. “Dark cloaks, all male, average height,” she continued, words imbued with calm frustration. Of course they were average, middling pedestrians. “Except for the middle one— he was abnormally short. I wouldn’t be surprised if he had a complex… or if it were the only remarkable thing about him. You won’t likely identify them, unless they’re stupid enough to visit in the daylight. They’ll stick together. You might luck out with a werewolf or vampire on your side—” She caught his eyes, held up a tiny scrap of black material. The cloak of the one who had tripped. “We can track their scent.” Which was all over the scene, even if they’d thought to wear gloves.

It felt like an eternity before anyone actually arrived. 

Violet had left her all alone in front of the store in pursuit of the vandals and she anxiously looked over her shoulder – what if one came back?  She couldn’t help but shriek when the auror apparated.  Clasping her hand over her mouth, she took a few shuddering breaths before her hands fell in front of her to nervously fiddle with her wand. 

“N-no, I don’t think so,” she squeaked before Violet came back and immediately began to speak.  Cora hadn’t even noticed the suspects – let alone how many of them there were or what they looked like – or smelled like.  Cora wrapped her arms around her torso and bit her bottom lip.  The uniqueness of the offer to track someone down by scent was sort of lost on her, though she couldn’t really appreciate it at the moment.

Her store was attacked.  This was… “They just… we were in a fitting and… there was  a crash and a brick on the counter…” everything seemed to blur together and she paused, trying to find her words.  “Violet ran out – I chased…”   

No one was injured, but they were visibly shaken.

"So you were doing a fitting, and somebody threw a brick through the window. There were three--" He looked to Violent for confirmation, "Three men, two average, one short." What a vague description, but it was better than nothing. 

His blue eyes lingered over the sign. Processing the words. Reading had always been difficult for him, but these words and their intention was clear. Blood Bitch. This was a warning against Violet, who was a well known figure in the ministry. The two had worked together and she had been very helpful and cooperative with cases in the past. He'd always admired her. This threat could also extend, not only to her, but to other vampires and the people who supported them.

Hate crimes had always left a nasty taste in Bertie's mouth. They were unacceptable. Hatred and malcontent towards vampires and other beings ran deep in their culture. Now, they did make Bertie feel uneasy at first, but time and exposure had changed his perspective.

"At the risk of sounding weird, er." He couldn't believe he was asking this, "What did they smell like?"

Something in Coralie’s voice seemed to warm Violet. It was almost easy to forget, in huntress mode, and with the Ministry’s track record, that the good ones were plentiful. That she herself had more in common with them— those like Coralie Malkin— than did the ones she’d wanted to tear out of society by their ugly, dry roots. Violet was old enough, lucky enough, skilled enough as a vampire, to resist the urges. Quite easily, usually. Some were not. It made a vicious circle in their long history.

“… There were three—“

Violet’s eyes darted to meet Bertie’s. The most infinitesimal tilt of her cheek gave affirmation. If Adelebert Hughes had been another auror, she might have taken his careful questions as disbelief. Good fortune would have it that they had worked together before. Though quirky (which Violet rarely held against a person), Hughes was genial, inquisitive, and a very fair wizard.

The words on the wall of the centuries-old establishment might have been framed and lit with gallery lightning. They needed a plaque for neither historical context nor artistic intention. The most basic element of vampirism married to a pejorative for women, witches, females of even Violet’s stripes made for the simplest and foulest malignity one could think to splash across the front pages of the morning papers.

Violet regarded it for the very first time since she’d followed the vandals through the front window. The red paint was filthier, more sinister than even the darkest creature's blood. Bright and slick and no doubt imbued with staining magic.

"What did they smell like?”

Again, Bertie pulled her from that strange mix of instinct and chess logic. “Men.” Succinct. “And fear.” It was simple to put into words, hard to hear or interpret. The editor’s gift for descriptives propelled her to supply something more distinct, though the scent itself was plenty for any vampire (or hound, werewolf, niffler) on the job. “The short one smelled like bacon sandwiches and stale bread. Butter and lard. Beer. They all smelled like beer— probably something from the pub across from the Huntsman in Knockturn. They brew their own. It has that sour note when you walk by,” she elaborated. “The other two were probably comfortably toasted, but their diets were not quite so repulsive. Not tonight. They were still hoppy, though. One smelled of tobacco. Air-cured. Probably for hand-rolled cigarettes. Nothing especially expensive.” She did work in fashion. “The last one smelled like he worked with broom chemicals. Lubricants, oils, polishes. You might look for a secondhand or repair shop.” She did not ask whether it was enough.

“Coralie.” Violet finally addressed the young witch, though she'd quietly appraised her in the several minutes of conversation with the auror. “Might I find you a glass of water?”

 Bert wasn't exactly sure what men and fear smelled like, and he wasn't about to go into any quidditch locker rooms to find out.

But the other clues were helpful-- and her hypotheses made perfect sense with the evidence provided. Violet Islington's mind was sharp and logical. She could make connections just as well as any auror. In fact, he was curious if it was age that honed that skill, or if she had some sort of background in law enforcement. Adelebert thought it would be too rude to ask, and even if it wasn't... Well, it wasn't the time to socialize!

"Thank you, Ms. Islington." He said, "I will direct my attention to the Huntsman and to local repair shops." He shot Coralie a concerned look, wondering if she would really be okay here. Would she be more comfortable if there were aurors around to patrol the area? Did she feel like she was in danger?

"Before I follow these leads--" The look he gave Violet was a thankful one before his gaze focused on Coralie, "Can I do anything else for you, Ms. Malkin?"