Title adapted from William James, "Acceptance of what has happened is the first step to overcoming the consequences of any misfortune."

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The store was coming back together. 

The glass had been replaced and enchanted to resist shattering.  The mannequins that had been dusted by glass chunks and fallen in the midst of the attack were upright.  Their cloaks were brushed off, hats readjusted, and free of any outward sign of the attack.

But, they were unable to remove all scars of the evening.  An apothecary was still working on a solution to remove the paint over the sign.  Apparently, it had been a home brewed concoction resistant to scouring charms and home cleaners.  The dents in the countertop and register all stood as stark reminders of what had happened. 

While the eldest Madame Malkin had “taken ill,” Cora shouldered the rest of the responsibility and she had deemed they would remain closed for a few days as she tried to put everything together again.  It was the first day she decided to open again and as the afternoon rolled on, only a few people wandered in and most looked anxious as they did. 

Cora was as obliging as possible, but the tension was uncomfortable.  The red letters[1] obviously spoke for themselves and there were other clothing stores they could go into that weren’t… well, weren’t hers.  Sitting on the stool behind the counter, she idly traced the curves she’d drawn fifteen times already.  As much as she wanted to draw something to fill her time, nothing was coming to her.   Frustration filled her face as she set her jaw tight and dragged the nib across the paper, immediately dissatisfied and with a dab into the opposing ink pot, touched the line and it vanished, left only with the figure on the paper again. 

Back to the drawing board.  Literally.

1.	Malice May Attack It

It was long past the hour in which most would take their afternoon tea,cspring sun having barely set beyond the rim of the horizon. Tristan had risen earlier than usual with a mind to visit Madam Malkin's before he disappeared into the Ministry's abyss for what would no doubt be an engrossing shift. Recent events[1] were spurring the Beings Division to life.

His wardrobe was not equipped for prevalent formalwear. One or two suits, of an old fashioned cut, yes. But he was aware he might need to supplement these now that vampire politics was drawing further attention in the public eye.

The idea of helping Gamp and his kind in performing a press release made Tristan's skin crawl, necessary as it might be in the months to come. He unbuttoned his trench coat as he strode in Malkin's, looking about the shop.

Tristan ignored the stares of passersby outside; he preferred not to ponder the glaring slur across the windows. The hate was not new. It was only louder and different.

The young Miss Malkin's quill scritch'd and scratch'd across paper, her pretty blonde head bowed over some artistic enterprise.

"Bonsoir," Tristan greeted softly - his feet didn't quite touch the wooden floors, making their way towards the counter. "Are you open for business this night?" he stopped in front of her with hands behind his back and a patient expression.

1.	Murders on the 18th, Cass Motley's Hate Mail on the 21st.

Cora didn’t even look up when she heard the bell ring – attributing its movement to a stray breeze as it did not follow with footsteps.  The quiet would have been nice, if she wasn’t so stuck.  All she wanted to do was design.  It would make her feel better.  She had hoped, probably against all reason, that it would inspire her.  Wasn’t spite supposed to be a motivator? 

Smacking the quill on the counter, she lifted her head at the greeting – French.  For a moment, her heart stopped and she thought… the bright smile on her face only faded a little bit, realizing it wasn’t Thomas.  He’d been in France for quite a bit, they’d been in touch, but it wasn’t quite the same way. 

It appeared that state of affairs hadn’t changed.  Another Vaillancourt (probably infinitely more sympathetic than others would be) stood in front of her instead.   “Bonsoir,” she responded in perhaps worse French than anyone else in England.  It was not her best skill… a source of eternal frustration for her grandmother and any Parisian businessperson who had the misfortune to hear her. 

Difficult accent aside, at least she was genuinely happy to see someone!  It had been so slow.  “First night open in a few, actually,” she responded genuinely and pushed herself off the stool behind the counter.  “Do you have anything particular in mind?  I’ve got quite a few new sets that might be of interest.”  She didn’t typically design men’s wear (not traditionally, anyhow), so she’d have to show off the work of someone else.  “Charcoal is making a comeback, you know.” 

Tristan smiled to himself at the poor French accent that escaped her, otherwise politely ignoring it - although his mother tongue would always be the best of languages, the words of poets most decadent and true, he had spent more time in America and on these shores. English was the medium of the hour.

"I'm sorry to hear of your difficulties," he looked around the shop and let his gaze linger briefly on the windows with their backwards lettering. "I've a mind for formalwear and... what I think they call smart casual?"

The vampire glanced back to the proprietor with a hopeless laugh, gesturing at his present attire. Hardly what one would wear to a meeting that involved division heads or a presentation to the department. Comfortable as it was.

Shame that comfort was not a trend he had ever lived through; unless yoga trousers counted. "My preference is for simple cuts but I was always enamoured by what your British wore in the 1920s. No robes, if you would please." Tristan never wore those things, not since he had been turned as a young man. "Do you advise Charcoal, with my colouring?"

He raised his eyebrows at her. "You'll have to be my mirror and let me know."

Cora nodded solemnly when Tristan expressed condolences for what happened.  “Me too,” she sighed and shook her head.  “I never thought…” her voice trailed off and she waved her hand: it wasn’t the time. 

Formalwear and ‘smart casual’ were much easier topics to broach than recent intimidation and criminal acts.  Gently placing her quill in the crease in the middle of her book, she softly shut the cover and pushed it to the side.  “I may have a thing or two,” she smiled easily in response.  “New dress code?” 

As she pushed herself up off of the stool, Cora was already planning out what she could pull based on his requests.  They were not heavily stocked in men’s wear that wasn’t a robe set, but she would do her best.  She waved him along to follow her and took quick, clicking steps toward the displays of men’s clothing. 

She pulled forward a set and unbuttoned the robes, whisking them off and over her arm.  “It will be softer than a true black,” she explained the charcoal of the suit for him, “so wash out won’t be as much of a problem.  Of course, if you’re interested in exaggerating the effect, I have true black as well.”  She pulled a hanging rack out and the soft black fabric rippled on the floating hanger.  “I like this too,” she pulled another hanger out and the fabric was the same cool tone of cobblestones. 

“Navy could work as well,” she pursed her lips and pulled through the rack until she found what she was looking for.  Making an excited little squeak, she found the exact one she was looking for.  A sly smile crossed her face as she turned with it.  The cut was simple, smart – easy.  “What do you think?”

“New dress code?” 

He laughed lightly, shaking his head. "New position - the Ministry requires more collars than a researcher." Tristan replied as he followed the witch to examine their selection of clothing. Many of his acquaintances had advised Darian Morgan's establishment for a new set of workwear but he had chosen Malkin's as a show of support against their recent misfortune.

It suited him better than the garishness that the other shop might have persuaded him to try. Coralie began to draw out each of the suits in proper fashion, and he felt quite underdressed in comparison.

Tristan narrowed his gaze at the pieces one by one as they were explained.

       "What do you think?" she was as taken with it as Cass could be with a new record.

"It's good," he commented mildly - not inclined towards vehemence. "And in that shade as well. Could we try for one in Charcoal, of the same cut?" Tristan looked away from it. "And I will need a new funeral suit, less contemporary. Something with a cravat."

The only kind of funerals vampires attended were the kind that other vampires held, often in the dead of night. He had gotten much wear out of his old one in the past but had a bad premonition that he would need something new for his recently acquired job.

Tristan folded his arms thoughtfully, head tilted to the side. "Do you serve many of us?" he asked in what he hoped was a chatty manner. "Or is it just business with Violet?"

“Congratulations!” Cora beamed as he indicated he had moved on to a different job.  She assumed that was a good thing, and the ministry needed to include more of the people they passed rules and laws about.  “We can do our best to make things as comfortable as possible to ease the transition,” she added with a playful giggle. 

Something she always noticed about her male patrons were they usually didn’t have much to say.  They pointed out what they wanted and that was that.  Tristan proved no different and she went straight to pulling what he asked for, at least in terms of the contemporary wear he needed for his work.  Making quick use of her wand, she sent the two suits he requested to the fitting area and then turned back to him: funeral wear. 

That was morbid.  Though, she supposed not necessarily a surprise.  It wasn’t as though vampirism led one to sunshine and rainbows.  Thankfully though, the more eccentric of her customers were always interested in harkening back to the past (and her grandmother was a strict traditionalist in most senses), so she had a rather nice collection of what he was looking for. 

It was just… further back in the store.  “Just this way,” she motioned him to follow and her hands busily began sorting through hangers – wrinkling her nose at items that did not fit what he was looking for – or that Cora wouldn’t personally recommend.  She liked to make sure her clients got the best and though she loved her grandmother… their taste was not the same.  As she pulled a few choices for him, she pursed her lips at his question.
 
“You know, we hadn’t before Violet, because of established store hours,” she noted honestly, “but after Runwitch took an interest in my cloaks and undergarments, I extended our evening hours and I’ve definitely seen more vampire clients since,” she pulled two hangers, inky black fabric from head to toe and sent them to the fitting area as well.  “Not as many as some of my competitors with a more… solid and consistent base, but we were building up.” 

She hoped it didn’t stay past tense.  “I’m afraid that,” she glanced toward the storefront, “will set us back.”  She pulled out another suit she wasn’t entirely sure of, but held it up for him to see, “I know it doesn’t hurt me, not really anyway,” she was conscious that as a witch she did not suffer quite the same, “but people are crazy,” she noted, “I couldn’t believe what I read about that package…” she shook her head and sighed. 

“You’d think people would know better by now…” her voice trailed off and she looked at him, “what’s the discussion in the Ministry like, if you’re free to say, anyway.” 

M for mature language


As a thin cloud of dust arose from their going further into the shop, Tristan held his breath - something he could do for a considerable length of time - and squinted seriously at the outfits Coralie began presenting to him. She seemed to know what would be appropriate and he nodded at what she was saying all the time.

Violet was contagious in terms of her fame. Once you associated yourself with her, the fanged stigma would latch upon reputation and reason. Madam Malkins was a hallmark of Diagon Alley - he was sure it would continue to be.

Only that perhaps some parents might be disinclined to send their children for a robe fitting with the blood bitch.

       "I couldn’t believe what I read about that package…"

He looked away from a particularly bright magenta suit on the rack, one corner of his mouth turned up grimly. "It was unfortunate, yes." Tristan placed his hands behind his back and dared breath again, world of scents returning, while he made his way back through towards the fitting area.

"Your Ministry's objective is to keep calm, of course." The vampire glanced over his shoulder, a sharp gleam in his eye that seemed to throw doubt on the possibility of reigning peace. "There are fewer of us than there are of you, so I would be astonished if the Aurors do not manage to capture this criminal on the loose."

Even with the likes of Pratt or Pinn running that sordid show. He brushed a layer of dust off his sleeve before he removed the coat altogether, to prepare for the fitting. "The prejudice is terrible but I cannot blame them for being afraid," Tristan sighed softly and glanced at a mirror in the shop.

Only Coralie was reflected, behind him. "We don't take well to being hunted."

Okay… so maybe it wasn’t best to mention the garlic and the stake… the way Tristan’s jaw tightened and how his body language changed.  Cora knew the ‘change the subject’ look.  Or, the say nothing until it was revealed what was okay to say.  Mostly, she got that look when it came to brides trying on wedding robes after gaining a few pounds or a few months…

Whatever the case, she was happy to be patient and lead the way.  She’d have to arrange everything and probably be ready to pull a few more samples before the impromptu appointment was through, so silence was easy to maintain. 

Besides, she was never particularly political, didn’t keep up with what was going on in the larger wizarding world… it had never seemed particularly selfish before, but now… well, her cheeks did tinge a little pink when she didn’t have a response to his assertion about the ministry: she didn’t know anything about it – well, about the ministry side anyway.  She knew what happened.  It’d been nearly plastered on the Daily Prophet. 

“Nothing surprises me anymore,” Cora managed to say as neutrally as confidently as she could.  She took his coat as he brushed it off – though she stopped short in her small tracks when he indicated he could see being afraid.  Glancing over her shoulder, she cleared her throat and resumed her steps.  “But, I do think it’s the hunting bit that starts everything, isn’t it?” she placed the coat on a hanger and carefully set it to the side before bringing forward one of the suits. 

She made her way around of the mirrors, affording her customer some privacy and raised her voice to be heard over the barrier as she continued, “I don’t think it would be so bad if wizards weren’t so hostile to begin with.  I mean, look at how they’re reacting!  It was once incident and they’re treating it like an epidemic.  Not that it’d be an excuse if it were,” she added hastily, popping her lips in thought, “How are you doing in there?” 

Tristan didn't miss the lag in Coralie's otherwise polished mannerisms - he had forgotten himself, said something that was more well placed in the Beings Division than the mind of a seamstress whose interest in recent events was unfortunately incidental. He refrained from eyeing the smooth incline of her neck. The vampire waited until she was behind the mirrors before he began to undress for the fitting.

"Humans are our natural food source," there seemed little point in dropping the thread of conversation; Malkins was involved now anyway. "The political tension is natural, but you aren't wrong. Their fear has been amplified."

He pulled off his sweater and shirt, and laid them delicately on the clotheshorse. Then his trousers. Tristan's cologne, wood sage and sharp sea salt, flirted with the fragrance of the shop. Linens, silks, cottons. It was ritualistic and almost religious to have oneself fitted for clothes.

       “How are you doing in there?”

"I don't think I am the best judge of that-" Tristan called back while he finished buttoning up his shirt, and reached for the vest to match. "- it certainly feels comfortable. You must tell me if I look too old in a three-piece."

He adjusted a cuff, frowning trivially at it. "Doesn't it scare you, by the way?" His gaze slid along in Coralie's direction as she emerged from behind the barrier. "Being alone with one of us? Be honest."

 “Amplified by one person’s choice,” she countered with a frown.  She couldn’t see how this one thing could make every wizard fear vampires, even those registered with the ministry.  “If it were the same standard for every group, then we might as well consider all wizards death eaters.”  She rolled her eyes with a huff.  Sure, Cora wasn’t the political sort, but she also wasn’t the delusional sort who assumed one person spoke – or acted – for every member of that group. 

It wasn’t that difficult a concept.  It was a wonder more people didn’t understand.  “As long as the aurors are doing their job and they find the vampire responsible, maybe the hostilities will calm down.”  The sentiment was disingenuous, however; she didn’t really think that.  It was like toothpaste – once it was squeezed out, it was intensely difficult to put back into the tube. 

Reaching up, she itched behind her ear and smiled as he changed the subject to the suit – she heard the rustling of fabric and assumed he was pulling the pieces off and sliding them on.  Hopefully they would be around the appropriate size, doing alterations was always necessary.  “I’m very honest,” she called out happily and turned the corner around the partition, pleased that wasn’t walking in on him without trousers on – she’d done it more than once before, and crossed her arms appraisingly. 

“Definitely not too old,” she assured him, “though, let’s see it with the jacket,” she picked it up of the rack and walked up to him.  “I do quite like the color though,” she added, “it compliments you well.”  Always dealing with business first and considering his question: was she scared? 

Her forehead wrinkled as she thought about the question: was she scared?  Immediately responding with her gut, “No,” was followed by a brief pause, “I mean, you’re here because you need a service that I provide – and something I do well, so what do I have to be afraid of?  That I could be lunch?” she wrinkled her nose, “or breakfast – as the hour dictates – but that’s not really likely.  I trust you – and your desire to keep your fancy new job,” a smile broke out over her face, “to keep me safe.”  She looked him over again, “I think I’d like it better without the vest,” she pursed her lips again.  “Yes, definitely without the vest.”

He snorted softly at the implication that all wizards might be considered Death Eaters - it was a false path of conjecture, largely because not all wizards are predisposed towards the dark arts whereas all vampires are indeed predisposed to feeding on human blood. But there seemed little cause to argue the point and give one more person a reason to dislike his kind.

Tristan turned on the spot, feet certainly not touching to pedestal, to give Coralie a complete view of the outfit while she gave her honest opinion.

"Yes," he agreed in a murmur and looked down at his arm where the sleeve contrasted well against the pale inside of his wrist. "An appropriate colour."

Dark eyes flicked to the witch's focused countenance just then. No? Not scared, was she? He didn't know if that pleased or displeased him: generally speaking it was wiser to assume everyone held reservations about fanged teeth. A thoughtful look came over him as he removed his jacket and began to unbutton the vest so that they might have a gander without it.

"That's a mercenary way of looking at it," Tristan remarked and gestured for the blazer to float in the air next to him before handing the vest over to Cora. "But no more mercenary than expecting your regular sociopath to avoid bouts of murder and sadism at the risk of being shown to Azkaban..."

Comparing oneself to the least empathic of humans was hardly flattering but he did always imagine that such laws were put down to keep those desires within the restraint of conventional morality.

The vampire slipped on the blazer again and turned to the seamstress with a polite smile. "Have you no faith in my love for wizardkind?" he tugged gently at the lapels, slipped slender hands into his pockets to consider how the suit felt in casual posture. "Or do you think it's only your service and my job standing between myself and... breakfast?"