Merlin, how had this happened?

Odette had asked herself the same question some months ago. But then she’d been standing on the other side of the bars, clutching a useless wand (her poor, sweet wand!) and answering a series of daunting yes-or-no questions with a fidgety sense of finality. At least she had been able to take comfort in knowing she was doing the right thing, then. Turning herself in. Not being handcuffed for honesty.

Now Odette stood where a drunk wizard had been standing that night hollering at her about being a bloody (and he'd meant bloody) beast: a be-fanged, transfiguring criminal out to steal his galleons… and his wife... and his laundry, too. The drab witch who had been interviewing Odette at the time had dryly told him to shut up.

Even one of those humorless clerks hadn’t appeared tonight to feed her with status quo lines, though. Odette supposed that what happened when the only thing one could feed on was blood.

It still amazed her, whet her appetite, and disgusted her all at once when she thought about it. Sticky, metallic, warm. Sometimes lukewarm, a little dubious. Or a lot dubious, all things considered.

Odette’s palm flattened against the bars, neither sweaty nor hot with force. She’d done much less of that, sweat. And as if to make up for it, her voice echoed ever louder. “HELLO!” Another two swats of the bars; they rattled, but that was all. The walls didn’t shake, the metal didn’t crumble under her vampish touch. What powers she might have remained a mystery. Most of all to Odette.

“Hello? Hi?” She tried again, her voice rising an octave, and coming down in volume. She’d tried the nice approach endlessly, but she was never good at the other sort. “I think there’s been a mistake. If you could just… if someone could just… pop by for a moment. Maybe we could clear it up?”

Oh, how she’d forgotten the calm calamity of bureaucracy, how slowly it moved. She’d liked to think her own department had been smooth, streamlined, made even more serviceable by her own addition to the team. Her eyes darted from desk to empty desk. Perhaps they’d gone on a coffee break after throwing her in the clink. Perhaps an intern had got lost on his way to find her. But Odette couldn’t lie to herself about red tape and the Ministry’s muscle. Her face fell, comically.

“I didn’t do it! I promise!” Her fingers tightened round the bars, her nose pressed between the slats. Only cold iron answered, sturdy as ever. (And a bit smooshy, as her face mashed against it.) “Can’t you look at my teeth? Aren’t there… fang prints or something?” She called out, wondering why, in the thoroughness of her registration as a vampire, they hadn’t thought to take such a thing. “It's just a bit of mud on my boots! And my shirt, fine--” It happened, even in adulthood. “There was a bus and a puddle. There's probably muggle CCTV. IT'S NOT EVIDENCE.” Er. “The mud I mean. The CCTV is, technically,” Literally. “But it's evidence that will prove I'm innocent!”

Bertie had heard that there was somebody yelling in the holding cells-- he was one of the aurors more recently assigned to the case. An older wizard, pureblooded and a bit belligerent, claimed to have witnessed Odette Fairchild assaulting and draining a muggle of his blood. Of course, this meant that several different ministry departments were now involved in the investigation.

In the end, it was discovered that the 'muggle' was a victim of a horrific mugging, having been stabbed by another muggle. Odette had simply been in the area, and was recently added to the registry of vampires. There were those wizards who kept up on these registries, and often times they had a tendency to assume the worst of the people on those lists. Which was absolutely ridiculous. Wizards also weren't particularly used to seeing people bleed out from stab wounds, wands were usually much less bloody weapons.

Poor Odette had been kept locked up for far longer than necessary, especially for a case that didn't really involve wizards in the first place. She was owed a huge apology. And Bertie wasn't sure where to start. He'd messed up, of course-- leaving her in without any communication whatsoever about the case. Sol would probably bite his head off once word got back to him.

Clad in his auror robes, he rushed to the holding cells. He could hear Ms. Fairchild going off about how the CCTV was evidence. Bertie was not sure what CCTV was, but muggle cameras in the area did indicate that she was innocent. Maybe that is what she meant?

"Ms. Fairchild?" The girl looked like she was about to have a panic attack, or something like it. Bert nearly cringed in both sympathy and regret. Merlin knows what she thought of this whole thing, or what she thought she was being accused of. "I'm sorry you had to wait so long, it was... Unnecessary." He fumbled around for the keys, "Would you mind sticking around for a bit, so I can clear some things up for you?" Maybe she wanted to leave. He wouldn't blame her. Hellloooo lawsuit!

Red was probably the last color Odette needed within ten feet of her person, but as soon as she took in the swish of red robes worrying briskly in her direction, she stopped hollering like the neighbor’s lusty tomcat. The distress knitted upon her face froze there, as if charmed, and then began to melt. She felt her shoulders slump involuntarily, to a long-desired breath. Relief.

“I am!” She sang out. “That’s me,” she clarified, questioning her grammar, his question, and— ridiculously— her shoes. Her eyes got stuck on her own feet as they combed the man from head to toe. She’d only just looked at the ground. And her feet. Clean as could be, newly polished boots. The only bit of Odette not covered in mud or bragging about murder. She lifted one leg, twisting her foot to check the underside of the sole.

Sure enough, there was a huge wad of pink gum.

But no blood, at least.

Odette frowned and then looked back up quickly, remembering where she was.

“I agree. I’m glad you’ve realized it—” She caught his eye, deciding he looked nice. Though she’d hardly been able to say that since she’d become a vampire, she still tended to believe the best of Ministry types. And this one had a kind face. Cheek like a babe. “—Did you notice my shoe? ‘Sss. Plural. Shoes!” She was lifting the other, hopping on her foot to show him. “Only gum, no bits of muggle! Or wizard. What do they think I did besides bite someone?” That was obvious. “I mean, who was it?”

She nodded in agreement to his question, even despite her upper-hand. “Did they really die?” Her frown deepened. And then, coming to her senses (and standing completely flat on the ground): “Can you at least let me out of here if you’re going to grill me?”

All about the upper-hand.