It was a peaceful time for Tristan, when many of the regular Ministry employees would begin to leave at the end of the shift - while the vampire himself was barely at the start of his own. He enjoyed what one might call the night peace of a Librarian; here in his private little office on level four, surrounded by many bookshelves and a few tastefully chosen landscapes painted by masters of his own acquaintance during the Belle Epoque. He was perched on the front of his desk, reading an old newspaper (The Daily Prophet, 1929). There were several others hanging off a rack next to the table.

In his annoyance with the ministry, work had become a perverse kind of refuge. He avoided thinking of their behaviour to Cass by burying himself in annotating their archives.

Tristan was sipping blood from a crystal tumbler when his sensitive ears picked up footsteps in the corridor outside. Not many crossed these passageways after the work day, unless it was to meet expressly with him. The vampire opened a tiny walnut box on the desk and retrieved a cigarette from it.

He put aside his drink, procuring a silver lighter as the steps drew closer. Two sets of steps and both of peculiar rhythm or... ah, non, one of the steps was three-footed. A cane. Tristan gestured loosely so that his office door swung open in anticipation. Then he slipped his cigarette between bloodstained lips and lit it, filling the room with the thick fragrance of Italian tobacco.

The scent mingled with that of old parchment and Parisian perfume.

"Ah, Bonjour," greeted this old man with the very countenance and voice of youth. "To what do I owe this particular visit?"

Zora didn't want to speak to the vampire, but didn't like the idea of Iona Ballentyne eating him alive even more. Sometimes it was better to be swept along with her wife's tide of action than to let it blast through unfettered. It wasn't that Zora didn't agree with Iona that something had to be done to get to the bottom of this, it was just that Zora was more at a loss of what could be done. It was as likely as not that they'd return home to find their daughter flown the coop. She knew what happened in the seamy vampire covens, or at least the sordid rumors. It made her want to be sick.

Zora stopped just inside the doorway, her face creased with tension. She raked her fingers through her hair and sighed when she looked up. She'd seem Vaillancourt before, but she'd heard his name more recently when she was briefed before the arrest of Cassandra Motley.

"We need to talk, Vaillancourt."

It was the job of an Auror to walk into uncertain situations, but this wasn't what Zora had ever prepared for.

Confrontation was something that Iona Ballentyne avoided with an active determination. If ever there was the possibility of an argument bubbling over at home, she would flee, taking refuge in time being a great influencer in calming down rising emotions. Unfortunately, after seeing two tiny freshly formed scars on the wrist of her only daughter, Iona was more than armed to go into conflict and find out what in all names of the devil had occurred a few nights prior.

They’d deposited their 19-year-old offspring at their home before returning back to the ministry. Iona had made the suggestion to her wife that she could go alone, yet clearly her wife wasn’t quite so confident about such considering the steam almost bursting from the red head’s ears.

Seated at his desk, the vampire greeted them in the smooth French accent. Bruce’s blue eyes scanned over him and the desk. His lips were a dark red, perhaps stained. Blood? A glance at the glass confirmed, and she felt a shudder of disgust. Smoke from the cigarette was hardly terrible, but the blood? Repulsive, abominable. Possibly more now because of what she’d just discovered.

Bruce and Zora paused in the open doorway, Zo speaking first.

“We need some information.” They stepped inside and Bruce shut the door behind them.

They needed to talk, said one. They need some information, clarified the other. The door closed behind them.

These witches were not so cordial and jovial as he, but that was normal. Very few people came to visit a vampire in good humour. Tristan took a few drags of his cigarette with one hand while he gestured with the other for them to take a seat. There were three vacant chairs before the desk - a couple of regular wooden ones and a velvet affair to match the attitude of the office.

"Bien," he did not abandon his own seat on the table, and simply smiled at the ladies with a sense of mild professionalism. "I am consultant vampire, and at your disposal then. I take it you require information to do with the vampiric community? Or vampiric practices?"

Tristan looked from one to the other. He recognised Auror Roh as one of the senior aurors, and his eyes shifted coldly from hers to land more affably on Bruce. Level two was not in his favour lately. Four, regardless of the mutts they went chasing after every full moon, always received a warmer welcome from the vampire.

"I endeavour to help, mesdames," he added pleasantly, indicating with the cigarette and its vivid red mouth stain.

Oh Merlin, they were a disaster. Clearly, Iona and Zora were rendered embarrassingly inept when it came to dealing with their miscreant daughter. That and the vampire looked like was fresh out of someone's neck, just up from a bloody nightcap? Or would that be breakfast? Zora wasn't a bit afraid of Vaillancourt, more like worried about what he would say. She didn't know what she wanted to hear, which made her all the more apprehensive.

Zora was disinclined to accept the chairs, but she had to reflect some kind of hospitality. He was a resource, not a suspect. If they treated him that way, maybe it would make their query sound less like an accusation.

As she took one of the plainer chairs, she nodded to Vaillancourt in the affirmative. Vampiric practices.

"This is unofficial," Zora said working to take the edge off her voice. "Personal. I hope we can keep it that way. I'm Zora Roh and this is my wife, Iona Ballentyne. We're here as ... parents."

Merlin, she couldn't believe it had come to this. She glanced over at Iona who looked like she was holding back a volcanic eruption.

"Tell us about, I don't know what you call it. What, volunteering?" 

As parents!

His eyebrows twitched upwards, making no attempt to disguise the surprise he felt. Tristan knew the two witches were married but they were far enough removed from his life that he had never imagined a child between them. Roh's question, as it rolled off her tongue, wiped the amusement off his lips and he put down his glass to offer them more attention.

"No, madame, not quite a volunteering. It is an exchange." Tristan replied in a polite but curt tone that did not welcome contention of the point. "May I safely assume that you have a child who has offered itself to one of my kin?"

He was an advocate for the legalisation of consensual feedings, and exercised his natural instinct on a semi-frequent basis even if it was in opposition to the Ministry. This was not difficult... a discreet friend here or there, a young squib who worked a bookshop in Kensington, the odd offer at Terry's pub. Every old vampire had his hidden resources.

"It is an illegal act, of course, and because of that we find it difficult to estimate the true prevalence of consensual feedings," the vampire pressed on in a bored, scholarly tone. "But you must already know its infamous reputation," he added, because these women were not children, "as an enticement for thrill seekers."

Iona did not know Tristan Vaillancourt well at all. They’d had brief polite discussions in passing, but anything that was undead and drank blood for sustenance was just plain creepy and worth avoiding.  Gamp seemed to respect the French blood devourer, and Bagnold had even requested to take one on for help, leaving Bruce rather wondering if having something so dangerous in your employ had become rather a new fad or fashion for Level 4. Did she need her own pet vampire to truly fit in now?

Zora took one of the seats and introduced the both of them, something which Iona chose not to interject. Her as parents. Parents to an insane child who’d offered herself up as a vampire’s snack. The fire burning in Iona’s belly was only worsening as she followed suit and sat. Blue eyes scanned over the vampire’s lips, red and stained with what was clearly blood. Finger nails dug deeply into the wooden wolf handle of her cane, her fist turning white.

An exchange…consensual feedings… Bruce found herself close to getting up and walking out there and then. There was no exchange involved in one being sucking the life sustaining source from another.

“These feedings are not consensual. No one in a fit state of mind consents to having their blood sucked from their veins.” Bruce paused, knowing full well Zora wasn’t planning on hitting the conversation like a hippogriff in a glass vase shop. Unfortunately for Zora, her werewolf wife was reaching the end of her limit. she was ready to blow. “We need to know who practices this.”

"Our daughter," Zora replied after Vaillancourt guessed the context.

It's infamous reputation, yes, Zora was aware. Not intimately, but enough to know Waverly wasn't just attacked in the street. 

Vaillancourt was playing the lawful Being, careful to note the practice was illegal as if to imply, of course, that he'd have nothing to do with it. By all signs, he was prepared to be forthcoming, but Iona all but lunged at him. Zora wouldn't tell her, but Iona was being naive. In her line of work, Zora frequently encountered people who reveled in risk and self-desctruction, truly agreeing to horrible things. The unsettling thing? They were as sane as anyone.

But Waverly was so young. She was barely out of school, barely out of the house. Iona and Zora knew she was a party girl, that she got up to trouble, but this? What did this mean? How did they stop it?

"You understand," Zora said with a calmly and trying to keep the urgency from her voice. Iona was fuming and laying it all out, but Zora held it back. She didn't need stories and tempers made stories.

"We're worried. We can't have it happen again."

The one mother was certainly more vehement on this subject than the other. Tristan blinked slowly as Ballentyne interjected with as much delicacy on the subject as your average wix; he knew her type, people for whom feedings were without a doubt revolting. If only she knew how revolting her blood smelled to his kind - how, if the Ministry were truly set on sniffing out unregistered werewolves, all you had to do was let loose a vampire with a sensitive nose.

            "You understand," interjected Roh, and he turned his passive expression to her instead. "We're worried. We can't have it happen again."

"Then you had better speak to your daughter more thoroughly, non?" Tristan replied with a shrug. "She is of age? An adult? You must go to the source of the act, unless you believe it was truly nonconsensual." In which case, they all knew, the witches would have to report it.

But they weren't going to report it. No, they would not be here if that were the case. The vampire crossed one leg over the other and nursed his cigarette as she glanced back at Iona.

"There are places and individuals who participate in consensual feedings, madame, but I cannot furnish you with such information," he spoke in a quiet, distinct voice. "However, I can ease your concerns..." Tristan reached behind his desk to open a drawer and procure a St.Mungo's pamphlet. "If your daughter has not yet been examined, you may advise it."

He handed Roh the pamphlet, So, You've Just Been Bitten by a Vampire: There's a Bright Side[1], smiling mildly. "Scars can be removed. Temptation cannot."

1.	Niobe's, from And For My Next Act

It was not news to Zora, nor should it be to Iona, that Waverly was entirely responsible for her actions. The vampire wasn't wrong, but he was beginning to trespass with his smug advice that they speak with Waverly. They had already, they would again, and that was none of his business. She laid a hand on Iona's leg in an effort to stave her off smacking Vaillancourt with her cane.

Roh took the pamphlet and furrowed her brow. It was saccharine and creepy at the same time. A crazed blood droplet giving advice in speech bubbles and there were checklists of recovery resources. They'd seen one like it when Iona got attacked.

She tossed it on the desk, lip curled in disgust. She wanted to retort that they'd handle Waverly, but honestly Zora had no idea how. Iona would lock her up somewhere if she had her way, but Zora knew from experience how that kind of parenting could push children even further away.

"Please," she tried with a frown. "Tell us something. Where would she have gone to do this?"

She was at a loss.

            "Please. Tell us something. Where would she have gone to do this?"

His gaze flicked from the rejected pamphlet to the face that made this earnest, frowning plea. Tristan paused to study the auror because she reminded him of something distant and faint; a mother's concern, as if seen in the troubled reflection of a murky pond. He was once a child. He had a father and a mother and brothers and sisters. A life, lungs full of air and limbs warm with blood. So long ago, too long ago.

"And what will you do if I provide a list of names, of places?" Tristan stared at her with a gentle, searching look - softened by the memory of a mother long dead. "Will you find the vampire who accepted your daughter's blood? Will you threaten them? And then will you threaten the next vampire your daughter finds?"

He spoke quickly, one word disappearing into the next. His graceful voice was dictated by harsh logic. "It would be professionally irresponsible of me to oblige you."

"Then you had better speak to your daughter more thoroughly, non?" 

If it was possible, Iona’s grip on the cane handle tightened with the new wave of anger flowing through her veins. They hadn’t come looking for parenting tips, but rather answers and information. And this ancient undead creep with blood stained lips dared to suggest this and then admit he wouldn’t even help them to track down illegally practicing vampires.

She felt Zo’s hand on her leg, a quiet warning not to explode, and Iona struggled to obey. Zora was the calm one that dealt with creeps like this on the daily, so the redhead did stay silent, her teeth grinding as she looked over the pasty vampire that had somehow found himself a cosy job on Level 4.

"Tell us something. Where would she have gone to do this?" Zora implored, worry running through her voice. Iona’s gaze swept over the leaflet on the desk for a moment before flashing up at Vaillancourt’s refusal to offer any information.

“It would be professionally irresponsible of you to withhold information on illegal vampiric practices.” It wasn’t like Zora could play the auror card now, after disclosing their positions as the parents of the bitten witch.

            “It would be professionally irresponsible of you to withhold information on illegal vampiric practices,” stated the more hot-tempered of the two women, and Tristan took a last drag from his cigarette before stubbing it out in a thin brass ashtray. He licked his lips, then ran his tongue along those sharp incisors that so alarmed these mothers on behalf of their child.

"Such information would be conveyed to the correct authorities on level two, in the case of an investigation..." the vampire shrugged, unperturbed by Iona's accusation. "Indeed, madame, even if the odious Auror Pratt were to come down here and rudely demand information, I would happily give it. But you are private individuals."

They had brought no paperwork. He would be surprised if there was any, if maternal agency overtook work obligations; a bright red stain on their daughter's record in history.

Tristan reclaimed his tumbler of blood and gestured carelessly with it. "Is there any other way I can help? Maybe you have questions, non, about the nature of these feedings? Precautions to best take?"

Iona was going in absolutely the wrong direction. They did not want to bring legality or professionalism into this, nor anything else that could expose them to more trouble or embarrassment. Zora had already risked the biscuit slipping Wav out of an arrest, and getting Carstairs involved. Now Iona was challenging the smug vampire on the law.

Zora set her jaw and rubbed her temple, a headache beginning to buzz. The vampire was more unsettling than she'd expected, but the context wasn't helping anything. The vampire was drinking blood again, he was talking about Ed Pratt, and offering patronizing advice in place of what they really wanted. This was a mistake.

Suddenly, she got up from the chair.

"No, this is over. We're done."

Zora looked at Iona in a silent request she come, before moving to the door. She wasn't the grateful type in normal circumstances and certainly didn't even think to spare Vaillancourt a word of thanks. He'd done his job, but gone no further.

Iona wanted so much to shoot a hex at the place where this vampire’s heart will have once beat its steady rhythm. She wanted to swing for his face with the business end of her custom-made cane. Neither of those actions would have served any benefit, and as the smarmy and creepy creature blithely continued to fill them in on why he would not divulge any information, Iona found herself imagining his teeth ripping into Waverly’s flesh.

It was painful and terrifying to be so helpless as a parent. They’d spent every day since her adoption trying to do right by the little girl that they’d brought into their family. They’d done everything they could to protect her from the world. The danger they’d never seen coming was herself.

"No, this is over. We're done." Zora was on her feet, now understanding there was nothing to be done here without causing a scene and making this public knowledge. With Iona less than two months back on Level 4, and Zora only freshly promoted, a scene was not something either witch could afford. They’d have to handle Waverly in a different way.

The younger and less agile of the two witches didn’t spare Tristan another look as she pushed herself up from the seat, the stiffness in her body causing her leg muscles to scream in pain.

Outside of the room, Iona rested back against a wall, closing her eyes. “@%&$*!” She cursed under her breath.