They arrived on the coast of Spain in the late afternoon, both a bit weary. Lucius had forgotten how much energy was consumed in long distance travel, and they weren’t even there yet. He didn’t look forward to the last leg of the journey. Lord Voldemort surveyed the land before them, then pointed southwest.

“That way. Stay close.” He Disapparated again before Lucius had time to answer.

When they reappeared side by side, they both stood gaping at the estate in front of them—or at what used to be a very large manor home. What it was now was a tremendous jumble of broken, rotted, and charred boards, shattered glass, twisted and bent metal. Anything intact—and from the looks of it, little if anything had survived—had long ago been spirited away. It sat a pitiful, burned shell, a testament to mob rule and wrath. Tall weeds and grasses had grown up through the cracks, overtop of everything, making it look all the more desolate.

“My Lord, this can’t possibly be the right place,” Lucius began, then abruptly closed his mouth. Never contradict the Dark Lord, he reminded himself, in hopes he wasn’t too late to heed the warning.

“This is where Mr. Buitrago said to come,” maintained Voldemort. He crossed his arms over his chest. He’d find a way to make the vampire pay dearly if this had been a trick. “In the event that it’s necessary, and I don’t anticipate that it will be, how do you kill a vampire?”

“A wooden rod through the heart,” Lucius said at once.

“Anything else?” prompted the Dark Lord.

“Holy water in large quantities, sunlight…I don’t know of anything else, Master.” There’d be no point in mentioning that crucifixes and holy water sprinkles were enough to basically daze the creatures, not kill them. Surely the Master knew that; he knew everything he was quizzing Lucius on now.

“You’re a wizard, Lucius, not a Muggle. We have more refined methods.” Again the snarl-like smirk crossed his features. “In my earlier years I spent a great deal of time and energy on research projects dedicated to protecting myself from dangerous creatures. While not all were successful, two were. One is the Silver Spell for disposing of werewolves; the other is one for vampires.” His smirk widened to a gruesome, self-congratulatory smile. Because finding and catching vampires wasn’t the easiest thing to accomplish, he’d only had the opportunity to try it out once, but once was enough to ensure that it worked. “Sonneliht beth.”

“Sonneliht beth,” Lucius repeated, already feeling more at ease. While Muggle methods might be effective, he simply felt more comfortable with his wand in his hand. “Must it strike the heart?”

“No, that’s the beauty of it. Vampires are exceedingly fast, much like werewolves, making them a difficult target. However, a hit on any part of the body will cause a wound that spreads throughout within seconds.” His red eyes shone with a strange triumph. “It’s roughly equivalent to staking him out in the sun.”

Lucius bowed from genuine respect. “You truly are a genius, Master.”

“Yes, I know.”

The sun dipped below the horizon as they spoke, the dusk making odd shadows all around them. They’d changed position to stand back to back, waiting cautiously, growing impatient. At last, a man in clothing reminiscent of another era casually approached from the opposite direction of the demolished home. Both heads turned to him. When he was close enough to clearly distinguish his face, Lucius gave a small start.

He had to be human, not vampire, for while not unattractive, he didn’t fit the description of young and beautiful as all the legends claimed. In fact, although he had a chiseled, aristocratic bearing to him, he appeared to be around Abraxas’ age—late forties, possibly fifty—with thinning black hair cut to the collar and a goatee with a stripe of silver running down on either side of the ball of his chin. His dark eyes pierced out from his white skin.

“Lord Voldemort,” the man enunciated with a hint of an accent, the words clipped and precise. One hand went to his chest and he bowed in such a way that it seemed remarkably as if his very presence were bestowing an honor upon the Dark Lord, rather than showing respect for him. “I am Yadiro Buitrago.” His own name he pronounced in his native Spanish in a melodic, exotic lilt.

Voldemort dipped his head in response. “It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance. This is my servant, Lucius Malfoy.”

“Malfoy?” smiled Buitrago. “I have heard the name many times over these past three centuries.”

Lucius bowed as he would to his Master. “Only good things, I hope.”

The vampire gave a light laugh without answering. “As you can see, my mansion is no fit place any longer. After I became a vampire, the people of the region took it upon themselves to try to murder me. If you both will come with me.”

Walking two steps behind the others, wand in hand, Lucius followed the pair, his eyes and ears alert. Of all times of the day, he hated dusk for his inability to see long distances clearly. Dusk was rapidly fading into night, and after the werewolf incident less than three months ago, night had shifted into the most disliked part of the day.

Something felt wrong. He couldn’t put his finger on it. If they were being led into a trap, there was precious little he could do about it. He trusted the Dark Lord to be able to take out half a dozen vampires in quick succession, and he’d get as many as he could himself, yet who knew how many there might be? You’re getting paranoid, Malfoy, he chided himself. Besides, if Lord Voldemort couldn’t defend himself, no hope existed for either of them. And why would Buitrago set up an elaborate trap, especially when the Master had been the one to contact him? Victims for blood were not so hard to come by that he’d need to ambush people from another country!

Ahead of him, the two continued to exchange small talk. They were in the woods now, the air was calm, but Lucius’ heart was racing. He strained his ears, eyes flitting wildly. He dreaded another confrontation with werewolves as much as he abhorred the thought of being sucked dry by a clan of vampires. Was tonight a full moon? He hadn’t thought to check, and clouds covered most of the sky.

A deep voice wafted back to him. “There are no werewolves here, Mr. Malfoy. My people make sure of that.”

Lucius jumped a bit at the unexpected address, then realized he’d been so focused on being a bodyguard he hadn’t bothered to listen to the conversation of the men he was following. In retrospect, the word ‘werewolf’ did seem to have come from the Master.

“Where are your people, Mr. Buitrago?” he asked, looking high and low.

“Everywhere. There are sentinels throughout the entire grounds, though they stay hidden. They are part of our flock—cult, I believe you term it.”

“How many belong to your cult?” Voldemort inquired.

“Those who live here? Between fifteen and twenty,” answered the leader. “There are many more across the span of a hundred villages, those who count themselves under my protection,” he added, pointedly noting he was a man of influence.

Voldemort’s eyes lit up; this was what he’d hoped to hear. They had stopped in the woods for no reason apparent to the wizards…until Buitrago reached down onto the ground and lifted up a thick metal ring attached to a trap door. It struck Voldemort and Lucius at the same moment: they were being invited into a cave. This vampire leader lived in the ground like a gopher or a snake!

Buitrago waved a hand to indicate they should enter. Without betraying any emotion, they descended on thick slabs of stone carved into a staircase. By the time they reached the bottom, their disdain had morphed into a grudging awe. Lit by multitudes of candles and torches like a medieval castle, this chamber alone ran no less than twenty meters long, ten meters wide, its ceiling supported by arched beams, its stone-lined walls covered in tapestries. It seemed in effect to be a manor built underground, without the aid of magic. A table where a banquet of sorts set waiting ran down part of the area. Several young men and women came in from various directions upon hearing them.

“Servants,” said Buitrago from behind them. “Even though we sangristas, as we call ourselves, do not eat, our human servants do. And our guests, of course.”

“You have human servants?” asked Lucius, amazed. Who would agree to live here, to serve vampires? Then again, with hypnosis as a weapon, they didn’t necessarily need to agree, did they?

One of the women, barely more than a teenager, approached Lucius, seductively brushing her body up against him. He took an embarrassed step away. She moved in again. “Bienvenido, amigo de Yadiro.” (Welcome, friend of Yadiro.)

“Um, thank you.” Again he stepped over to establish a space between them.

“Quisiera probarme, senor?” she cooed coyly, folding down her collar.

Lucius hesitated; she couldn’t have said what he thought she said. Those Spanish lessons had been so long ago. He glanced over at Yadiro, who was struggling to contain a smile.

“She wants to know if you wish to bite her.”

“No!” exclaimed Lucius, to Buitrago’s further amusement.

“No es sangrista,” he said to the girl, who looked dubiously at Lucius, then at Voldemort. “You must admit, the two of you are very pale, like us. It is an honest mistake.”

“Tal vez quiere hacer el amor conmigo,” the girl persisted, eyeing Lucius hungrily.

“Largate, Veronica,” Buitrago said firmly, yet not cruelly. The girl’s mouth formed a pout, but she whirled and stomped out. “They like to see new faces. Please excuse them. Come this way.”

Lucius bit back the question poised on his tongue. What had she said, and why did he send her away? Then again, did he really want to know? Buitrago led them to the table and bade them sit, while he seated himself at the head of the table.

“It has been much time since I was a host to humans. I have not forgotten my duties entirely.” One clap of his hands brought servants scurrying over, pouring wine, serving beef and chicken and vegetables, even delicate pastries. He gave a mournful sigh. “At times, I long to eat. After three hundred years, food still looks delectable.”

They endured what to Lucius felt like a very awkward meal. Buitrago wasn’t a problem, even though he ate nothing, only sipped from a goblet of thick red liquid that Lucius assumed to be blood. It was Lord Voldemort who distracted him; they’d never in all these years eaten a meal together, he’d had no idea how poor the Master’s table manners were. The Dark Lord tended to monopolize the conversation—no surprise there—while resting his elbows on the table and talking with food in his mouth. It was repugnant. Years of Lucius’ own training came screaming into his mind. He felt a terrible urge to shove the Dark Lord’s elbows off the table, slap his mouth for boorishness, and scold him on proper etiquette. However, as his desire to live superseded his revulsion, he averted his eyes and listened in silence.

The conversation was bland, no business, at Buitrago’s request. They were finished with the meal, pushing back their chairs to rise, when another pallid man entered. He seemed neither surprised by the guests, nor particularly welcoming of them. When he strode over to the table, it was evident that he was younger than Buitrago, smooth faced, mid-twenties; his light hair was cropped short and he wore modern Muggle clothing, yet his bearing bespoke the truth.

He took Buitrago’s hand and kissed it as a show of respect. “Yadiro, como estas?” he said stiffly, as if irritated with a family member.

“Lord Voldemort, Mr. Malfoy, this is Mateo. He prefers not to use a surname. He is my right hand man and my best friend.” Buitrago stressed the last two words, suppressing his own desire to lash out at the young man.

Mateo nodded curtly, scowling, his light blue eyes glinting animosity.

Yadiro got up, and through gritted teeth murmured in Spanish so low only his friend could hear, “This is not the time for your tantrums. We will speak later.”

“Am I being dismissed?” retorted the other hotly in flawless, unaccented English, not caring if the intruders heard—hoping they did, in fact.

“You are welcome to stay,” said Buitrago, placing a friendly hand on the other vampire’s shoulder, then squeezing hard to indicate that he’d best observe appropriate behavior if he chose to remain.

Seemingly out of spite, Mateo bared his fangs in a ferocious smile. “I’d love to chat with our new friends, Diro. Why don’t you all follow me to the sitting room?” He wheeled and flounced out to the left.

Buitrago gave an abashed grin at Lucius and Voldemort, though inside he was raging. How dare Mateo try to humiliate him with such conduct! “Before we go, let me explain something. As a human, I was what you call a Muggle. A nobleman, wealthy, powerful—but a Muggle. Mateo was a wizard like you; when he was brought into the fold, he lost his magical ability.”

“Brought into the fold,” repeated Voldemort. “A euphemism for changed into a vampire?”

“Yes. He bitterly resented it—both being created a sangrista and losing his powers. To meet wizards in full possession of their magic reminds him of his incapacity.” Buitrago’s eyes flicked in the direction Mateo had gone. With the vampire’s exceptional hearing, he wondered if Mateo was listening to them now.

Voldemort nodded slightly. “At one time I had considered becoming a vampire myself for the immortality, strength, and other attributes you possess. When I discovered my magic would disintegrate, my interest evaporated as well.”

“It is as they say,” Buitrago answered. “Death is the great equalizer. All sangristas start out on even footing. Come.” He ushered them into the adjoining room, half the size of the previous one, yet built as carefully and decorated tastefully with comfortable furniture and rich, colorful tapestries and carpeting. More candles and torches lit the perimeter of the room. Mateo stood beside one of the chairs, his expression blank.

When the others entered, Mateo scooted around to flop down and cross his legs. Not bothering with preliminaries, he waited until they’d seated themselves, then said, “So, Lord Voldemort, Diro tells me you plan to take over the wizarding world.”

“That is correct,” replied the Dark Lord, his eyes narrowing.

“How do we sangristas fit into this plan?” He deliberately avoided a warning glare shot at him from Buitrago.

“Your powers of mind control could prove very useful in bending the will of the Ministry in my favor. With the Ministry under my control, my Death Eaters would no longer need fear reprisals and arrest. They would be free to eliminate undesirables and troublemakers, although your kind could certainly help in this task as well. The system would fall in short order, to be replaced by rule of purebloods.”

“Ah, yes,” answered Mateo. “You’ve thought this out very thoroughly. Have you also considered our reward? Basically, I’m asking what’s in it for us?”

Voldemort’s thin lips stretched ever thinner into a semblance of a smile, his red eyes hard, and he turned to Buitrago. “Do your underlings frequently presume to commandeer their master’s authority?”

Yadiro’s own eyes flashed. “Mateo is not an underling, nor am I his master! I am the leader, the protector of our cult, but all have the right to express opinions.”

Now was probably not the right time for Lucius to speak up, what with the Dark Lord becoming agitated and all, but he feared if he didn’t, he might soon find himself fighting for his life. “My Lord, do you think perhaps we should postpone this discussion until tomorrow? It’s been a taxing day; in the morning we might all be more amicable.”

“Vampires sleep during the day, Lucius,” he hissed in return.

“Lord Voldemort, I agree with Mr. Malfoy,” said Buitrago, rising from his chair. “I will have a servant take you to your rooms. Tomorrow evening, when heads are cooler, we will talk.” And meanwhile, I will have my own little discussion with Mateo, he seethed.

He waited until a male servant had led the wizards away, then he stalked over to Mateo, who sat smirking at his own cleverness, and backhanded him violently across the face.

XXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOO

It was no Malfoy Manor, but Lucius was impressed just the same. To build a structure like this underground was no small feat, especially considering no magic had been employed. Even the large bedroom he’d been led to, stone-walled like the rest, was worthy of compliment. He might have noticed more if there hadn’t been a naked Veronica splayed across his bed, her private regions barely covered by a sheet.

He cleared his throat loudly. “Perdoname, senorita. Esta es mi cama.” Had he said that right? It was hard to concentrate, he had to avert his eyes.

“Si,” she answered brashly. Alright, she did understand it was his bed.

Oh, to hell with it, he couldn’t think straight in Spanish! Particularly not with a nude woman throwing herself at him! He probably should have paid closer attention to his tutor, yet seriously, how often was the topic of brazen hussies trying to seduce him going to come up in tutoring sessions? “Please leave my room.”

Veronica knelt up on the bed, letting the sheet fall. From the corner of his eye, Lucius saw it and spun fully around until his back was to her, his face reddening. To his mingled horror and relief, the Dark Lord came strolling in at that precise moment.

“Really, Lucius, you could use a little more discretion,” Voldemort sneered. “You’ve been in the room less than a minute.”

“She was already here, Master. She doesn’t understand when I tell her to go away,” he replied, feeling utterly mortified at the whole situation.

To his complete astonishment, Voldemort let loose a stream of words in harsh-sounding Spanish. The girl burst into tears, jumped off the bed, gathered her clothes, and ran past Lucius out the door. The Dark Lord cackled to himself.

“I didn’t know you spoke Spanish,” Lucius admitted, turning to the man.

“There are a lot of things you don’t know about me,” was all he said, continuing his infuriating smirking.

“What did you tell her, my Lord?”

“I merely said you found her repulsive and that you’d rather cohabitate with a toothless hag. Oh, and that you prefer men.”

Lucius went from red to deep scarlet. He hadn’t wanted to hurt the girl’s feelings, and he certainly didn’t relish the idea of everyone thinking…what they’d think after Veronica was done. He couldn’t do or say a damn thing about it, not if he wished to get home to his wife in one piece, though he shot the Master a decidedly scorching glare.

Voldemort ignored the petulant pouting of his subordinate. He’d done the boy a favor, and this was the gratitude he received. How typical. He crossed the room to throw himself into the only chair, his mood altering rapidly. He hadn’t liked the blunt attitude of that Mateo, it smacked of disrespect, and if this was how tomorrow’s meeting went, he’d be most unhappy.

“Is there something you need, Master?” Lucius hadn’t been lying when he said it had been a long, hard day. Being late summer, night hadn’t fallen until well past nine o’clock; it was almost eleven now, and he was still a bit worn out from the trip. If the Dark Lord would be kind enough to move along, he could get some rest. “Perhaps we should turn in for the night.”

“Are you politely trying to coax me from the room, Malfoy?” asked Voldemort. Realizing it was futile to expect an honest response, he blew out a disgruntled breath, got up, and went to the door. He was in no mood now for talking, and he’d prefer to brood in privacy without listening to the young man’s pandering or, worse yet, snoring. “You’d better hope tomorrow goes better than today.”

“It’s my sincerest desire,” concurred Lucius. Once Lord Voldemort had gone, he sat down heavily on the bed. He didn’t have a good feeling about this plan, these vampires. As a protective measure, he took out his wand to place wards around his room and bed. At least he wouldn’t wake up as one of them.

XXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOO

Severus came home from a hard day at work to find Regulus on the sofa, watching TV, the kids playing around him, and his mother in the kitchen. A delicious aroma wafted in…spaghetti.

Regulus looked away from the screen briefly. “Hey, Severus.”

“Reg.” He came around and dropped down beside his friend, a slight smirk on his face. “Do you live here now?”

Regulus blushed. This wasn’t the first time Severus had come home to see him planted there, staring at the television, only to tease him about loving it too much. It wasn’t his fault wizards didn’t have these exciting toys. “Your mum said I could watch.”

Severus shrugged. He couldn’t care less, he just enjoyed harassing him over it. He leaned his head back and closed his eyes. “You kids pipe down. You’re getting on my nerves.”

The twins lowered their volume a touch.

“Did you know they give reports on events in other countries?” asked Regulus animatedly. “Why, in America—”

“I don’t care, Regulus.”

“Well, I saw—”

The other young man cranked his head over, opening one eye. “What part of ‘I don’t care’ is foreign to you?”

“Oh, don’t be such a piss-ant,” grumbled Regulus. One of the twins popped up in front of the screen; he unceremoniously nudged the head out of his way. “You’re no fun. All you do is work and complain. You need to go out, get a girlfriend.” A sudden tensing of Severus’ body let him know he’d been heard.

“This coming from you, who’s never, to my knowledge, had a date,” drawled Severus, sitting up straight and opening both eyes.

“Have so,” shot back Regulus. “My mum has set me up with pureblood girls a few times, only I didn’t like them. Anyway, we were talking about you.”

“How I run my life is my business, Black. If I want to be a ‘piss-ant’, I’ll be one.”

In a fit of pique, Regulus crossed his arms and stared straight ahead. “I’m trying to watch my program.”

Julius and Justina had started an argument directly behind the boys on the couch. Their shrill, angry tones punctuated the silence between dialogue on TV.

“Would you kids shut up!” Severus barked. Sudden stillness settled over the room.

“What’re you yelling at them for?” demanded Regulus. “They didn’t do anything for you to take out your pent up rage on them.”

“You haven’t seen rage yet,” Severus retorted. To the children who stood there bug-eyed, watching, he hollered, “Go to your room! If I hear you fighting again, you’re both going to get it!” They scurried out and slammed the bedroom door.

“You’re such a twat,” Regulus said, getting up. “You yell at them because you’re mad at me or Glenna or whoever. It’s not their fault you screwed it up with Glenna. It’s not their fault your Mudblood got married. Maybe if you developed your personality beyond troll level, you’d be happier!”

Severus was halfway out of his seat, ready to attack, when Eileen came in, wearing an apron and holding a sauce-covered spoon. He nonchalantly sank back down.

“Boys, what’s the problem in here?”

“Nothing, Mum. The twins were getting rambunctious, so I sent them out.”

“Regulus, you’re staying for supper, aren’t you?” she asked.

He looked over at Severus’ hateful glare, then a mischievous smile crept over him. “I’d love that, Mrs. Snape, thank you.” He flopped back down onto the couch, flinging an arm around Severus’ shoulders and squeezing. “Isn’t this great, Sev? We get to spend all evening together!”

Leaning his head back once more, Severus groaned, “Shoot me now.”

XXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOO

Sobs coming through the closed door alarmed Abraxas as he walked by on his way back from the library. Narcissa had kept to herself all evening, and now this. He tapped lightly. “Narcissa, may I come in?”

A sudden cessation of noise, then quick footsteps. The young woman opened the door with an attempt at a smile, but her face was flushed, her eyes red. “Yes, Abraxas?”

Never one to pussyfoot around, he said, “What’s wrong? I heard you crying.”

She’d been discovered, so there was no point in pretending. She waved him inside and went to sit on her bed. Abraxas stood awkwardly at the foot of the bed. “I’m worried about Lucius. He wasn’t allowed to tell me where he’s going, or when he’ll be back, or what he’s doing.”

“I worry about him, too,” confessed the man.

“He gets hurt sometimes,” she said, her chin starting to quiver again. “What if he’s dead and I don’t even know it?” Her body convulsed and a hard sob ripped from her throat.

Abraxas came around to sit next to her, gently pulling her close with one arm. She turned to bury her face on his chest as she cried. “I’m sure he’s fine, Narcissa.” He wasn’t sure of that at all, not after all the tortures his son had endured at that maniac’s hands, after all the times he’d nearly been killed. It wouldn’t do to bring that up; Narcissa needed comfort, not more fear. The poor girl…no wife should have to put up with this. “He’ll be home soon.”

“I don’t—feel good,” she choked out between sobs.

“What do you mean? Where are you sick?”

“Everywhere,” she cried. “I’m dying and Lucius isn’t here!”

Abraxas patted her back softly, soothingly. “Shh, you’re not dying. We’ll check you out and I’ll fix you up a potion.”

She nodded while continuing to weep against him. Lucius, get your arse home, his father grumbled silently. Your wife needs you.