PANSY
"Forks, Washington," Pansy Parkinson pronounced each syllable as if they personally offended her, tossing the assignment folder onto her pristine desk. "Is that even a real place or did someone sneeze while naming it?"
The letter from the Department of Magical Law Enforcement gleamed with official Ministry seals, making it impossible to pretend it was some elaborate prank. She ran a perfectly manicured nail under the location details again: Olympic Peninsula. Remote. Muggle population approximately 3,500.
Merlin's saggy bollocks. Three and a half thousand muggles in the middle of nowhere.
"I see you've received your new assignment as well," came Daphne Greengrass's measured voice from the doorway of Pansy's office.
Pansy looked up to see her fellow Auror and best friend—though Pansy would rather drink Skele-Gro than use such sentimental terminology—standing with perfect posture, her own folder held precisely at regulation angle. Five years after Hogwarts, and Daphne still maintained the poise their pureblood upbringing had drilled into them since birth.
"This has to be Robards punishing me for the Stockholm incident," Pansy scowled, leaning back in her chair. "I told him those exploding wards were necessary given the circumstances."
"The circumstances being your impatience," Daphne replied, the barest hint of amusement softening her ice-blue eyes. "Nevertheless, this assignment appears legitimate. A Class B vampire with stolen magical artifacts has been tracked to this region."
Pansy stood, smoothing invisible wrinkles from her tailored Auror robes—modified, of course, to actually fit properly unlike the standard-issue monstrosities. "America? Really? I'd rather hunt Dementors in Azkaban."
In truth, the distance from Britain held a certain appeal. Five years since the war, and the whispers still followed her. Death Eater sympathizer. Wanted to hand Potter over. Slytherin coward. A change of scenery—even to a place called Forks—might be refreshing.
Not that she'd admit that to anyone, including Daphne.
"The briefing indicates our cover will be as European researchers," Daphne continued, obviously having read the entire file already, unlike Pansy who had stopped after seeing the location. "We'll have a cottage arranged near the forest boundary for optimal surveillance."
"Cottage," Pansy repeated flatly. "How rustic. I do hope it at least has proper plumbing."
"We depart tomorrow," Daphne said, ignoring her complaint. "I've already prepared a list of essential potions and references we should bring."
Of course she had. Daphne approached everything with methodical precision, from capture missions to breakfast selections. It made her an excellent partner, if occasionally insufferable.
"Fine," Pansy sighed dramatically. "I suppose America is far enough away from Mother's endless parade of 'suitable pureblood bachelors' to make muggle conditions tolerable."
A flicker of something—understanding, perhaps—crossed Daphne's face. Her own parents had similar aspirations, though they approached the task of marrying off their daughter with the same cool calculation they applied to everything.
"Practical clothing, Pansy. I assume you still remember what that is," Daphne said, turning to leave. "And I've arranged an international Portkey for eight tomorrow morning."
"I'd hardly forget my wilderness training," Pansy called after her. Merlin, she doesn't even want to think about it.
Once Daphne had gone, she slumped back in her chair, exhaling slowly.
America. After everything—the war, the trials, the painful reconstruction of her life from the ashes of her family's reputation—perhaps a remote assignment was exactly what she needed. Not that she'd waste time on something as indulgent as self-reflection, but distance from wizarding Britain's judgmental stares held undeniable appeal.
She flicked her wand at the assignment folder, sending it into her expanded handbag, and stood to leave. If she was going to be exiled to muggle wilderness, she'd at least need to visit Twilfitt and Tattings for appropriate attire.
After all, a Parkinson never lowered her standards, even in a place called Forks.
********
Pansy Parkinson stared at the monstrosity of a cottage with the same expression she might give a flobberworm that had crawled into her designer boots.
"This is a joke, right?" She turned to Daphne, who was already unloading her sensibly packed trunk from the Ministry car. "Tell me this is some elaborate prank, and the real accommodations are in a five-star hotel somewhere with proper room service."
The international Portkey had deposited them about half a mile from their designated safehouse, and the subsequent car ride had been a nauseating journey through endless green. Now, standing before what appeared to be a wooden structure that couldn't possibly have indoor plumbing, Pansy was seriously reconsidering her career choices.
Daphne didn't bother looking up. "The cottage has been enhanced with extension charms and all modern magical amenities. Stop being dramatic."
"I'm not being dramatic. I'm being realistic." Pansy kicked at a pebble, watching it disappear into the absurdly lush undergrowth surrounding the property. "We're in the middle of nowhere, hunting a vampire with stolen magical artifacts, in a place called Forks. The entire scenario is beneath us."
"The scenario is our job," Daphne replied with maddening reasonableness, finally looking up from her trunk. "Now help me establish the wards before it gets dark."
With a dramatic sigh that went unappreciated, Pansy drew her wand and began the familiar boundary-setting spells they used on all field assignments. At least magic was predictable, even if their current circumstances were anything but.
Once inside, Pansy had to grudgingly admit the cottage was adequate. Magical expansion had given them each a bedroom twice the size of what the exterior suggested, a decent kitchen, and most importantly, modern bathroom facilities. Small mercies.
"I'm still not unpacking everything," Pansy declared, levitating her third trunk toward the bedroom she'd claimed—the one with slightly better natural light. "This is temporary. We'll catch this vampire in a week, two at most, and then we're getting reassigned somewhere civilized. Rome, perhaps. Or at least Seattle."
Daphne was already setting up her meticulous case files on the dining table, arranging photographs and maps in perfect alignment.
"The preliminary reports suggest our target is working with at least two other vampires, possibly more. And they've been in the area for months, which means they've established a pattern," Daphne said, ignoring Pansy's complaints entirely. "We should prepare for a longer stay."
Pansy flopped onto the surprisingly comfortable sofa, flicking her wand to unpack only her essentials—expanded wardrobe, premium toiletries, three pairs of dragonhide boots modified for fieldwork but still fashionable, and her collection of defensive jewelry. The rest could stay packed for their inevitable swift departure.
"Fine. But I reserve the right to complain continuously," she announced.
"As if that needed stating," Daphne rolled her eyes, a hint of amusement in her voice.
Pansy summoned her compact mirror, checking her appearance after the journey. The reflection showed what she expected—flawless makeup, not a hair out of place despite intercontinental magical travel, and the signature Parkinson red lipstick that had become her trademark in the Auror department. Appearances were armor, her mother had always said. Possibly the only useful lesson the woman had imparted.
"We should begin reconnaissance tomorrow," Daphne said, already making notes in her perfect, precise handwriting. "The vampire has been sighted most frequently near the town center and something called 'La Push Beach.' We'll start with establishing our cover identities among the locals."
"Remind me what ridiculous backstory they've given us?" Pansy asked, summoning her assignment folder with a lazy flick.
"European researchers studying Northwestern American ecosystems," Daphne replied without looking up. "Specifically, we're conducting a comparative analysis of temperate rainforests."
Pansy snorted. "Because that sounds thrilling. Couldn't they have made us fashion scouts or something interesting?"
"It provides reason for us to be anywhere at any time—forest, beaches, town, hiking trails. Perfect cover for hunting a vampire," Daphne pointed out.
"I know, I know," Pansy sighed. "I did pass the same tactical training you did. Speaking of which..." She stood, stretching with feline grace before drawing her wand. "We should check the perimeter before settling in completely. I'll take the northern boundary."
This, at least, was familiar territory. For all her complaints, Pansy Parkinson was an excellent Auror. Her cutting remarks and constant critique masked a sharp mind and even sharper reflexes. She hadn't spent five years rebuilding her reputation from the ashes of the war just to fail at a straightforward vampire capture mission—even if it was in a place with an absurd name and more trees than people.
Outside, the late afternoon sun filtered weakly through the ever-present cloud cover, casting the forest in an eerie green glow. Pansy moved silently along their property line, reinforcing the detection wards and adding her own specialty—subtle disorientation hexes that would make any muggle who wandered too close suddenly remember urgent business elsewhere.
A twig snapped somewhere deeper in the forest, and Pansy froze, wand at the ready.
After ten silent seconds, a deer bounded across her sightline, disappearing into the dense underbrush.
"Merlin's sake," she muttered, lowering her wand. "Already jumpy in this place."
But as she completed her circuit and headed back to the cottage, Pansy couldn't shake the peculiar feeling of being watched—not by their vampire target, but by something else entirely. Something that belonged to these woods in a way she never would.
She shrugged it off. Probably just the unfamiliar territory making her imagination work overtime.
Little did she know how right that strange feeling would prove to be.
********
DAPHNE
Daphne Greengrass appreciated order. It was the fundamental principle upon which she had built her life—particularly after the chaos of the war had upended the wizarding world. Order meant control, and control meant safety.
The cottage, despite Pansy's theatrical complaints, would suit their needs perfectly. Daphne had already arranged her workspace with methodical precision: case notes to the left, maps of Forks and the surrounding areas in the center, and her specialized magical detection equipment to the right. Everything had its place.
While Pansy checked the northern perimeter, Daphne focused on establishing the inner layers of protective enchantments. Standard Ministry wards were adequate, but Daphne preferred to add her own modifications—subtle alarm spells that would alert them to magical signatures beyond the typical muggle background noise.
Her wand moved in precise arcs, each spell flowing seamlessly into the next. This was what had made her such an effective Auror—the perfect control, the attention to detail that others overlooked, the calm analytical approach that never faltered even in crisis.
When the fundamental protection work was complete, Daphne turned her attention to the tracking map she'd begun developing back in London. It now covered the entire dining table—a magical representation of Forks that would record any vampire activity once properly calibrated.
"Revelio Sanguinem Immortalis," she murmured, touching her wand to the map's center.
The parchment glowed softly, and several points of light appeared—more than she had expected. Most were concentrated in one area to the northeast of town.
Interesting. Their briefing had mentioned only the target and perhaps two accomplices, but this suggested either a larger coven or additional vampiric activity unrelated to their case.
Daphne made precise notes, correlating the locations with their standard map. She would need to investigate these anomalies, but carefully. Vampires with magical artifacts were unpredictable at best, deadly at worst.
A knock at the door interrupted her concentration. Wand instantly in hand, Daphne approached cautiously. They hadn't established contact with any local liaisons yet, magical or otherwise.
Through the peephole, she saw an older man with a kind face, holding what appeared to be a pie. A local welcoming committee, perhaps? Or something more sinister disguised as neighborly courtesy?
"I can see you through the peephole," the man called amiably. "Name's Charlie Swan, local police chief. Heard we had new residents and thought I'd stop by with a welcome gift."
A muggle official. Daphne quickly tucked her wand into her sleeve, keeping it accessible, and opened the door with a polite but reserved smile.
"Good afternoon, Chief Swan. I appreciate the courtesy call," she said, her British accent crisp and formal. "Daphne Greengrass. My colleague and I are conducting ecological research in the area."
The man—Charlie—seemed straightforward enough, though Daphne noticed his eyes had the watchful quality of someone accustomed to observing details. Professional habit, most likely.
"Welcome to Forks, Ms. Greengrass. It's not often we get international researchers. Must be something special about our forests."
"Indeed. The temperate rainforest ecosystem provides unique comparative data for our European studies," she replied, delivering the cover story with practiced ease.
He handed her the pie with a somewhat awkward smile. "Well, this isn't much, but my friend Sue makes the best blackberry pie in the county. Thought you might enjoy it."
"How thoughtful. Thank you." Daphne accepted the offering, already planning to perform detection spells on it once he left. Standard protocol, nothing personal.
"If you need anything or have any trouble, police station's just in town. Can't miss it," he added, glancing past her into the cottage with casual curiosity.
Daphne shifted slightly, blocking his view. "We appreciate that, Chief Swan. I'm sure we'll settle in quickly."
After a few more pleasantries, the policeman departed, and Daphne closed the door, immediately casting detection spells on the pie. Nothing magical or dangerous—just baked goods, as advertised.
Pansy returned from her perimeter check moments later, eyebrows raising at the pie in Daphne's hands.
"Please tell me you didn't attempt to bake. I've seen the results of that particular disaster before."
"A welcome gift from the local police chief," Daphne explained, setting the pie on the counter. "It appears we've been noticed already."
"Marvelous," Pansy drawled. "Small-town curiosity is exactly what we need while hunting dark creatures."
Daphne returned to her map, noting the location of the police station. "Actually, it could be useful. Local law enforcement often has information about unusual occurrences, missing persons reports, unexplained phenomena—all potential indicators of vampire activity."
"I suppose," Pansy conceded, peering at the map. "What's with all the glowy bits?"
"Vampire signatures," Daphne explained. "More than we were briefed on. There appears to be a stable coven to the northeast, separate from our target's movements."
"Brilliant. A vampire holiday destination. How lovely for us." Pansy collapsed into a chair with characteristic dramatic flair.
Daphne ignored the theatrics, focusing instead on the patterns emerging from the map. "I think we should begin reconnaissance tomorrow. You take the town center; I'll investigate these trails near what they call La Push. It's where our target was last spotted."
"Fine, but I'm not wearing hiking boots with any outfit worth keeping," Pansy warned.
"Wear whatever you want, but remember we need to blend in," Daphne cautioned, though she knew it was futile. Pansy Parkinson had never "blended in" a day in her life, and wasn't about to start in Forks, Washington.
As evening fell, Daphne completed her organized unpacking, set a monitoring charm on the map, and retreated to her room with the case files. Outside, the forest grew darker, and for a brief moment, Daphne allowed herself to appreciate the stillness that came with being away from London's constant magical bustle.
There was something almost peaceful about this remote location, despite the potential dangers lurking within it. Here, she could focus entirely on the mission without navigating the complex social expectations that still plagued her in wizarding Britain. No pureblood families pushing marriage contracts, no whispers about her family's neutral stance during the war, no pressure to uphold the Greengrass name in a society rebuilding itself.
Just work. Clean, ordered, purposeful work.
Daphne flipped open the file on their primary target: a vampire who had stolen three magical artifacts from a private collector in Prague. The photographs showed a pale figure with distinctive red eyes and unusual markings around his neck—ritual scarification that had somehow remained after transformation.
She made a note to research whether the vampire had been involved with magic before being turned. It might explain his interest in magical artifacts beyond their obvious power.
Tomorrow they would begin the hunt in earnest. For now, Daphne allowed herself a rare moment of satisfaction. New country, new mission, clean slate.
Order would be maintained. The mission would be completed successfully. And perhaps, just perhaps, a small part of her looked forward to the challenge.