The Man With No Shadow by Stoneheart

Rating: PG13
Genres: Romance, Mystery
Relationships: Harry & Hermione
Book: Harry & Hermione, Books 1 - 5
Published: 18/07/2004
Last Updated: 10/10/2004
Status: Completed

Something dark and deadly is stalking the streets of London. Fledgling Auror Harry Potter finds
himself confronted by shadows from the past, and he finds that not all monsters are born of
hellfire and Dark magic. H/Hr, with peripheral pairings tossed in.




1. Shadow From the Past
-----------------------

**Disclaimer:** Harry Potter and all persons, names and places pertaining thereto belong to
J.K. Rowling. I promise never to use them for financial gain if she and her publishers promise
never to sue me. That sounds fair, doesn't it? I think so.

**Author's Note:** Welcome back. Once again my inventory stories get pushed to the back of
the Knight Bus (giving me more time to whip them into shape for posting on this most prestigious
site) to make way for a very special endeavor. This story was written in May as a birthday present
for my favorite writer (and one of my favorite people), Fae Princess. I've never written a
story by request before, and I could only hope it would be up to scratch. I usually write to please
only myself; it's much harder to bring another person's vision to life than to realize
one's own. I was relieved when she enjoyed it (or so she said, and I have no reason to doubt
her integrity). Now it's time to see if anyone else shares her enthusiasm. It's times like
this when I understand how Harry feels when he falls off his broomstick. I hope someone catches me
before I hit the ground. At least Gilderoy Lockhart isn't around to make any of my bones
disappear.


***


Harry was roused from his night's slumber by a light tapping on his bedroom window. Despite his
fatigue, he came awake instantly. It was an instinct which the Ministry endeavored to instill in
all its fledgling Aurors, and those who embraced it stood a better chance of living long enough to
collect their Ministry pensions than those who did not. CONSTANT VIGILANCE. After three years of
training, followed by six months in the field, Harry had learned it as well as anyone.

In a single fluid motion, Harry snatched his wand from under his pillow, rolled out of bed on the
side opposite the window and crouched like a cat poised to spring. He held his breath, and in the
silence of the early morning the tapping was repeated. Gripping his wand firmly, Harry peered over
the edge of his mattress until he could glimpse the window through which beams of brilliant
sunlight were streaming. A small form sat huddled on the window sill, its features shadowed by the
backlight. But the outline of soft feathers glowing halo-white was unmistakable. Harry emptied his
lungs and rose easily, his wand falling to his side.

"Hedwig," Harry smiled as he opened the window. "Where have you been? I was getting
worried."

Hedwig hooted, seeming to roll her great, amber eyes with what passed for exasperation in snowy
owls. Harry chuckled.

"I know, I was being silly. You've never failed me yet, have you?" Hedwig nipped
Harry's finger affectionately, eliciting another chuckle. But Harry's good humor faded when
he saw the letter tied to Hedwig's leg -- in particular, when his eyes fell on the gold seal
stamped on the mauve envelope. Harry had seen it often enough in the last three years: The
crossed-wands symbol representing Beauxbatons Academy of Magic. Harry untied the string around
Hedwig's leg mechanically, whereupon the owl, relieved of her charge, flapped toward her perch
next to Harry's bedside table to gulp some water.

Harry stared at the envelope in his hand, his eyes travelling over the elegant curves of the script
spelling out the name Harry Potter. Hermione's handwriting was, if anything, even more graceful
now than when they were house-mates at Hogwarts.

The debate over whether to open the envelope lasted less than a second. If Hermione's letter
were anything like those she had sent over the last few months, there was no point in reading it
straightaway. Harry tossed it onto his bed, narrowly missing Hedwig, who hooted indignantly,
ruffling her feathers in admonishment.

"Sorry, girl," Harry said unconvincingly. Hedwig made what was unmistakably a sniffing
sound before turning her back on him and tucking her head under her wing for a much-needed
sleep.

The angle of the sunbeams streaming through Harry's window indicated that the hour was scarcely
past dawn. Though he had slept less than four hours, he felt no desire to go back to bed. He had
learned to get by on less and less sleep throughout his training; now that he was fully awake, he
felt as refreshed as if he had slept twice as long. But for all that, it was only his body that had
been renewed by his brief sleep; the fatigue weighing suddenly upon his spirit would require more
than bedrest to dispel.

Owing to his late shift the previous night, Harry was not due in until noon. But now that he was
awake, he reckoned he might as well go in early as lounge unproductively around his flat for six
hours. Merlin knew there was always paperwork waiting to be done, and the sooner it was out of the
way, the sooner he could get on with his holiday. He'd been waiting forever for some proper
time off. The Chudley Cannons were playing the Wasps in Wimbourne tomorrow, and Ron had promised to
get Harry the best seats in the house (a promise his oldest mate was more than qualified to fulfill
nowadays).

After a quick shower and a breakfast consisting of orange juice and a stale English muffin, Harry
Apparated straight into the lobby of the Ministry of Magic. He walked between the rows of gilded
fireplaces (which accomodated those Ministry employees who could not, or elected not to, Apparate)
and approached the fountain lying at the midpoint of the hall. The golden statues, larger than
life-size, standing in the midst of the tinkling waters were of a wizard, a witch, a centaur, a
goblin and a house-elf. The first time Harry had set eyes on this fountain, more than five years
ago, the three non-human figures had been wrought in a manner so as to place them in an attitude of
subjection and inferiority in regard to the witch and wizard. Minister of Magic Arthur Weasley had
set that to rights straightaway upon assuming office nearly four years ago. Now, all five figures
boasted a noble bearing, each equal to the others, representing a brotherhood of spirit wholly
uniting the magical world for the first time in history.

At least, that was the illusion it put forth. Harry knew better.

Passing the Fountain of Magical Brethren, Harry approached the golden gates at the far end of the
hall. A stubble-faced wizard clad in peacock robes lowered a much-folded copy of the Daily Prophet
and peered disinterestedly at Harry.

"Eric," Harry said with a short nod.

"Mr. Potter," Eric returned before allowing his eyes to fall once more upon the
periodical in his hand.

Passing by the guard's station, Harry entered a smaller hall wherein sat two rows of lifts
framed by wrought golden grilles. Harry found one that was empty and entered. The golden grille
slid into place, and the lift rose with a great shuddering clatter. It stopped at Level four so
that a couple of Interdepartmental memos could dart on board, their pale violet flanks fluttering
like hummingbird wings. These hovered around Harry's head until the lift stopped at Level
three, where they darted off with a great flapping of parchment.

When the lift stopped at Level two, Harry lingered in thought as the grille rolled back, which
nearly proved his undoing. The grille began to close again, and Harry was only just able to bound
forward and snake through the bars as the platform dropped away virtually under his very feet.
Someone below must have summoned the lift, because it vanished so quickly that Harry's hind
foot was poised over thin air for a moment before it swung forward to settle on the floor. Grateful
that none had seen his careless gaffe ("Constant vigilance, my arse," he muttered under
his breath), he turned into a corridor, glancing incuriously at the enchanted windows lining the
wall on his right. They were not proper windows, Harry knew, but the wizard equivalent of a Muggle
computer screen, bearing an image that looked real but was, in fact, pure illusion. Passing through
an oak door, he eventually came to an open area divided into cubicles. He approached one which
boasted a sign reading AUROR HEADQUARTERS. At his approach, a wizard looked up from his desk, mild
surprise on his darkly handsome face.

"What are you doing here so early, Harry?"

Harry idly picked up the name plate on the wizard's desk, ran his fingers along the graven
letters spelling out KINGSLEY SHACKLEBOLT -- DEPARTMENT HEAD -- AUROR DIVISION.

"Couldn't sleep," Harry shrugged as he replaced the name plate. "Thought I'd
get last night's paperwork out of the way before you-know-what starts rolling
downhill."

Kingsley laughed and nodded. "Arthur takes his paperwork a damn sight more seriously now than
he did when he ran the Misuse of Muggle Artifacts division."

With a smiling nod, Harry turned and walked to his own cubicle. He found the appropriate forms
waiting in his in-box and began filling them out. He had no sooner signed his name to the last
report and sent in flying off when a bright, cheerful face popped over the edge of his cubicle
wall.

"Wotcher, Harry! Bit early for you, innit?"

"Couldn't sleep," Harry said.

"You've been taking Mad-Eye too much to heart, you have," Tonks said with a wag of
her finger.

"Maybe," Harry said. "But if I hadn't spotted that bloke up in Farnsworth last
week -- the one who was hiding in the eaves of that old bell tower -- he'd have hexed me from
here to next Christmas. When I saw that sparrow flying around the tower, I figured something, or
someone, must have disturbed it. As it was, I was only just able to duck in time. Say what you want
about Moody, but you don't get to be an old Auror without knowing how to stay one step ahead of
your enemy."

"Well," Tonks said with a crooked grin, "as it happens, your arrival is auspicious.
Old Gillingham called in via fire-com. Seems he got drunk last night and accidentally Cursed his
legs off. St. Mungo's is fixing him up right enough, but we'll be short-handed until he
gets back."

"I have three days coming," Harry protested weakly. "It's been double shifts for
a month, and I haven't had a proper holiday since I got out of training."

"That's what'yer gets fer comin' in early," Tonks chuckled. "If
you'd come in at noon, like it says on the schedule board, I'd be long gone, off doin'
the work o' two. I guess I shouldn't be so hard on ol' Mad-Eye after all."

Harry heaved a defeated sigh. "What's the assignment?"

Tonks grew serious, her cockney accent evaporating. "Strange attacks in Muggle London. Could
be supernatural. Could be copycats. If it's the latter, Scotland Yard can sort it out. If
it's the former, it's our kettle of fish."

"When did all this start?" Harry queried as he rose and sealed his desk drawers with a
personal Locking Charm.

"Three weeks ago," Tonks said.

"Why didn't it come to us sooner?"

"Procedure," Tonks said. "Magical Law Enforcement has people who do nothing but
watch telly and read the Muggle papers all day, looking for unusual bits." Harry's
eyebrows rose, and Tonks grinned. "Nice work, eh? But it's usually old Aurors or MLE chaps
who've been injured in the line of duty and can't do field work. Me, I hope I *never*
qualify. You should've seen the row old Mad-Eye put up when they tried to assign *him* to
Research. But getting back to it, when they find something off treadle, they report it to MLE.
Madam Bones assigns some field agents who gather the facts, interview the appropriate Muggles --
wiping their memories after, of course -- and make out a report with their recommendations. She
shunts it up to the Minister, and if he gives it the nod, it gets chucked back down to
us."

"I take it there was an attack recently?" Harry said.

"Late last night," Tonks nodded. "MLE has some people there now. They should be
finishing up about now, in fact. The Obliviators' cubicles are all empty. If you'd slept in
today, you'd've missed all the fun."

"Lucky me," Harry said somberly, though Tonks could see the smile he was trying
unsuccessfully to suppress. "Right, then. Lead the way."

After a brief stop to secure Muggle clothing from a clerk who made them sign release forms in
triplicate, the pair Apparated into an abandoned building, one of many safe houses placed
throughout Muggle London for just such purpose, and infused with anti-Muggle Charms to prevent its
habitation by non-magical personnel. Tonks moved a tattered curtain aside to peer though a grimy
window which prevented the better part of the sunlight from invading the room's dusty interior.
She looked back over her shoulder and nodded, and Harry followed her out the door, which locked
behind him automatically.

Harry saw two wizards in Muggle attire questioning two genuine Muggles. He had no difficulty
distinguishing one pair from the other; the wizards' clothing was mismatched and slightly out
of fashion. He and Tonks had done a much better job of it, both of them having grown up in Muggle
environments.

Whenever it was necessary to update the Wardrobe Department, the Ministry commonly engaged
employees with Muggle backgrounds, like Tonks, to make the necessary purchases. Even so, it was a
rare witch or wizard who possessed the insight to assemble a proper wardrobe. Harry remembered the
dreadful examples running rife at the Quidditch World Cup seven years ago, and he bit back a smile
as he assumed a professional aspect in imitation of Tonks as they approached the small group of
Muggles both true and faux.

"Special Branch," Tonks said with casual formality as she made eye contact with the two
genuine Muggles. She flashed a counterfeit badge, Harry doing likewise, and the Muggles nodded.
Turning to the wizards, she asked, "So, what's it all about, then?"

The two MLE wizards exchanged a look before one detached himself and led Harry and Tonks a short
distance away.

"Definitely summat funny," the wizard said. He was a head shorter than Harry, with a face
like a bulldog and small, dark eyes that seemed to rattle about in his head in an effort to look in
ten different directions at once. Alastor Moody would have approved.

"Supernatural?" Tonks prompted.

"Too soon ter tell. But I ain't rulin' it out. But that's why you lot are
'ere, innit?"

"Where was the attack?" Tonks asked.

"Over 'ere," the wizard said. He walked off without a backward glance, and Tonks
turned to Harry.

"Back in arf a mo', guv'nor," she winked. She sprinted off after the MLE wizard.
Harry sighed and walked back to the other wizard, who appeared to be concluding his interrogation
of the Muggle couple.

"Bit young for Special Branch, aren't you?" the woman said unexpectedly as she
surveyed Harry's youthful features closely for the first time.

"My uncle is the Chief Inspector," Harry said, effecting a sheepish smile. "You know
how mothers are."

"Too right," the woman's husband breathed, which reply brought a sharp look from his
wife which he pretended not to notice.

"Thank you," the wizard said politely to the couple. "You've been very
helpful." He nodded, and the man returned the gesture.

"Not at all. Always glad to help London's Finest."

Harry had been formulating some questions for the wizard, but a new one popped into his head as the
Muggle couple turned and strolled down the sidewalk.

"Aren't you going to wipe their memories?"

"That's the Obliviator's job, innit?" the wizard smiled. "Me, I'm bugger
all when it comes to Memory Charms. But we have a good one spot on -- just hired, in fact." He
nodded toward the departing Muggles, and Harry saw that a woman (presumably a witch) had appeared
as if from nowhere to intercept the couple from an oblique angle. She looked about quickly, then
drew her wand and pointed it smartly at the pair.

"Obliviate!"

Harry nearly jumped out of his shoes. He *knew* that voice! Even faint with distance, it was
unmistakable.

"HERMIONE?"

Approaching now at an easy stroll, her bushy brown hair dancing in the morning breeze, Hermione
flashed a restrained smile.

"Hello, Harry."

"What are you doing here?" Harry croaked, unable to mask his surprise. "I thought
you were in France?"

"Didn't you get my last letter?" Hermione said. "Oh, dear, I hope Hedwig
didn't run into any bother over the Channel. There *was* a storm brewing over Paris when I
sent her off."

"No, she arrived this morning," Harry said quickly, easing Hermione's worry. "I
just...I didn't get a chance to open it...work, you know."

This answer seemed to mollify Hermione, who understood all too well the obligations of work and its
inate capacity to intrude upon one's personal affairs. "Well, it was nothing important,
really. It was just a note to tell you that I've finished my apprenticeship at Beauxbatons and
that I'd be coming home straightaway.

"Actually, I haven't *been* home yet, strictly speaking. I quite naturally reported
to the Ministry upon arrival, to clear my official re-entry into the country, and before I knew it
I was being sent out on my first assignment." Harry looked confused, and Hermione elaborated.
"In my letter, I also mentioned that I'd been taken on at the MLE as an Obliviator. Charms
*was* my speciality at Beauxbatons, you know."

Harry nodded, still unable to think of something intelligent to say.

"Um..." Hermione said hesitantly, a look of uncertainty in her soft brown eyes,
"...has Geoffrey briefed you on the case?"

"Geoffrey?" Harry repeated vacantly. Hermione nodded toward the MLE wizard, and Harry was
suddenly struck by how much the man resembled Gilderoy Lockhart, down to the wavy golden hair and
brilliant (and, in Harry's opinion, slightly vapid) smile. He tried not to frown as he said,
"No, I...didn't get to ask him." He paused a moment, then asked, "What do
*you* think? I mean, what does MLE think?"

"Madam Bones isn't sure yet," Hermione said. "It could be real. It could just as
easily be a poser. Some of the Goth Underground go for this sort of thing, you know."

"'Ere, now," interjected the voice of Tonks, whom Harry now saw approaching alone as
the bulldog-faced MLE wizard skewed off to join his companion, who had abandoned Harry and Hermione
upon seeing his partner's approach. No doubt they intended to exchange case-related information
out of the hearing of non-MLE personnel. In his brief time at the Ministry, Harry had found the
various departments to be inordinately secretive in regard to internal matters, often to the point
of paranoia. "Some of my best Muggle mates are Goth," Tonks said defensively as she
joined Harry and Hermione.

"No offense," Hermione said quickly as Tonks regarded her with something less than favor
following what she regarded as an unfounded accusation.

"Oh, they're a bit out there," Tonks shrugged dismissively. "But it's all
just for laughs, y'know? They'd never go this far."

"You think it's for real, then?" Harry asked.

"The blood at the scene of the attack was real enough," Tonks asserted.

"You're sure it isn't animal blood?" Hermione said in a quietly challenging
voice.

"I *do* know the proper spell to ascertain the nature of a blood sample," Tonks
returned coldly. "It's human blood, and it's fresh."

"Where's the victim?" Harry asked.

"In hospital," Tonks said. "She's still alive. Old Clotworthy there," she
nodded in the direction of the short, squat MLE wizard, who was talking in subdued tones with his
companion, "told me their inside man is on the watch. We have operatives in all the major
Muggle hospitals, posing as orderlies," she explained to Hermione, who nodded in a manner as
if to imply that she knew this already. "Quick as the victim is stabilized," Tonks
resumed, "we can slip in and question her. We may need an expert, to probe her memory,"
she added.

"That'll be Hermione's speciality," Harry said.

"Oh?" Tonks turned back to Hermione. "I heard MLE was taking on new personnel this
week. Obliviator, then?"

Hermione nodded.

"Any good with Probing Spells? Some of the lot I've seen pass through MLE the last couple
of years can wipe a memory right enough, but when it comes to probing for specific details,
they're about as subtle as a hippogriff in a tea shoppe."

"I just finished a three-year study in Advanced Charms at Beauxbatons," Hermione said,
trying not to sound defensive in her turn. "Top marks, with honors."

"'Bout ruddy time the Ministry got something right," Tonks said approvingly. Then a
light suddenly flickered in her eyes. "Hang on. You're Hermione Granger! I thought you
looked familiar. You've changed."

To that Harry gave a hearty, if well closeted, assent. The change wrought by her years abroad was
all too evident now. Hermione was never lacking in confidence where magic was concerned, but she
now carried herself with a poise and a self-assurance that seemed to surround her like an invisible
aura. Had he not been so surprised to see her in this unexpected venue, he would have spotted it
sooner.

Harry was now aware that Tonks was regarding him out of the corner of her eye, even as she gave
every evidence of focusing her full attention on Hermione. It was a subtle nuance few save a
trained Auror would have spotted. Moreover, he knew what she was thinking, because he would have
wagered a month's salary that it was the same thing *he* was thinking. But it was
*not* something he wanted someone other than himself to think. Though why he should feel this
way, he wasn't sure.

"Well, then," Tonks said with a smile, "tell us all about it. Wassit like over
there? I've heard stories about Beauxbatons. Is it true that -- "

But Tonks was interrupted by a voice calling out, carrying unnaturally far in the crisp March
air.

"Oi, Janie, luv!"

Harry jerked his head around to see the young wizard with his hand in the air and his brilliant
smile shining as though he were chewing on a mouthful of St. Elmo's fire. He turned back to
Hermione, and he was startled to see her blushing in a manner that Ginny Weasley would have
envied.

"If you're all done chattin' up your old boyfriend," the blond wizard laughed
throatily, "Madam Bones'll be expecting us."

"Right," Hermione said loudly. Then, in a low voice: "Are you still at the same
flat, Harry?" Harry nodded, the power of speech having temporarily deserted him. "Quick
as I've settled in, I'll be in touch."

And with that she was off to join her MLE mates, leaving Harry staring after her -- and Tonks
staring just as fixedly at Harry.


***


**Note From Fae:** Good day, all! For those who don't know who I am or why I'm writing
Stoneheart's author-notes (from here on out) I'll tell you. **clears throat importantly** I
am Fae Princess, Stoneheart's official fan-girl, which explains why I specifically requested
him to write me this particular story. And when the final (12th) chapter is up, I'll be able to
explain why I wanted this story. But if I attempted that now, I'd ruin it for you guys, and
then Stoneheart might have to pull out his trusty cattle prod ... and ... yowza ... It's so not
cool when he gets angry. **ahem** I'm kidding, folks. Stoneheart is as gentle as a pussy
cat.

Alright, now is the time to tell Stoneheart what you thought -- and me. I am most anxious to hear
your thoughts since I feel such a strong attachment to the story. That's for the most obvious
reason: I requested it. There are lesser obvious reasons, one of them being that this is one of (if
not my most) favorite stories by Stoneheart. I don't think I ever managed to tell him that. But
he knows now, at any rate. Toodles!



2. Starting Over
----------------

Harry was not aware that he had picked up the wrong mug from the table until he took a long pull
and suddenly found himself choking on a mouthful of bitters. This came as quite a shock to his
tongue, which had been expecting the smooth caress of butterbeer. Having no recourse in the crowded
pub, he swallowed, shuddering violently.

"Sorry, mate," Ron said, quickly sliding his mug back to the wet ring which marked its
original resting place and restoring Harry's mug to its proper place. The plate of sausage and
mash which the barman had set before him was so large that it took up nearly half of the small
table, prompting Ron to move his pint to Harry's side of the table to prevent it from being
upset.

Catching up his own mug, Harry washed the stout from his palate with a large gulp of butterbeer. He
allowed his eyes to take in Ron's morning repast, and he shuddered again.

"You call that breakfast?" he said.

"Big day today," Ron said through a mouthful of sausage. "Three interviews, all on
different continents, mind. Deadline, you know. Might not have time for lunch, so I'm combining
the two, you might say." Taking a great pull from his mug, he stifled a burp and tapped his
cheek thoughtfully with his fork. "Now, where was I? Oh, yeah. I was never so glad in my life
as when Ginny and Neville made it official on Christmas last. I wrote you about that, didn't
I?" Harry nodded. "Blimey, with both of us traveling so much, it's all I can do to
remember the last time we sat down like this. Anyway, there's a bit more to it than I put in
the letter. The upshoot is, Ginny finally slammed the door on Dean and turned the key in the lock.
'Bout ruddy time is all I can say."

"That bad, was it?" Harry said innocently, though he already knew the story far better
than Ron could have imagined.

"Worse," Ron said in a low, confidential undertone. "He'd been tryin' to get
her to *pose* for him."

"Well?" Harry said indifferently. "He *is* an artist."

"He wanted her to pose *nude*!" Ron hissed.

"He probably just wanted to see the *real* Ginny, to paint the 'woman
underneath,'" Harry offered.

"He wanted to see her *bristols* is what he wanted," Ron said. "He knows Ginny
isn't that sort, you know, so he figured he'd do a fly-around the goalposts, as it were.
All for flippin' art's sake, he said. And Ginny was buyin' his goods straight off the
back of the cart! But he didn't fool *me*, and I went straight to Neville and told him
he'd ruddy well better jump on the hippogriff and kick it in the arse, or sure as there's
an M in Merlin, Ginny's knickers would be hanging from the doorknob in Dean's
studio!"

Harry suppressed a grin with a Herculean effort. He knew, as Ron did not (and, Merlin willing,
never would), the real story behind Dean's "proposition." Luna had been urging
Neville to propose for months, but Neville's courage, which had proved rock solid in the final
skirmish against Voldemort, was the consistency of watery porridge when it came to affairs of the
heart. Dean had therefore acted at Luna's direction, both of them knowing that Ron would do
exactly as he had done, thus spurring Neville to take immediate action or (so he was led to
believe) risk losing Ginny forever. Luna was forced in short order to take Harry into her
confidence, knowing as she did that his own protectiveness of Ginny was the equal of Ron's,
made all the more dangerous by Harry's Auror training. Better to confide in Harry before he
turned Dean into a salamander and threatened to feed him to Hedwig. The scheme had worked like one
of Flitwick's Charms, and the three conspirators vowed to take the secret to their
graves.

"Funny you should take such an interest in Ginny's virtue," Harry said idly as he
scooped up a forkful of scrambled eggs and inhaled them with gusto. "I don't recall you
showing as much concern for *Luna's*."

"Completely different," Ron said evasively. "Comparing centaurs and unicorns, that
is." Lowering his voice, he said with a devilish glint in his eye, "You'd never know
it to look at her, but blimey, you turn the lights down and she transforms faster than a werewolf
under a full moon. All in the nature of the beast, innit?" A wicked grin flashed briefly
before retreating just as quickly. "But all witches aren't Luna, are they? Take Hermione,
now."

Harry froze as if hit by a Stunning Spell.

"She's been living in France for three years," Ron went on. "And you know those
French blokes -- saw 'em in action during the Yule Ball, didn't we? But can you really see
Hermione's knickers hanging on a bedpost in a castle up in the French Alps? I mean, come
*on*!"

A momentary chill traversed Harry's spine. It was a scene he *had* conjured in his mind,
far too often for his liking.

"But," Ron concluded, "now that she's back, I reckon that's one owl that
won't get the *chance* to roost, eh?"

Harry's fork slipped from his hand and rang softly on his plate. "How did *you* find
out? I only learned myself an hour ago."

"Dad," Ron said simply as he washed down a helping of mashed potatoes with a swig from
his mug.

Harry should have known better than to ask. Ron's dad *was* the Minister of Magic, after
all; it was probably at Arthur's recommendation that Hermione had been engaged in her new
position in the MLE division. When Harry picked up his fork and resumed his breakfast in silence,
Ron raised a fiery eyebrow.

"Still carryin' the torch, eh?"

Harry's eyes shot up briefly before falling once more onto his plate.

"What *is* it with you two?" Ron said off-handedly as he poked the tail end of a
sausage into his mouth and chewed. "The way you got on all through Seventh Year, I thought
sure you'd be picking out a flat together before the ink was dry on our graduation
certificates. Instead, she moves back with her parents, then *bam*, off she goes to France
without so much as a goodbye snog."

Harry would have preferred not to answer. If it were anyone else asking, he'd have shrugged the
question off, or maybe told the questioner to shut his ruddy pie hole. But if anyone had a right to
ask such a question, it was Ron; and more, he had a right to an answer.

"We had...issues," Harry said before stuffing a piece of bacon into his mouth.

Ron paused halfway through his second sausage and looked at Harry seriously. If Ron interrupted his
meal, any meal, Harry knew, it was an action not to be taken lightly.

"It started after we...after..." Harry paused, and Ron's blue eyes widened, then
narrowed.

"You mean...?"

Harry nodded. "After Hermione and I took down V -- " Harry caught himself, remembering
that he was in a crowded public venue. In a whisper, he continued: "After Voldemort was
destroyed, we grew...close -- closer than either of us could have imagined."

"Too right there," Ron affirmed reverently. "I don't reckon anyone ever shared
as much as you two did that day. But," he added in a puzzled voice, "we all figured that
that would have -- well -- sealed the bargain, you know? Dumbledore said something about the two of
you being forged in the same fire, whatever that means. But however you look at it, everyone
thought you two would be together forever."

"So did I," Harry said, so softly that Ron only just made out the words.

"Then what happened?" Ron repeated.

When Harry spoke, following a pause so long that a Time-Freezing Spell might have been cast over
the Leaky Cauldron, it was in a voice that seemed to echo from a deep canyon at the bottom of his
soul.

"You know I was taking N.E.W.T. classes in preparation for a career as an Auror. After
Voldemort fell, I was even more determined to make it my life's work. To me, it wasn't
enough that we'd stopped Voldemort. I wanted to work so that no one else would ever try to
build on Voldemort's mad dreams. He wasn't the first to think the way he did, and he ruddy
well won't be the last. It goes all the way back to his ancestor, Salazar Slytherin. It maybe
even goes back to the first bloke who discovered he had magical blood and decided it made him
better than his mates. All I knew was, no matter when it started, I was going to do my best to see
it end. And that meant taking down everyone who I thought had a chance of taking Voldemort's
place and raising his crusade standard again. And I didn't have to look far."

Ron's eyes grew hard as sapphires. "Malfoy."

"When I told Hermione what I intended, I thought she'd be with me all the way. After all,
she knows what Malfoy is as much as anyone. She knows what he's done, and what he's still
capable of. After his father died at Voldemort's side, he publicly renounced the Dark Arts.
Just as Lucius did when Voldemort fell the *first* time. And we all know how hollow
*that* promise was, don't we?"

Ron saw the bitterness in Harry's eyes, a look he recognized all too well. It was the dead look
Harry had worn for a long time following the Battle of the Ministry at the end of their fifth year
at Hogwarts. Acting as Voldemort's lieutenant, Lucius had led the squad of Death Eaters who had
lain in wait for Harry that night -- the night that Harry had lost Sirius.

In the weeks and months that followed, many had sought to salve Harry's soul-wound by asserting
that Sirius was not dead, merely lost. But the knowledge that his godfather might be trapped in a
realm somewhere on the razor's edge between life and death was, if possible, an even greater
burden on his soul than had he seen Sirius struck down before his eyes with the Killing Curse. The
latter event, while undeniably tragic, would nevertheless have permitted Harry the dignity of
mourning his loss, of healing properly. Instead, Harry, much like Sirius himself, was left in a
sort of twilight zone, a border country lying somewhere between hope and hopelessness. In an
unguarded moment, Harry had confided to Ron that the feeling was like being locked away in his old
cupboard at the Dursleys, the difference being that this time the key was in his hand, just waiting
for him to turn it -- but try as he might, he could not fit the key into the lock.

"I even invited her to join me," Harry went on, snapping Ron out of his reverie.
"Told her she'd make a smashing Auror. We could've been a team, like Frank and Alice
Longbottom. Malfoy wouldn't stand a chance against the two of us. But when I held my hand
out," he said in a voice thick with emotion, "she backed away -- she looked at me like --
like the way Mr. Crouch did when he thought I'd conjured the Dark Mark at the Quidditch World
Cup. She told me that I was letting the anger and hatred from all those years -- and even before
Hogwarts, when the Dursleys were treating me like a sort of vile mold that'd turned up on a
Christmas pudding -- I was letting it destroy me. She said that I was doing to myself what
Voldemort and Malfoy never had. And she said that she couldn't stand by and watch me make a
mockery out of all we had accomplished that day. She told me I had a choice. She said Dumbledore
had arranged for her to go off to Beauxbatons to study Advanced Charms, and she wanted me to take a
year off and go along. She said I needed time to think things through, to sort out my
feelings.

"She'd found a rooming house in a little wizarding village near Beauxbatons -- I never
could pronounce the name -- she said I could stay there with her, and we could talk things out,
walk the countryside, forget about the war against the Dark Side. All she wanted was one year.
After that, if I still wanted to enter the Auror training program, she'd support me all the
way."

Ron's half-eaten sausage was lying, forgotten, on his plate. His hand gripped the handle of his
mug, but he did not lift it from the table.

"I never knew that," he said hoarsely.

"Her mum told me later that she waited in the parlor for five hours before she finally said
goodbye and left," Harry said. "It was only when her dad went out to check the post that
he spotted the letter I'd left on the door with a Sticking Charm.

"Afterwards, I started sending Hedwig off across the Channel, just...hoping, you know? One day
she came back with a letter in a Beauxbatons envelope. It was a bit on the formal side, but it was
a start, and after a while we began to write fairly regularly. But something was missing. Even when
it seemed that things were back the way they were, I knew they weren't. She never said it,
never even hinted. But I knew that she never forgave me for not seeing her off personally that day.
I mean, leaving her a bleedin' note, for Merlin's sake -- hardly an example of courage one
would expect from a future Auror, was it?

"Then, starting last year, the letters started coming less frequently. I wasn't sure if it
was because Hermione's work load was intensifying -- or if she got tired of pretending that the
wall between us wasn't really there, when we both knew it was. I almost didn't bother
reading the last few letters. They'd all been pretty much the same for a long time. It was like
we were writing simply out of routine now. I'm sure my letters seemed just as tedious in her
eyes. I was nearing the end of my own training, and it was all I could think about then, how
I'd finally be doing my part to keep the world safe from Dark wizards. Then I started at the
Ministry, and I kept going on about ferreting out Voldemort's old mates and all that. Maybe
that's what put her off from writing as often these last few months. I never mentioned Malfoy
by name, but Hermione's not stupid. I should have had more sense than to go rabbiting on like
that. All I was doing was opening old wounds, reminding her of the wedge that drove us apart in the
first place. Wouldn't surprise me if she'd chucked *my* letters in the dustbin, too.
They weren't exactly worth pressing in a scrapbook.

"Still, I wonder...what if I'd opened that last letter, the one Hedwig delivered just this
morning? Would I have gone in to work as usual, knowing that Hermione might be there waiting for
me? Or would I have pulled the covers over my head and..."

"Done a Ron Weasley?" Ron suggested, his familiar grin creeping over his face.

Harry made a sound that was half cough, half chuckle. "Something like that."

Ron's grin broadened. "So, now she's back. Where do you go from here?"

Harry merely shook his head before picking up the last piece of bacon (now cold) from his plate and
biting the end off. "Any ideas?"

"Well," Ron said thoughtfully, "as it happens, Luna invited Ginny and Neville over
tomorrow night. Wedding plans and all that. She's sure to want to welcome Hermione back
properly -- and it goes without saying that Ginny is dying to see her 'big sister' again
after so long. If she and Luna aren't sending Hermione an owl right now, inviting her over,
then I don't know either one of them. I know you won't be able to make the game tomorrow,
what with your new assignment and all -- I know, you can't talk about it, so I won't ask --
but you get off at six, right? And you have to eat dinner *somewhere*. I mean, if Luna can
invite Hermione over, I can invite *my* best mate, too, can't I?" Ron declined his
head toward Harry, arching an eyebrow meaningfully.

"And if *your* invitation just *happens* to be for the same night as
Luna's?" Harry smirked. "Mate, Hermione will see right through us like one of
Trelawney's ruddy crystals."

"Exactly," Ron said triumphantly. "If I *don't* invite you, she'll be
off center all night *expecting* you to pop in. Plus, since she obviously *will* expect
us to set her up like a bowling pin, so to speak, she'll feel right content when she's
proven right, won't she? I mean, that's Hermione all over, innit? And that being the case,
we're *obliged* to set her up, aren't we? It would be an insult to her intelligence
and logic if we didn't!"

"You've been hanging around Luna too flippin' long," Harry grinned. "Next
thing you'll be telling me that the Queen has a herd of Crumple-Horned Snorkacks grazing on the
back lawn at Buckingham Palace, waiting to be trained as polo ponies." But when Ron continued
to fix Harry with his imploring stare, there was nothing else for it. Harry nodded.

"Smashing!" Ron crowed, stuffing cold sausage into his mouth until his cheeks
bulged.


***


**Note From Fae:** First, a big high-five to all those who reviewed and expressed their
enthusiastic interest in the story. It's highly appreciated, believe me.

To a certain **danielerin**, I can't wait for you all to learn exactly what I requested,
either. It's been two months since my birthday, which means I've pretty much forgotten the
story. So every time I post, I'm sort of "re-discovering" it along with you guys and
recalling all the awesome things I loved about it. I can honestly say I've never read a story
like this one, but then again, that doesn't mean a similar one doesn't exist somewhere out
there in the fandom.

As for **cheering charm's** request for daily updates, that's not *entirely* do-able,
but Stoneheart DID leave it up to me to decide how often we update, since it's MY birthday
present. **big , cheesy grin** Anyway, let me know what you guys want and I'll see what I can
do. Don't forget, Stoneheart has a work schedule, too, so we have to be a little lenient.

And also, to **Hermiones Pheonix**, the only thing I can recommend is for you to keep reading. I
sort of see why you might think Hermione's a *bit* pompous, but she really isn't in this
story. But that's also a matter of interpretation, so I guess we'll have to see what you
think later on. :)

OK, guys, let Stoneheart (and me!) know what you thought! Toodles!



3. Shadows and Light
--------------------

Harry Apparated into a vacant building that was less than ten minutes' walk from the flat
Ron and Luna had shared for the better part of a year. This was one of numberless stations placed
throughout Muggle Britain by which wizarding folk could come and go without being observed by
non-magical peoples. There was no telling how a Muggle would react upon seeing a witch or wizard
pop out of thin air. It was far better in the long run to avoid such complications than set them to
rights. Ministry Obliviators had to be called in (skillful Memory Charms being outside the
expertise of most wizards), which meant extra paperwork in a job that already staggered under a
load that would buckle the knees of a mountain giant.

This particular building was owned by the Ministry, whose personnel alone were authorized to use it
(or, in fact, even knew of its existence). Harry was thus surprised when he heard a soft popping
sound behind him even as he peered through a shuttered window before essaying to exit the building.
He spun about, his wand leaping to his hand --

"You must have got top marks in the Auror program," Hermione said in an even voice
(though the momentary twitch at the corner of her mouth signified a tacit appreciation of his
acquired skills). Harry straightened with the slow ease of a cat and slid his wand back into his
Muggle jacket.

"Top of my class."

Harry noted that Hermione evidenced no slightest surprise at seeing him here. Even as Ron had said,
Hermione would likely have been disappointed had her two best friends *not* tried to set her
up in such manner as they had. Harry smiled inwardly at the realization that, even in a
constantly-changing universe, some things remained immutable. Turning back to his task, Harry
squinted as he peered through the slats of the boarded-up window.

"All clear."

As Harry turned with his wand raised, he saw that Hermione already had her own wand pointed at the
locked door. Obeying a crisp "*Alohomora*!" the door opened silently, and Harry went
out, his eyes scanning the streets cautiously. He turned to tell Hermione that it was safe to come
out, but she was already at his side. She closed the door behind them, nodding when the magical
lock clicked automatically.

As Harry turned up the collar of his overcoat against the damp post-Winter chill, he said
conversationally, "You haven't seen Ron's new flat, have you?"

"No," Hermione replied as she fell in beside Harry, allowing him to lead the way.
"Ginny's told me all about it in her letters, of course. I checked the map at the
Ministry, and I saw that this was the closest safe house." She carefully avoided adding the
words, "Where I knew you would be," but the brief twinkle that flashed in her mahogany
eyes did not go unnoticed by Harry.

"It's a nice place," Harry said. "About the same size as my flat, actually --
which isn't all that big, come to that. But it's a lot roomier than the loft he'd been
renting from Fred and George in Diagon Alley. And with Luna sharing expenses, he's actually
saving money in the exchange."

"Just the one bedroom?" Hermione said as casually as she could. Harry suppressed a
grin.

"The new publication's doing well," he said, diverting the topic away from Ron's
and Luna's co-habitation, of which he knew Hermione to be less than approving.
"Frequency's just been increased from fortnightly to weekly."

Harry drew a thrice-folded tabloid-sized newspaper from his pocket and handed it to Hermione. She
stretched it between her hands until the banner at the top could be read in full:
*QuidditchQuest*. The decorative lettering was of the same design employed by The Quibbler,
immediately identifying this as a sister publication. The page was filled with headlines declaring
the victory or loss of one British Quidditch team or another, and the by-line above each article
was the same: Ron Weasley.

"Given some of the essays I corrected for him at school," Hermione chuckled, "I
never imagined that Ron would someday be making a living by the written word."

"When it comes to Quidditch," Harry said, "enthusiasm covers a multitude of sins.
And giving credit where it's due, Luna edited those first pieces Ron wrote for the sports
insert of The Quibbler. But to *his* credit, Ron paid attention and got better every time.
When Luna's dad decided to spin the insert off as a separate publication, Ron was ready to
assume full responsibility. As you can see," Harry tapped a finger just under the banner to
indicate a line of bold type, "Luna's the editor -- but that's mainly because Ron
would rather travel around the world watching Quidditch matches than sit in an office editing copy.
He still can't believe he's actually getting *paid* to do something he'd gladly do
for free."

"I'm very happy for him," Hermione said as she re-folded the paper and handed it back
to Harry. "He's out of the shadow of his family, doing something he's obviously good
at."

"Does it bother you that he and Luna are living together?" Harry asked in as casual a
manner as he could manage.

"It's really none of my concern, is it?" she answered with apparent
indifference.

Harry studied Hermione's face out of the corner of his eye. He'd become good at reading
people's hidden thoughts; it was a valuable attribute for one whose job it was to sort out Dark
wizards. Eliminating a threat to the peace of the magical world before it actually *became* a
threat was a tricky business. Whenever the Aurors suspected that someone might be tilting toward
the Dark Side, that one was placed under covert surveillance so as to head off the threat before it
came to full flower. Many an embryonic threat to wizardkind had thus been snuffed out with loss of
neither life nor property. The key lay in an Auror's ability to see little things to which
untrained eyes remained blind.

Looking at Hermione now, Harry was glad that she was not typical of the witches and wizards he had
to contend with in the course of his job. Her face betrayed no slightest hint of what might be
lying just beneath the surface. He did not wonder that Madam Bones had accepted her so readily into
the MLE division. None who did not know her as he did would ever suspect that she was one of the
most formidible witches in all of Britain. She looked more like a librarian than a law enforcement
witch. And that camouflage was more valuable than anything Harry had learned in his three years of
Auror training.

When Harry stopped before the door to Ron's and Luna's flat, he drew his wand as if to
unlock the door, but stopped himself abruptly.

"Old habits," he smiled at Hermione. "I used to just let myself in when Ron lived
over the joke shop. But I have to keep reminding myself that Ron isn't living alone now.
Wouldn't want to walk in on something...private, would we?"

With a nod of understanding (if not aproval), Hermione rapped on the door while Harry was tucking
his wand away. Harry's alert eyes saw the curtain at the nearby window flutter, as if someone
had drawn it back an inch or so before releasing it a moment later. The door flew open, and Ron
leaped forward and smothered Hermione in an embrace that nearly knocked her off her feet (and which
came so suddenly that Harry made an instinctive grab for his wand before common sense prevailed and
he relaxed again).

"Bloody hell, luv!" Ron exclaimed as he fairly squeezed the breath from Hermione's
lungs. He placed a long, fierce kiss on her cheek (coming far too close to her mouth for
Harry's liking) before holding her at arm's length and grinning broadly. "You look
positively smashing! France must agree with you, is all I can say. Come on in -- both of you,"
he said, adding the last words almost as an afterthought as he glanced at Harry over the top of
Hermione's head.

Closing the door behind his guests, Ron took Hermione's coat and hung it on a rack standing in
the corner. Harry held out his own coat, but Ron was already leading Hermione into the small
chamber that doubled as parlor and dining room, leaving Harry to hang up his coat and follow them
with an inarticulate grunt. He found the room exactly as he remembered it, the only difference
being the couple who sat side-by-side on the couch. The pair did not remain seated for long. Ginny
Weasley leaped up immediately and pulled Hermione into a hug surpassing Ron's (no mean feat,
Harry judged). Neville beamed at Hermione before going Weasley-scarlet when she hugged him
precisely as she had Ginny.

"I'm so happy for you," Hermione gushed as Neville disengaged himself as best he
could and sought out the comfort of his new fiancee's side. "Have you set a date
yet?"

"May, we think," Ginny said as she chuckled over the blush coloring her future
husband's face. "There are so many people we want to invite, and we need to coordinate
everyone's schedules before fixing a date."

"Whenever it turns out to be," Hermione smiled, "I'm sure Madam Bones will give
me the day off for something as important as my 'little sister's' wedding."

"And Kingsley has already filled out the papers exempting me from duty," Harry assured
Ginny. "All I have to do is fill in the date, and he'll sign it. So unless Voldemort rises
from the dead between now and then, you can count me in."

To his credit, Neville flinched only a little at mention of Voldemort's name. Ron, to his even
greater credit, flinched not at all (though, like most wizarding folk, he still could not bring
himself to *say* the name).

"Good evening," came a dreamy voice from the doorway leading to the kitchen. All heads
turned toward their hostess as Luna Lovegood entered, her wand balancing a tray on which sat a
bottle of wine and six crystal goblets. Like everyone else, she was attired in Muggle evening wear.
Since his hosts, like Harry himself, lived in a Muggle neighborhood, it was best that they act the
part at all times to avoid drawing undue attention from genuine Muggles. Luna looked almost
fairy-like in pale blue, a marked contrast to Hermione and Ginny, both of whom favored dark colors.
"Dinner is in ten minutes," she said as she directed the tray to float with
feather-lightness onto the oval coffee table sitting between the couch and a pair of easy chairs.
"Just enough time for an aperitif."

At a wave of her wand, the bottle rose and filled each tiny goblet with a rich amber liquid.
Apricot wine, Harry judged, which he and Ron both knew to be Ginny's favorite for special
occasions (otherwise, she and Neville both shunned alcohol as a general rule). As the bottle
settled onto its base, Luna waved her wand again. The glasses rose and spread out in an expanding
circle until each was within reach of its intended recipient's hand.

"A toast!" Ron announced, lifting his glass high. As everyone imitated his gesture, Ron
smiled at Ginny and Neville and said, "To the best sister a bloke ever had -- and to the only
wizard good enough for her!" Harry was sure that Ron's eyes flashed in his direction for a
split second, presumably acknowledging their earlier conversation on the subject of Dean Thomas,
before returning to the engaged couple. "May they live happily ever after in wedded
bliss!" Ron gestured with his goblet to indicate that the toast was completed, and everyone
sipped the sweet nectar with glad faces.

As everyone leaned forward to set their empty glasses on the tray, Hermione said very softly to
Ron, "It's good to know that you think so highly of marriage, Ron."

Not missing a beat, Ron allowed his eyes to flicker toward Harry before replying, "I might say
the same thing, luv."

Hermione's smile dimmed only slightly. Before she could think of a reply, Luna spoke
again.

"If everyone will be seated, dinner will be served as soon as Ronald prepares the
table."

As Luna disappeared into the kitchen, Ron drew his wand and motioned for everyone to stand back.
The small dining table at which Ron and Luna sat for meals was folded and leaning against the wall.
Ron flicked his wand, and the table rose, drifting toward the center of the room. From first piece
to last, the furniture filling the modest parlor sprang to life and backed away like timid
housepets, clearing a space for the dining table, which unfolded itself like the petals of a flower
as it settled to the floor. It was evident that this table, which typically served only Ron and
Luna on a daily basis, was not nearly large enough to accomodate six diners. But in the wizarding
world, appearances were more often than not deceiving.

"*Engorgio*!" Ron commanded.

Within seconds, the small table had grown to four times its normal size. Ron looked back to where
the table had sat against the wall. Two smaller shapes were now visible, heretofore hidden behind
the table. At first glance they looked to be chairs, but closer examination revealed that they were
not substantial, appearing instead to be no more than drawings of chairs etched upon the wall. With
a cocksure smile directed at Hermione, Ron flicked his wand, and the two chairs leaped from the
wall and burst into three dimensions. Still smiling, Ron made a slashing motion with his wand,
wielding it as one might a carving knife. As if to verify the allusion, the chair split neatly in
two as if cloven by an invisible blade. Each half then burst outward until two complete chairs sat
on the hardwood floor. Ron repeated the procedure until six fully-formed chairs sat at the ready.
With a final flick of his wand, Ron sent the chairs sliding around the table in a perfect
ring.

Harry had seen this many times, notably on nights when Ron played host to the ritual poker game he
and his mates engaged in weekly (schedules permitting). But Hermione seemed quite pleased with
Ron's display, and he bowed as Harry sniffed in silent amusement.

Ron then directed his wand at a cupboard, from which place settings and cutlery leaped forth and
settled in perfect formation around the table. He then tucked his wand away smoothly, looking as
pleased as a cat with canary feathers dappling its whiskers.

As the guests seated themselves (Harry was barely able to beat Ron to the back of Hermione's
chair to seat her), a succulent aroma presaged the arrival of a platter that floated before
Luna's extended wand. None seemed more delighted by the platter's contents than Ron.

"Roast lamb!" he exclaimed, his ravenous expression reminding Harry of Sirius when the
fugitive (and nigh starving) Marauder received the food smuggled to him by Harry from the kitchens
of Hogwarts. The memory bit deep, and Harry shrugged it off with the stoicism of his Auror's
training.

Smiling with satisfaction, Luna said, "I know you thought we were having roast beef, Ronald. I
thought I'd surprise you. Molly was a big help."

This was welcome news to Harry. Luna was a good cook as far as it went (though, compared to Ron,
Harry was himself the next thing to a chef), but Molly Weasley had no equal in Harry's eyes
this side of the English Channel. Careful not to commit a faux pas in front of Hermione, Harry
slowly unfolded his napkin and spread in across his lap. Ron picked up a knife only slightly
smaller than the sword of Godric Gryffindor with which Harry had slain the basilisk in the Chamber
of Secrets and touched its gleaming edge to the moist skin of the lamb roast --

"Bloody hell," Harry hissed. "Not *now*."

He reached into his pocket and drew out what appeared to be an ordinary gold Galleon. But the
markings on it were not the usual numbers denoting the year of its minting by the Gringotts
goblins. Instead, letters were moving across it, spelling out a message. Looking up now, Harry saw
that Hermione was staring into her own palm in like manner as he.

"Would you hand me your plate, luv?" Ron said obliviously as his eyes floated away from
the lamb roast and sought out Hermione. But the lilt in his voice died as he saw the apologetic
look in her large brown eyes as they rose to meet his.

"I'm sorry, Ron...Luna," she said.

"What?" Ron said, perplexed. He looked at Harry, who held up his gold coin. Recognition
flooded his blue eyes.

"What is it?" Neville piped.

"Call from the Ministry," Harry said. "Everyone's on 24-hour standby
since..." His voice trailed off. Shifting his gaze, Harry said, "Sorry, Luna." With
the tantalizing aroma of Molly Weasley's glazed lamb filling his senses, Harry's lament had
never been more genuine.

As Harry rose, he saw Hermione hugging Ginny as she said her goodbyes, punctuating her words with
additional congratulations. Harry added his own apologetic congratulations as he kissed Ginny
(carefully placing his lips far from her own as Hermione looked on, somewhat bemused) and walked
toward the door. Throwing on his coat, he held Hermione's out and slipped it over her
arms.

"I'll save you some, Harry," Ron said, nodding toward the platter.

"If there's any left when you're done with it, you mean," Harry smiled. Ron
laughed, clapping Harry on the back as he escorted them to the door. Following a final apology to
Luna, Harry and Hermione stepped out into the night, their shadows stretching before them from the
light pouring through the open door. Then the door closed behind them, plunging them into
darkness.

Standing now on Ron's front step, Harry said to Hermione, "Should we risk it?"

"The safe house is ten minutes' walk," Hermione said decisively. "That was a
Class One alert. We have no choice."

Harry nodded. A moment later, after a hasty glance in all directions, both of them Disapparated
with a soft popping sound.

Harry grimaced when he saw Geoffrey waiting for them at the mouth of a dark alleyway.

"Sorry, Potter," Geoffrey said smoothly. "Couldn't wait, you know."

Harry hadn't seen anyone less sorry about something since the days when he'd had to look
into the dispassionate eyes of Draco Malfoy on a daily basis. Ignoring Geoffrey, Harry knelt down
to examine the motionless form lying at the MLE wizard's feet. He examined her with a practiced
eye before turning her onto her back. He nodded once before rising.

"She's alive. Best leave her for the Muggle constables. We have more important matters to
attend."

Harry drew his wand and swept it slowly around in a complete circle.

"No human presence," he said. "I'm going to have a look around." To
Hermione he added, "If the Muggle police start asking questions..." Hermione drew her
wand and nodded.

Keeping to the shadows, Harry swept around in an ever-widening circle, his eyes and ears alert. An
unnatural silence hung over the streets. That might be nothing more than his imagination, he
realized. Turning a corner, he stopped dead. A dark figure stood under a street lamp on the next
corner down. It was virtually motionless, and Harry might have thought it a post box had not the
wind stirred the edge of a black cloak fluttering just above the sidewalk. Harry took a step
forward -- and in that instant, the corner was suddenly empty. Harry blinked. Had he imagined it?
The swirling fog *did* tend to play tricks on the eye.

But there was something else, something Harry realized only now with a sudden chill. Though the
figure had been standing under a street light, he could swear that it had cast no shadow!

Shrugging, Harry returned to the alleyway, where Geoffrey still stood, speaking in hushed tones to
Hermione. She looked around at Harry's approach, her eyes questioning in a manner apparent even
in the shadows.

"Thought I saw someone," he said. "We'll need to do a full sweep of the area
before the Muggles arrive. Though I'm not sure what that will accomplish."

"In this case," said a familiar voice, "the less we find, the more we'll know,
if you get my meaning."

Harry saw Tonks approaching from the shadows huddling between the street lamps. Not bothering with
a greeting, he asked, "Did the chemists learn anything from the other victims?"

"Yes," Tonks replied grimly. "The saliva on the wounds is definitely *not* of
Muggle origin. This isn't the work of a poser. There's a vampire loose in
London."


***


**A Note From Fae Princess:** A great big thank you from both Stoneheart and I for the lovely
reviews and thoughtful comments. It is always deeply appreciated and welcome. And now some light
has been shed on exactly what I wanted for my birthday. Yes, I have a vampire fetish. There's
another part to the story I requested which hasn't been revealed yet, which is also something
you'll find out soon enough.

Anyway, I'm not going to keep blabbering. See you next week! And thanks again!

~Fae



4. Moon-Shadow
--------------

**Note From Fae Princess:** Thank you all kindly to the regular reviewers, and to the new
ones: welcome! **beckons you into my humble abode** Make yourselves comfortable and help yourselves
to some pumpkin juice and chocolate frogs. But don't touch the dead rats. Those are for
Buckbeak. **begins to sob** Sirius asked me to take care of Buckbeak before he ... before he
...**is too distraught to finish the sentence so you might as well go ahead and read the
chapter**


***


As Harry and Hermione walked back to the safe house, Harry cast a glance over his shoulder at Tonks
and Geoffrey. Seeing this, Hermione said, "It was nice of Tonks and Geoffrey to offer to fill
out the paperwork for us, wasn't it?"

Harry grunted, his eyes still looking back.

"I get the impression that you don't like Geoffrey," Hermione said with a touch of
whimsy that was not lost on Harry.

"Why does he keep calling you Janie?" Harry asked. "I always thought you didn't
like nicknames."

"Well, he's my superior, so there's not much I can say, is there?"

Harry felt that there were more than a few holes in this reasoning, but he was not in the mood to
debate.

They rounded a corner, cutting off Harry's view of Tonks and Geoffrey. Turning back to
Hermione, Harry said, "Shall I escort you back to Ron's? You probably have a lot of
catching up do do with Ginny."

"You're not staying?"

Harry thought he heard genuine disappointment in Hermione's voice. Or was that simply what he
*wanted* to hear?

"After this, I really don't feel up to an evening of Ron's prattle," Harry
shrugged.

"Come to that," Hermione said with a touch of weariness, "neither do I. Anyway,
I'll have plenty of time to catch up with Ginny after tomorrow."

"Tomorrow?"

"Ginny told me there's a vacancy opening up at the Burrow," Hermione said, "so
I'll be moving out of my room over the Leaky Cauldron."

Harry nodded. It was not a great surprise. When Molly Weasley announced that she was turning the
Burrow into a boarding house following Ginny's graduation, Harry had been engaged to remove the
ghoul inhabiting the attic as part of his Auror training. Ginny had moved in with Luna, the pair
sharing a loft next to Ron's above Weasleys' Wizarding Wheezes in Diagon Alley. It was that
close association, Harry believed, that had led to the present state of affairs (an appropriate
term, Harry reflected wryly) between Ron and Luna. After a time, Luna was spending so many nights
in Ron's loft that it was as if Ginny had no roommate at all.

Not that she had room to complain. Luna continued to pay her half of the rent, and Ginny was free
to invite Neville over for fish and chips without worrying that they might be interrupted at an
awkward moment (though, given Neville's timidness, that was seldom more awkward than an
occasional snog session on the couch). By the time Ron and Luna made the decision to move into a
proper flat together, Ginny's wages had increased to where she could afford the full rent on
her loft.

"Do you want to give me a hand moving?" Hermione asked, her question shaking the cobwebs
from Harry's head. "Not that I have all that much, mind."

Harry's heart fluttered. "Yeah," he said quickly. "I'm still off duty, at
least officially. Unless something else comes in on this case," he jerked his head back
indicatively. "In which case, you'll probably be called in, too."

"I hope it doesn't come to that," Hermione said with a small shudder. "Geoffrey
told me the attacks have all come a few days apart."

Harry found that he did not like hearing Geoffrey's name spoken by Hermione. Perhaps spurred by
this, he said almost without thinking, "Do you want to...have a drink at my place? We
haven't had a proper chat since you got back."

Hermione did not answer immediately, and Harry kicked himself mentally for making such a
transparent proposition (for so it must have seemed to Hermione). But a moment later she smiled and
said, "I'd love to."

This response left Harry so tongue-tied that he could think of nothing to say until they reached
the safe house and slipped inside (Harry watching carefully to see that they were not
observed).

"You remember where it is?" he said as casually as he could. It was a silly question, and
he knew it the moment he asked it. Hermione's memory was hardly so porous as to forget
something like that, even in the span of three years. He had no doubt that she could reach out with
her mind, "touch" the parlor of Harry's flat (once he mentally opened a hole in the
anti-Apparaton wards protecting the premises from unauthorized magical entry), and Apparate there
quite as if she had visited it only yesterday. That made her answer all the more surprising.

"Yes," she said, "but just in case..."

Hermione extended her hand. Harry took it hesitantly. The feel of Hermione's hand in his after
more than three years was more powerful than any intoxicant awaiting them in Harry's cupboard.
It required all his concentration to clear his mind and call up the image of the parlor of his
flat. He and Hermione Disapparated a moment later with a soft popping sound.

It was several seconds before Harry had the presence of mind to release Hermione's hand upon
their arrival. Coughing nervously, he said, "Make yourself at home. I won't be a
minute."

Harry returned from the kitchen with a bottle of white wine and two crystal goblets. He found
Hermione sitting on the small couch. Harry tried not to smile. She could just as easily have sat
down in his easy chair, isolating herself from Harry as effectively as if they were still separated
by the English Channel. Harry sat down beside her as close as he dared. Setting the bottle on the
table, he opened it with a wave of his hand, disdaining his wand. Hermione smiled at this, making
Harry's heart flutter like that of a schoolboy who had just done a handstand at recess to
impress the class heartthrob. His rigorous Auror training had included diligent practice at
wandless magic, and his marks in this respect had been higher than average. An Auror never knew
when he would be compelled to action in a situation where the split second needed to draw a wand
would spell the difference between death and life. Still basking Ron-like in the glow of his
accomplishment, he filled the goblets halfway and handed one to Hermione. She was in the process of
raising it to her lips when Harry stopped her.

"A toast," he said awkwardly. "To your return home."

Hermione smiled and lifted her goblet before Harry's. Harry hesitated a moment before finding
his voice.

"You left a big, empty place behind when you left," he said uncertainly, feeling
decidedly out of his element. "But I know you made France and Beauxbatons a better place for
your presence. Now, it's they who are feeling the emptiness *we* felt three years ago.
Welcome back, Hermione."

Their goblets rang together gently. Hermione sipped the pale, dry wine and teased her lips with her
tongue in a manner that made Harry's blood pressure rise twenty points.

"Excellent," she said approvingly. "I don't think I tasted better in all my time
in France."

"I did some reading up on France after you left," Harry said. "I thought if I knew
something about where you'd be living, it would be...kind of like..."

Harry wanted to say, "It would be like you and I were together," but that seemed a bit
forward at such an early stage in what he hoped would prove to be the rebuilding of their
relationship.

Hermione nodded, understanding shining softly in her large, deep brown eyes.

"So," she said conversationally, "how does the life of an Auror suit you? Is it what
you expected?"

"Bloody boring is what it is," Harry said as he stared into his empty goblet.
"Voldemort's fall seems to have taken the spunk out of the Dark Side. Kingsley told me he
felt the same way when Voldemort disappeared the first time. He was in pretty much the same
situation I am now. He trained to protect wizardkind from this great menace, and the moment
he's a fully qualified Auror, suddenly there's nothing to fight."

"Do you ever think you made a...hasty choice?" Hermione said delicately.

"Becoming an Auror?"

Hermione nodded. "When you elected to prep for a career as an Auror, after we took our
O.W.L.'s, you were readying yourself to protect your loved ones from Voldemort. Now that
he's gone, do you still have the same passion?"

"Kingsley asked me that all through the training interval," Harry said with a hidden
smile.

"And what did you say to him?"

"Nothing," Harry said, his smile less well hidden than a moment before. "I just
worked all the harder so I'd be sure to get the highest grade in the class."

"And you finished with the highest grades the program has given out in half a century,"
Hermione said knowledgably. "Only Alastor Moody has qualified with higher marks in a hundred
years."

Harry grunted. It was true. He had topped his class in everything. But, in the absence of a real
crisis, he was bound by the beaurocracy to remain subordinate to senior Aurors who'd not got
marks half as good as his. During times of full alert, a junior Auror might distinguish himself
against an adversary and win increased status for himself. In such manner had Tonks achieved a
station in the Auror ranks above that which her limited tenure would have allowed, serving as she
had (with uncommon valor) during the three years of Voldemort's "second coming." Now,
in situations where her experience and special talents set her above the common herd, she gave
orders freely to Aurors far her senior in both years and tenure. Moreover, they followed those
orders without question. Like the wizarding world proper, the Auror service was a meritocracy,
valuing ability and success over seniority. But how was Harry to achieve such success without a
crisis in which to prove himself?

Perhaps such an exigency was upon him now. Technically, Tonks was in charge, and Harry would act
primarily at her direction. But initiative was encouraged in extraordinary situations, and he would
likely find ample opportunity to distinguish himself. He knew Tonks was not one to covet personal
glory. She was fair-minded in addition to being a cracking good Auror (not to mention that she was
as much as family, being blood relation to Sirius). This last thought brought another pang to an
abiding wound that was never quite somnolent. Harry quickly slammed that door and turned the key.
Now was not the time to indulge in such dark and fallow musings. Especially now, with Hermione
sitting beside him, looking more radiant and desirable than he could have imagined, if that were
possible.

"What do you know about vampires?" Harry said suddenly. "I learned a bit about them
in the Auror program, but the focus was primarily on Dark wizards rather than on supernatural
menaces in general. Vampires haven't been a problem on this side of the Channel for a long
time, so the Ministry probably de-emphasized them in favor of more common threats. I remember we
studied them at Hogwarts, but even then they weren't placed very high on the list of potential
threats to the wizarding community. I don't think they even came up on the N.E.W.T. final,
which goes to show how little regard the Ministry had for them. But I do remember that they can be
tricky to subdue. Being as they're not quite alive, magic doesn't have the same effect on
them as it would have on a Dark wizard or a rampaging troll. I'm not sure what spells I should
be practicing up on."

"You have the edge on me there," Hermione said frankly. "I remember what we learned
at school, but as you said, that was mostly general knowledge. I didn't take Advanced Defense
Against the Dark Arts when you did, remember. I was studying Adanced Charms with Professor
Flitwick. But I made a mental note to read up on them once Madam Bones voiced her suspicions. Now
that Tonks has verified those fears, I'll have to bring myself up to speed. I remember Percy
telling me that the Ministry has an excellent reference library on the Dark arts, even more
extensive than the Restricted Section at Hogwarts. I'll tuck into it first thing tomorrow.
I'm sure if we put our heads together, we can come up with something viable. I know I have a
lot of catching up to do. But I know I can count on you to help me along."

"Uh," Harry said, "sure. Of Course. You know I'll do everything I can."
Clearing his throat, which suddenly seemed quite parched in spite of the wine he had just consumed,
he said, "Suppose we...uh...have dinner tomorrow so we can map out a strategy."

If thoughts had sound effects, the small parlor would have resounded to a loud smacking sound as
Harry mentally slapped himself for making such a clumsy advance. Even Ron would have had more
sense. But Hermione flashed a small smile and said, "Splendid. Where shall we
dine?"

Stunned by Hermione's response, Harry untangled his tongue and said, "Well, since no one
else should hear what we're talking about..." Harry swallowed, wishing his throat did not
feel as if it were full of dust from a mummy's tomb, "...I thought I'd fix us
something...here."

Harry thought he saw Hermione's eyes flicker. What was she thinking?

"You might not suspect it," Harry said quickly, "but food magic is part of an
Auror's basic training. There are times when one or more field agents might be cut off from
standard lines of supply, and a long-term mission can be compromised for lack of proper food. I got
lots of help from Molly during that training quarter. I even fixed a couple of meals for the
boarding house when I was prepping for my exam." Smiling weakly, he added, "No one died
of food poisoning."

Hermione chuckled. "You're on. Let's see what kind of stuff the Auror division is made
of. But be warned -- I have full authority to make arrests as an agent of the MLE division -- and
the prescribed sentence for poisoning Ministry employees is ten years in Az -- "

Hermione caught herself. Mention of Azkaban was sure to kindle memories of Sirius for Harry. To her
relief, Harry smiled broadly.

"I'll consult Molly tomorrow when we take your things over. There are certain special
twists she makes with a wand that I never quite got the hang of, though Merlin knows we practiced
enough. A right sergeant-at-arms Molly is, when she's in her element. I'll get a few
pointers from her before I settle on a menu."

"Ripping," Hermione said as she poured herself another small splash of wine, refilling
Harry's goblet likewise. "But please, no French cuisine. It was delightful at first, but
after so long I'm keen for some good old British fare."

Harry didn't know if Hermione was being entirely truthful, or if she suspected that he might
try to impress her with something continental that was a bit out of his purview. Either way, he was
grateful, because, in fact, he might well *have* ended up poisoning both of them had he
attempted something his training had not covered.

When their goblets were emptied for a second time, Hermione said, "I should be going. I have a
lot to do tomorrow."

As they rose from the couch, Hermione turned toward the door, but Harry caught her hand. Once more
the thrill of her touch was like electricity through him. When she turned to face him, he said,
"Now that you're back, I think I should give you a proper vote of confidence. May
I?"

He pointed a finger at the fringe of Hermione's hair. She hesitated for a moment before
nodding, "Of course."

Harry plucked a stray hair from Hermione's ever-bushy mane and held it before him. Drawing his
wand, he made a very complex series of passes over and around the hair. Hermione watched intently
as a smile spread slowly across her face. When Harry was done, she said, "If you performed
that well during Advanced Charms in Auror training, I don't wonder that you got top marks.
I've never seen it done better."

Smiling with satisfaction, Harry said, "Now you won't have to pop into the nearest safe
house and walk all the way here and knock. Don't want you catching cold, standing in the rain
waiting for me to answer the door." In fact, this prospect was not altogether unappealing to
Harry, who had learned to brew a fair Pepper-Up Potion during his training interval. He could think
of less enjoyable ways to spend a day than sitting by Hermione's bedside, feeding her doses of
potion while they watched old movies on the telly until they both fell asleep, their heads sharing
the same pillow and their fingers intertwined. With a chuckle, he added, "But on the subject
of water, I'll trust that you *won't* pop in when I'm in the shower. The sound of
my singing is likely to drive you to catch the first portkey back to Beauxbatons."

Hermione knew that it was no small thing for a wizard to amend a dwelling's anti-Apparation
wards, as they were the only thing preventing unauthorized visitors from popping in -- and in the
case of an Auror, that visitor could well have an agenda that included the death of the
premises' inhabitant. Before Hermione had offered Harry her hand in the safe house, his
intention was to cast a spell over her, "harmonizing" her personal aura with the wards
protecting his flat so that she could pass through. It was a temporary Charm, automatically
rendered impotent following Apparation. She chose instead to share *his* aura through physical
contact. Neither those nor any other stopgap measure would be necessary now. The Charm he had just
performed had infused her biological signature onto the protective barrier surrounding his flat so
that it would recognize her as a friend and allow her to pass through the same magical
"doorway" as Harry himself. She could now come and go as freely as if the flat were hers
(which notion had occured to Harry more than once since her return from France).

"Thank you, Harry," she said warmly. "Now I really feel like I'm
home."

Emboldened by Hermione's words, Harry stepped very close and stared directly into her
bottomless eyes. When he leaned in, she did not back away. The kiss was brief, though not from any
resistance on Hermione's part. Soft as a prayer and resounding as thunder, it signified a
reaching out of two hearts, a tentative exploration of a once-familiar realm rendered alien by time
and distance, and the latter of more than geography. It was a gentle knock on a door too long
closed, whose bolts slid back smoothly now, yielding on silent, unresisting hinges. As the twain
drank softly of each other, the chasm that had separated them for the past three years, which Harry
had secretly feared might never be bridged, seemed to fold in on itself until it was no more
barrier than a moon-shadow cleaving a sun-splashed meadow. Their lips clung together for a moment
embodying a lifetime, and when Harry pulled back, the expression on Hermione's face was one of
quiet contentment, mirroring his own.

"What time shall I be over to help you move?" he asked somewhat breathlessly.

Recovering her wits, Hermione said, "Oh, eleven-ish. I plan to sleep in. And if Molly is
running true to form, she'll have an excellent lunch waiting for us, so skipping breakfast will
leave all the more room for seconds."

Harry smiled, knowing that Molly would be insulted if they did not empty their plates at least
twice. "See you then."

Smiling warmly, Hermione turned her head slightly and closed her eyes. Her face was tranquil, but
Harry knew that she was quietly concentrating as a prelude to Apparation. Now that he had added
Hermione's "signature" to the Charm surrounding his flat, she would be able to come
and go at will. He hoped she would avail herself of that freedom often in the coming days and
weeks. And, his heart leaped, years.

With an almost indetectable popping sound, Hermione Disapparated. Harry stood for a moment. At some
point he realized that the fingers of his left hand were not relaxed as were those of his right. He
raised his hand and smiled. He was still holding the hair he had plucked from Hermione's head.
He stared at it for a moment, his brow furrowing across the thin line of his lightning scar. An
Auror knew that a stray hair was not something to be treated lightly. If an enemy got hold of even
a single hair, it could be used in harmful, even deadly, ways against its owner. Common sense and
Auror training told Harry that he should incinerate the wavy brown hair in his hand and allow the
breeze to blow the ashes harmlessly away.

Still holding the hair, Harry walked into his bedroom and approached his dresser. He opened the top
drawer awkwardly with his right hand and extracted a leather-bound book with gold clasps. Smiling,
he closed the drawer, set the book atop the dresser and opened it. Inside were wizard photographs
spanning Harry's life at Hogwarts. This was a companion to the book given him at the end of his
first year by Hagrid. That one (which lay in another corner of the same drawer) contained photos of
Harry's parents. The one open before him now bore photos of Harry and his friends all through
their Hogwarts days. Most of these were courtesy of Colin Creevey. Harry chuckled at how annoyed he
had been in those early years at the incessant click-click-click of Colin's camera. Now, seeing
so many fond memories spread out before him on the pages of this album (likewise given him by
Hagrid as a graduation present), Harry was grateful to the little ankle-biter beyond his capacity
to express.

Turning the pages slowly, Harry came to a photo of Hermione taken on graduation day. She was
proudly holding the engraved plaque declaring her as the top student in the whole of their year.
The photo was not unique. They and their classmates had all exchanged such photos, signing each one
to its recipient with varying expressions of sentiment and remembrance. But as Harry looked at
Hermione's smiling face (she waved at him, her eyes crinkling with excited delight as she
brandished her plaque), his heart soared. Across the bottom of the photo she had written, in her
elegant hand: "To Harry, all my love forever, Hermione." He now lay the newly-plucked
hair across the inscription (the Hermione in the photo jerked her plaque aside, watching to see
that he did not cover her face) and affixed it with a Sticking Charm.

Sighing deeply, Harry closed the album. He did not return it to its drawer. Instead, he lay down on
his bed and closed his eyes, the album held against his chest with both hands. Moments later, he
was asleep, his face wearing such a smile as it had not known in more than three years.


***


**Note From Fae:** Alright, I'm better now. **dabs eyes with handkerchief readily supplied
by Remus** Anyway, let Stoneheart know what you thought. (And me, since I think I keep closer tabs
on the reviews than *he* does!) And to who is possibly Stoneheart's most gracious reviewer:
**danielerin**, I (along with a certain author) were wondering where the nature of your name
comes from. Is Daniel the name of your husband? And your name is Erin? There is absolutely NO
relevence to this question! I just had to ask. :)

Thanks for reading! And see you all next week!

~Fae



5. Back to the Burrow
---------------------

"It's good to know that *some* things never change," Hermione said as she
pushed back from the table with a contented sigh. "You're still the best cook in two
worlds, wizard *and* Muggle."

"Thank you, dear," Molly Weasley said, a very pleased smile spreading across her round
face.

"I second that," Harry sighed, grateful (as he always was after one of Molly's
splendid meals) that wizard's robes had no waistband that required letting out.

"And since Neville isn't here to speak for himself," Ginny put in as she caught up
the last two pieces of fried chicken left on the platter, "I'll add his 'amen' to
that." Ginny wrapped the chicken in a large linen napkin and placed the whole in a wicker
basket sitting next to her on the bench. "He's been so busy at the greenhouse these last
few weeks, I think he'd starve to death if I didn't take proper care of him."

"Speaking of greenhouses," Hermione said, "this is a splendid Greenhouse Charm. Did
you perform this for your N.E.W.T.'s?"

"Yes," Ginny said. "Actually, I learned it working with Neville. He uses it to
protect plants caught outside in late-season frosts. It's just as easy to cast it over a picnic
table as a garden."

The barrier surrounding the table in the Weasleys' back garden was invisible and, for all
intents and purposes, intangible. It was, in effect, a shield composed of solidified air. As such,
it was porous enough to allow outside air to pass through (and, in the case of plants, for carbon
dioxide to pass out in turn). But it formed a buffer against rain, snow, and even gusting wind. And
the temperature at the table was at least 30 degrees higher than that outside the barrier, making
the midday lunch a very cozy and comfortable affair for all concerned.

"Oops," Ginny said suddenly. As she drew her hand back from the basket, the clasp caught
at a bracelet dangling from her left wrist, just behind her watch. She freed herself carefully
before drawing her wand and waving it over her wrist to tighten a link loosened in the process of
disentanglement. "Thank Merlin I spotted that," she said with a relieved smile.
"That loose link might have snapped at any time. If I lose this, it will break Neville's
heart."

"What is it?" Hermione said curiously, leaning forward now.

"I wrote you about it," Ginny said. Holding up her arm so that the bracelet caught the
pale sunlight dully, she smiled down on it as though it were composed of diamonds. "It was our
first Christmas together after Neville began working at the apothecary. He wasn't making much
money then, and he wanted desperately to get me something special. But all he had to his name was a
handful of Knuts." She shook the bracelet musically, and Hermione smiled warmly.

"I remember now. Every night before Madam Hockingburr took the day's receipts to
Gringotts, Neville searched the coins, looking for specific minting dates. Whenever he found one he
was looking for, he traded it for one of his own Knuts."

"This one," Ginny said, touching one of the bronze coins, "was minted the year I was
born. That one," she pointed again, "was minted the year *Neville* was born.
There's also one for the year we met, on the Hogwarts Express. And another for the year we went
to the Yule Ball together. And another for the year -- "

Ginny was about to indicate a Knut minted the year she and her friends had gone to the Ministry on
their ill-fated mission to rescue Sirius. It was then, according to Neville, that he had felt the
first pang of what would eventually grow into a deep and abiding love for Ginny. It was, she
reflected, the only good thing to come from an otherwise tragic experience.

"It's been my good luck charm ever since," Ginny concluded. "It's only a
handful of Knuts, but I wouldn't exchange it for a vaultful of Galleons. As long as I wear it,
I feel like Neville is with me wherever I go. It's like we're never apart."

"I never did get to congratulate you two properly at Ron's," Harry said
apologetically.

"Don't give it a thought, Harry," Ginny said with a toss of her head that sent her
long, fiery hair dancing about her shoulders. "Between Dad and Percy, we know what it's
like when the Ministry is your taskmaster."

Smiling gratefully, Harry turned to Hermione and said, "All settled in, then? Nothing coming
by post from Beauxbatons?"

"No," Hermione said. Her eyes drifted up along the twisted outline of the Burrow until
they came to rest on the topmost window. This did not escape Harry's trained Auror's
eyes.

"Just my luck the only vacancy was at the very top," he smiled. "I'd forgotten
how many stairs this house has. Granted, I used a Levitating Charm on your trunk, but my feet still
remember every step between here and the loft. Pity about the anti-Apparation spell, but I suppose
it wouldn't do to have people popping into rooms not their own. Still, all those bloody
stairs..."

"Didn't you know?" Ginny said as she put a covered platter of mashed potatoes atop
the chicken in Neville's lunch basket. "Hermione *asked* for the highest room we had
when she wrote that she was coming back. In fact, we had to pull a switch to give her that room.
The vacancy that opened up yesterday was on the third floor. We did a switch with the boarder in
the loft."

"You didn't tell me that!" Hermione said disapprovingly. "You put someone to all
the trouble of relocating -- "

"Trouble?" Molly chirped. "Quite the contrary. Old Mr. Nobbingford hated the loft.
He has terrible back pains, not to mention a knee that hasn't worked right since
1952."

"That's right," Harry put in. "He played Quidditch for the Cannons until he took
a spill in the championship game and had to retire. Ron interviewed him for his paper, and he
recommended the Burrow when the old bloke mentioned he was looking for a room. I never knew what
room he had. Not surprising it was the only vacancy, really. I know *I'd* be put out if I
was so far away from Molly's kitchen."

"And he *hated* climbing all those stairs," Molly concluded, smiling at Harry's
compliment. "But there was nothing else for it, as it was the only vacancy we had at the time
-- and the poor dear couldn't move elsewhere -- his pension was barely enough to keep body and
soul together, even with the special rate I gave him."

Looking up contemplatively, Harry said, "Don't the rooms all have Isomorphic Charms
allowing its occupants to come and go?"

"Of course," Molly said. "Tenants are all 'harmonized' with their own rooms
for purposes of Apparation. But that only applies to passage to and from the house, not within the
house itself. In any case, he told me when he arrived that he hasn't been able to Apparate
properly for ages. Took a Bludger to the head some years ago, poor lamb."

"So when we told him that he'd be able to move down three floors," Ginny giggled,
"he was so happy that he gave Mum the biggest kiss she's had since Dad trapped her under
the mistletoe at the Ministry Christmas party."

Molly immediately blushed as red as the raspberry currant she was spooning over the dessert tarts
waiting to be served.

"How did this house come about, anyway?" Harry pondered aloud. It was a question he'd
asked many times to no one in particular, but never to either Molly or Arthur.

"Well," Molly said thoughtfully as she passed around the tarts, "back when it was
only Arthur and me, there was just the one level. Arthur was just starting out, and we didn't
need much room. But things changed when Bill came along."

"When was that?" Harry asked.

"1969," Molly said without hesitation, a soft glow growing in her eyes. "Such a
beautiful child he was -- but oh, could he cry! Thank goodness there were no neighbors then. The
Lovegoods hadn't moved in as yet, and the limits of Ottery St. Catchpole weren't so near
then. But the din was enough to wake the dead! So Arthur put up the second story for a nursery,
complete with a Soundproofing Charm so that one of us could sleep while the other took care of the
feeding and...whatever." She smiled as everyone laughed through mouthfuls of tart. "That
worked for a while -- until Charlie popped in two years later."

"And you added a third floor then?" Harry prompted.

"Not straightaway," Molly said. "Charlie slept with Arthur and me for the first two
years. He was nothing like Bill. Slept the night away as nice as you please. But when we tried to
move the boys into the upstairs room together, Bill wouldn't have it. Four years old, mind, and
nothing we said or did had any effect. Merlin, how that boy screamed when he didn't get his own
way. But there was nothing for it, so Arthur put up the third story the next weekend."

Molly peered uncertainly at the house now, her eyes seeming ever more critical of her husband's
skills as a house builder. At last she shrugged and resumed her narrative.

"There was a lull of sorts until Percy came along, in 1976. A lot like Bill, he was, yet
unlike. I mean, they were both strong-willed, but where Bill screamed to get what he wanted, Percy
pouted."

Harry and Hermione exchanged a smile at this news, which, given their own experiences with Percy,
was scarcely news at all.

"Anyway," Molly sighed, "Arthur was moving up at the Ministry, and we knew that
we'd eventually be called up to entertain guests here, if only in response to the affairs we
would be invited to attend at their homes. So up went the fourth floor. Arthur and I slept on the
second level, Charlie and Percy shared the third, and Bill took the top room.

"Then, of course, just when it seemed that everything was going smoothly, the twins came
along. 1978," she added, anticipating Harry's question. "Now, looking at Fred and
George, you'd think them virtual copies of Charlie. But looks are deceiving, as we found out in
short order. Let me tell you, Bill had nothing on them when it came to assertiveness. Thank
goodness Bill went off to Hogwarts two years later or I don't know what we'd have
done.

"As it was, Ron was born the year Bill went off, so we were right back where we started. So
Arthur added the fifth floor, this time with an attic for good measure, as if to say,
'That's it, no more.'"

"And then *I* was born," Ginny giggled.

"Yes," Molly said with the warmest smile Harry had ever seen her wear. "Finally
Arthur got it right!" Her audience laughed as one, and Molly resumed: "Well, things went
swimmingly for the first year. But no sooner did Charlie go off to Hogwarts than we came back from
a trip to Diagon Alley to find that wretched ghoul in the loft! Oh, we tried to get rid of him,
goodness knows. But there must have been some extremely powerful Dark magic clinging to him from
when he was still alive, because even the occasional Auror Arthur coaxed the Ministry into lending
us from time to time would go away defeated." Turning to Harry, Molly said earnestly, "I
still can't thank you enough for ridding us of him at last, Harry."

Harry smiled. It had not only been his pleasure to help the Weasleys, after all they had done for
him over the years, but he'd earned extra credits on his final examination when qualifying for
his Auror classification.

"It's not surprising those other blokes went away frustrated," Harry said. "Some
of the spells I used were ones Hermione modified when we fought Voldemort. Almost like she evicted
the bugger herself just so she could have his room later on."

Molly's choking laugh was cut off as her throat siezed for a moment at mention of
Voldemort's name (as had been the case in Ron's flat the night before, Ginny reacted not at
all, while Hermione only smiled).

"Yes...well..." Molly said as her heart rate slowed to normal, "thanks to you, the
boarding house is doing a thriving business. Can you imagine how many people would want to live
here with that horrid creature keeping them awake all night?"

Sensing an opening into which she could plunge, Hermione said now, "To answer your question,
Harry, I wanted the highest room available because I've grown accustomed to meditating over
views from Gryffindor Tower, and lately the towers of Beauxbatons. I can't see myself occupying
a ground floor flat anytime soon."

Thinking of his own ground-level flat, Harry sighed inwardly. He'd not been able to rid his
mind of the image of himself and Hermione sharing his flat at some future date, and the closer that
date, the better. But it was not the most realistic dream he'd had in the last three-plus
years. Too much had passed between himself and Hermione for her to come rushing back into his life
(not to say his bed -- not that she'd ever been there in the first place) the moment she set
foot back on British soil.

Perceptive witch that she was, Hermione saw the introspective glaze cloud Harry's eyes, and
rather than intrude on whatever private thoughts he might be entertaining, she turned to Ginny, who
was just finishing up with her fiancée's lunch basket.

"Things are going well with Neville?" she asked.

"I've never seen him so happy," Ginny said, her soft brown eyes glowing with a
lovelight that rang a silent chord in Hermione's bosom. "It was quite a chore to convince
Madam Hockingburr that adding a greenhouse to her apothecary would pay for itself inside of a year.
But now that she doesn't have to import certain herbs and plants that Neville can grow in the
back lot, profits are soaring."

"That wouldn't have worked with the apothecary in Diagon Alley," Harry said to no one
in particular. "There's no room to expand, since they're surrounded by London on all
sides. But Hogsmeade has plenty of open ground. Of course, the village council took a bit of
convincing. It was a close thing for a while."

Harry's voice trailed off, and an uneasy silence settled over the picnic table. Everyone knew
that the council had relented only upon the testimony of one whose business the apothecary valued
above all others (as, indeed, the merchants as a whole valued the livelihood they derived from the
institution in whose employ he was). It was the Potions Master of Hogwarts, Severus Snape, whose
support had swayed the council in favor of the apothecary, and Neville. It was an act of unexpected
generosity, given Snape's animosity toward Neville all through the latter's school years.
It had, indeed, softened the opinion of many who had viewed the reformed Death Eater with
suspicion, even after his selfless aid in overthrowing the reign of Lord Voldemort, not once, but
twice. But one there was whose heart would never soften toward Snape. It required only the briefest
glance at Harry's face to reaffirm this to Hermione.

In an attempt to relieve the tension, Hermione cast her best smile at Ginny and asked, "Have
any of our old classmates been to visit Hogsmeade lately? I wonder what some of them are doing now
-- I've been shameful in my neglect of them, when I know they're only as far away as
owl-post."

"Let's see," Ginny said thoughtfully, one eye resting covertly on Harry as she gave
every appearance of looking straight at Hermione. "I see Lavender every now and then. Whenever
stories are scarce, she buys a few rounds at the Three Broomsticks in the hopes that someone will
talk out of turn and give her something worth a couple of columns. No illegal dragon eggs as
yet," she added with a smirk. "But as long as the Daily Prophet keeps picking up the tab,
there's always hope."

"Circulation of the Prophet went up 20% when they started running Lavender's gossip
column," Harry told Hermione, who grinned in response.

"And I saw Oliver Wood at Quality Quidditch Supplies last week, signing autographs. Still has
those shoulders a centaur would kill for," she said with an exaggerated sigh.

Ginny and Hermione giggled as the latter tucked into her tart. Harry smiled as he wiped raspberry
currant from his chin. Molly clucked her tongue as if to say that engaged women should be more
circumspect in regard to men not their fiancée.

"Oh," Ginny said almost as an afterthought, "Draco was in yesterday, buying
supplies."

"Ouch," Harry grunted as he stabbed his left thumb with his fork. Another awkward silence
fell as all eyes flickered momentarily in Harry's direction.

"I'd forgotten," Hermione said with a furtive glance at Harry. "You wrote me
that Draco was engaged as Potions Master at Hogwarts in September."

"Yes," Ginny said as she essayed to lick currant from her upper lip in as ladylike a
manner as she could manage. "Snape left in quite a hurry, evidently."

"I understand they passed him over for the Defense Against the Dark Arts position again,"
Hermione said. "I suppose it was just one time too many. But isn't Draco a bit young to be
a Potions Master?"

"He's about the same age Snape was when Dumbledore hired him," Harry said in a voice
cool as a gravestone. He said no more, but slowly raised a forkful of tart to his mouth and
disposed of it unhurriedly, though, Hermione thought, with little or no savor. If Molly noticed
this last, her manner gave no evidence.

When everyone's dessert plate bore nothing but tart crumbs and currant stains, Molly cleared
the table with a wave of her wand.

"I'd best get started on supper," she said as she nodded at Ginny to negate the
Greenhouse Charm. "It's like having a family to cook for again -- except that this lot
*pays* for the privelege."

Harry and Hermione smiled as they pulled their cloaks snug before Ginny dissolved the barrier
surrounding them with a tricky wand motion that had gone far to earning her an "O" on her
Charms N.E.W.T. practical exam. Those skills served her well nowadays at Gringotts, where she
worked at renewing and reinforcing the many protective wards safeguarding the unimagined wealth
stored in the vaults deep under London. She hadn't Bill's skill at breaking Curses cast by
others, but she prided herself that not even Bill could break through one of her magical protective
Charms using every trick he knew. This in itself, in a demonstration exercise authorized by Harry
upon his own vault, had sealed the deal with the Security Goblins at Gringotts, who had offered her
a long-term contract (with bonus) on the spot.

Harry had thought Hermione might take such a position following graduation, instead of going off to
the continent as she had. More than once he wondered how different both of their lives would be had
she remained. Given the tension between them, it might have made matters worse. As it was, their
separation had allowed both of them the latitude to grow in ways that might not have been possible
otherwise. The one thing he *was* sure of was how glad he felt now that she was finally back
where she belonged.

"Lunch is the easiest meal for Mum," Ginny told Harry and Hermione. "Most of the
boarders work, so they're only here for breakfast and supper. That only leaves Mr. Nobbingford,
and Mum always takes his lunch up to him, to save wear and tear on his knee. That way he only has
to come down twice a day, and that's much easier now that Hermione's taken the
loft."

"I'm surprised you never moved in here, Harry," Hermione said.

Harry gave Hermione a quizzical look. Was she saying that she would have liked to have the two of
them living under the same roof?

"There were no vacancies when I graduated from the Auror program," he said. "And
when I began, Ginny was still in school, remember. The conversion to boarding house came a year
later, and by then I was tied up with a lease on my flat."

Harry did not mention that the three-year lease he'd signed shortly after Hermione's
departure was due to expire shortly. He'd supposed he would simply sign a one-year extension
rather than go through the bother of looking for a new place. Now, he began to wish that there was
another vacancy coming up at the Burrow. Deeper inside, he wished that he could move into the
Burrow without benefit of an additional vacancy. He wondered what the view looked like from
Hermione's loft. He decided it wouldn't be too different from the view offered by Ron's
window, which he'd enjoyed on the numerous occasions when he'd guested at the Burrow during
holidays between school terms. Ron's room had been directly under the attic on what was then
the topmost inhabited level.

The open country surrounding Ottery St. Catchpole was beautiful, as he knew well from many a long
walk with Hermione in their early courtship days. He wouldn't mind rediscovering that beauty,
with Hermione's hand in his, as in days of yore.

Of course, the loft would be a bit cramped for two people. However, the more he thought on it, that
began to appear more an advantage than a drawback.

"I suppose you'll want to settle in," Harry said as casually as he could. "That
was quite a meal," he added with a wan smile.

"You're heading off, then?" Hermione asked.

"Actually," Harry said as his eyes roamed over the trees in the distance, "I feel
like a walk. I haven't been here in a while -- and I need to burn off this lunch. Merlin help
the wizarding world if a Dark wizard should attack me *now*."

"You know," Hermione said, "that *was* a big lunch. A nice, leisurely walk
would be better for digestion than a lie-down."

Hardly believing his ears, Harry held out his hand, and Hermione took it. As it had been in the
safe house in London, the feel of her hand in his was headier than the most potent wine.

As the pair walked toward the small woods which cloaked the Weasleys' small paddock of land on
which the family Quidditch enthusiasts had been wont to practice in days gone by, Harry scarcely
noticed when the sheltering trees blocked off the chill wind blowing from the North. With
Hermione's hand nestled in his, Harry had long since ceased to feel the bite of the March
wind.

Neither of them was leading the other, yet they walked as if with one mind, following a path they
had trod often in the not-long-ago. They had treasured the solitude, savoring the privacy of which
their everyday lives at Hogwarts provided little or none. Some of the happiest moments of their
courtship had been spent in these surroundings. On solo visits to the Burrow during Hermione's
European "exile," Harry had feared that he would never again know the simple ecstasy of
walking with Hermione's hand in his, watching her hair dance about her shoulders, seeing the
light of joy in her eyes as she became one with their pristine surroundings.

Harry stopped suddenly, Hermione halting as she felt his feet root themselves to the leafy carpet
of the woods. Before them lay the trunk of a fallen tree, its mossy surface beckoning them to sit,
as it had on many another walk in bygone days. It was a spot Harry treasured as he did few places
on Earth. It was here where Harry, only days removed from his sixteenth birthday, had first
summoned the courage to kiss Hermione. The moment had come and gone in the wink of an eye; Ron and
Luna had found them a moment later, and the magic was not to return that day, nor for many
afterward. Harry had finally kissed Hermione again in December of that year, under the mistletoe in
the Gryffindor common room. In the year and a half following, they must have kissed hundreds of
times, their abandon growing in concert with their passion with each subsequent encounter. Yet
Harry ever looked back on this place, remembering that first brief, chaste kiss.

Acting wholly without thought, Harry walked to the ancient remnant of the once mighty lord of the
forest and sat the two of them down. No word was exchanged. None was needed. Their lips met,
softly, unhurriedly. This time, with no Ron and Luna to interrupt, the kiss lengthened, its heat
spreading through Harry like a gently whispered Incendio Spell. It was not a kiss of passion, as so
many before it. It was a first kiss revisited, allowed at last to know the completion so long
denied.

"I missed you," Harry breathed into Hermione's mouth when lack of air forced their
lips to part reluctantly.

"I missed *you*," Hermione said, so softly that Harry read the syllables against his
lips rather than hearing them with his ears. "Every day."

"I wanted to say goodbye," Harry said in a voice like that of a six-year-old caught with
forbidden cake crumbs on his face. "But I knew if I saw your face...looked into your
eyes..."

"I know," Hermione said with a smile. "I realized that when I had time to sort
things out." She paused, and her eyelids drifted down to cover her dark brown eyes. "I
hoped you'd come to say you were joining me. Not to say goodbye."

"I wanted to," Harry said with an ache in his voice. "I don't know why I
didn't."

"I know why," Hermione said. "You weren't ready. Neither of us was. It took me a
while to realize that. We were too much at cross-purposes then. We both needed time to discover
where our place in the grand scheme lay. And I finally realized that my place is here, with my
friends. And with you. From that day, my only hope was that you'd be waiting for me when I
returned."

"You shouldn't have hoped," Harry said. "You should have *known*.
There's never been anyone for me but you. Not before you left. Not while you were gone. And not
now."

Hermione lay her head on Harry's shoulder. The contours of her face seemed to fit into the
hollow of Harry's neck as if they were two halves of a single sculpture.

"We've lost a lot of time," Harry said. "Hours...days...years we'll never
get back."

"I'd rather look ahead," Hermione said. "The past is...past. The future is a
blank parchment. It's up to us to choose what we write on it."

"*Can* we start again?" Harry wasn't sure if his question were directed to
Hermione, or to the universe itself, a supplication to whatever divine ear might be
listening.

"We already have," Hermione said.

Harry's arm slipped around Hermione's waist even as hers duplicated the motion. They sat
together in the silence of the March day, sunlight dappling their faces as it penetrated the first
budding leaves of Spring struggling to clothe the branches surrounding them. A sparrow song drifted
through the air, a promise of the new season, of life reborn from Winter's long death-sleep.
And with that life was reborn also the first stirrings of something else, something whose slumber
had lasted not one brief season, but a dozen. Love.


***


**Note From Fae Princess:** I know that it sounds like this might be a good place for the story
to end, but believe me, there's more. Plenty more. I'm very glad to see that the majority
of you (except one, but I'm not going to mention him because he really isn't worth it) are
enjoying Stoneheart's story. On that note ...

**danielerin**, can I keep you forever and ever? You see, I didn't even write this story,
and your generous words leave *my* jaw hanging. Imagine how Stoneheart feels! (He's very
grateful, by the way). And thank you for sharing your little "secret" with me! And just
... just thank you for being so wonderful and thoughtful and I really hope you don't think
I'm trying to hit on you ... because I'm not. I'm just entirely in love with you right
now.

Thanks to everyone else, too. See you next week!



6. Best-Laid Plans
------------------

One by one, witches and wizards turned their heads and stared as Harry strolled through the
lobby of the Ministry of Magic. It took a moment for Harry to realize why he was drawing their
attention. He was singing.

One co-worker after another smiled and waved, as if Harry's good humor were infectious of
everyone he passed.

"Had a good holiday, then, Potter?" a wizard called out as he passed Harry going in the
other direction.

"You could say that," Harry returned as the wizard, his overnight shift completed,
stepped into the area of the lobby designated for Apparation and Disapparation and vanished with a
sound like two hands clapping smartly together.

Harry rode the lift to his floor and glided easily into Auror Headquarters. Kingsley Shacklebolt
spied his newest addition to the Auror Division and greeted him with an easy smile.

"You look like a man ready to do some work, Harry."

"Anything new on the case?" Harry asked as he stood before Kingsley's desk.

"No new attacks," Kingsley said. "Not that we expected any just yet."

"Why not?" Harry asked.

"Vampires don't kill out of anger or malice," Kingsley said, "but simply to
survive. A vampire that's feasted won't need to feed again for a few days. We've
reckoned out a pattern of attack occurring every three or four days. If we don't hit paydirt
tonight, it will be tomorrow for sure."

"There's no doubt that this *is* a vampire?"

"None," Kingsley replied. "The lab reports were quite revealing -- and your report
clinched it."

"My report?" Harry echoed.

"You saw a figure who cast no shadow," Kingsley said. "That's one of the
telltale signs of the vampire, distinguishing him from other blood-feeders."

"But how can a vampire cast no shadow when he has a physical body?" Harry asked.

"That's Muggle reasoning," Kingsley smiled without derision. "A vampire is a
thing of magic and supernature. He's a cursed, soulless creature. The universe abhors such an
abomination, even to the refusal of light to touch it. A vampire casts no reflection, nor any
shadow."

Harry was about to ask how a vampire could be seen at all if it reflected no light. But that, he
supposed, was more Muggle logic, having no bearing on things magical. Finding nothing else to ask
nor remark, he nodded.

"So," Kingsley concluded with the ghost of a smile on his chiseled features, "now
that we know what we're up against, we can plan accordingly. To that end, we've called in a
special addition to our strike force."

"Anyone I know?" Harry asked.

"You've met," Kingsley replied, his eyes shining in a manner that instantly aroused
Harry's suspicion. "He's waiting in the Situation Room."

Kingsley slid out from behind his desk and led Harry to a door devoid of knob or handle. As
Kingsley approached, the seemingly random pattern of knots and woodgrain swirls on the surface of
the door resolved into a fair approximation of a human face.

"Shacklebolt and Potter," Kingsley said to the face on the door. The woody face appraised
the two wizards for a moment.

"Shacklebolt and Potter," the door acknowledged. It swung open, and Kingsley bowed Harry
inside before following and closing the door.

Harry had been in the Situation Room only a few times. It was here where plans were made in regard
to the many and varied crises which called for the attention of the Auror Division. Harry looked
around, taking in the familiar surroundings. A large, round table was central to all, on which was
usually spread progress reports and maps of the areas where the missions of the various Auror teams
were taking place. A large sheet of parchment stood on an artist's easel. It was blank now, but
during planning sessions it would be magically imbued with the geographic features of whatever area
was the focus of the mission at hand, acting rather like an oversized Marauder's Map on which
the movements of the Aurors could be tracked. Unfortunately, it was *only* agents of the
Ministry who could be tracked thus. As a tool for tracking one's quarry, it was of no more
value than a ten-shilling road map purchased from a Muggle petrol station.

Three persons sat at the table, their faces shadowed by the capering torches set in the dull gray
walls behind them. One of them drew Harry's attention immediately, her lime-green hair seeming
to glow in the torchlight. She looked up when she heard the door close, and she smiled at Harry
before returning her attention to the report spread out before her on the polished surface of the
table.

Harry's eyes left Tonks and drifted to the figure sitting next to her. The wizard turned his
head in Harry's direction, the torchlight outlining the familiar scarred face of Alastor
"Mad-Eye" Moody. His fearsome appearance was such that he would have stood out
prominently in any gathering that did not include Nymphadora Tonks.

"Alastor," Harry greeted. "You're the new team member, then?"

"Not exactly," Moody growled good-naturedly. "I had to see Kingsley on some personal
business, and he asked me to contribute what I could to the situation. I've come up against a
few vampires in my day, and I set down some of the key points as best I could remember them. Tricky
lot, vampires. Shame the Auror program doesn't stress them more. But experience is the best
teacher, I always say. I'm glad to be able to give you the benefit of my experience. Tonks is
reading what I dictated right now." He rolled his magical eye in Tonks' direction, his
normal eye remaining on Harry. "I don't trust these self-writing quills -- they have a
tendency to go off on their own rather than take down dictation verbatim -- but my handwriting is
hard enough for *me* to read nowadays, much less anyone else. As soon as I've answered any
questions any of you might have, I'll be heading off."

"*This* is our new teammate, Harry," Kingsley said as he rounded the table and
approached the third person at the table, who was sitting apart from Tonks and Moody. As this one
rose up and turned into the torchlight, Harry beheld a wizard with graying hair and a face that was
an unusual mixture of youth and premature age.

"REMUS!" Harry exclaimed, leaping forward with his hand outstretched. Remus Lupin took
the proffered hand, which Harry wrung with an enthusiasm that nearly dislocated the older
wizard's arm from its socket.

"You're looking well, Harry," Remus smiled.

"You, too," Harry said.

This was, if not an outright lie, at least something less than a whole truth. Remus was, Harry
knew, less than fifty years old, still young by wizarding standards. But the strain of his werewolf
curse was aging him far beyond his years. Harry's mind leaped back to when he had seen Albus
Dumbledore in the images contained in Tom Riddle's diary. In Riddle's memory, magically
recorded more than a half century ago, Dumbledore's hair was still a youthful auburn, his face
noticably unlined, at an age in excess of one hundred years. Yet here was Remus, less than half
that age, looking for all the world like a man whose time on Earth was being measured in ordinary
Muggle years rather than the score of decades a wizard's life span typically promised. If
nothing else, it proved that Harry was not the only one to bear the emotional scars (visible or
otherwise) attendant to the events in the Department of Mysteries nearly six years ago.

"What are you doing here?" Harry asked, baffled by the appearance of his parents'
oldest friend (and, with the untimely departure of Sirius, the last surviving Marauder).

"I'm here to help on the vampire case," Remus said.

"The Auror division has hired you on?" Harry said excitedly. But Remus shook his
head.

"Not exactly. I'm here as a free agent, to use the Muggle vernacular. You see, the Aurors
have the authority to appoint temporary special agents in times of crisis, sort of like when a
sheriff takes on deputies in the Western cinema to run down a gang of bank robbers or cattle
rustlers."

"That's great," Harry said. "But..." he added uncertainly, "...why
*you*, specifically? I mean, what do you have that the rest of the Auror Division
doesn't?"

"Appropriately phrased, Harry," Remus said. "And the answer is -- blood."

"I don't understand."

"Allow me, Remus," Kingsley said. As Harry turned to face his superior, Kingsley
explained: "We like to think that we, as wizards, have a certain superiority over Muggles in
most any situation. But the fact is, we're just as vulnerable to threats of a supernatural
nature as non-magic folk. Being less than truly alive, vampires have an uncommon resistance to
magic, which properly works best on living creatures. And if we're bitten, we can die just as
easily as any Muggle victim. But adding Remus to our team gives us an ace in the hole, so to
speak."

"Why?" Harry asked as he looked back and forth between Kingsley and Remus.

"Because," Remus said, "vampires feast only on *human* blood. And since I
received the werewolf bite, *my* blood is no longer human. Even in my untransformed state, as
now, my blood is poison to a vampire. And his supernatural senses will detect this about me,
rendering him impotent to hinder me in any way. If he were to so much as scratch me, even a single
drop of my blood would burn his flesh like acid. We're both cursed creatures, you see. Neither
of us is quite as human as we might appear. My presence will turn our adversary's advantage
against him."

"Have you located his hiding place?" Harry asked anxiously.

"No," Kingsley admitted. "Not yet."

Harry sensed an underlying acrimony in Kingsley's words. "Why not? We're combing the
city, aren't we? Staking out possible sites where an attack might take place?"

"No," Kingsley said slowly.

"What?" Harry exclaimed. "Why?"

"I'll tell you why, Potter," Moody grunted, his leg clunking along as he lumbered up
to join the three conversants. "Politics. Strictly speaking, this case is assigned to Magical
Law Enforcement Division. Madam Bones is in charge, and she gives all the orders. All we can do is
sit on our collective arses and wait until she tugs our leash."

"That's nutters!" Harry burst out. "People are being attacked on the streets of
London! Who's better equipped to handle a vampire than Auror Division?"

"Unfortunately," Kingsley said, "the Ministry charter designates the Auror Division
solely to deal with Dark wizards. In any other area of supernatural menace, MLE has full
jurisdiction. In all fairness to them, they won't hesitate to call in other divisions at need,
as they've done here with us. But all discretion remains with their office alone."

"And Arthur allows this?" Harry said. "I'd expect this sort of rubbish from
Fudge, but -- "

"Arthur's hands are tied for now," Kingsley conceded grudgingly. "He's
working to change a lot of things in the Ministry. You wouldn't believe the bollocks Fudge and
his lot got up to. In my opinion, the whole affair with Voldemort was botched, not just the last
time, but the first time as well. I was a junior Auror then, and I remember how it was. Not much
has changed since then. But Arthur is a good man, and I see better days ahead for the Ministry now
that he's sitting in the Big Chair. But at its best, change is a slow process. And however
quickly it comes about, it won't be changing *our* situation any time soon."

"I hope Madam Bones is giving this the priority it's due," Harry said.

"You're not alone there," Kingsley said. "I'd settle for a little more
openness between the divisions. There's no communication to speak of. MLE has its own Situation
Room, and when they've made their plans, Amelia will send someone over to give us our
assignments. I've sent them a memo regarding Remus. I only hope this damned anti-werewolf
resentment doesn't interfere with a viable plan to nip this situation in the bud before it
explodes and draws the attention of the Muggle media."

Harry's good humor had drained out of him as completely as if a stopper had been pulled from
his chest. He'd been hoping to have lunch with Hermione today, their schedules permitting. He
was even more anxious than ever to see her now. Might she, as an MLE operative, be privvy to
information as yet denied the Aurors? Upon reflection, he doubted it. She was not a full field
agent, merely an Obliviator, and a newly-hired one at that. If Madam Bones were the stickler for
rules she gave every appearance of being, she might not even let Hermione attend the planning
sessions in the MLE Situation Room.

But Harry was a long way from giving up. All through his Hogwarts years, Harry had been accused by
Snape (not without cause, he grudgingly admitted) of crossing lines, of doing things contrary to
the rule of law. In this, he had always counted on Hermione's help, whether it be spiriting
Buckbeak away to rescue Sirius from Flitwick's office, or breaking into the Ministry of Magic
after hours --

Harry felt the omnipresent dagger in his heart as he remembered again his ill-fated mission to
"rescue" his godfather from Voldemort in the Department of Mysteries, only to watch
helplessly as Sirius was precipitated by Bellatrix LeStrange through the mysterious veiled arch
whence no man had ever returned. Even after so many years, the memory of that day remained like a
festering boil on his soul, burning with a fire that, though dimmed by time, was never quite
extinguished. Harry was hard-pressed at the best of times to keep those memories walled up in the
dungeon of his despair, lest their poison fester his very soul. Now, seeing Remus again, Harry felt
that featureless black door opening once more, heard those terrible voices whose echoes never quite
faded from the corridors of his mind.

"Harry?"

A hand touched his shoulder, and Harry blinked to see Remus looking at him with mild concern in his
tired eyes. Harry smiled weakly.

"Sorry. I was thinking about Sirius. Sometimes when I'm frustrated, I wonder what Sirius
would have done in a given situation."

"In this case," Remus grinned, "I imagine he'd storm straight on over to MLE,
kick open the door and demand to know what the devil was the bloody hold-up."

"Yeah," Harry said with a pale smile. "I reckon that's *just* what he'd
do."

As they left the Situation Room to await the messenger from Madam Bones, Harry saw that their exit
aroused no sign of awareness in the guardian of the door. He'd not noticed that before --
though, in all fairness, he'd been invited inside the Situation Room only sporadically during
his brief tenure. Junior-grade Aurors seldom sat in on full-blown strategy sessions with their
seniors. He shrugged as he watched the door close behind Kingsley, its wooden "face"
wholly inanimate once more. He supposed that this door was not unlike the portrait of the Fat Lady
guarding the entrance to Gryffindor Tower at Hogwarts. No one, student or teacher, could enter the
common room without providing the Fat Lady with the appropriate password. But anyone already inside
could exit at will, eliciting little or no attention from the Fat Lady.

Harry heard the gentle swoosh of robes and turned his head instantly in the direction of the sound.
Moody saw this, and a razor-thin smile of approval spread under his lopsided nose. Kingsley was
talking to Tonks, the two of them poring over Moody's vampire report. A moment later they
looked up and smiled at the visitor whose arrival they had been anticipating.

"Amelia has you delivering messages now in addition to your other duties?" Kingsley
smiled at Hermione.

"Last hired," Hermione said, returning the wizard's smile good-naturedly, "first
to be sent to make tea, fetch lunch, or deliver messages, whichever is the priority of the
moment."

Harry laughed sympathetically, having (in his biased view) made enough tea in his six months in the
division to float the Royal Navy.

Her manner suddenly businesslike (though still pleasant), Hermione slipped a folder from under her
arm and opened it.

"Stake-out positions for tonight," she said as she handed a sheet of parchment to Harry
and Tonks in turn. Each bore the official seal of MLE. As Harry took his, he noticed that Hermione
did not make eye contact with him. He was sure he knew the reason, but this was not the time to
address it.

"Only two of us?" Harry said as he looked at the parchment in his hand, which was
imprinted with a map of a small section of London. "For something this important?"

"We're spread pretty thin these days, Harry," Kingsley said as he accepted a similar
map from Hermione's folder. "Budget cuts. Funny thing how donations from wizard families
like the Malfoys stopped coming in after Voldemort's fall," he added with a mirthless
grin. "You're likely to be the last Auror hired for the next year. Shame, too. Albus tells
me there are some good candidates graduating from Hogwarts in June. But Merlin knows where the
funds to engage them would come from. If Remus wasn't working unofficially, the bean-counters
would be screaming bloody murder right now."

Harry now noticed that Hermione had not given Remus a sheet to correspond to the ones he and Tonks
held. When he pointed this out, Hermione reached into a pocket of her robes and withdrew a handful
of coins. Harry needed no explanation as he took the coin she held out for him. It was a standard
operating procedure, one he had learned during his training interval.

"You're our pointman, Remus," Hermione said as she handed him the largest coin.
"But you're to be kept in reserve until you're needed. If one of the teams spots
anything suspicious, they'll signal you via your coin and you'll Apparate straight to the
trouble zone. If it's an MLE team, they'll also signal the nearest mixed team so that
either Harry or Tonks can join you."

"Only one of us?" Harry questioned. "Why not both?"

"There's always the chance that the alarm will be false," Hermione replied, no doubt
quoting Madam Bones' doctrine on the subject. "Or, if genuine, that it will be a
'cold' scene. And if the alert is valid, the quarry may take flight, in which case the
remaining Auror will be free to pursue from another avenue, increasing the chances of catching the
perpetrator."

"Amelia is nothing if not thorough," Kingsley acknowledged.

"If we Apparate straight to the trouble spot," Harry now asked, "won't we risk
being seen by Muggles?"

"That *is* a risk," Hermione said, adding with a smile, "but that's why MLE
has Obliviators on the payroll, isn't it?"

"How many teams?" Harry asked.

"Four," Hermione said. "Two pairs of MLE agents, plus one agent each for you and
Tonks. As with Remus, either or both of you will be signalled if one of the non-Auror teams runs
into a spot of bother. In such a case, Remus will take point, MLE will follow, and the Auror will
plug the other end. The remaining Auror will remain on standby alert, awaiting
developments."

"Only four teams?" Harry said stiffly. He jerked his head toward Kingsley, who nodded
with a glance at his master sheet whereon the respective positions of the four teams were marked
(Harry's sheet, by contrast, displayed only his assigned position).

"Budget cuts," Hermione said flatly, exchanging a knowing nod with Kingsley.

"You said something about Obliviators?" Harry now asked.

"I'm on duty tonight," Hermione said, displaying a signal-coin of her own. "Like
Remus, I won't be called in unless I'm needed."

This was a great relief to Harry. As far as he was concerned, the breadth of London itself was not
enough distance between the woman he loved and a ravenous vampire.

"Now," Hermione said, "if Ordinance has received Madam Bones' memo, our
equipment should be waiting for us."

"Equipment?" Harry said.

"Of course, Harry," Remus smiled as he slipped his signal-coin into his pocket. "You
don't fight a vampire with wands and spells."

"You don't?"

Remus was about to enlighten Harry, but he noticed a familiar light in Hermione's eyes and
closed his mouth quickly. With a smiling nod at Hermione, Remus said, "Tonks, shall we go
fetch our gear? As I'm purely unofficial, I don't think Mr. Bindle will accept my signature
on the release form."

"Right," Tonks said as she suppressed a smile. Turning her head, she said, "Harry,
nip on down to Wardrobe and pick us out some Muggle clothes, there's a luv. Oh," she said
as if something had just popped into her head, "better take Hermione along. I think I can
trust her to pick out something that goes with..." She concentrated for a moment, and her
green hair suddenly turned the color of cornsilk. "There," she said, swiveling her head
in the direction of Remus, who nodded approvingly. Turning back to Hermione, she said, "Pick
out something good -- remember, I'm vampire bait tonight."

(Harry wasn't sure, but it looked as though Tonks gave Hermione a conspiratorial wink in the
moment before their eyes broke contact. It might have been his imagination. But then
again...)

"When everyone is outfitted," Kingsley said, "we'll meet back in the Situation
Room. I'll transfer this information to our Situation Map," he added, rattling the
parchment in his hand with no little disgruntlement. With that, Remus and Tonks set off in the
direction of Ordinance to secure their gear, while Harry and Hermione branched off toward
Wardrobe.

The moment they were out of sight, Hermione turned to Harry and spoke in a low, apologetic
voice.

"I'm sorry about last night, Harry. We were going to have dinner at your flat to talk
about the case, but after that big lunch Molly made, I stretched out on my bed for a short kip, and
when I woke up it was almost nine o'clock! What you must think of me -- "

Understanding now the wink Tonks had given Hermione (and why she had dispatched the two of them out
of earshot of their companions), Harry smiled warmly.

"Don't give it a thought. The truth is, I had a little spot of bother with the meal I was
fixing, and when I popped in on Molly to get some help, she told me you were sleeping and that
I'd be better off waiting for another night. I knew you must have been really tired. You've
hardly had time to settle in since you got back. Madam Bones put you straight to work the moment
you arrived, for Merlin's sake. If we'd stayed up late last night chatting each other up,
we'd be in a right state to go out vampire hunting tonight, wouldn't we? So it all worked
out for the best. As soon as things settle down around here, we can have another go at it.
We'll do it up right this time."

"All the same," Hermione said, "I wouldn't blame you if you were furious with
me. Merlin only knows what you thought of me when you learned I'd slept through our
engagement."

"Ask everyone downstairs what I was thinking when I came in this morning," Harry
chuckled. "I don't think my feet touched the floor all the way to the lift. Everyone
thought I was daft. All down to you. So I don't want to hear another word on the subject. Am I
penetrating that bushy head, Miss Obliviator-Granger?"

"You're sure you're not suppressing?" Hermione asked tentatively.

"Oh, I'm suppressing a *lot* of things," Harry said, his hands moving up and
down Hermione's supple flanks with slow appreciation. "But that's a subject better
discussed elsewhere."

Harry bent and kissed Hermione lightly. When their lips parted, she mouthed a silent "thank
you" before they set off for their destination.

As they walked methodically toward the Wardrobe department that served both Auror Division and MLE,
Harry appraised Hermione's face keenly. Now that he had set her mind at ease regarding last
night's aborted dinner, an old and very familiar look had begun to spread across her face.
Harry instantly recognized that look as the one Hermione always wore when she had just acquired
some new and significant knowledge, usually from a book, and was anxious to share that knowledge.
He'd seen it often enough in their seven years at Hogwarts. He remembered as well the abrupt
manner in which Remus had broken off his explanation on the ways and means of dispatching vampires,
as if he were delegating that task to another. As they had missed their chance to talk last night,
Harry was keen to know what Hermione had dug up in the Ministry library.

"Right, then. Remus was about to explain to me why magic is useless against a vampire. Why is
that?"

"Because vampires aren't alive, strictly speaking," Hermione explained, having
regained her poise and confidence with consummate ease.

"Magic works on non-living things," Harry responded promptly.

"Yes," Hermione said, "but there are different categories of spells -- each spell is
designed for a specific purpose and they won't work properly if used any other way. There are
organic spells, designed for living creatures, and non-organic. A spell that was devised to work on
something alive is stymied when it encounters someone who *isn't*. Take the Unforgivable
Curses, for example. The Cruciatus works on the pain centers of the brain, transmitted through the
body along a network of living nerves. But not being truly alive, a vampire will shrug off the
Cruciatus as easily as you or I would a Tickling Charm."

Having experienced a Tickling Charm in his second year at Hogwarts, Harry hadn't found it all
that easy to shrug off.

"How are we supposed to stop a creature that can't be hurt?" he asked.

"I never said they can't be hurt," Hermione said. "I'm saying you can't
depend on spells and such. But there are other ways -- ancient, proven ways -- it's a pity your
training didn't encompass situations like this."

"It would be funny if it weren't so serious," Harry grunted. "It's like
Moody said -- I spend three years learning how to sort out Dark wizards, master a hundred new
spells, and now I'm faced with a bugger against whom magic is bloody useless. Looks like
it's back to basic Defense Against the Dark Arts for all of us."

"The Ministry has an excellent library on the subject of combating the Dark Arts,"
Hermione said. "I've been doing quite a bit of reading since Madam Bones filled us in.
Dodgy things, vampires. They're one of the few supernatural menaces where wizards and Muggles
are roughly equal when it comes to opposing them."

"So if something jumps out of the shadows and sinks its fangs into my neck," Harry said
with a twisted smile, "there's no point in shouting "Imperio!" and telling him
to bleedin' sod off."

"Like the Cruciatus," Hermione said, "the Imperius works on *living* brain
cells, in this case the cerebral cortex. Don't trust magic," she stressed with restrained
urgency, the shadow of concern darkening her eyes. "Let your tools -- and your training -- do
the job."

"And the Killing Curse?" Harry said, obliging Hermione by completing her analogy
regarding the Unforgivable Curses.

"How do you kill something that's already dead?"

That answer quieted Harry until they reached the Wardrobe department. While Hermione selected a
Muggle outfit for Tonks, Harry chose something for himself and Remus and signed the forms shoved at
him absently by an old wizard who was stuffing crisps into his mouth as he listened attentively to
a WWN soap opera on a tabletop radio.

As they set off on their return journey with their bundles in hand, Hermione turned opposite from
the way they had come, catching Harry by surprise.

"Where are you going?" he asked.

"To my cubicle," Hermione replied. "I have a scarf that will go nicely with this
outfit I've picked out for Tonks. My mum gave it to me the day I left for Beauxbatons. She said
it would bring me luck. Maybe some of it will rub off on Tonks. Goodness knows you'll all need
your share tonight. You can go on if you like. I'll catch you up."

"I'll come along," Harry said, catching up with Hermione easily. He still had a few
questions on his mind, and not all of them pertained to their assignment.

As they rounded a corner and entered a long, dimly-lighted corridor, Hermione saw Harry stiffen as
his eyes fixed on a plain black door that sat in the stone wall like a slice of darkness hewn from
a midnight sky. Harry always did his best to avoid this corridor, and when needs required that he
use it, he always averted his eyes from that somber portal. It was virtually identical to another
black door on a level far below, and sight of it never failed to cause his chest to tighten
painfully. Had he realized their path would lead this way, he might have endeavored to steer
Hermione along another route to their destination. Six months was hardly enough time to memorize
the complicated maze of corridors twisting throughout the bowels of the Ministry, and as he
typically entered this corridor from the other end on the rare occasions when he could not avoid
it, he did not recognize it for what it was until it was too late.

Now, having set eyes on the door, Harry could not tear his gaze from it. Hermione saw Harry fix his
target unwaveringly with the intensity of a basilisk. Her surprise was momentary, morphing almost
instantly into understanding. Saying nothing, she hurried on, watching covertly as Harry's eyes
followed the dark shape until it vanished behind them. When they turned another corner and left the
offending corridor behind, Harry heaved a quiet sigh which Hermione silently echoed.

They emerged into an open area divided into cubicles not unlike those defining Auror Division. In a
prominent area corresponding to Kingsley's office on the other end of the level, Harry saw a
sign reading MAGICAL LAW ENFORCEMENT. Under this legend, in smaller letters, he read: AMELIA BONES,
DIRECTOR.

Harry held Hermione's bundle for her as she darted into her cubicle. The sound of drawers
opening and closing echoed from the flimsy cubicle walls. As Hermione searched for her scarf, Harry
let his eyes wander idly around his surroundings. The floor plan was virtually identical to the one
employed by Auror Division. And sitting in plain view, not ten steps from Amelia's office, was
a plain, handleless door behind which, Harry knew, lay the MLE Situation Room. Harry stared
longingly at the door, wondering what secrets it concealed behind its quiescent woodgrain face. If
only he could get inside for just a minute, just long enough to peruse the Situation Map. Damn this
bloody inter-departmental jealousy. With funds growing ever tighter, each division strove jealously
to distinguish itself as a means of acquiring monies with which to hire more personnel, and to
equip them with the newest magical weaponry. Sodding *politics* is what it was, just as Moody
had said. Had the Ministry learned *nothing* from its war against Voldemort? A governing body
should work *together*, not against itself. If only there were some way...

"Got it!" Hermione announced as her head popped up over the rim of her cubicle wall, a
bright red scarf fluttering beside her. Emerging, she took her bundle back from Harry and they set
off back to the other end of the floor.

His thoughts now back on the business at hand, Harry asked abruptly, "How many attacks have
there been so far?"

"Four," Hermione said, grateful to be able to return Harry's thoughts to matters of
business. "They're spacing out about every three or four days. Madam Bones is sure that
either tonight or tomorrow is our best bet. But I'm sure Kingsley has already told you that,
hasn't he?"

"Is there any pattern to the attacks?"

"Too soon to tell," Hermione said uncomfortably. "London is so big and spread out.
Amelia is confident that a pattern will assert itself in time. But at what cost? How many people
will have to die before we can find the one responsible?"

No word or gesture of acknowledgment was needed from Harry. Wanting to replace the tense silence
with something more cheerful, he said abstractly, "How do you like the loft at the
Burrow?"

"I love it," Hermione said unhesitatingly. "Last night I sat at the window for hours
and listened to the wind in the branches. That's one of my favorite sounds in the whole
world."

"It'll be better when the leaves come in," Harry said. "The sound becomes both
louder and softer at the same time. Does that make sense?"

"Perfectly," Hermione said in a soft, dreamy voice.

Feeling that the time was right to resurrect the subject of their earlier exchange, Harry said,
"You know, Kingsley still owes me a three-day holiday from before all this rubbish landed in
our laps. What do you say we take advantage and re-schedule our dinner? I'll pull out all the
stops this time. Full dinner with all the trimmings. And I promise not to muck it up, on my honor
as an Auror."

"And you'll do it all *yourself* this time?" Hermione asked slyly.

"I won't go anywhere near Molly *or* the Burrow," Harry said, crossing his
heart.

"It's not Molly I was thinking of," Hermione returned, her eyes wandering up toward
the ceiling even as she turned her head to hide the smile she was striving unsuccessfully to
suppress.

"THAT WAS ONE TIME!" Harry said, louder than he'd intended. A witch dictating a memo
looked up sharply from her cubicle. The enchanted quill had evidently heard Harry's words and
written them down, and the witch was now grumbling as she crumpled the parchment and began her
dictation again with a fresh sheet. In a softer voice, Harry said, "Dobby volunteered because
it was your birthday, and you were Head Girl and all, and -- "

Harry swallowed whatever else he was about to say as he saw Hermione giggling silently. His cheeks
flushing, Harry added his own muffled laughter to hers.

"I'm not winding you up," he said when their laughter had subsided. "I promise,
I *did* learn some good food preparation spells from Molly. I'm just out of practice is
all. It's been a long time since I had someone to try them out on. Not since..."

It wasn't necessary for Harry to finish the thought. With the memory of yesterday's visit
to the Burrow (and more pointedly, the woods behind the Burrow) fresh in his mind, he was certain
that Hermione knew there had been no one in his life since she left for France -- just as *he*
now knew with equal certainty that his own place in *her* heart had not faltered during their
separation.

"Right, then," Hermione said brightly. "Shall we say Friday evening? That will be
*much* better than last night would have been. I have all day Saturday off, so there'll be
nothing to hold us back, will there?"

Harry nearly halted in mid-step. Did Hermione mean what he *thought*? Or was he reading more
than was warranted into a simple statement? All the same, it was beginning to look like this dinner
would be far more interesting than the one they had missed last night promised to be. His
ponderings were arrested abruptly as they rounded the last corner to find Remus, Tonks and Kingsley
waiting for them. Harry separated the bundles in his hands and handed one to Remus. Tonks took her
Muggle clothing from Hermione, flashing an approving smile at the scarf, which she donned
immediately, pirate-fashion.

Kingsley stepped before Harry now and handed him a pouch with a long shoulder strap attached. Harry
noted that Tonks wore a similar pouch, which hung suspended from her left shoulder.

"When it comes to evening wear," Kingsley said, nodding at Harry's Muggle attire,
"accessorizing is everything."

Harry opened the pouch and examined its contents. The first thing he found was a silver amulet of a
type he remembered from the portion of his DADA training devoted to vampires (which seemed woefully
inadequate now that he was about to go off in search of the real thing). It was Charmed to give one
a limited resistance to the hypnotic influence of a vampire's eyes. The trick, of course, was
to avoid eye contact altogether.

"Ow!" Harry said softly as he pricked his middle finger on something long and pointed at
the bottom of the pouch. Drawing out the offending object, he saw it was a wooden stake, hewn to a
sharpness which his throbbing finger had just verified.

"Do these things really work like they do in the Muggle cinema?" he asked no one in
particular.

"Oh, yes," Remus answered. "But only if they're properly made."

"And how's that?" Harry responded with genuine interest.

"First," Remus said, "the stake must be made of ash, aspen or white thorn. Nothing
else will do. These are ash. And for it to be potent, it should be hewn with an edge of pure
silver."

Nodding, Harry asked, "Do I drive it in by hand? Or by magic?" As he had found no hammer
in the small pouch, it was a fair question.

"Look again, Harry," Kingsley said. Harry did, and at the very bottom of the pouch he
found a tiny metal hammer attached to a thong. It was of a size suited for a charm bracelet, and
Harry looked up challengingly, as if he thought he was being pranked.

"Have a look, Harry," Tonks said now. As Harry watched, Tonks looped the thong of her own
trinket-sized hammer around her right wrist. The thong instantly shrank so that it could not slip
off with the ease with which it had gone on. Smiling, Tonks flicked her wrist sharply; the tiny
hammer expanded to full size in the wink of an eye and jumped into her fist.

"Neat trick, innit?" Tonks laughed as she swung her hand over, whereupon the hammer
shrank back to its original size, dangling from her wrist like a fob from a bracelet. "A
Muggle vampire hunter can't do *that*. Mind, we can't reduce the stake likewise --
" she slapped the pouch on her hip indicatively, " -- much of its power comes from the
hand-carving, and any tampering afterward diminishes its power. But the hammer isn't important,
so magic gives us an edge there. No time to fumble about when a vampire's tryin' to take a
bite outta your ruddy neck."

"If the hammer isn't important," Harry asked, "why couldn't I just use a
focused Banishing Charm to drive the stake home? That way the bugger's fangs wouldn't get
anywhere *near* my neck."

"Good in theory," Kingsley said in a patient voice, "but not in practice. The stake
has to be positioned precisely so that it pierces the heart squarely. Banishing it like a missile
from a distance is *safer*, but not *surer*. If your target moves only a little and the
stake misses its mark, you're left weaponless, and the advantage passes to your enemy. As with
most things, the simplest way is the best. Get in under his guard and strike before he can counter.
A swift blow of the hammer and it's all over."

As Harry nodded, Kingsley surveyed his trio of agents.

"Right, then. Once you've changed, we'll meet in the Situation Room and coordinate our
actions. Harry and Tonks will then Apparate to the appropriate safe houses. The MLE agents will
meet you there, if they haven't preceded you. And remember," he said, the words seeming
distasteful on his tongue, "they're in charge."

"Until the dirty work begins," Tonks muttered, "when they'll all look
straightaway for the nearest dustbin to hide in while *we* charge on ahead into the
dragon's flippin' mouth."

Harry saw Hermione scowl at this remark. MLE was her division, after all, and she rightly resented
any aspersions cast upon its members. There was no doubt in Harry's mind that Hermione, at
least, would not turn and run. If and when danger arose, she would be in the forefront, facing that
peril with the same courage she had showed when the two of them had faced Voldemort nearly four
years ago.

And Harry wasn't certain whether he was glad of that or not. The one thing he *was* sure
of was how glad he was that, as a junior Obliviator, she would not be thrust into a position to
demonstrate that courage.

At least, he sincerely *hoped* that was so. And with that thought, he set off for the changing
room to don his Muggle clothing.


***


**Note From Fae Princess:** Thanks for all the kind reviews -- from both Stoneheart and myself.
I'm usually very keen on writing little notes for each chapter, but I'm not feeling
particularly well today, (I'm actually really drugged up at the moment and can hardly string
two words together). Anyway, I hope you enjoyed! And we'll both (Stoneheart and I) see you next
week. (Special shout-out to **danielerin**!)



7. The Face of the Enemy
------------------------

Harry trod lightly through the damp mist hugging the back streets of London. The rubber soles of
his shoes made no more noise than the feet of a cat. Unfortunately, his partner more closely
resembled a Blast-Ended Skrewt, in stealth no less than in appearance. As if to underscore this
analogy, Harry heard a dustbin lid clatter resoundingly to the sidewalk with an echo like a cracked
brass bell with a muted clapper.

"Sorry," Clotworthy muttered as he replaced the lid his elbow had dislodged. Harry merely
grunted. He'd dared voice no objection at being paired with the old veteran. It was a common
enough pairing, placing a rookie with a more experienced field operative from whom the former might
be able to glean a few pearls of wisdom. Unfortunately, Clotworthy's agile brain found a poor
mate in his stocky, thick-limbed body. A skilled detective with an eye for clues second to none in
MLE, he was better suited for analyzing crime scenes already discovered than seeking them out by
means of stealth.

There were only a few Muggles on the streets. This was not an upscale neighborhood, and only the
bravest (or most foolhardy) souls walked the streets after dark, even without the threat of a
vampire lurking in the shadows. Harry wondered absently which of those two categories he and
Clotworthy fell into. Equal parts of both, he decided -- especially given the circumstances that
had called them forth. The vampire had proven clever enough to avoid the more reputable areas of
London. In surroundings such as these, their quarry could more easily find a suitable victim,
indulge in his grisly feast, and vanish before being spotted by Muggle eyes.

Wizard eyes, however, were another matter. And, giving due where it was warranted, Harry saw that
Clotworthy's gimlet eyes missed no smallest corner of the far side of the street (Harry's
focus being the side upon which they walked) as they moved through the shadows huddling between the
widely-spaced street lights. So intent was the old MLE wizard upon his task, however, that any
objects closer than three feet were as invisible to him as if they were draped in Harry's
Invisibility Cloak.

At this thought, Harry patted the bulge tucked under his Muggle overcoat, reassured by its
comforting presence. If either he or his partner spotted anything bearing closer scrutiny, Harry
would dive under his Cloak and circle about while Clotworthy advanced from the forward position.
Harry would thus be fortuitously placed to intercept anyone -- or anything -- attempting to flee
from the MLE wizard's approach. (And if that something proved to be their undead foe, it would
then be a simple matter to summon Remus to snap their carefully prepared trap shut.) This was
standard methodology, though the advance operative was usually masked by a Disillusionment Charm
(Invisibility Cloaks being scarce items). Harry had even suggested that he wear his Cloak during
the patrol itself, but Kingsley pointed out the flaw in this reasoning.

"You and your partner are bait, Harry. What good is bait that can't be seen?"

It was an irrefutable argument, but Harry liked it no more for that.

Each team had been chosen for its appearance as well as the skills to deal with their quarry. As
the newest -- and therefore youngest -- Aurors in the department, Tonks and Harry were the logical
choices for the assignment. Contrary to popular myth, vampires did not limit their victims to
women. While female targets *did* prove easier to terrify on the whole, making them easier to
subdue in turn, an old man and a young boy were just as likely targets. Harry was slightly irked
that he could still pass as a "young boy", but still being months shy of his 22nd
birthday left him with shaky ground on which to base a contrary position. In truth, his youth had
proved an asset on more than one occasion during his brief tenure. A number of opponents who had
dismissed Harry as a threat due solely to his physical appearance were now occupying cells in
Azkaban, where they would have plenty of time to re-evaluate their thinking in regard to age
prejudice.

Despite the lateness of the hour, and the fact that he had not slept for most of a day and a night,
Harry felt alert, his senses sharp. The interval comprising the daylight hours between their
strategy session and the implementing of the mission had not been one of idleness. He and his
companions had spent the day engaged in mock confrontations in the Training Room until an hour
before sunset, whereupon they had eaten a light meal, changed into Muggle clothing and Apparated to
the safe houses nearest their assigned target areas. They had rehearsed possible scenarios and
means of response for hours on end, drawing on Moody's notes as to how best they might prevail.
Ultimately, Kingsley had pronounced both Harry and Tonks ready for whatever they might encounter
tonight. But Harry wondered how much of that could be accounted as mere pep talk to boost their
confidence. Against Dark wizards, Harry knew what to expect, and he had distinguished himself any
number of times against formidable adversaries. But tonight's mission was outside the
boundaries of standard Auror routine, a fact which Kingsley knew as well as anyone.

"Older, more experienced agents would be useless as bait," Kingsley said with the reason
of his own experience. "They'd be spotted easily for what they are, and our quarry would
avoid them in favor of more likely prey. We need to draw him out and into our trap, and do our best
not to fall into *his* trap. Remember, the Ministry cemetery is full of Aurors who made the
mistake of underestimating a clever foe. Our best hope is to discover where the bastard goes to
ground. Remus can then lead a picked team of seasoned agents to sort him out for good, with minimal
risk."

Time seemed to have slowed to a Flobberworm's pace as Harry set one foot in front of the other
in an easy, measured cadence, effecting a casual aspect that was as false as the Muggle clothing he
and his companion wore. In fact, he and his partner were both tightly-wound springs waiting to
explode into action. Their loose-hanging overcoats revealed no sign of the pouches riding on their
hips, nor of the wands whose handles thrust unobtrusively from their belts. As his eyes swept his
surroundings with deceptive idleness, Harry wondered absently how long they had until sunup. The
monotony made every minute seem like an hour. As if reading the young Auror's mind, Clotworthy
slipped a great paw into an inside pocket of his coat and withdrew it with the smoothness of long
practice.

"Three a.m.," he grunted at the old, tarnished pocket watch cradled in his left palm.
"The witchin' hour. Eyes peeled, lad."

"I thought midnight was the witching hour," Harry said as his partner snapped the watch
closed and returned it whence it had come, the tiny sound seeming unnaturally loud in the uncanny
stillness. Harry's own hand rose reflexively to his neck, encountering the reassuring bulge of
the silver amulet against his ribs. It reminded him of another pendant from a seeming lifetime ago.
The thought bit deep, and he pushed it away.

"That'd be yer Muggle upbringin'," Clotworthy said easily in response to
Harry's comment. "If Muggles knew only half of what they *think* they know about the
supernatural world, our lot would be in it up to our ruddy necks an' no mistakin'.
There's times when a little ignorance is a good thing."

Harry was about to respond in turn when he felt a burning sensation in his pocket. Clotworthy
immediately came to life, his beady black eyes missing nothing. To the wizard's honed senses,
the subtle change in Harry's expression was tantamount to igniting a tray of flash powder in a
dark room.

"A signal?" the old wizard said eagerly as Harry reached into his pocket and pulled out
the coin given him by Kingsley.

"Two miles from here," Harry said quickly. "Team two."

"Team two?" Clotworthy grunted, his bulldog face tensing. "That's be --
"

Harry Disapparated in the wink of an eye. Clotworthy reached into his right pocket and drew forth
his own coin. Changing hands, he pulled out his wand and was about to touch the coin. Harry had
Apparated straight to the trouble spot because of the spell linking his coin to that of the
singaller. Though he knew the general location of Team two, Clotworthy could not follow until he
activated his own coin's link by hand with his wand. Blind Apparation might find him blocks
from the target area. Only by linking his coin with that of a fellow operative could he be certain
of arriving spot-on. But before he could touch the tip of his wand to his coin, his beady eyes
instinctively swept his surroundings and spied the last thing he wanted to see: two Muggles, a man
and a woman, the latter of whom was pointing her finger at the space beside Clotworthy where Harry
had stood, her eyes wide with disbelief and mounting panic.

"Bloody hell," he swore. "Why aren't they home in bed like decent folks, instead
o' walkin' the streets like flippin' ghouls?"

He tapped the coin with his wand, but with a different purpose than he'd originally intended.
Instead of following Harry to the trouble scene, he must instead signal the Ministry to send an
Obliviator to deal with the two witnesses to Harry's decidedly un-Muggle-like disappearance.
And he would have to remain within sight of the Muggles so that the Obliviator could home in on his
signal. Much as he wanted to join battle with the enemy, he knew where his duty lay, and he'd
been with MLE too long to deviate from procedure now.

Harry was on his own.


*


Harry Apparated at the mouth of a narrow alley into whose recesses the lights of the main
thoroughfare did not reach. As he stood alone in the silence, his breathing slow and regular as he
reached out with his senses with practiced calm, he realized immediately that something was amiss.
*Where was Remus*? The first signal should have gone to him, allowing him to take point and
lead his team into the danger zone while Harry played his assigned role of back-up. This did not
bode well. But there was nothing to be gained by standing about. He took a cautious step forward,
and his change in position caused a glint of lamplight to strike a dull reflection from a small
object at his feet. He knelt smoothly to pick it up, his eyes never leaving the mouth of the
alley.

As expected, he was holding a signal coin identical to the one in his pocket. This, at least, was
according to procedure. The witch or wizard who issued the summons would leave the coin behind ere
charging ahead, lest the one summoned be thrust into the jaws of the same danger.

But if that was standard procedure for an ordinary mission, it was *not* in line with present
strategy. The signaller should have waited until Remus and the other Auror (in this case, Harry)
appeared before engaging the enemy. Trained MLE operatives would *not* have rushed blindly
into danger in defiance of specific orders. And Remus' experience with the Order of the Phoenix
would not permit him to deviate from the plan of attack. Why, then, was Harry the only one in
evidence?

Wary as a cat, Harry drew his wand in a smooth, unhurried motion and moved toward the mouth of the
alley. He peered into the darkness for a moment, then whispered, "*Lumos*!" A narrow
beam of light sprang from the tip of his wand, and this he played across his path, his wand held
low, as he moved stealthily forward.

He considered for a moment whipping out his Invisibility Cloak and diving under it, but he
dismissed this notion as quickly as it had come. For one thing, it would encumber his wand arm at a
time when a split-second might spell the difference between life and death. And he realized that
his supernatural foe was possessed of senses far beyond the mortal variety, before which
invisibility would be as nothing. Cloak-and-circle strategy would not serve here.

As he stepped into the mouth of the alley, Harry reached out with his own senses, which, if only of
the mortal variety, were yet honed to razor-keenness by rigorous training and practical
application. The sounds of the night were magnified unnaturally by the almost other-worldly quiet,
and Harry's ears picked them out one by one and sorted them with practiced skill. A discarded
newspaper rustled in the breeze that tugged diffidently at the hem of Harry's coat; a rat
scuttled somewhere to his left, its tiny claws rattling on the hard-packed ground; a night-bird
trilled restlessly from its perch on an overhead wire --

Suddenly Harry froze as if struck by a Petrificus Curse. A soft, chilling sound was echoing mutely
from the crumbling brick walls. It was a sound such as Harry had never heard, yet he knew it for
what it was. Better for his sanity had he *not* identified it, for it was such a sound as had
no place in a sane world.

With that terrible song reverberating in his brain, Harry whispered, "*Nox*,"
extinguishing the light of his wand. Closing his eyes, he touched the tip of his wand to the bridge
of his nose and said, "*Oculus Nocturnus*!" When he opened his eyes again, a weird,
uncanny light seemed to be permeating the narrow alley. In was, in fact, the light of the stars
hovering above the narrow cleft of the alley, their brightness increased a thousandfold. His eyes
had been transformed into night vision lenses, serving the twin function of increasing the scope of
his vision, and freeing his wand for whatever awaited him in the depths of that foul alley.

He could now see that the alley made a bend to the left. He crept forward, his steps silent as the
fog swirling about his ankles, and sprang full into the opening, his wand before him. The sight
that met his eyes struck him like a physical blow so that he nearly cried out in horror.

Three figures were cast into relief, their outlines blurred both by the creeping fog and the green
haze accompanying the spell suffusing Harry's eyes. The nearest, an MLE witch whom Harry knew
by sight if not by name, sagged against the wall to his left, either unconscious or dead. A second
figure lay sprawled at an angle, his limbs askew. His shirt had been rent to the waist, exposing
his chest and neck. His head was turned to one side, and his horror-struck face looked at Harry
with wide, unseeing eyes. It was Geoffrey Suggins!

Tearing his gaze from those blankly staring eyes, Harry felt a chill play along his spine as he
beheld a shadowy form bent low over the recumbant wizard. Its back was to him, its face all but
hidden behind a pair of narrow, vulture-like shoulders draped in a cape black as the night. Harry
saw the creature's head move in a slow, ghastly rhythm as it pressed its inhuman lips to
Geoffrey's exposed neck, which motion was synonymous with the unholy sound that had drawn Harry
hither -- a grisly, horrible, soul-chilling sound -- the unmistakable sound of blood being
sucked.

Harry could have been excused if blind terror had seized him in that moment, tearing his reason
from him like a wrapper from a Chocolate Frog. Instead, his Auror training jerked him back from
that precipice and imbued his mind and body with the temper of chilled steel.

Harry knew he had only moments to choose a course of action. He remembered the admonitions of
Kingsley, Remus and Hermione. He must not trust to magic, but must look instead to himself. He
sorted through the hours of practice encounters in the Training Room, searching for something that
would serve him now. He looked down into the wide, terror-glazed eyes of Geoffrey, which seemed to
scream at him, "Help me! For the love of God, help me!" Setting his jaw firmly, Harry
reached for his pouch with his left hand even as his right raised his wand --

In a silent explosion of terrible fury, the creature leaped up and fell full upon Harry, bearing
him to the ground with the force of a hurricane. Clawed fingers fastened on his throat in a grip of
steel, strangling the spell on his lips as they sought to crush the very life from his body.
Reacting without thought, Harry sprang back in a desperate effort to escape his foe's crushing
grip. Twisting and writhing, he rebounded from the alley wall, striking his head sharply so that
lights burst in his brain. As his resistance faltered, his foe pressed the advantage on the moment.
With a savage wrench, Harry felt himself being jerked into the air as if he were a rag doll and
dashed to the ground with a bone-jarring impact that drove the breath from his lungs.

A crushing weight fell upon him as his foe pounced with the speed and ferocity of a panther. A
claw-like hand tore open his shirt and wrenched the silver pendant from his neck. He was now
helpless to resist the power of those terrible hypnotic eyes. Harry's right hand twitched
reflexively in an effort to bring his wand to bear, but his fingers closed on empty air. Unable to
move, nor summon the will even to turn his head, he suddenly found himself staring into a pair of
black, inhuman eyes, darker than the soul of night. There was a fiendish triumph in those eyes that
burned Harry to the depths of his soul. A slender object appeared before him tauntingly. His wand.
The fiend savored his triumph with inhuman relish, silent, mocking laughter shining in those dark
pools ere the gaunt, raven-like head bent low over his victim's unresisting form. Harry felt
cold, sepulchral breath on the flesh of his exposed neck.

And in the moment that those terrible eyes broke contact, Harry acted with all the swiftness of his
Quidditch-honed reflexes.

"*LUMOS*!"

As the incantation left Harry's lips, a beam of light burst from his wand-tip, striking the
fiend's face like the slash of a saber. A scream like the cry of a damned soul reverberated
from the alley walls as his demonic head jerked back whip-like. In a single eye-blurring motion,
Harry snatched his wand from his enemy's grasp, flung himself to one side and sprang to his
knees. Giving the other no time to recover, Harry drew a sharp breath and thrust his wand before
him.

"*IMPEDIMENTA*!"

The spell smote the other like a clenched fist, hurling him against the wall with a force that
would have reduced a human body to a shapeless pulp. The fiend staggered, stunned by the impact of
the blow, and a mocking smile curled Harry's lip.

"*ACCIO PENDANT*!" Harry cried, pointing his wand in the direction where he knew it
lay. The talisman leaped into his hand, and he balled his fist around it as his opponent turned
once more to face him, his midnight eyes blazing with unexpressable hatred.

Harry sprang to his feet now, watching his foe warily. If he struck now, the other's inhuman
speed and agility might enable him to dodge the spell. Recalling his training exercises, Harry
stood poised, waiting for his enemy to make the first move. Nor was he long in the waiting. The
dark fiend exploded into motion like a bolt of black lightning --

"*REDUCTO*!"

So swift was the attack that the creature's claws were nearly at Harry's throat when the
spell struck home. But being in mid-strike, the fiend could not twist out of the way, and the Curse
smote him in the midsection like a battering ram. Had that spell gone amiss, it would have punched
a hole in the alley wall large enough for a centaur to gallop through. A human body would have been
rent into bloody shards that would scarcely have made a meal for Hagrid's great boarhound,
Fang. But the body it had struck was far from human. Stunned and disoriented, the dark figure
staggered back, his obsidian eyes unfocused, his lank hair falling about his narrow, predatory
shoulders.

Giving no respite, Harry jerked his wand commandingly at the walls on either side. The bricks
reached out, forming giant hands that closed around the black-caped figure in a stony, unyielding
grip.

It was Harry's first mistake of the night, and his last. As he looked on with stunned
helplessness, his enemy's body dissolved into a cloud of smoky mist that flowed through the
stony fingers, which rasped against each other impotently with a sound like millstones grinding
poisoned wheat in the devil's granary. The dark cloud rose in a sort of slow mockery, rising up
beyond the edge of the roof framing the alley's narrow flanks. It hung for a moment, in aspect
not unlike a huge, spectral bat, obscuring the stars directly overhead. Then it was gone, leaving
Harry to stare upward in impotent frustration.

His Auror training asserting itself, Harry recovered on the instant. Time enough for recriminations
later. He raced to the end of the alley and bent over the motionless form of Geoffrey. Blood was
spurting fearfully from the wounds in the wizard's neck, implying that a main artery had been
breached. Even in the unnatural light of the oculus spell, Harry could see that the wizard was
white as a ghost, excepting the horrific splashes of crimson painting his neck and shoulder.
Uncertain whether a blood-coagulating spell would work quickly enough on so deep a wound, he jerked
out his pocket handkerchief and pressed it against Geoffrey's neck. There were times when
Muggle methods worked as well as magic, if not better.

As he concentrated on staunching the flow of life from Geoffrey's body, Harry scarcely heard
the staccato of faint pops at the mouth of the alley announcing the Apparation of an undetermined
number of wizards. So intent was he on his task that he did not even look up when he heard his own
name being called out.

"Harry?" came the cautious voice of Remus. "Are you in there?"

"Hurry!" Harry called out at last, his nerves humming with the onset of panic. "I
need help! It's Geoffrey!"

Remus Lupin bounded around the corner, followed closely by Clotworthy. Both had lighted their
wands, and Clotworthy's bulldog face was a mask of ill-suppressed anxiety.

"Where's me mate?" the old MLE wizard demanded. He played the beam of light from his
wand toward Harry, who cried out as the light hit his sensitized eyes, which he promptly squeezed
shut.

"What happened, Harry?" Remus said as Clotworthy elbowed past him and sank to his knees
with a sob, his hammy fingers catching up his partner's cold, limp hand and wringing it in an
almost fatherly manner.

"I got a signal," Harry said distantly, his eyes still shut tight against the beam of
light from Remus' wand. "There was no one here. I had to go in alone. But bugger that.
Geoffrey needs help, and fast."

Remus leaned in close, then looked up at Harry.

"You're doing the right thing, Harry. Keep applying pressure. We can't move him until
the bleeding is controlled."

"Where were you?" Harry asked. "Why didn't you arrive ahead of me?"

"I didn't know there was trouble until Clotworthy signalled for an Obliviator," Remus
said. He was now ministering to the MLE witch, probing for signs of life with his wand. The collar
of her blouse had been torn away, but the stretch of neck revealed was devoid of mark or wound.
Nodding to himself, he sent a mild Invigorating Spell through her, and she moaned softly as he
proceeded to examine her for injuries. "I should have received a signal the same time you
did," he said. "I don't understand."

"Maybe it all happened too quickly," Harry said, shaking his head. "She might have
been trying to signal you when she was attacked, and the spell got skewed and signalled me instead.
I seriously doubt that Geoffrey had time to do anything."

"But if you suspected that something was off kilter," Remus asked quietly, "why
didn't *you* signal the Ministry before you went in?"

This soft remonstrance cut Harry to the heart. "I don't know," he said faintly.

Following a tense silence, Remus turned back to the witch and grunted softly.

"Her amulet is gone."

"What?" Harry said vacantly.

"Her amulet is gone. Does Geoffrey still have his?"

"I didn't notice," Harry replied, grimacing at his handkerchief, which was now soaked
with Geoffrey's blood. But, praise Merlin, the flow seemed to be abating at last. In another
minute he should be able to apply a proper Coagulating Charm.

"That's quite odd, don't you think?" Remus said.

"What?" Harry said, not attending Remus' words.

"Mr. Suggins and his partner here gave every appearance of being ordinary Muggles," Remus
said. "Yet their attacker wasted no time in despoiling them of their amulets. How could he
have known they were wearing them unless he knew who and what they were from the first?"

Having no answer, Harry remained silent as he continued to work over Geoffrey.

"In addition," Remus said, "I personally enchanted everyone's coins so that I
would be the first person signalled. The spell would have to be reconfigured specifically to signal
either you or Tonks. If the attack happened so quickly that there was time to send only one signal,
how is it, then, that *you* were signalled and I was *not*?"

Again, Harry had no answer, and neither, it seemed, did Remus.

Remus rose, leaving the witch stretched out on the alley floor, her head resting on a makeshift
pillow composed of Remus' cloak. He knelt opposite Clotworthy, who was shaking silently with
grief as he continued to wring his partner's hand.

"How is she?" Harry asked, still not lifting his head, as Remus' wand was still
lighted.

"Not a mark on her," Remus said. "I'd say she was simply placed under mental
control and commanded to sleep. That would be easy enough to accomplish once her pendant was
removed. A vampire weakened by hunger would limit himself to a simple command that wouldn't
require much force of will. I imagine the same thing happened to Geoffrey. Apart from the obvious
wounds, I don't see any marks on him -- unlike you."

Harry supposed that he bore a few odd bruises and scratches from his scuffle with his opponent. He
was glad that he could not open his eyes to look into Remus' face. He was certain that he would
behold only reproach in the elder wizard's eyes for what was obviously a botched mission.

"He must have been ravenous," Remus observed distantly. "He chose the larger prey,
no doubt needing to indulge to a greater degree. A vampire will sometimes take his victim with him
and drain him over a period of time. The myth of the weaker prey being at greater risk is just
that. It's fortunate for Geoffrey that you arrived when you did."

"Can you hold this for me?" Harry asked, indicating the bloody handkerchief. When Remus
had substituted his hand for Harry's, the latter stood away from the light and removed the
Night Vision Charm from his eyes. Turning back, he said, "Okay -- take it away." Remus
withdrew the handkerchief. A few droplets of blood appeared on Geoffrey's neck, gleaming redly
in the wandlight. Harry touched his wand-tip to the nearest puncture and said,
"*Coagulus*!" He repeated the spell on the other mark. No more blood seeped from the
wound, and Harry sighed with relief.

"Give it to me straight, lad," Clotworthy said now. "How is he?"

Feeling Geoffrey's neck, Harry said, "His pulse is thready. He's lost a lot of blood.
If it wasn't for good old Muggle know-how, we'd have lost him."

"If I remember rightly from my days teaching Defense Against the Dark Arts," Remus said,
"vampire saliva impedes coagulation. You may have saved his life with your quick action,
Harry."

Harry saw tears of gratitude flowing freely from Clotworthy's eyes, running like rivers along
the lines seaming his weathered face. Turning toward Remus, Harry said, "As it is, he needs a
blood replacement potion, and immediately. We need to make up a stretcher and get him to St.
Mungo's straightaway."

"Here," came a gentle voice from behind Clotworthy's bulk.

All eyes turned to see Hermione, who was pointing her wand at a hovering stretcher that she had
obviously just conjured. Harry and Remus each took one of Geoffrey's arms while Clotworthy
grasped his legs, and they eased him onto the stretcher while Hermione looked on with the
beginnings of tears in her eyes. Turning away, she conjured another stretcher for the witch, who
was placed thereon by Harry and Remus. Negating his Lumos spell, Remus directed his wand at the
stretchers as both Harry and Hermione ignited their wands. With a nod at Harry, he flicked his
wand, and both he and the stretchers vanished with a soft *pop*. Clotworthy looked mournfully
at the empty place where Geoffrey's stretcher had been, as if he wished to have gone along to
ensure that his friend and partner received the care he was due. But duty prevailed, and he turned
stolidly toward Harry and Hermione, his cheeks shining wetly in the wandlight.

"I modified the witnesses' memories," Hermione said as the three walked toward the
mouth of the alley. Now that the crisis was past, they would follow procedure and walk to the
nearest safe house before Apparating to the Ministry to make out their reports. "They were
coming from a party, and they'd had a bit to drink. They probably would have forgotten all
about it by morning."

Harry did not reply. His eyes were shadowed, and he avoided looking at either of his companions. He
was staring at the blood on his hands.

"Did yer reckon him out?" Clotworthy asked anxiously. "The bloke what done
it?"

Harry shook his head slowly. "I didn't recognize him. But it doesn't matter, does it?
How many vampires can there be in London?"

"This'd be a new one," Clotworthy said as he wiped his eyes with the heel of his
mallet-like hand. "MLE has a registry of known vampires, along with werewolves an' zombies
an' ghouls an' such. We know where they're buried, an' ain't none of 'em
gone missing. So we suck it up an' start from square one." He barked a short, grim laugh
at his joke. "Shame yer didn't reckon him out, though. Might'a helped us track him
down. Like the old sayin' goes, 'Better the devil ye know.'" He shrugged his broad
shoulders stoically. "We'll nail the bugger next time. An' if Geoffrey don't make
it through, I'll drive the stake in with me own hands an' dance on the bloody bastard's
face, you mark me if I don't!" He slapped the pouch underneath his coat with a resounding
thump. Harry responded with a nod and an inarticulate grunt.

"Still and all," Hermione said as she regarded Harry with shrewd eyes, "it *is*
a shame you didn't get a good look at him. But I suppose it was too dark to see
properly."

"Yeah," Harry said. "But like Clotworthy said, we'll get him next
time."

Hermione nodded slowly, and Harry had the distinct impression that she was not buying his story as
readily as Clotworthy seemed to have. Hermione had known Harry too long for him to fool her easily.
He was sure she must have seen him wince at the light from Remus' wand and suspected that he
was seeing by virtue of a Night Vision Charm. Summoning his best stoic mask, he said,
"Let's get back and make out our reports while the details are still fresh."

Hermione nodded again, saying nothing, but continuing to look at him in a manner that disturbed him
more profoundly than had the cold, black eyes of his undead enemy.


*


Harry slid Hermione's chair back from the table in gentlemenly fashion, extending his hand as
he did so. Hermione rose smoothly, tossing her hair back from her shoulders with a casual elegance
that made Harry's heartrate double. His eyes caressed her shoulders and neck with near vampiric
savor (which task he would have preferred his hands to perform, followed by his lips).

*Don't push*, he thought as Hermione's brilliant smile turned his knees weak. *Let
her make the first move*.

She did -- though it proved to be other than Harry had hoped. When Hermione had not-so-subtly
declared that she did not have to work the following day, Harry's imagination had run away with
him like a stampede of blood-crazed thestrals. With Hermione's hand pressed into his, he'd
envisioned her leading him to his bedroom for the long-delayed night of passion that had haunted
his fancy for more than five years now. Instead, she led him to the couch, seating herself as she
released Harry's hand and crossing her legs seductively. The slitted skirt of her evening dress
had the effect of making her legs seem long and sultry well out of proportion with her diminutive
height, and if her plunging neckline were any deeper, he was sure it would have showed off her
knickers. What it *did* reveal was enough to make his blood boil in his veins like potion in a
white-hot cauldron. If his eyes bugged out any farther, anyone who did not know him might easily
have mistaken him for a member of the Lovegood family.

"That," Hermione purred contentedly as Harry seated himself next to her with as much
decorum as he could manage, "was an excellent meal. I don't think even the Golden Unicorn
could have served a Beef Wellington as good as that," she praised, naming the most exclusive
wizard restaurant in London. With a raised eyebrow and a wry grin, she teased, "I didn't
know they delivered."

"I'll have you know I worked all day on that dinner," Harry said with an aristocratic
toss of his head. Relaxing into a smile, he confessed, "I nearly went round the bend at least
a dozen times when I thought I'd mucked up one phase or another, but it all turned out well in
the end."

"You have a gift for understatement," Hermione smiled warmly. "It was
magnificent." With a small giggle, she said, "I don't recall you being that fond of
spinach when it turned up on the dinner table at Hogwarts."

"I fancy a *lot* of things now that I didn't when I was eleven," Harry smiled,
his eyes remaining fixed on Hermione's only with the greatest of efforts.

A bottle of chardonnay sat on the table before them, and Harry produced two crystal goblets from
thin air and filled them.

"What shall we drink to?" Hermione said thoughtfully.

Harry pondered a moment before extending his glass.

"To love," he said softly.

Blushing to match the wine in her glass, Hermione echoed, "To love."

By the time the bottle before them was more empty than full, Harry had resigned himself that
Hermione's remark concerning their lack of time restraint was limited to verbal play only. Not
that that was unsatisfying of itself. They had a lot of catching up to do after their three-year
separation, and they took turns as narrator and audience as the night flew on swift wings toward
the too-quickly-arriving morning.

Obeying an unspoken accord, neither broached the subject of work. There was little in the way of
cheer to be mined there. Despite the best efforts of the Healers at St. Mungo's, Geoffrey had
died of his wounds the following day. He'd lost too much blood upon arrival, and some
supernatural agent in his attacker's saliva had prevented the wound from healing properly, not
unlike the magical wound Arthur Weasley had received at the Ministry during Harry's fifth year
at Hogwarts.

Having died as a result of a vampire bite, Geoffrey would now rise himself as a vampire at sunset,
and the Ministry had acted swiftly in accordance with procedure. He was spirited away clandestinely
and placed in a sealed coffin which was then sunk into the Thames. (Vampires could not rise if
running water flowed above them.) While they could have destroyed him at need, that need was not
yet. He would be restored whole upon the destruction of him whose bite had transformed him. Thus
did the urgency of Operation: Shadow (which was the standard classification for search-and-destroy
missions involving vampires) increase tenfold. But, lacking the manpower needed to intensify their
pursuit, Auror and MLE divisions could do no more than chafe at the bit and bide their time until
the vampire's feeding cycle came around again. Thus did Harry and Hermione find themselves now,
wasting no time nor worry on events beyond their control. Hour upon hour they talked, embracing the
waning night with hearts as pure as their adversary's was black.

The first rays of dawn found the pair sleeping, Harry with his shoulder on the arm of the couch as
Hermione's head lay in his lap. Hermione slept soundly in the arms of Bacchus, but Harry
managed only brief naps. He awakened any number of times, his senses alert for danger. Each time he
relaxed as he felt Hermione's weight and warmth against him. He would lay a hand upon her head,
touch her shoulder and arm hestitantly, as if reassuring himself that she was really there and not
a phantom of his imagination, and drift off again. His last waking thoughts were always of
Hermione. Of how much he loved her. Of how he had ached to hold her every minute of their
three-year separation. And, unavoidably, he could not forestall The Dream. He'd suffered it any
number of times since her departure, but it was in the last year that it had come to plague him
mercilessly. He grimaced in his sleep, his body tensing, jerking, shivering.


*


"Let her go, Voldemort!" Harry shouted. "Your fight is with *me*!"

"So it is," Voldemort agreed as he regarded Harry coldly with his slitted red eyes.
"And *she* is part of *you*. When I hurt *her*, the pain is *yours*. And
when I *kill* her, it is *you* who will die. If your body live on for a thousand years
beyond this night, yet you will be dead for every heartbeat of that millenium. And that knowledge
will bring me joy beyond measure."

Harry shook with helpless rage. Voldemort sat before him on a rude throne, compiled from the
tombstones of the graveyard wherein he and his adversary were poised to end their 17-year conflict
once and for all time. They were alone, Harry, Voldemort -- and Hermione. She was not aware of
this, nor of her own plight, for which Harry was grateful. But she was in no less peril for
that.

Employing his peripheral vision, Harry could see his friends and allies on the outer edges of the
cemetery. Their faces were anxious, worried, frustrated. Well they might be. The cemetery in Little
Hangleton was surrounded by a barrier of a might to shrug off the power of a Muggle atomic bomb.
Erected by Dark magicks unsuspected by the most learned sorcerers, and powered by blood sacrifices
of unspeakable description, it was proof against even the mightiest spells of Albus Dumbledore,
arguably the greatest wizard of the age. Dumbledore, Mad-Eye Moody, Kingsley Shacklebolt, Remus
Lupin, all looked on in mute horror, powerless to help Harry against Voldemort.

Harry stood before Voldemort, his mind striving desperately for a course of action, and finding
none. His eyes shifted back and forth between his enemy and the woman who was his life. Ever and
again his eyes fell on the ornate silver pendant hanging at a drunken angle from Hermione's
neck, and Harry would curse himself anew.

He had purchased it in Hogsmeade the weekend following N.E.W.T.'s and presented it to Hermione
on the eve of graduation. He had no way of knowing that the merchant in question was a Death Eater
in Voldemort's service, nor that the pendant had been Cursed in a manner that would become
apparent all too swiftly. Harry had watched in horror as Hermione screamed the moment he placed the
pendant around her neck, vanishing before his eyes a moment later even as the echo of her screams
reverberated from his Head Boy chamber. Immediately there came a voice, serpentine and icy,
commanding Harry to leave the Hogwarts grounds on pain of never seeing Hermione again. This he had
done without question, leaving under cover of his Invisibility Cloak. A black mist had crept over
him the moment he stepped across the invisible line marking the boundary of the school grounds,
blocking out the light of the stars. When it departed, Harry was no longer in Hogsmeade. He was
here, in the cemetery on the outskirts of Little Hangleton.

He found Voldemort sitting benignly on his mocking throne of limestone and granite. The Dark Lord
ignored the wand Harry pointed at him.

"Before you Curse me, Harry -- watch!"

To Harry's amazement, Voldemort produced a pendant from the neck of his robes. A swift glance
revealed it to be identical to that worn by Hermione. Voldemort touched the tip of his wand to the
pendant and purred, "*Crucio*!"

A scream of pain rang out. Harry whirled, and he saw Hermione behind him and to his left. She was
hanging from an iron ring set in a mausoleum facade, suspended by manacles linking her wrists. Her
body was jerking savagely, as if in the grip of the Curse just escaped from Voldemort's lips.
But he had not touched her!

"The pendants the Mudblood and I wear are brothers in magic, Harry," Voldemort said.
"Even as the wands you and I wield. Whatever Curse you hurl at me, though it brush no more
than the hem of my robes, will be imparted to her by reason of our pendants. So...attack me,
Harry...if you dare."

Harry wheeled, his only thought to run to Hermione and tear the pendant from her neck. Voldemort
laughed again.

"The pendant she wears cannot be removed so long as mine remains upon my person. Do so and she
will die. But -- you are more than welcome to remove *mine* -- if you can."

"How do I know you're not lying?" Harry demanded. But deep down, he knew it was no
lie. Hermione had sunk back into unconsciousness, and Harry turned back to face Voldemort.

Harry's wand was in his hand. He fingered it instinctively, and Voldemort laughed.

"Curse me, Harry. Strike me down! You know you want to. You know you want to make me suffer in
payment for all the suffering I have heaped upon *you*!" He laughed again, a sound to
chill the blood in Harry's veins.

Harry trembled with frustration. He could, of course, use a more passive spell in lieu of a
dangerous one. A Stunning Spell, a Body-Bind -- something harmless to Hermione that would yet
subdue his foe. But Voldemort's smugness was testimony that he was no doubt surrounded by a
personal shield that would easily deflect any lesser spell. A stronger spell could penetrate that
barrier, Harry was certain; a personal shield was limited in scope by its very nature, no matter
its conjurer's prowess. Harry had mastered many dark and potent magicks in Defense Against the
Dark Arts in his pre-Auror training, any one of which would doubtless serve him now. But any spell
powerful enough to breach Voldemort's defenses would echo through the magical ether and find
Hermione's pendant. And if Voldemort's inhuman body might yet withstand such a spell,
Hermione's frail form could not. It was a risk he dared not take.

Effecting a bored attitude a Roman emperor would have coveted, Voldemort said with casual
amusement, "The Mudblood's pendant is not bonded to her flesh, merely to her soul. You
have but to walk over and remove it and I will be powerless to threaten her. Oh, but I forgot. You
cannot remove her pendant until you have first removed mine.

"Or perhaps I am lying when I say that the pendant cannot be removed. As you have no doubt
learned, I cannot always be trusted to speak the truth. There is a simple way to find out. Go and
remove the pendant from her neck. I will not stop you." And saying this, Voldemort lowered his
wand.

Harry very nearly believed this latest taunt. It was typical of the Dark Lord to hold out hope like
a carrot on a stick, savoring the moment when he could jerk it away with savage glee. How many
steps would Harry take toward Hermione before he would feel the bite of a Curse between his
shoulders? He could imagine his fingers just close enough to touch Hermione's pendant as the
Cruciatus surged through him, sending him into paroxysms of pain, leaving him writhing at
Hermione's feet, helpless, while Voldemort's laughter rang in his tortured ears.

All things considered, he was more inclined to believe the earlier promise that Hermione's
pendant could not be removed until Voldemort was deprived of his.

"I would advise you to choose a course of action quickly, Harry," Voldemort said in an
inhuman purr. "If you stand, or run, or fight, it will matter not at all. Either way, I
*will* kill you."

Harry knew these were the truest words ever to fall from Voldemort's serpentine tongue. One way
or another, he must act.

*Someone help me*, Harry screamed silently in the depths of his soul. *Please, someone show
me the way*.

Voldemort laughed softly, enjoying Harry's indecision as a demented child might savor the
helpless flutterings of a butterfly trapped in a glass jar. But suddenly the Dark Lord's
laughter broke. His red eyes shifted, his spare figure rose up on his rude throne like a snake
uncoiling. Clearly he had seen something, or heard, or sensed. Harry had detected nothing. Was this
a trick, a ruse to tempt him, Harry, to act?

Then Harry heard it. A low growl, savage, feral. He spun about, and he nearly cried out.

A gigantic black dog was hunched at the perimeter of the cemetery. It loped forward like a stalking
wolf, its eyes blazing. A *grim*? Harry thought disbelievingly. Were there really such things?
Ron had claimed that his Uncle Bilius had seen a true Grim, and died shortly thereafter. If this
*were* a Grim, whose death did its presence portend -- Harry's and Hermione's, or
Voldemort's? Given the circumstances, there seemed little doubt. Harry steeled himself,
determined to die defying his foe rather than humbled before him.

Voldemort's slitted eyes were riveted on the dog as it approached. Startled at first, the Dark
Lord smiled now.

"Very good, Potter. Very good. McGonagall taught you well. I daresay even that fool Dumbledore
could not have conjured so convincing a Grim. He *was* a good Transfiguration teacher in his
day -- even if he was also a weak fool." Appraising the Grim, he said, "Yes, very
convincing. Pity it hasn't the true properties of the genuine article." Pointing his wand,
Voldemort said lazily, "*Reducto*!"

A bolt of energy that could have punched a hole in a stone wall struck the black dog full in the
chest -- but instead of piercing the beast and spilling its insides on the withered grass, the
spell went through it as if it were made of smoke and exploded a tombstone directly behind it.
Voldemort's eyes expanded not a moment behind Harry's. Then the Dark Lord's smile
returned.

"No transfiguration, then, but illusion! I should have praised Flitwick and not McGonagall.
Your magic *is* impressive, Harry. You might have made a fine Auror. You might even be worthy
to have served *me*. Alas, I think you will not live long enough to prove my prediction either
way."

Voldemort's wand spoke again. A black cloud enveloped the giant dog. Harry recognized the spell
from Advanced Charms, one designed to smother and absorb illusions. The cloud began to dissipate
almost immediately -- and a sharp exhalation passed Voldemort's fleshless lips. The dog had not
been swallowed up, nor affected in any way. On it came -- and Harry now saw that it was making
straight for Voldemort.

Indecision flickered in Voldemort's crimson eyes. Seeing this, Harry found himself calmed
somehow, his own decisiveness sharpened. He tensed, waiting for an opening he might exploit.

"No," Voldemort muttered. "No. Back, you hell-spawn. Back!"

With a thundering growl, the dog leaped. Though its body had been as mist to Voldemort's
attacking spell, its jaws were solid now as they clamped hard on the Dark Lord's throat.
Voldemort screamed, hurling back and off his makeshift throne. There was a muffled explosion, and
the dog was hurled through the air as if it were stuffed with cotton wool. It landed on its feet
like a ghost, unfazed, its eyes glowing with a hellish intelligence that was more fearsome than its
demonic appearance. It turned to stare at Harry. It's eyes pierced his. There was something
familiar about those eyes. But -- it *couldn't* be!

"*Sirius*?" Harry gasped. The great dog nodded once, and as it did so, something
dangling from its jaws glinted dully in the moonlight. Voldemort saw this as well. His hand went to
his throat in search of his pendant, and found only bare, snake-like flesh. He wheeled, his wand
before him, uncertain whether to point it at the dog or at Harry. He chose the second path, and in
the moment when his eyes met Harry's, the dog leaped.

Harry exploded into action. In three bounds he was before Hermione. He tore the pendant from her
neck and cast it into the darkness. The shackles binding her wrists had no doubt been magically
locked. Dispensing with subtlety, Harry blasted the chain linking the manacles. Hermione slid down
the stone wall, and Harry caught her with his left arm. He spun about, pressing his back to the
cool stone. He touched his wand to Hermione's bosom and said,
"*Ennervate*!"

Hermione awoke sluggishly. She became aware of the strong arm supporting her.

"H-Harry? Wh-where are we?"

"I'll explain later," Harry said quickly. "Can you stand?"

For answer, Hermione set her feet. She found they would support her, and Harry felt her weight
relax against his arm. She was about to look up at Harry when her eyes were drawn to the scene
before her.

"What's...what's happening?" She blinked, not believing the scene unfolding
before her. Voldemort was circling a gigantic black dog, hurling Curses at it that shattered
tombstones and splintered trees, but had no effect on the form of his stalker. Harry wondered why
the dog was not attacking outright, as it had before. The answer soon became plain. The dog's
body was becoming translucent. Harry could see through it as if it were composed of smoky fog. Even
as he watched, the dog faded. But before it vanished forever, it cast a soul-piercing look at Harry
that touched Hermione as well.

"Harry? Is that -- Sirius?"

But before Harry could answer, the place where the dog had stood was empty. Slowly, more like a
beast than a man, Voldemort turned his face toward Harry. His inhuman eyes blazed with hatred.
Harry's arm tightened once more around Hermione, not for support, but for reassurance.

"Ready?" he said, his green eyes regarding her peripherally as they locked on
Voldemort.

Hermione reached instinctively for her wand, and Harry was as surprised as she when her hand
emerged with the instrument. In his supreme arrogance, Voldemort had not bothered to deprive her of
it. Together, they would make him pay for his hubris.

"Ready," she said resolutely.


*


Harry woke with a start, sweat beading his face. The dream ended as it always did, before the
actual duel that had ended Voldemort's mockery of life for all time. But there was a difference
this time. Before, he was left with a hollow ache inside, one that the rising sun could not wholly
fill...an emptiness inside him that could be filled by only one person. But this time, unlike the
others, Hermione was not just a ghost of a memory. She was here, her body warm against his. He
reached out and caressed her hair, which was tangled and unkempt -- and, to Harry, more beautiful
than the gleaming mane of the proudest centaur in the Forbidden Forest.

"I nearly lost you that night," Harry breathed. "I did lose you, after a fashion,
when you went to France. But I won't lose you again."

He bent and kissed her hair. Hermione stirred briefly but did not wake. Harry lay back on the couch
and closed his eyes again. And in his last waking moments, a face filled his mind's eye. But,
unlike so many times past, it was not the face of the Dark Lord that hovered before him. Nor was it
Hermione's face, nor that of Sirius, whether human or canine. It was the face that had bent
over him in the alley two nights ago. The face of the dark creature whose fangs had sought the
flesh of his neck to draw the blood therefrom. A face with eyes black as midnight...a long, thin
face, with sallow skin and a predatory hooked nose, its features twisted into a grimace of deepest
hatred and loathing.

"Snape," Harry hissed as sleep overtook him at last.


***


**Author's Note:** I feel I should offer an explanation to those kind readers who wish to
see chapters posted more quickly. While it is true that this story was written months ago, it is
also true (to my everlasting shame) that I am guilty of some of the greatest blunders in the
history of fanwriting. When I review each chapter before posting, I invariably find holes so gaping
that the Hogwarts Express could roll through them without so much as scraping its smokestack. The
last two chapters alone are (or were) guilty of gaffes so heinous that it's all I can to to
refrain from smacking myself senseless in disgust. So please forgive me if I invest my off-days
each week in the task of hammering these chapters into something worth posting on this excellent
site. The bar is set pretty high here, and I only hope I can make it into the medal round.
(It's the last day of the Olympics, so the analogy is still valid.)

Also, I pray the readers' indulgence if I disappointed anyone who wanted to see exactly how
Harry and Hermione defeated Voldemort here. There are only so many ways to pull that off in even a
remotely believable manner, and even if I WERE clever enough to devise such a way, it would
necessarily divert the focus of this story from its intended purpose. That's not to say I
won't have a bash at some future date, but alas, today is not that day.

Thanks to everyone for all the kind words for what has gone before. I promise to work as hard as I
can to deserve a few of them, at least.

**Note From Fae Princess:**I know that I should probably keep this short -- but there are just
so many things I'm dying to say! I'll try to restrain myself from thanking each reviewer
individually -- some of you are just so damn perceptive! (Oh, you know that I'm talking about
you, **danielerin**). And thank you very much, **TheRavenAbraxas** for your warm sympathy.
I'm feeling much better now and I'm thrilled to learn that you have a love for
vampires/werewolves as well. I'm a big fan of "Interview w.a Vampire" as well as
"Bram Stoker's Dracula". (I've read the book, but I confess to being a definite
Dracula/Mina shipper). And yet there are some Dracula movies that I'm NOT fond of. (Van
Helsing, anyone?)

Anyway, see you all next week! (And thanks for reading, everyone!)



8. Promises
-----------

**Note From Fae Princess:** Thanks to everyone who reviewed last time. As for this chapter,
you probably won't see as much action in it as you did last time. **davaca**, you've
been warned! And if you complain about it, I'll sic Remus on you to perform a Silencing Charm.
^_^ I'd do it myself, but my hands are sort of tied with keeping Harry's hands off of
Hermione (the horny prat). Anyway, enjoy the chapter everyone!


***


Harry awoke with a start, springing to his feet as he reached for his wand. It was not in his
pocket, and for the briefest of moments his Auror instincts kicked in so that he tensed like a cat
poised to spring. A moment later, he remembered where he was -- and with whom -- and relaxed.

But as to that last -- where *was* Hermione? The place on the couch where she had sat sleeping
next to him was empty. The answer came immediately, reminding him why he had awakened in the first
place. The delicious aroma of bacon was wafting from the kitchen, accompanied now (with the full
awakening of his senses) by the familiar sizzling sound. Harry peered around the edge of the
doorway to find Hermione standing before the electric stove. She was wearing a bathrobe -- one of
his, he quickly noted -- and she was prodding what could only be bacon slices in Harry's
largest cast iron skillet. Harry was momentarily surprised that she had found so many of his
implements with such apparent ease after an absence of three years. But he remembered at once that
he had never been one to change a system that had proven itself over time. Everything in his flat
had been kept in the same exact place almost since the day he moved in, and Hermione's nigh
flawless memory had done the rest.

Nodding at the bacon in a satisfied manner, Hermione turned toward the refrigerator and opened it.
She closed the door with her bare foot, her hands balancing four eggs. Looking up, she saw Harry
and smiled.

"Scrambled, right?" she said, her tone certain despite the inquisitive inflection.
Without waiting for Harry to reply, Hermione cracked the eggs into a bowl sitting on the short
counter shouldering the sink (everything in the cramped little kitchen was by definition either
small or short, if not both). She caught up a wooden spoon and began to beat the eggs mercilessly.
"Go ahead and shower," she said without removing her eyes from her task. "Breakfast
should be ready when you finish up."

There being no cogent reply to that statement, Harry turned toward the bathroom, one hand fumbling
with the buttons of his shirt, the other rubbing the back of his stiff neck contemplatively.

The hot water on his face and chest relaxed Harry even as it sharpened his senses. The first
thought that came to mind was a wish that he hadn't slept quite so long, that Hermione's
awakening had roused him as well (a fine Auror he, to sleep on unawares when she had awakened
beside him -- though perhaps, his vanity argued, he could place a fair measure of the blame on the
wine). With a wolfish smile, he imagined the look on Hermione's face had he stepped into the
shower just after her. Surprised? Unquestionably. Pleased? Uncertain, but, given the last few days,
entirely possible.

Aroused?

He grunted, his eyes angling downward as he turned off the tap mechanically. A thought like that
was likely to get him into trouble at the breakfast table, Muggle clothing being far less adept at
hiding certain parts of the male anatomy than loose-fitting wizards' robes.

His hair still damp (his wand was still in the parlor, and he didn't trust himself not to set
his hair alight by attempting a Drying Charm by hand with his mind occupied by "other
matters"), Harry pulled on a rumpled shirt and a pair of faded jeans and exited his bedroom.
Rounding the corner, he found the table where they had dined the night before laden with a
breakfast that made his stomach growl in anticipation. The plate of bacon was abetted by another
filled with hash brown potatoes. His eggs sat on his plate, shouldered by two squares of buttered
toast. Hermione was filling a glass with orange juice. She drew the pitcher back and,
straightening, spied Harry.

"Perfect timing," she said. "If you'd been this punctual in school, I'd
never have had to nag you as much as I did."

"Oh, you'd have found plenty of other reasons," Harry grinned as he sat down
informally. Hermione joined him, and they both tucked in without delay. This meal proved decidedly
less formal than last night's dinner. It was a toss-up which of them was the more voracious,
and Harry smothered a grin behind a mouthful of egg and potatoes as Hermione attacked her breakfast
with a gusto Ron would have admired. It touched Harry beyond words that Hermione could abandon
pretense and decorum in his presence and "let her hair down," as the saying went. When
they were together, it was as if they were the only two people in the world. And that was exactly
how Harry liked it.

As the excellent breakfast gradually sated Harry's hunger, he found an appetite of a different
stripe asserting itself as he watched Hermione across the table. Whenever she would lean forward to
snatch a piece of bacon from the platter, or heft the pitcher to refill her glass, her robe would
part slightly, revealing the tempting inner curves of her milky breasts. A part of Harry wanted to
leap across the table, jerk open Hermione's robe, and feast on her feminine charms like a
starving wolf. He shifted nervously, grateful that the table hid his lower portion from
Hermione's sight, and wishing again for the obfuscating comfort of wizards' robes.

When the table was as desolate as a Gringotts vault beset by a horde of nifflers, Hermione
levitated the dishes to the sink and cleansed them with a wave of her wand. That done, she turned
to Harry, a guilty smile on her face.

"I was planning for us to spend the day together," she said apologetically. "But I
suddenly remembered that I promised my mum and dad that I'd spend today with *them*.
It's my first Saturday back and all, and they've arranged for their associates at the
Dental Clinic to handle their patients for them. I promised them the day I arrived, and,
well...being with you the last few days kind of drove it out of my mind."

This confession made Harry's spirits soar so high that it took all of his Auror training not to
allow his elation to show on his face. *Don't rush*, he told himself.

"I wouldn't have it any other way," Harry said. "If there's anyone who's
missed you as much as I have, it would be them. In fact, why don't you spend tomorrow with
them, too? I'll see you at work on Monday. We'll...have lunch together."

With an excited squeal, Hermione fell upon Harry and kissed him. The softness of her
scarcely-concealed breasts against his chest was like a match flame touching a fuse, and he was
grateful when she pulled back, her face beaming, before that fuse could touch off the powder keg of
his long-suppressed desire. Spinning about, Hermione picked up the clothes she had worn the night
before, which hung across the back of the couch at drunken angles. As Tonks had vouchsafed at the
Ministry, Hermione had excellent taste in clothing, and, being Muggle-born, she exercised the
option to dress accordingly when occasion warranted. Harry's eyes lingered on the slinky dress,
the satin pumps, the filmy slip. The sight of the charcoal-colored stockings dripping from her
fingers like liquid smoke, and the matching pair of midnight-black bikini briefs, made his heart
skip a beat. If he'd imagined those hidden vestments in as much detail last night, he might not
have been responsible for his actions. Better -- far better, he thought devoutly -- that he had
*not* known.

"Thank you, Harry," Hermione said softly. With a smile illuminating her face like a
minature sun, she Disapparated.

"Not a moment too soon," Harry mumbled as his eyes fell to the front of his jeans, which
were on the verge of losing the battle against his impending arousal.

When his thoughts cleared, Harry was grateful for something else. Through the preceding night and
the following morning, Hermione had not said a word in regard to Harry's fearful encounter in
the alley two nights ago. That she suspected him of being less than truthful, both that night and,
later, in his report (which she could easily have read, a copy having been forwarded to MLE), he
did not doubt. One could sooner fool a robin into believing that December was May than deceive
Hermione.

But she knew. If she did not know everything, as was certain in his mind, still she knew too much.
She knew that Harry, his denials notwithstanding, had recognized the face of the vampire whose
fangs had nearly spilled his blood on the stones of that dark alley.

"Snape," Harry said.

How it had happened, he could not say, could not make the merest guess. But he was not mistaken.
The face of the vampire terrorizing London was that of Severus Snape, former Potions Master of
Hogwarts.

Did Dumbledore know, or at least suspect? Harry thought not. Surely the old wizard would have come
forth immediately when news of the attacks reached his ears. Unlike most of his fellows, Dumbledore
read the Muggle newspapers as well as the Daily Prophet, knowing that happenings of supernatural
import often lurked under the facade of Muggle newsprint. (It was Dumbledore's example that had
inspired Arthur Weasley to institute the same practice throughout the Ministry, not limiting it to
departments like MLE.) Dumbledore would surely have read about the attacks, and if he had suspected
the perpetrator's identity, he would have wasted no time in conveying his suspicions to the
Minister. Whatever excuses the one-time Potions Master had made for leaving Hogwarts must have
satisfied the Headmaster. It was probable -- indeed, a virtual certainty -- that Harry was the only
one who knew the truth. Any other who by ill fortune had seen the fiend's face had died ere
passing that news to another. No doubt Geoffrey knew, lying in his stone coffin under the flowing
waters of the Thames. But he would be doing no telling.

But Harry now wrestled anew with the quandry that had reared itself that night, and risen any
number of times in his thoughts and dreams in the days since. Having marked his enemy, he had made
no effort to enlighten his fellow Aurors, though that news would undoubtedly spell the swift end to
the threat stalking the London streets. Why had he kept the news to himself? In his heart, he knew.
He had thought it just now. *Swift end*.

"No," Harry grunted, his eyes slits of green fire. "No swift end for you, Snape.
After what you did to me..." Harry drew a long, slow breath, his body shivering as though a
chill breeze had swept the room through an open door. "After what you did to Sirius...you
don't die quickly. I'm going to make you pay, Snape. That's a promise. Merlin help me,
I'm going to make you suffer before you die.

"Before I kill you."


*


Monday at the Ministry proceeded without incident (notwithstanding a waffle iron confiscated by the
Misuse of Muggle Artifacts division that had run amuck and bit the nose off a witch from Wizengamot
Administration Services). Auror Division was biding its time, as was MLE. Tomorrow night another
task force would go forth in search of the vampire. That, at least, was the word on the memo sent
from Madam Bones and quoted by Kingsley Shacklebolt that very morning. For his part, Harry had
plans of his own, and any resemblance between them and official Ministry procedure was purely
incidental.

Harry sat in a chair within the confines (an appropriate description if ever Harry had seen one) of
Hermione's cubicle, which was smaller even than Harry's. She was just finishing up her
day's work before they both left for the day. Casting a wary eye about for any whose ears might
overhear his words, Harry said in a low, casual voice, "Has Madam Bones let you inside the
Situation Room yet?"

"No," Hermione replied as she touched her finished report with her wand and sent it
winging its way to the office of the director of MLE. "I'm a bit too far down on the totem
pole, I'm afraid."

"I think," Harry said carefully, "if I could get a look at the Situation Map, it
might help me with a theory I've been working on."

"Oh?" Hermione said, her interest piqued. "Have you told Kingsley?"

Harry sighed inwardly. It was precisely the sort of question Hermione could be expected to ask,
given her love of rules and procedure. "No," he replied, quoting from his prepared text.
"If I'm wrong, I'll look like a naive rookie -- which I am, of course," he added
with a smile, which Hermione returned. Withdrawing his smile promptly, Harry said, "I think
the pattern of the attacks is the key to bringing the house down around the bugger's ears. I
have access to our own situation board, but that's bloody useless here. With MLE in charge, all
we get is the details of the individual missions. The whole picture, along with any pattern it
might conceal, will be on the MLE board. If I could just get a look at it, I'd know if my
theory were valid, or just so much rubbish. If I'm right, it could mean a promotion. And if
I've missed the mark, no harm done. It all depends on what I find on the map."

Harry paused to let his words sink in. Hermione's eyes were deep and thoughtful.

"I don't suppose," Harry said with measured care, "you can get us into the MLE
Situation Room so I can have a look at the map?"

Harry paused again. The Quaffle was now in Hermione's quadrant of the pitch. Would she grab it
and dart for the goal rings? Or would she bat it back in his face with a metaphorical Beater's
bat like a rogue Bludger?

Hermione's eyes drifted slowly across the offices, easily visible over the partition of her
cubicle. Satisfied that they were unobserved, she allowed her eyes to fall on Harry, noting for the
first time that his robes were not quite so loose and flowing around his waist as they had been
during their lunch encounter. With a sly smile, she said in a low, conspiratorial voice, "It
might be possible. It would all depend on our not being seen, wouldn't it?"

Her smile sharpened, and Harry returned the gesture as his hands idly caressed the bulge which was
his Invisibility Cloak where it lay folded beneath his robes.

With a nod of comprehension, Hermione rose and leaned over the edge of her partition. A wizard sat
in the far corner of the chamber, his right hand nervously tapping the point of a quill upon his
desk. He appeared to be at least ten years older than Harry or Hermione. If Harry was any judge,
the wizard looked to be just senior enough to possess full security clearance. There was also a
definite vacuum about him, hinting that he was far from the sharpest spike on the portcullis.
Unlike Auror Division, MLE had a fair amount of desk-bound personnel in addition to field agents,
and the former resembled the latter only incidentally, rather like hedgehogs amongst knarls. Harry
sat back and watched in a detached manner, hiding his amusement behind his stoic Auror's mask,
as Hermione addressed her co-worker over her cubicle wall.

"Oh, Denis, would you do me a kindness?"

His air of vacant concentration evaporating, Denis stood up and smiled. "Anythin',
luv," he said. Harry swallowed a growl. Was every wizard in MLE flirting with Hermione?

"Would you pop into the Situation Room and see if Amelia left her umbrella in there? It looks
like rain, and she's been a bit forgetful lately. I'd check myself, but I'm not
authorized."

"Right y'are," Denis said smoothly (a bit too smoothly for Harry's liking).
"Be back in arf a mo'."

When Denis rose from his chair and exited his cubicle, Harry nodded to himself appreciatively
before turning and exchanging a smile with Hermione. The wizard could not have been a pennyweight
less than fifteen stone, which mass ill-suited a height approximating that of Hermione. The moment
Denis vanished around the corner, Harry jerked out his Cloak and flung it over his shoulders.
Blowing Hermione a kiss, he covered his head and loped invisibly after the rotund MLE
employee.

Standing at last before the magical guardian of the MLE Situation Room, Denis said in a clear
voice, "Denis Stobblehouse."

The face on the door came alive and looked him up and down before repeating, "Denis
Stobblehouse." As Harry expected, the door was compelled to open to its full width to
accomodate Denis' girth. Denis closed the door behind him, and Harry waited patiently. The
wizard reappeared a minute later, empty-handed, as Harry knew he would be. He had seen Madam Bones
any number of times entering on a rainy morning entirely dry, surrounded by a water-repelling
Charm; she had about as much use for an umbrella as Harry had for an instruction book on how to fly
a broomstick.

Now, as Denis exited the room, Hermione's shrewd plan would bear its fruit. A slim wizard, such
as Harry, standing in for Denis could have slipped out and closed the door in an instant, leaving
no space whereby another might enter unobtrusively. But Denis' girth required that he swing the
door wide before turning about to grasp the handle to push it closed. For a space of perhaps five
seconds, the doorway stood as wide and inviting as the Great Hall at Hogwarts. Thanking Merlin for
his rubber-soled shoes, Harry slipped easily through the opening before Denis closed the door
behind him.

Inside the room, Harry waited with the patience cultivated in him by three years of Auror training.
When Denis' heavy footfalls faded into silence, Harry listened intently until he heard light,
stealthy footsteps approach the door and stop before it.

"Harry?" Hermione whispered.

Pushing the door open a crack, Harry said softly, "Stand back." He saw her move to the
side, and he eased the door open. Peering around the edge, he saw that the rudimentary face on the
door was imobile and insensate. Nominally, it would come alive only by voice identification. Since
he was sure that it had not been enchanted to recognize someone as newly-hired as Hermione, it took
no notice of her, even though she had spoken in its presence. She could have stood there all night
announcing herself without getting so much as a flicker of response from the guardian of the
door.

There was, of course, a second course of action that would activate the Charmed door: forcible
entry. Hermione had wisely refrained from so much as touching the door with the hem of her robes.
As far as it was concerned, she did not exist. And, as had the door to the Situation Room in Auror
Division, it likewise took no note of Harry when he pushed it open to admit Hermione. He was, after
all, already inside; and as the door had detected no sign of forced entry, its limited intelligence
reasoned that he could only have entered by legitimate means. Harry was certain that whatever
magical defenses the door possessed had thus been completely circumvented. Moreover, the room bore
the requisite security spells standard in all such facilities (including a Soundproofing Spell and
an Imperturbable Charm), lest secret strategies fall upon unauthorized ears without the door. Once
inside, he and Hermione could speak freely without fear of being overheard from without. It was
perfect plan, executed with a cunning any of the Marauders would have applauded. Harry could almost
hear his godfather crowing, "Your dad would be proud of you, Harry." In a way, it was as
if Sirius himself were lending his hand to Harry's, an altogether fitting scenario in
Harry's judgment.

Harry eased the door closed as soon as Hermione was inside. They ignited a couple of torches with
their wands, after which Harry made straight for the Situation Map dominating the room. Like the
one in Auror Division, its surface was blank, its information carefully cloaked behind nigh
unbreakable concealment spells. This did not deter Harry. He did not fancy the Ministry as being
creative enough to use different secrecy spells on maps performing essentially the same task,
regardless of where they were placed. Having been cleared to enter his own division's Situation
Room, Harry knew the tricky rune which, drawn above the map with his wand, would reveal its
secrets. It should work as well on this map as on the one in his own division.

It did.

Harry and Hermione stared at the map in silent concentration. Hers was merely the product of her
intense thirst for knowledge; unlike Harry, she was not looking for anything specific.

"Look here," Harry said, pointing with his finger to five blood-red dots on the map of
London that had appeared on the broad parchment surface.

"Are those the scenes where the attacks took place?" she asked. Harry did not reply, the
answer being too obvious to require verification. "I can see why the going has been so
difficult. With so few attacks, and being so widely-spaced, it's difficult to make out a
pattern."

That was true enough, if only on the surface of things. London was a sprawling city, and the rough
circle formed by the five dots was many miles wide. Finding a Muggle adversary in that expanse
would have been difficult enough; running down a supernatural foe would be a nightmare. But Harry
was privvy to a subtext of which Hermione, and everyone else in either of their divisions, remained
ignorant. Using his finger (his wand likely to disturb the magical image in a way that might be
detected by MLE tomorrow), Harry traced imaginary lines across the map, crossing the surface again
and again.

"Yes," he muttered. "I knew it had to be."

"What?" Hermione said, regarding Harry intently. "Do you think you know something
that can help?"

Harry's expression closed as swiftly as a door slammed by a strong cross-wind. Hermione's
reaction was equally swift.

"What are you not telling me, Harry?" She paused, allowing him time to speak. When he did
not respond, she repeated, "What are you not telling me?"

There was nothing else for it. Out of respect -- and more, out of the love he felt for her -- he
could not dissemble further. She had asked a direct question, and he could do no less than answer
with equal directness.

"I know who the vampire is."

The roundness of Hermione's eyes revealed that she had, indeed, suspected this. But hearing the
admission from Harry's own lips was still a shock.

"Why didn't you tell me?" After a moment, she amended, "Why didn't you tell
Kingsley, or Madam Bones?" A chill played along Hermione's spine. The answer to that
question was undoubtedly rooted in the answer to *the* question. "Who is it?" she
asked in a distant, hollow voice.

Harry took a slow breath, steeling himself for the tempest he was sure his answer would
inspire.

"Snape."

Hermione's mouth fell open.

"You're certain? There's no possibility -- "

"I'm not mistaken," Harry said gravely. "It's him. I looked directly into
his eyes. It was Snape."

A sepulchral silence descended over the chamber. The flickering torchlight danced over two imobile
faces as over carven stone. The silence was broken at last by Hermione, in a ghostly voice that
rose scarcely above a whisper.

"Don't do it, Harry."

"How do you know what I intend to do?" Harry returned stiffly, instantly regretting his
brusque tone.

"I know you," Hermione said with forced calm. "I know how you were at Hogwarts. You
had that same look in your eye when you wanted to go off and fight Voldemort, and damn the
consequences -- and your friends." She regretted those last words instantly, but it was too
late to take them back. Harry turned slowly, his eyes smoldering emerald flame.

"I *could* tell you," he said evenly, "that I'm doing this to gain
promotion, just as I said earlier. That's what I'll tell Kingsley for the record, if it
comes to that. He might even believe me. Like most anyone in government, he's no stranger to
ambition. There's little enough opportunity to distinguish oneself nowadays, not like in
Kingsley's day when Voldemort and his Death Eaters were terrorizing the length and breadth of
Britain. And Tonks will back me up, since she got *her* promotion under similar circumstances
during Voldemort's second reign. But you deserve the truth."

Hermione stood perfectly still as Harry began to pace back and forth before the map of
London.

"You remember when we faced Voldemort for the last time." It was a statement rather than
a question. Hermione nodded. "You remember how Voldemort tricked you into wearing that Cursed
necklace." Another nod. "And even though you were unconscious at the time, you know how
and why Voldemort's plan failed."

"Sirius," Hermione said at last.

"Sirius," Harry said. "From beyond the Veil, he came back in the form of a Grim. He
tore the brother necklace from Voldemort's throat, kept him occupied long enough for me to free
you so we could face him together."

Hermione did not understand how this account applied to present circumstances. Harry saw the
bewilderment in her eyes. She thought for a moment that he was endeavoring to smile. If so, the
attempt bore no fruit.

"When it was all over," Harry resumed, "I put it out of my mind. Somehow, Sirius had
reached out from the Other Side to save you, and in so doing, save me, and the entire wizarding
world. It...was almost...closure. If I couldn't have Sirius back, at least I knew he was alive
and well, somewhere. I still would have given my right hand to have him back, as he was -- "
Harry stared at his open hand, remembering Wormtail severing his own right hand in the cause of
bringing Voldemort back. It was an action Harry would have duplicated in his turn without a
thought. "But after that night, I knew he was still watching over me...discharging his
godfatherly duties...honoring my parents' wishes.

"And then, just when I thought I'd made peace with it all...Dumbledore came to
me."

Hermione's attention sharpened. This was a new ingredient to an otherwise familiar
potion.

"Everyone had always assumed that Sirius was lost forever," Harry said. "No one
who'd gone through the portal had ever returned. Many had tried to go through the Veil to bring
a lost soul back. None ever returned, and after a time no one tried again.

"But Sirius' manifestation changed the equation. Being a dog-Animagus had allowed him to
project his spirit into a Grim and send it from the other world into ours. No one had ever done
such a thing. There were some who put forth theories about such things, but it was all just
pedantry -- until that night in Little Hangleton, when Sirius turned fancy into fact."

"A Grim can pass freely from one realm to the next," Hermione said distantly, as if
quoting text. "By 'thumbing a lift,' as it were, Sirius squeezed through the crack in
the door separating our two worlds. But a Grim's existence on this side of the barrier is
tenuous at best. Ultimately, it must return whence it came."

"Which means that Sirius couldn't stay in our world," Harry said. "But the very
fact that he returned at all, even for so brief a time, was proof that the barrier is *not*
impassable! It was always thought that the door only swung one way. But Sirius proved that night
that it *can* swing the other way. By passing through that night, he left the door ajar, so to
speak. But after that, there was nothing more he could do. Not from his side."

A light sprang into Hermione's eyes. "Dumbledore," she said. "He found a way? A
way to open the door from *our* side?"

"Yes," Harry said.

Hermione was startled to note the grimness in his voice. Should that not be good news? She knew
there was more to Harry's tale, nor was she long in the waiting for its revelation.

"Since that night," Harry said, "Dumbledore had been searching the world for a spell
he'd heard about from one of his professors at Hogwarts. This was more than 150 years ago, you
understand, so he could be forgiven if his memory wasn't as clear on the subject as might
be."

"But he found it at last," Hermione said tentatively.

"He found it," Harry said. "It was old magic, and dark in its way. It was a sort of
second cousin to the ceremony that brought Voldemort back. In order for it to work, it required
certain...sacrifices." Following an ominous pause, Harry said, "Like Voldemort's
resurrection spell, it required three participants. Each of them must contribute to the spell.
Eliminate any one..."

Harry did not have to go on. Hermione asked, "Whom did the ceremony require to bring Sirius
back?" Even as she spoke, she was certain that she knew one of the names Harry would
speak.

"As I said, it was a lot like Voldemort's spell. That one required bone of the father,
unknowingly given; flesh of the servant, willingly given; and blood of a foe -- " Harry's
eyes fell piercingly upon his right forearm, " -- forcibly taken."

Harry paused, and Hermione steeled herself for what she knew must come.

"The three needed to bring back Sirius," Harry said, "are a son, a brother -- and an
enemy. Dumbledore said that the first two need not be literal blood relatives; a spiritual bond is
sufficient to empower the spell. But in the case of the third, there can be no compromise. No mere
rival or antagonist will suffice. Only a true and genuine foe can fill that role -- the most
critical of all.

"But unlike Voldemort's spell, where my blood was taken against my will, all three parties
must participate by consent. By its very nature, the spell is founded more on the spiritual than
the physical. Any coercion at all invalidates the entire ceremony. Commitment of will is the key.
Without that, it's all just so much rubbish." Harry's jaw muscles were quivering now,
as if he were holding himself under control by sheer force of will.

"Harry," Hermione said in a reasoning voice that was almost patronizing, "you
couldn't seriously expect Snape to -- "

"YES, I COULD!" Harry roared. "HE OWED IT TO ME, FOR ALL THE BLOODY MISERY HE HEAPED
ON ME IN SEVEN YEARS AT HOGWARTS! AND MORE THAN THAT, IT WAS BECAUSE OF *HIM* THAT SIRIUS WAS
LOST IN THE FIRST PLACE!"

"You know that's not true," Hermione said, a trace of fear in her voice. "He had
nothing to do with -- "

"He tormented Sirius all the while he was hiding out at Grimmauld Place," Harry said, no
longer shouting, but his anger not diminished for that. "The same way he tormented me at
Hogwarts. He goaded...and pushed...until..." Harry's throat constricted, and he took a
slow breath before continuing. "If it wasn't for him, Sirius never would have been lost.
And when we presented him with the opportunity to make it right, he refused! He
*refused*!"

Harry stalked over to the map and jabbed his finger at a spot that was roughly equidistant from the
marks designating the vampire attacks, the hub of an invisible wheel with only a bare handful of
spokes.

"He's there," Harry said, the certainty in his voice hard as granite. "Even
before I saw the map, I was sure of it. It's the one place he could hide safely right under
everyone's noses. It's protected by more anti-detection spells than Hogwarts. It's
Unplottable, so no one who doesn't already know it's there could ever find it on a map. No
one in MLE knows anything about the Order of the Phoenix, except maybe as a name spoken in relation
to the war against Voldemort. No one knows where the headquarters was except those of us who were
there." Harry stabbed the map again, and Hermione did not need to follow his his arm visually
to know that his finger was touching the spot representing Number 12 Grimmauld Place.

"If the different departments weren't so bloody secretive," Hermione said with a sort
of sick disgust, "this could all have been sorted out so easily. Kingsley and Tonks and Remus
all know about Grimmauld place, and once you told them that Snape -- "

"But I'm not *going* to tell them," Harry said, his voice tempered steel.
"And neither are you."

"Harry," Hermione said imploringly, "they've *got* to know! This is too
important to be limited to a personal vendetta! Think how many people will die --"

"No one else is going to die," Harry said firmly. "After tonight, the problem will
be taken care of."

"Harry, *please*!" Hermione sobbed, her eyes welling with tears. "You
*can't*!"

"I can," Harry said resolutely. "And I will."

Hermione's wide, unblinking eyes fixed Harry with a look of horror.

"If you do this...this...whatever it is you intend," Hermione said, "you'll be
no better than Snape. In fact, you'll be worse."

"How can you *say* that?" Harry shot in a voice sharper than a razor. "You know
what he is as well as anyone. He was an inhuman monster *before* he became a vampire! And now
-- "

"Now is not *then*, Harry," Hermione said. "The one has no bearing on the
other. You're an Auror. Your sworn duty is to rid the world of Dark creatures; to stop them
from harming others by whatever means necessary. And if circumstances dictate that you kill, you
kill. But to use that authority as an excuse for vengeance against past wrongs -- even legitimate
ones -- will leave your hands as bloody as Snape's. Moreso, in fact."

"How can you *possibly* compare me to -- to a *vampire*?" Harry shrieked, his
voice breaking.

"A vampire is a force of evil," Hermione said. "But it is not truly evil in and of
itself. Snape does not kill for evil's sake. He does so to survive. He has no choice. A wild
animal that attacks someone is not evil, any more than a bolt of lightning that sets a house alight
is evil.

"A vampire is a soulless creature. His actions, however reprehensible, are not accountable by
human standards. But we mortals *have* a soul. We choose our actions, for good or for evil. If
you do this thing, you'll not only sink to Snape's level, but as far below him as can be.
Is that what you want, Harry? Is it?"

"The moment Snape dies," Harry said petulantly, "Geoffrey Suggins will be restored
as he was before. You *want* that, don't you?" Harry's voice was sharper than
he'd intended, but all the same it was an accusation intended to wound.

"This has nothing to do with Geoffrey," Hermione said flatly, ignoring Harry's
grimace at hearing her voice the stricken wizard's name, "and you know it. This is all
about you. You don't want to *stop* Snape -- you want to *punish* him -- you want to
*hurt* him as payment for all the pain he's caused *you*. You don't need me to
tell you that what you intend is wrong. Please, Harry. Stop this now. It's not too late. You
can still make it right. You can go to Kingsley...tell him that Snape's mesmer temporarily
drove the knowledge from your mind...you did lose your amulet, so I'm sure he'll believe
you. And I'll back you up...I'll...I'll say that you talked in your
sleep..."

As Hermione's voice trailed off, Harry fixed her with a stare that could have pierced steel
with the ease of a sword cleaving a silk tapestry. "You don't understand," he
breathed.

"Perhaps not," Hermione conceded. "But I *do* understand that if you do this
thing, it will cost you more than you can imagine. You'll become as soulless as Snape. Only,
unlike him, your soul won't have been stolen from you by some nameless curse. You'll be
throwing it in the gutter as if it were so much rubbish. Is it really worth such a price, Harry? Do
you want revenge so badly that you'll buy it with your humanity?"

Harry's eyes seemed to look straight through Hermione's. She prayed that he was looking
inside himself, seeing the terrible repercussions of his intended actions until he beheld their
horror as clearly as did she. When the light of awareness returned again, he fixed Hermione's
tear-filled eyes with his stony emeralds and spoke in a calm voice.

"Everything that was said in this room must *remain* in this room," he said.
"No one can know -- not Kingsley, nor Amelia -- no one. Do you understand? I want your
promise, Hermione. Nothing more."

"Harry," Hermione whimpered, "I can't! I can't make that
promise!"

"Promise me," Harry repeated. Slowly he drew his wand and, to Hermione's disbelieving
horror, pointed it straight at her heart. "Promise me."

"Harry," Hermione sobbed.

"Promise me."

Wiping her eyes, Hermione assumed a forced calm she did not wholly feel. Very slowly, she said,
"If you force me to make that promise, Harry, things can never be the same between us. Not
ever again. It will be as if the last ten years we shared never happened. And all the tomorrows
that could have been ours...is revenge against Snape worth *that* much to you,
Harry?"

Harry stared at Hermione for a span that seemed an eternity. In a low, pained voice, he said,
"Promise me, Hermione."

Holding back fresh tears, Hermione said, "I promise. I won't tell anyone. Everything that
was said in this room, stays in this room. I promise," she repeated for effect.

Harry lowered his wand, and Hermione expelled a ragged sigh that hovered on the edge of a mournful
sob. As she watched, Harry waved his wand over the Situation Map. A moment later, the surface was
as blank as it had been when first they entered the room. Hermione waited to see if Harry had
anything more to say to her, some further explanation for his actions. When none was forthcoming,
Hermione walked quietly to the door and placed her ear to its wooden surface. Hearing no sound from
without (the Soundproofing Charm being a one-way avenue), she pushed the door open. She stood in
the doorway for a moment, her heart aching for some word of contrition, of sanity, from Harry. She
sighed again, the sound one of heartbreaking finality.

"Goodbye, Harry."

When the door closed behind Hermione, Harry stood alone in the flickering torchlight. His eyes
stared unblinkingly, seeing vistas far removed from the four stone walls surrounding him.

"That's one *more* debt, Snape," Harry muttered bitterly. "One more to add
to the list. Tomorrow night you'll pay for them all. By Merlin's beard, I swear. You
*will* pay. In full."


***


**Note From Fae:** I great big high-five to **Excalibur** and **Vicarious Leigh** for
reading and reviewing nearly every chapter in one sitting -- Excalibur, you must be some
super-speedy reader (I noticed that you read a few of Stoneheart's other stories as well --
bravo!) And VLeigh, you made me laugh in the last review. Don't worry. Stoneheart has a habit
of pulling a full 180 on me all the bloody time. Quite often, I'm left feeling completely
gobsmacked.

Also, thanks **fenriswolf** for that little tidbit. I'll try my best to check out your
recommendation! It sounds very fascinating. I'm glad you're enjoying the story as well. I
love Stoneheart's G/N pairing. He's a firm G/N shipper and I think that's why he writes
it so well, because he truly *believes* in it, if that makes any sense.

And a warm hug and thank you goes out to **danielerin**, for *far* too many things for me
to name! And of course, to everyone else I didn't mention (this is already growing too long as
it is), thank you all for reading. See you next week!

~FP



9. House of Blood
-----------------

Harry did not see Hermione all the next day. He knew from the assignment board that she was
scheduled to work the same shift as he. Excepting emergency situations, senior Ministry employees
seldom deigned to work Sundays. Harry and Tonks alternated the weekend shift for Auror Division;
since Harry had just come off a three-day holiday, Tonks was enjoying a well-deserved lie-in today.
Hermione would necessarily serve in a like capacity for MLE, whose staff was further depleted by
the absence of Geoffrey Suggins. But as his own shift neared its end, Harry had seen no trace of
Hermione, either on the floor housing their respective divisions, or anywhere else within the
underground confines of the Ministry.

It was reasonable to suppose that she was avoiding him, which was probably for the best, given the
nature of their parting last night. Indeed, it would not surprise him if she had skived off the
entire day. It was bad enough that she had promised to keep Harry's secret, in effect betraying
her friends and associates, but having to look into their eyes while blithely deceiving them might
well be too much to ask of her. Not that he doubted her word for a moment; painful though it would
be for her, Harry entertained no slightest notion that Hermione would reneg on her promise. Her
oath, once given, was inviolate.

But after today, that deception would become moot. Today was the third day following the attack on
Geoffrey Suggins. Tonight at sunset, Snape would emerge from his lair to prowl the streets of
London in search of blood to sate his inhuman need. But ere the sun sank behind the Emerald Isle,
Harry would see his enemy destroyed, their accounts squared at last with ultimate finality.

This was the ideal day to strike. But though the sun still hung well above the Western horizon,
that did not mean there was no danger attendant to invading his enemy's sanctuary. Harry knew
that, Muggle fancy notwithstanding, a vampire was not wholly insensate in the hours between dawn
and dusk. One misstep might be his last. Nor would his enemy likely be found in a coffin, wherein
he might easily be trapped by a cunning opponent. No, a closed room would more than suffice to keep
the light of day at bay. The warren of rooms in Sirius' house were all shuttered and sealed; in
one of them, he was certain, he would find his prey at rest, awaiting the night.

At rest -- but not unaware. Aroused, he would rise from his couch or bed and give account of
himself. But his inhuman strength would be at its lowest ebb at the end of his fast, not to mention
his supernatural force of mind. The advantage would be Harry's. Before tomorrow's sun rose
over the English Channel, Severus Snape would be no more. Harry -- and Sirius -- would be
avenged.

Harry left the offices at five o'clock, his pace unhurried, his face relaxed. His day's
paperwork was done and forwarded to the appropriate division heads, freeing him to leave
unquestioned. He stepped from the lift and glided into the lobby. His eyes drifted about with
apparent casualness, his head nodding acknowledgingly at the odd witch or wizard coming up to begin
the evening shift. He took in the walls, with their fireplaces disgorging personnel who traveled by
Floo; the ceiling with its carved friezes depicting notable events in magical history (any of
which, Harry reflected idly, could have been rendered boring beyond imagining in Professor
Binns' History of Magic class at Hogwarts); the doors leading to secret places concealing
mysteries known but to few, and voiced by fewer still --

Harry halted, his chest aching as he remembered again the Department of Mysteries...the veiled
archway...Sirius...

He shook his head, cursing under his breath.

"For you, Sirius," he mouthed, his eyes fixed vacantly on the stone wizard standing
majestically in the fountain before him, a stream of water spilling from the tip of his wand.
"For you."

Resuming his easy stride, Harry allowed his eyes to fall away from the statue and onto the floor --
and he gasped as though an icy needle had just pricked the base of his spine. Surrounded as he was
by the light of dancing torches set in high sconces ringing the chamber, he realized with a chill
of dread that -- he had *no shadow!*

Unsummoned, Hermione's words echoed in his head: *You'll be worse than Snape. A soulless
thing.*

A man without a shadow.

Harry cursed again, this time loudly enough to be heard by a passing witch, who looked at him
curiously. He smiled nervously, his hand swinging with forced ease at his side. He took care to
draw no attention to his midsection. The loose folds of his robes betrayed no outline of the pouch
he carried, bearing the tools by which he would end Snape's foul existence tonight. They
likewise obscured the bulge of his Invisibility Cloak. He would need that subterfuge when he
ventured out onto the streets of Muggle London; the less attention drawn to his target, the better
for all concerned. It would avail him nothing once he was inside the house, of course. A vampire
had many senses by which to detect a foe; Snape's sudden (and nearly disastrous) response in
the alley was demonstration that Harry could not depend on simple cleverness to escape detection.
He wondered -- could a vampire's inhuman eyes see through Invisibility Cloaks, like Alastor
Moody's magical eye could? He couldn't remember. Maybe he'd skived off that particular
DADA class that day. He shrugged. It hadn't prevented him from scoring an O on his N.E.W.T.
exams, with honors.

Harry reached the marked area of the lobby where lay the metaphorical window in the anti-Apparation
wards surrounding the Ministry. He stood for a moment, his eyes falling onto his left arm. Just
below the band of his wristwatch, invisible to any save the closest observer, was a thin strand of
chestnut hair. The merest trace of a smile flickered across his otherwise placid lips.

In a contemplative moment that morning, Harry had opened his photo album and looked at the many
pictures of himself and Hermione. They had shared any number of adventures in their Hogwarts days,
culminating in their triumphant stand against Voldemort nearly four years ago. He wished with all
his heart that she would be accompanying him that evening. Struck by a sudden inspiration, he had
removed the Sticking Charm from the strand of hair he had plucked from her head on her return visit
to his flat. Employing a delicate wandless Manipulation Spell, he tied the strand around his wrist
in imitation of Ginny's Christmas bracelet. Its reassuring presence, she ever declared, gave
her the comforting feeling that Neville was with her wherever she went. In like manner, Harry hoped
to feel Hermione's presence when he essayed his dark errand in the hour before sunset. Thus, he
told himself, it would almost be like Hermione were accompanying him on his mission of
justice.

And that, he decided on the moment, was what it would become in fact. Though he would not abandon
his plan to deal with Snape in his own way, his mission would not now be one of vengeance, as he
had forepurposed, but one of simple justice. He would do his duty and nothing more. He'd hoped
to be able to tell Hermione of his decision sometime during the workday. Failing that, he hoped now
that he would get the chance to tell her the following morning. Would she listen? In the face of
his contrition -- however tardy -- would she forgive him his stubborn adamance in the MLE Situation
Room?

Harry pondered these questions one last time ere he stepped into the center of the Apparation zone,
thrusting them at last into the dungeons of his mind and slamming the door. There was no room for
such errant thoughts now. He would need his fullest concentration and dedication of purpose to
prevail against his undead enemy.

With a forced smile and a final wave at a wizard emerging from one of the fireplaces, Harry
Disapparated.

He emerged from the safe house clothed in his Invisibility Cloak. If any passing Muggles possessed
ears keen enough to hear the soft pad of his rubber soles on the pavement, it was of no moment to
them. Harry only hoped he would be as stealthy indoors; the Black family manse was an ancient
edifice, wherein creaking floorboards might signal his arrival even to a foe sunk in unholy
sleep.

Harry stood now before a row of dingy houses. The few Muggles on the streets were all looking away
from him. He smiled. He'd popped out at lunch earlier and placed a timed, short-term
Muggle-Repelling Charm on the area where he now stood. Satisfied that he was not being observed
(even though he was invisible, Auror training was ingrained in him), he peered at a narrow strip
separating the dwellings marked 11 and 13. Intensifying his concentration, he summoned four words
to the forefront of his mind and engraved them thereon: "Number 12 Grimmauld
Place."

The former headquarters of the Order of the Phoenix -- the house where his godfather had grown up
before running away to live with Harry's father and grandparents -- appeared like a large,
dirty bubble of Drooble's Best Blowing Gum blown from the lips of a Titan. When it was inflated
to its full size, Harry hurried up the steps and opened the door with a hasty wave of his concealed
wand, grimacing slightly at the din made by the many bolts and locks as they disengaged themselves.
As soon as he was inside, the outer facade of the house dwindled swiftly until it was gone. When
the Muggle-Repelling Charm wore off in another minute, there would be nothing to imply that
anything but empty air lay between numbers 11 and 13.

Harry shivered slightly as he doffed his Cloak and hung it on a nearby coat tree. He looked around
at the familiar surroundings, which were both like and unlike he remembered. The gas lamps lining
the walls bore no flames. The walls themselves were bare; discolored rectangles of wallpaper showed
where had hung the family portraits representing countless generations of the Most Ancient and
Noble House of Black. Harry was not sorry that the insanely screaming portrait of Sirius'
mother was long gone. Gone as well were the mounted heads of the long line of house-elves who had
served the Black family since the days of King Arthur and Merlin the Wise. Wherever they were now,
Harry knew that Kreacher's head was numbered among them, as the house-elf had devoutly desired.
Perhaps the sour-faced elf was happy now. Either way, it was not Harry's look-out. He had far
more crucial details to sort out. Now that he was in Snape's lair (of this he harbored no
doubt), where did he look? He must find his quarry without delay, lest the setting sun find him
facing his enemy fully awake and, to employ the Quidditch vernacular, on his home pitch.

He cast a reassuring glance at his left wrist. The tiny filament that was Hermione's hair
seemed like a banner bestowed upon a knight by his lady fair ere he rode off upon a holy crusade.
At the very least, perhaps it would bring him luck, not unlike the scarf Hermione had given Tonks
on the eve of their first sally onto the streets of London in search of their then-unknown
prey.

Though he harbored a suspicion that his foe were above him, Harry decided that a methodical search
was better than a random one. He would work his way up, floor by floor, omitting no possible
sanctuary by reason of hasty judgment.

He tried the basement kitchen first. Having no windows, it was as likely a venue as any other. It
was dustier than he remembered, the cobwebs reflecting the light from his wand like tattered lace
curtains. Beyond that, it was deserted.

Harry searched the ground floor swiftly, found nothing, and mounted the stairs, his eyes ever on
the glowing dial of his wristwatch.

Impulse, or inspiration, struck him of a sudden, and, abandoning his original strategy, he bypassed
the floors housing the bedrooms. Even in so doing, he cast sharp glances left and right, noting the
rust and webbing on the hinges, knobs and frames of the doors. None appeared to have been opened
since the Order of the Phoenix abandoned the house following the destruction of Voldemort (and,
perforce, the disbanding of the Order). With renewed sureness of purpose, Harry raced up the stairs
until he came to the highest point of the house. The eaves of the roof angled so that Harry must
needs walk a straight line toward the door leading to the attic. A half-step to either side would
result in his head striking the roof with a sound that would surely rouse even one sunk in undead
repose.

He paused before the door, listening intently. Muffled street noises filtered through the cracks in
the boarded-up shutters. Sifting through this background symphony, he heard nothing. He looked
closely at the door now, and he grunted triumphantly. Cobwebs festooned the peak of the ceiling,
huddled in the corners before and behind Harry. But the doorway was swept free of them -- as if by
the swirling black cloak of a wizard-turned-vampire.

Harry extinguished his wand and slipped it into its pocket. He dipped into his robes and found the
pouch hiding thereunder. Carefully, not wishing to prick his thumb lest the scent of blood alert
his foe, Harry drew forth the sharpened ash stake. As his left hand closed on the hewn wood, his
right fell upon the doorknob. The tarnished metal was cool to his touch. It turned easily,
noiselessly. He pushed the door open slowly. One hinge creaked faintly, a low moan, as of despair.
Harry slipped inside the low chamber and cast his eyes about. The windows were shuttered, the
skylight made fast. A sort of gray twilight clothed the room, rendering outlines fuzzy and
indistinct. Harry swept the room with his penetrating gaze -- and he froze.

In spite of everything, Harry had nevertheless entertained the Muggle notion of finding the room
dominated by a coffin of polished ebony, surrounded, perhaps, by black candles and somber, funereal
drapery. He spared the barest moment to envision Kingsley's amusement at the persistence of
Harry's Muggle preconceptions, ingrained over half a lifetime suffered in the confines of
Privet Drive.

A figure lay motionless on an ancient bed, the tattered hangings of which hung like so many ragged
spider webs. As he crept closer, Harry saw a long, spare frame clothed in robes black as night. The
long, pale oval that was the vampire's face was still as marble. Harry's breath hissed.
Even in the gloom, he could not doubt the evidence of his eyes as they marked the long, hooked
nose, the high cheek bones, the framing tangle of greasy black hair.

Harry glided forward until he was standing not an inch from the edge of the bed. He had circled so
as to stand on the right, the better to free his own right hand for the telling blow. He dared not
risk the hammer glancing from the ornate headboard and missing its mark. He must strike swift and
true, knowing that he might have no second chance.

For the barest moment, his resolution faltered. The hatred he felt as he looked down on Snape's
cruel face was like a cancer eating at his soul. The thought of exacting the full measure of his
vengeance, so long overdue, was like sweet honey on his tongue. But a single glance at the hair
tied around his wrist jerked him back from the precipice. Hermione was right. There was no profit
in becoming a monster in the name of slaying one. He would do his duty as an Auror -- and more, as
the godson of Sirius Black. He remembered his own words to Sirius and Remus in the Shrieking Shack,
when the two Marauders were on the verge of avenging their friends' deaths by killing Peter
Pettigrew. Looking down on the cringing, trembling figure of Wormtail, Harry had said, "I
don't reckon my dad would've wanted them to become killers -- just for you." Harry
took those words to heart as he stood over his enemy now. Though Snape deserved torments before
which Dolores Umbridge would quail like a schoolgirl, Harry would leave that for a higher power to
sort out. Simple death be his foe's earthly portion; nothing more, nothing less.

But that death would come by Harry's hand and none other. He owed that, at least, to the memory
of his godfather. With that resolution firm in his mind, he placed the point of the stake against
Snape's heart --

With the speed of a striking cobra, Snape's arm shot up and fastened vice-like around
Harry's throat! Black, inhuman eyes burned into Harry's. The scene held for moments that
might have been hours. His breath trapped in his lungs, Harry bared his teeth in a grimace of
defiance as his neck muscles knotted against Snape's strangling grip. Unlike the encounter in
the alley, Harry was prepared this time. His amulet was set firmly against his chest, and the power
of his will was a stone wall which the fiend's mesmer could not breach. Harry snapped his wrist
sharply, his hammer springing full-sized into his hand. He brought it down in a sweeping arc, but
Snape twisted under him, releasing Harry's throat as he rolled. The stake plunged into the
mattress at an oblique angle, and the hammer, missing its mark, smote Snape on the side of his
neck. A scream echoed through the attic. Harry grinned wolfishly through his panting lips, enjoying
the look of surprise on Snape's sallow face. Not content to wield a simple hammer of steel, he
had Transfigured the implement into pure silver!

By Ministry decree, transmutation of common metals into silver and gold was expressly forbidden.
Such promulgation would devastate the wizarding economy, rendering Galleons and Sickles as
worthless as the pebbles littering the cobbled pave of Diagon Alley. Only official Ministry agents
were permitted to master and employ such spells, to be used exclusively against the forces of
Darkness. Old Professor Tofty had himself taught Harry the Transmutation Charm in his last year of
Auror training, employing a rare and forbidden spell book hidden in the deepest bowels of the
Ministry. The spell would fade in time, not unlike the magic permeating Leprechaun gold. But it
would last more than long enough for Harry's purpose.

Snape sprang to his feet on the other side of the bed, his hand clutching his neck convulsively.
Harry knew that Snape's flesh must be burning as a normal man's would had it been touched
by a white-hot brand. Snape's eyes burned into his, and Harry barked a short, hard laugh. Not
blinded by bloodlust now, his foe recognized him fully, his eyes penetrating the gloom like those
of a cat. *Good,* Harry thought as he clutched the stake in his left hand with unrestrained
eagerness. *If my conscience will allow me to do nothing more than kill you, you'll damn well
know **who** is killing you, by Merlin!*

His heart beating with excitement more than fear, Harry snapped his wrist. The hammer vanished. He
plunged his hand into the pouch under his arm. It emerged holding what appeared at first to be
naught but a small twig. Grinning savagely, Harry snapped, "*Engorgio*!"

Transformed by wandless magic, the twig in Harry's hand exploded to full size. Snape shrank
back, and Harry grinned again.

"Hawthorn," he whispered.

Brandishing the hawthorn branch, Harry backed Snape into the corner away from the door. *No
escape for you,* Harry thought.

The clean power in the hawthorn pressed Snape like an invisible hand. He backed up until his
shoulders touched the wall. He hissed, baring fangs painted a wet, lurid crimson.

Harry started as if the stake in his hand had pricked his own heart. *Blood?* But Snape had
not attacked anyone since the night he'd assaulted Geoffrey Suggins! The map in the MLE
Situation Room revealed only the five previous attacks. How -- ?

In a sudden flash of motion, Snape whipped his billowing black cloak before him with the swiftness
of a striking adder. Its folds caught the ragged edges of the branch in Harry's hand and tore
it away. Harry had no time to curse himself for his blunder, for Snape was on him like a whirlwind.
Harry twisted his body without conscious thought, in such fashion as he had dodged Bludgers
hundreds of times in Quidditch. Snape flew past him, and Harry snatched a handful of Snape's
greasy hair and jerked ferociously. Snape's head whipped back with a force that would have
snapped the spine of a normal human. Harry jerked sideways, his fingers slipping in Snape's
greasy tresses. Snape slammed against the wall, rebounded and fell sprawling at Harry's feet.
In a whirlwind of motion to match that of his enemy, Harry fell upon Snape, driving his knee into
the man's abdomen so that his fetid breath wheezed out of his dead lungs. Harry's right arm
swung in a sweeping arc, the silver hammer leaping into his hand in the same moment that he sank
the point of the stake between Snape's ribs. The hammer slammed home with the force of a
thunderbolt. Snape screamed like the damned soul he was as the stake pierced his heart, driving so
deep that its point scraped the inside of his spine. The scream reverberated from the rafters for
what seemed like a full minute before the figure under Harry shuddered spasmodically and fell
still.

Backing away, Harry stood on his knees and panted. Sweat plastered his hair to his forehead,
dripped down to sting his eyes. He removed his glasses, wiped his eyes on his sleeve. He blinked in
the darkness, his burning gaze never leaving the face of his inhuman adversary. He stood still as a
statue, his chest rising and falling with increasing ease as he looked down at the motionless form
at his knees. He gripped the silver hammer convulsively, poised to strike on the moment if his foe
were shamming (though how that would be possible with ten inches of ashwood piercing his black
heart, Harry could not reason). But as Harry's own heart hammered off the passing seconds into
minutes, the pale, hook-nosed face remained still as death. Final death, at last.

His breathing normal once more, Harry rose on unsteady legs. He felt the weight of the hammer in
his grasp, his fingers cramping from the tightness of his grip. He relaxed his hand, flicking his
wrist dismissively. The hammer's weight vanished.

Harry felt dizzy. His stomach leaped and churned as if he had swallowed a bowlful of frog spawn. He
knew he must rest before anything else. His legs trembled slightly under him, and his thoughts were
clouded. He could no more Apparate in such a state as fly without his Firebolt. He did not even
trust himself to walk the short distance to the safe house, where he might rest safely for a bit
before going home for a much-needed sleep. He would need a clear head in the morning, when he would
have to make his report to Kingsley -- and, ultimately, confront Hermione. At the moment, he was
not certain whose reproval he most dreaded. Officially, he could expect to be reprimanded at the
very least. He had known that going in, chalking it up as the minimum toll he could expect for his
actions. Suspension was a definite possibility, especially if Madam Bones had anything to say on
the matter. She did not take lightly to her authority being flouted, and she might technically
overrule Kingsley in this instance, her office having been in charge of the overall
operation.

There was yet another possibility not to be dismissed. He could be sacked.

That, of course, would be the province of the Minister of Magic. Would Arthur take such an extreme
position? More to the point, would the duties of his office leave him any other option? An example
might have to be made, rendered all the more poignant if only to demonstrate that Harry's label
as the de facto savior of the wizarding world would earn him no special license to transgress
Ministry procedure. Harry could almost see Snape's dead lips twisting into a triumphant smile
at the prospect.

But Harry could not focus his thoughts on such things now. What was done was done, and the ferryman
would have to be paid; all that remained was to determine the coin. Shaking his head, he staggered
out the door and down the stairs. He paused on the landing, his head light. The corridor was
starting to spin around him. *Rest,* he thought sluggishly. *Just a little kip.*

He stumbled toward the first door at the foot of the stairs and felt his hand close on a glass
doorknob. Inside would be a clean bed on which he could rest. Dusty and befouled it might be, but
cleaner by far than the one on which Snape had slept the sleep of the undead. He staggered into the
dusky room, spied the rectangular bulk that was the bed. He fell upon it without ceremony -- only
to discover that the bed was already occupied...

With a strangled cry, Harry sprang up. His dizziness was swept away by horror. When he leaned in to
see who lay upon the bed, his horror exploded a thousandfold.

"HERMIONE!"

Suppressing his rising panic was like trying to hold back the flooding of the Thames with a picket
fence, but by a supreme effort of will he managed to keep his wits, if only by a margin of a
razor's edge. Harry slithered across the bed until he could take Hermione's face in his
hands. He nearly cried out. Her skin was cold as porcelain! Then he saw them, unmistakable even in
the gray twilight -- two dark puncture marks on her slender throat.

"No," Harry sobbed, "please, no. Hermione, don't be dead!"

Tears spilled down his cheeks and dampened Hermione's face as Harry pressed himself against
her. Slowly, his reason began to assert itself. Snape was dead! He had driven the stake into
Snape's black heart with his own hands, heard his terrible death scream, seen him lying
motionless at his slayer's feet. And if Snape was dead, then Hermione could *not* be! She
*must* not be!

"Hermione, wake up." He slapped her face lightly, caught up her wrist and chafed it.
"Please, Hermione, wake up."

Harry nearly fainted when Hermione's dark eyelashes fluttered like tiny fairy wings.

"Hermione!" Harry breathed, his lips pressed against her cold cheek.
"Hermione!"

"Harry," Hermione whispered, so softly that a leaf falling to the ground might have
obscured the sound of her voice.

"Hermione, why?" Harry said desperately. "What in Merlin's bloody name are you
*doing* here?"

"Stop you..." Hermione breathed faintly, desperately.
"Couldn't...tell...stop...you..."

"You did stop me, Hermione," Harry said. "I didn't do what I intended. You were
right. It would have put me down with him, in the pit. In the end, I did my job. I took the stake
from my kit and drove it through his heart. It's over, love. It's over."

"No," Hermione said in as close to a frenzy as her frail voice could manage.
"Not...you...don't..."

Hermione's feeble breath faded. Harry cupped her face in his hands and leaned so close that he
could see the chips of mahogany in her dark eyes that so captivated him that he could stare into
them for hours on end.

"What is it?" he begged her. "What are you trying to tell me?"

With his whole being focused on the woman who was his life, Harry did not hear the soft swishing
sound behind him until it was too late. Even as he turned, pain shot through the back of his head.
Lights exploded before his eyes. They were swallowed a moment later by blackness, and he knew no
more.


***


**Note From Fae Princess:** On behalf of Stoneheart, I apologize for this infuriating
cliffhanger. And thanks to all of those who read and reviewed -- it's so nice to hear from
those who are interested in this story. See you all next week!

~FP



10. Ashes
---------

Consciousness returned slowly to Harry. As he strove to sharpen his senses, he fought the
instinctive urge to open his eyes. If his enemy were watching, it were best he thought Harry still
unconscious.

As his mind and body awakened, the first sensation that impressed itself upon him was pain. A dull
ache pulsed in the back of his head, a distant echo of the unexpected blow whose impact had plunged
him into darkness -- how long ago?

Other pains began to resolve themselves moment by moment. A sharp pain cut his wrists, and this was
accompanied by a deep burning sensation in his shoulders. This equation added up to but one
conclusion: He was shackled at the wrists and suspended from a height not far above his head (this
last made certain because his feet were in full contact with the ground or floor beneath which he
hung). Pushing the pain back, Harry opened his eyes cautiously and brought them into focus.

He was in the attic room of Sirius' house. From where he hung on the outer wall, he could see
the entire room. The bed whereon Snape had lain was empty. An uncanny silence hovered over all.
Where was Snape? He could not have left on his own, of that Harry was sure. The bloodstains on the
floor bore grimly eloquent testimony to the destruction of his foe. But Harry knew that a vampire
was not truly destroyed until his body had been reduced to ashes. So long as Snape remained whole,
the stake could be removed from his heart and his unnatural vigor restored by means of dark rituals
steeped in the fetors of hell. Had Snape some personal Renfield who had appeared to strike him,
Harry, down and bear his master away? What other explanation for the state in which he now found
himself?

But Harry had a more pressing concern. Hermione. Was she still in the room where he had found her?
If his attacker were indeed a vassal in Snape's thrall, he would not dare mollest one whom his
master had claimed for his own. No, his whole purpose would be centered on the safety of the one he
served. Having disposed of Harry, he would have turned his attention to his striken lord. Harry had
no way of knowing how long he had been unconscious. Snape's servant could even now be
reanimating his undead master in one of the dungeons hidden beneath the manor. Harry's
Muggle-whetted imagination conjured an image of a stooped figure scrabbling about in the darkness
far below, lighting black candles while he muttered ancient incantations in the midst of demonic
runes painted on the dark stones in his own blood. Harry felt the cold breath of fear on the back
of his neck. For his own safety he cared nothing. But he must get Hermione away at all costs. There
was not a moment to waste.

Escape was his first priority. Confident that he was unobserved, he set his feet and stood with his
back against the wall. The pain in his wrists and shoulders eased as his weight was removed from
the metal bands. He craned his neck to examine his manacles. They were of a crude and ancient
design, leftovers, perhaps, from darker days when a wretch could be summarily shackled to a wall in
a fetid dungeon for something as trival as owing a debt of a few shillings to the wrong person. The
manacles were joined by an iron chain, and this had been threaded through a ring of like material
ere the bands were made fast to his wrists.

The presence of the ring from which he hung did not surprise Harry. Many dark ceremonies were
commonly held in upper chambers, their only witnesses the stars looking down through the open
skylight -- and the shackled victims whose blood served as the crucial ingredient in those black
masses. Setting his hand to the ring, he tested it without real hope, showing no surprise when it
resisted his tentative efforts at dislodgement. Ancient though it was, it was still too strong to
be disuaded from its setting by mere human flesh.

Harry's first instinct was to reach for his wand. Even with his hands shackled, this was not an
impossible task. Part of his Auror training had been centered on small wandless spells that would
not drain his strength overmuch, yet the results of which would outweigh the energy expended a
thousandfold. By a simple force of will he could levitate his wand from his pocket and into his
hand.

Except that his wand was not *in* his pocket. A simple shifting of his body told the tale. The
stiff shaft of wood that should even now be poking against his ribs was nowhere in evidence.
Whoever had knocked him out and chained him thus had undoubtedly confiscated his wand (along with
his pouch, which was likewise conspicuous by its absence). That implied that his attacker was a
wizard, for a Muggle would not suspect the presence of a wand on an unknown victim. Harry puzzled
on this even as he examined his bonds with a practiced eye. Could his attacker have been Geoffrey
Suggins? Unlikely though it seemed, he could not rule it out. So far as he knew, all of Snape's
other victims had been Muggles. That did not preclude his having attacked others before coming to
London in search of fresh prey. But there had been no reports of wizards going missing of late;
Arthur was determined that the Bertha Jorkins debacle of seven years ago should not be repeated on
his watch. That left Geoffrey as the only confirmed wizard victim. Could Snape have somehow
liberated the MLE wizard from his watery coffin in exchange for his servitude?

But those were questions to be answered *after* he was free. He pondered for a moment,
studying his shackles carefully. Rust and corrosion marked them as purely natural in manufacture.
Had they been conjured by magic, they would be new and unmarked, like the manacles with which
Sirius had bound Wormtail in that fateful encounter in the Shrieking Shack. Harry suspected that
they had been procured from the same dungeons where he supposed Snape now lay, in which setting he
could easily imagine Sirius' ancestors employing them to sinister purpose on victims both
wizard and Muggle. Did he still possess his wand, Harry could have opened them easily with a simple
Alohomora Charm. No doubt his attacker thought him helpless for that lack. If so, the fellow would
learn his folly in short order.

Arching his neck painfully, Harry concentrated on his right forearm, ignoring the bloody crease
made by the edge of his shackles, the pain from which had now subsided to a dull throb. He noted
absently that the hammer-charm was missing, having no doubt been removed at the same time as his
wand. More proof, if any were needed, that his attacker knew about such magical tools. But it had
not been Harry's intention to employ that weapon here. His brow wrinkled with concentration,
and a moment later a small pouch leaped up from his sleeve and into his hand. Employing his fingers
dexterously, Harry sorted through an assortment of pick-locks, selected one, and began to probe the
locking mechanism of his left manacle.

The going was slow and tedious. The manacles, long unused, were stubborn with age and long disuse.
But Harry's patience was rewarded when a heavy *click* echoed through the silence. Giving
silent thanks to Fred and George Weasley, Harry pried open the rusty metal cuff until his hand
slipped free. He immediately slid the chain through the iron ring, cursing under his breath at the
dull clang of metal on metal as the open manacle squeezed through. Chafing his wrist for a moment,
Harry quickly opened the other manacle and tossed them noiselessly onto the bed.

But now that he was free, what came next? Without a wand, was he equal to whatever threat lay
beyond the attic door?

Harry shrugged defiantly. If an Auror had no more worth than the price of a wand, why not give any
witch or wizard the title? Wandless he might be, but he was far from helpless. Nor was he even
weaponless, if it came to that. He knew a few wandless spells which, if they depleted his resources
to a dangerous level, were yet better than surrendering to defeat or death without
resistance.

Harry stepped boldly to the door and turned the knob. Whatever lay before him, it stood between him
and Hermione, and no obstacle, magic or Muggle, would keep him from her. Now that Snape was
destroyed, Hermione should be out of immediate danger. Wherever Snape was, he was presently in no
state to threaten either of them. But that situation would not endure indefinitely. Howbeit, even
if his nameless servant were reviving his master at that very moment, the process would require
time. Harry must use that respite to take Hermione away as quickly as possible. He would Apparate
the pair of them to St. Mungo's, where the Healers would administer a blood-replenishing potion
straightaway. With proper care, he told himself, Hermione should make a full recovery. And if she
did not -- Harry glanced reflexively at the filament still tied about his left wrist. *If she
dies,* Harry thought fiercely, *all bets are off, Snape. God have mercy on you, you bloody
bastard, because I'll have none.*

Harry crept down the stairs and halted just within sight of Hermione's door. Hearing nothing,
sensing no movement, he glided to the door and pressed his ear to the peeling wood panels. No sound
met his ears. He turned the knob and entered, his senses wary as a cat's.

To his incalculable relief, he found Hermione precisely where he had left her. Sparing only a
cursory glance around the room, he hurried to her side and all but fell onto the bed next to
her.

"Hermione!" he hissed. He threaded his fingers through her hair, its texture like liquid
silk as it spilled through his grasp. "Hermione, wake up! It's done! Snape is dead! But
someone's carried him off, so we're still not out of danger! They could be waking him up
any moment! Get up, Hermione! We can't Disapparate inside this house! We have to get
outside!"

Hermione's eyelids fluttered. A smile pale as moonlight spread across her face.

"Harry!" she said breathlessly. "Oh, Harry!"

Her arms snaked up to enfold his neck, and Harry pressed his cheek to hers. It was chill to his
touch, like an amalgam of silk and marble. He must get her away quickly. He slid his arms under her
legs and back, and Hermione tightened her grip on his neck. Her face pressed into the hollow of his
neck --

"AAAAAHHHHHH!"

Harry jumped back, clapping a hand to his neck. His eyes wide with horror, Harry looked down on
Hermione. She sat up slowly, her dark eyes dancing with a feral light as her smile broadened. Her
russet-colored lips parted, revealing the tips of two long, sharp fangs.

"NO!" Harry cried, staggering back as he pressed his hand hard against the blood
trickling warmly down his neck.

"Yes," Hermione said smoothly, rising to a sitting position.

"But -- " Harry choked, " -- Snape is *dead!* I drove the stake through his
heart with my own hands!"

"And I pulled it out," Hermione said calmly.

"You -- " Harry rasped, his throat dry as desert sand. "How? *Why?*"

"Why?" she repeated mockingly. "I couldn't stand by and let you destroy my
master, could I?"

"Your -- master -- " Harry sobbed. "No -- no -- "

Hermione stood up, though in standing she still must incline her head to look into Harry's
astonished eyes. Harry regarded her closely now, and the inhumanness of her aspect was driven home
like a stake through his own heart. Her skin was white as milk, made all the paler by contrast with
her hair, which was no a longer bushy, untamed chestnut, but sleek, straight, and the color of
burnished mahogany. Her formerly deep brown eyes were now midnight black, and the mirth they
reflected was steeped in the sulphur pits of Hell.

"I heard you ascend the stairs," she said, her measured tones so like her old self that
they mocked Harry's ears. "Heard you enter my master's chamber. I was still
alive...just barely...but I was his. His mark was upon me," she touched her neck lightly for
emphasis, "and my purpose was clear. I knew I must warn my master. But I was too weak to move,
too weak even to call out to him, to warn him of your coming. I could not prevent you from doing
that for which you came. I heard his cries, but I could do nothing to help him.

"But I was foolish to think that my master was helpless," she said with self deprication.
"And when my thoughts cleared, I realized you had not the power to destroy him. You wounded
him sorely, yes -- but you did not -- could not -- destroy him.

"I knew you would return to me," she said, her smile a chastisement of Harry's
humanity and compassion, which traits were now alien to her. "When you left my master, he
arose and followed you. I saw him come up behind you. You heard nothing, of course," she
mocked gently. "You concern was solely with me.

"Part of me wanted to warn you." Her voice was reproachful, bearing a contriteness which
Harry knew was not directed at him. "Part of me was still human, and seeing you fanned that
flame. But when I saw his face over your shoulder -- when his eyes touched mine -- my will became
his will. He knew I was stubbornly clinging to a last feeble spark of life. After he struck you
down, he commanded me to surrender to him...to my fate. I closed my eyes. And when I opened them
again...I was his. Completely."

Harry let out a mournful sob. Hermione laughed, the sound a mixture of honey and hemlock.

"The weakness of my mortal body left me when I joined my master in death. I rose from my bed
and pulled the stake from his heart. He had not the strength to do so himself. He had but recently
feasted," she said with a wicked smile as Harry's eyes fell on the tiny punctures on her
neck, "and his strength was not yet fully restored following his fast. You drove the stake so
deeply that he could not remove it by his own power. But there was no need -- not with his loyal
servant at hand." She laughed again, the sound like unto a midnight wind caressing a
tombstone.

"That's rubbish," Harry said weakly. "He couldn't have got up and followed
me. He was dead. I drove the stake straight through his heart. He was *dead!* And when he
died, you should have returned to normal."

"Yes," Hermione said patiently. "*If* he had died. You disappoint me, Harry.
You refuse the truth, even when it jumps up and bites you." She smirked at her joke. "But
you will learn quickly enough. My master will open your eyes...as he did mine."

"Where is he?" Harry gasped, unable, even now, to abandon his Auror instincts.

With an evil smile, Hermione said, "Look behind you."

Harry spun about, his free hand reaching instinctively for the wand he no longer possessed. A black
shape stood at the window, its robes dancing in the chill night wind. A ragged tear upon the
figure's bosom marked the place where Harry' stake had done -- or, more precisely, failed
to do -- its grisly work. Dark eyes peered from beneath the shadow of a black cowl, and Harry
reached unhesitatingly for the amulet around his neck whereby to stay his foe's mind control.
His hand clutched at empty skin. From the corner of his eye, he could see Hermione laughing
silently as she twirled the amulet on her finger tauntingly.

Harry backed toward the door, but he turned his eyes away a second too late; the black figure
gestured imperiously with a skeletal hand, and Harry's legs froze as if turned to stone. The
figure approached slowly, his features hidden by the cowl surmounting his billowing cloak. The hand
that had by its arcane gesture arrested Harry's flight rose slowly, lifted and pushed the cowl
back.

In death -- or semi-death -- Severus Snape was hardly altered from Harry's memory of him as a
living man. His face was thin and vulture-like, made moreso by his long, predatory nose. Eyes black
and lifeless as chips of flint caught and held Harry's.

"Potter," Snape hissed with savage glee. "How kind of you to visit me in my
affliction." He essayed a mocking bow. "I am your loyal servant."

Harry's tongue was frozen to the roof of his mouth. He did not fear death. He had faced it many
times ere now, and it held no terrors for him. But the prospect of becoming *un*dead, like
Snape -- and Hermione -- wrapped his heart in the grip of fingers cold as the those which now
tugged the cloak from Snape's spare shoulders and draped it across the back of a chair.

"When I found my own chamber empty," Snape said with a slow turn of his greasy head,
"I knew where I would find you. You are predictable to the last, Potter."

The cold amusement in Snape's black eyes reminded Harry forcibly of Barty Crouch's
assessment, following the terrible aftermath of the Triwizard Tournament, of the predictability of
decent people by which they, and their actions, could be anticipated and thereby manipulated.
Playing for time in which he might yet divine a way out, Harry said, "I drove that stake
through your heart! I *know* I did! Hermione admitted it! Why aren't you dead?"

Snape arched a serpentine eyebrow at Harry, as if to say, "Oh, but I *am* dead,
Potter." When he spoke, it was in a voice like the fetid slime coating the mountains of Hell
so that the damned could not climb to freedom.

"I'll let the little know-it-all answer," Snape purred, eyeing Hermione in the same
depricating manner in which Harry had once seen Lucius Malfoy regard Dobby the house-elf. "In
death as in life, I don't doubt that she still revels in demonstrating her knowledge and
superiority over her intellectual inferiors."

Approaching Harry now, Hermione said, "I told you you shouldn't come here alone, Harry. If
you'd confided your knowledge to one of your superiors, you'd have learned *why* your
mission could not succeed as you'd planned."

"Potter *has* no 'superiors,'" Snape bit, his acrimony undiminished either
by death or his advantage. "Did he not make that abundantly clear all through
school?"

"Now, Severus," Hermione said placatingly. "Harry is our guest, after all."
When Snape responded with a mocking smile, Hermione turned once more to Harry. "The stake you
drove into my master's heart weakened him. But it did not have the power to destroy
him."

Taking up the challenge of Hermione's statement as his mind sifted for ways to extricate him
from his predicament, Harry said, "That was the stake from the kit Remus gave me. It was pure
ash, hewn with a silver edge."

"Ah, yes," Snape said. "The werewolf. I smelled his foul blood on the wind. When I
attacked those Ministry fools, I commanded them to discard their signal coins so that they could
not summon him. But not before I commanded one of them to summon *you* in his
place."

Harry gaped in spite of himself.

"You -- you *wanted* me to come after you?"

"I knew that you had recently been added to the ranks of the Aurors," Snape said with a
derisive curl of his lip. "It followed that you would be among those assigned to hunt me down.
I confirmed this when I questioned that insufferable fool of a wizard in the alley three nights
ago. I commanded him to summon you and leave the coin where you would find it before I...availed
myself of him, shall we say."

This made no sense to Harry. "That was a stupid thing to do, wasn't it? How did you know I
wouldn't tell Kingsley? He knows about this house, and he would have reasoned it as the best
place for you to be hiding, just as I did."

The look of utter contempt in Snape's cold eyes intensified. "I knew you would tell no
one, Potter. That is your nature, isn't it? To ignore rules and procedure, to place yourself
and your selfish desires above the greater good? I knew you would want to reserve the pleasure of
disposing of me for yourself alone. I was depending on your arrogance to lead you to
me."

"But *why?*" Harry said uncomprehendingly. "As long as no one knew who you
were, you could have hid out here forever. No one suspected that you were the one they sought. You
would have remained just another nameless, faceless monster. Why risk everything just to lure me
into a trap?"

"Why?" Snape echoed with cruel amusement. "To settle our debt, of course."
Harry responded with a confused expression, and Snape's cold laugh hissed again. "Did you
not know, Potter? *You* are the reason that I am as you see me now!"

Harry felt as if a centaur's hoof had just kicked him in the stomach. He wanted to deny that he
had any part in Snape's cursed existence, but he was too stunned by the accusation to utter a
denial. His silence allowed Hermione to resume her own soliloquy.

"The stake in your kit *would* have destroyed an *ordinary* vampire," she said.
"But my master is far from ordinary. He is a wizard.

"You'll remember that Moody's report addressed numerous ways to destroy a common
vampire. But even *he* didn't consider that the one we sought might be a wizard. Wizard
vampires are rare. None has been seen since before Dumbledore was born. So when I left you in the
Situation Room last night, I went straight to the Ministry library to look up ways to kill a
*wizard* vampire."

Rousing himself from his whirlpool of thoughts in regard to Snape's amazing accusation, Harry
blinked stupidly, and Hermione flashed a superior smile.

"I promised you I wouldn't tell anyone about our conversation in the Situation Room. That
meant that the only way I could save you from yourself was to precede you here and do the job
myself. But, unlike you, I came prepared. As I said, the stake Remus gave you was well equipped to
destroy a common vampire. But it takes a very *special* wood to destroy a *magical*
vampire. Even Neville Longbottom could have told you *that*," she sniped cruelly.

"The most potent wood for the task is that of the rowan tree. After I left the library, I
popped into the apothecary in Diagon Alley and bought a small block, which I carved into a stake
and placed in my own kit. I couldn't use the same blade as Remus, of course. I would have had
to sign it out, and that would have tipped my hand. So when I went home to the Burrow, I transmuted
one of Molly's carving knives into silver. Not strictly legal, since an Obliviator doesn't
enjoy the same dispensation as an Auror. But sometimes you have to break a rule here and there for
the greater good. You taught me that." She smirked, and over her shoulder Harry saw a look of
cruel amusement flash in Snape's dark eyes. "I did an excellent job of it, if I do say so
myself. My stake would have done what yours could not.

"Fortunately," she said, her dark eyes caressing Snape in a manner that made Harry
shiver, "my master sensed my coming and surprised me before *I* could surprise
*him*. After we 'bonded' -- " and here Hermione tilted her head to display the
two dark punctures on her otherwise pristine neck, " -- I used my wand to burn the stake to
ashes. There is nothing in this house by which you can do my master harm."

A dull echo sounded in Harry's brain, like a temple bell muted by distance and time.
"Where's my wand?" he demanded. "And why aren't you using *your* wand
on *me?*"

"You really should read more, Harry," Hermione said with a poisonous lilt in her voice.
"When I used my wand to destroy my rowanwood stake, I was in my master's power, but I was
still alive." She flashed a scornful look at Harry's uncomprehending expression.
"Surely you must remember from our *Basic Principles of Magic* textbook that a wand has
no power in and of itself. It's merely a conduit for the magic in the user's blood. Since
Severus and I are no longer alive, the magic in our blood is dead. A wand is of no more value to us
now than a stick of common wood."

So saying, Hermione reached into her pocket and pulled out Harry's familiar
holly-and-phoenix-feather wand. She twirled it for a moment before tossing it onto the bed
dismissively, enjoying the helpless longing in Harry's eyes at seeing his wand lying so near,
yet for all that being as inaccessable to him as if it lay upon the surface of the moon.

Forcing his eyes not to look anywhere near his wand, Harry said, "I suppose you're going
to turn me into a monster, like yourselves."

"Monster is such a harsh word, Harry," Hermione said. "The Children of the Night are
no more monsters than centaurs or merpeople. Of all the creatures on Earth, who is more free than
we? Our lives are endless! We will never die, never become ill...we will never grow old and infirm.
We," she said, stressing the word as she pierced Harry's eyes with her sparkling black
pools, "will be together forever. Isn't that what you want, Harry?"

Harry did not answer. He was drawing on all his strength, all his force of will, for the one last,
desperate act that might preserve his life (and, Heaven willing, Hermione's). Hermione turned
to Snape now, her manner suddenly deferential.

"He is yours, master."

As Harry steeled himself for what he must do, Snape's words pierced him like a needle of
ice.

"No," he said. "I have feasted tonight -- twice." Casting an accusing glance at
Harry, he said, "Most of what I drew from the insufferable little bookworm's body earlier
was spilled by your pathetic attempt to destroy me. I was forced to go out and find other
nourishment ere weakness overcame me. I could just as easily have remained and sated myself on
*your* lifeblood," he conceded. "But though that would have appeased my physical
yearning, my deeper hunger would have gone unfulfilled. That I could not satisfy except you were
fully awake to look into the eyes of him who was drawing the life from you, drop by slow,
satisfying drop. Alas, the blow I struck you was such that you could not be awakened to enjoy that
most satisfying moment.

"And now," he said expansively, speaking as if to none but himself, "it is just as
well. I think I shall enjoy even more the look on your face as your precious little Mudblood witch
draws *your* life into *her* body, until the two of you are evermore one. Thus will you
both be my servants for all eternity. And that, I think, will go far to settling our accounts,
Potter."

Snape fell silent, his dark eyes regarding his guests with diabolic amusement and anticipation.
With a slow nod at her dark master, Hermione approached Harry. As only his legs were rooted by
Snape's mesmer, he could have resisted with his hands, could have writhed his upper body
snake-like to delay his defilement. But to what end? Hermione's supernatural strength would far
exceed his mortal variety, and she was no doubt possessed of her own powers of mental control.
Deprived as he was of his amulet, he did not doubt that she could command him to stand passive as a
lamb, and fight though he might, her supernatural will would win out. Instead, he regarded her with
placid resignation as she approached him, his eyes never leaving hers. She smiled as she leaned in,
feeling Harry relax as her hands fell upon his shoulders.

"That's right, Harry," she said as she tilted his head to one side and tugged the
neck of his robes away so that the full expanse of his neck was revealed. "Don't fight me.
You can't win. And when it's over...we'll be together...forever."

Harry felt Hermione's cool, undead breath on his skin. He felt the prick of the needle-sharp
points of her fangs as they pierced his skin for the second time that night. Looking over
Hermione's shoulder, he saw Snape smile with demonic triumph as tiny threads of crimson
trickled down Harry's neck. Hermione's tongue darted out to taste Harry's sweet fluids
--

Faster than an eye could blink, Harry thrust his hand out in the direction of the bed and cried,
"ACCIO WAND!" What followed next was a blur. Harry thrust Hermione from him with all the
force of his left arm. She reeled back and slammed against the wall as Harry's wand slapped
into his palm. He waved his wand over his legs, which came to life on the instant. He leaped aside
just in time to avoid being smothered by Snape, whose billowing robes lent him the aspect of a
gigantic bat. Harry ducked and rolled, sprang up and raced toward Hermione.

Hermione recovered almost immediately from her impact with the wall. She exploded at Harry like a
wild animal, fangs bared, their points tinged with Harry's blood.

"PROTEGO!" Harry shouted. A spell that would have blown out the side of the house instead
struck Hermione in the stomach. As with Snape in the alleyway, her inhuman vitality spared her
serious injury. Hermione was driven back as by an invisible battering ram. She fell over the bed in
a tangle of robes, and Harry leaped after her. But even as he moved, he saw the black shadow
rearing up behind him. Snape fell upon Harry in the same moment that Harry smothered Hermione.
Twisting his lean body, Harry writhed out of Snape's grasp. Snape and Hermione sprang up as
one, their bodies tensed to explode into action.

Harry's left hand was clutching the amulet he had ripped from Hermione's pocket. By its
power he was now able to resist the mind control which his opponents even now sought to impose on
him. But the tiny bit of silver was not proof against fang and claw.

Acting without thought, Harry feinted toward Hermione, then spun about and hurled the amulet
straight at Snape. It smote him on the forehead, and his undead flesh burned where the silver
touched it, as if the talisman were a glowing coal of fire. Snape's scream reverberated through
the room as he reeled back, distracting Hermione for a moment. But a moment was all Harry needed.
With a swiftness his inhuman opponents could scarcely have eclipsed, Harry tugged Hermione's
hair from his left wrist and incinerated it. The tip of his wand sucked up the tiny cloud of
powdery ash like a vacuum cleaner as its owner's voice rang out in alarm.

"Master!" Hermione cried, feeling Snape's pain empathetically on her own flesh. She
jerked her head savagely back at Harry, vengeance burning in her eyes. She leaped.

Even as Harry dropped to his knees to catch up the fallen amulet, he pointed his wand at Hermione.
With a sharp jerk of his wrist, he lifted her off her feet and spun her around like a cartwheel as
she squealed in helpless frustration. With Harry's wand now 'harmonized' to her
personal aura, she was unable to resist the spell. Nevertheless, she continued to struggle like a
hornet snared in a spider web.

Harry saw that Snape was shaking off the stunning effect of his would-be victim's unexpected
attack. He could not hope to prevail with his focus divided between two opponents. Clutching the
amulet in his fist, Harry jerked his wand at Hermione, who was now sobbing as she continued to spin
in mid-air with the kinetic force of a Catherine wheel. Her motion halted with a jolt as Harry
precipitated her onto the bed with an impact that shook the cobwebs from its ragged canopy.
Harry's wand flashed again, and instantly the blankets erupted like a tidal wave and smothered
Hermione, wrapping her from head to toe like a mummy. She struggled weakly, her sobs of frustration
muffled by her enchanted cocoon. He hoped that, with any luck, she would be too dizzy and confused
to summon the focus of will to escape by transformation, as Snape had in the alleyway. How long
that condition would last, Harry could not predict. But time was his greatest enemy. Did he not
prevail quickly, his foe's unnatural stamina would overwhelm him in the end. He reinforced the
spell so that the blankets continued to attack Hermione like a living thing. It tore at his heart
to see Hermione in such state, and to know that he was the cause. Even with his own life in the
balance, he could not tear his eyes from the bed and the figure writhing helplessly thereon.

And as had been the case earlier, as testified by Hermione's mocking words, Harry's
compassion was again nearly his undoing. Tearing his eyes from the bed, he whirled just in time to
see Snape flying through the air toward him, fangs bared and eyes burning with fury and hatred.
There was no time to turn away, no time to draw breath to speak the Shield Charm incantation, or
even to describe a protective symbol in the air between him and his foe. Harry kicked back in a
desperate effort to escape the twin rapiers lunging for his throat. He struck the floor as Snape
fell upon him. Without magic from his body to transmit a spell through its narrow length, his wand
was even as Hermione had described, naught but a useless stick of wood. As well try to hold back a
charging Skrewt with a Sugar Quill. Nevertheless, instinct and reflex impelled his hand without
conscious thought. Harry's wand came up between him and and his undead foe even as Snape fell
full upon him, fangs bared to rip his flesh asunder --

"EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEYYYYAAAAAAAAAHHHHH!"

Harry looked up from the floor, his eyes blurred. His glasses had been knocked askew, the Sticking
Charm fixing them to his head faltering in concert with his will. The sight that resolved itself
before his watering eyes sucked the breath from his body. Snape was gasping and screaming feebly,
his hands clutching at his chest as he shuddered horrifically. Harry's wand stood out from the
folds of Snape's robes, its handle barely visible amidst the billowing cloth. Its greater
length was lost to sight, buried as it was between Snape's ribs, its point transfixing his
black heart.

Snape shuddered violently as blood not his own cascaded from the corners of his mouth and ran down
either side of his neck. With a strangled gurgling sound, he collapsed to the floor like a
black-robed scarecrow and lay unmoving.

The otherworldly silence that permeated the room thundered against Harry's ears. He lay as if
paralyzed, his mind unable to function. After a minute that might have been hours to Harry's
numbed senses, a tiny sound broke the stillness. His heart leaped in his bosom.

It was the sound of crying!

"Hermione," he mumbled, dragging himself up in an attempt to stand. His tormented body
was having none of it, so he crawled desperately toward the most beautiful sound he had ever heard.
He fell onto the knot of blankets, which had been loosened somewhat, no doubt by Hermione's
struggles in concert with Harry's faltering will as he and Snape engaged in their deadly dance.
He peeled the layers away with restrained desperation until Hermione's face was revealed. Stark
terror blazed in her glassy, unseeing eyes.

"No," she whimpered, "no, don't bury me...I'm alive...I'm
alive..."

Harry pulled Hermione up into a sitting position and wrapped her in a hug the enchanted blankets
had been hard pressed to match even at the apex of his spell. She sobbed onto his shoulder, her
bushy brown hair spilling out in every direction.

When Harry's comforting embrace had transformed her anguished sobs into quiet tremblings, he
asked, "Do you remember anything, Hermione?"

Harry's hands swung Hermione's face up so that he could look directly into her deep brown
eyes. As his features resolved before her, she cried softly, without her previous hysteria.

"Snape," she whispered. "He...he...I felt..." Her fingers touched her wounded
neck, and she sobbed again. "I couldn't stop him. I couldn't -- "

"What happened after that?" Harry demanded, more forcefully than he might have. "Do
you remember, Hermione? Tell me!"

Her face was blank for a long span of seconds. Her dry lips moving soundlessly, she shook her
head.

"Thank God," Harry breathed. To Hermione, he said, "It's over. Snape is dead. It
never happened. It was just a dream. It...never happened."

Wrapped snugly in each other's arms as they leaned back against the wall, the two young lovers
felt exhaustion overwhelm them like a velvet shroud. When next Harry opened his eyes, sunlight was
streaming through the open window, painting the room with a sort of dusty hope it had likely not
known in generations. He felt the warmth of Hermione's body against his, and he squeezed her
hard to assure himself that it was not, as he himself had pledged to her, only a dream. Leaning
back, he saw Hermione's face glowing in the sunlight, peaceful and serene in sleep. With a
silent prayer of thanks, Harry swung his eyes about the soundless room. He jumped, prompting a
drowsy groan from Hermione. He whispered some soothing words into her ear, and she relaxed once
more as her breathing became soft and regular again.

Harry's own breathing was the antithesis of Hermione's. He controlled it with an effort as
he looked across the room at the disheveled pile of black robes lying not ten feet away. The end of
Harry's wand was just visible, protruding from one of the folds. And scattered all about,
gleaming dully in the morning light, was an abundance of fine gray ash that was all that remained
of the earthly body of Severus Snape.


***


**Author's Note:** Just a note for the vampire-curious out there. All lore pertaining to
ordinary vampires was gleaned from various websites on the internet (bless the information
superhighway). All things pertaining to WIZARD vampires were invented by ME solely to drive the
story in the direction I wanted.

Many thanks to those who have been enjoying this little birthday story. More surprises await, so
come back next week, won't you? Thanks.



11. Monsters
------------

**Author's Note:** Please forgive the lateness of this post. My work schedule threw me a
curve last week, and then my mother board decided to throw a snit so that I couldn't write a
word. I'm back in business with my hard drive installed in a borrowed shell, and I'll try
to get the last chapter up very shortly. Until then, I hope this chapter doesn't disappoint. It
doesn't have the action of the previous two installments, but as promised last time, a few
surprises remain.

Thanks to all who are reading and reviewing, with a special nod to danielerin, who knows how to
make a bloke feel all warm inside (even if he isn't British, but merely a Yank with a passion
for Monty Python and Doctor Who). Your kind words are greatly appreciated.


***


Amelia Bones squinted through her monocle, her heavy eyebrows bumping together like belligerent
caterpillars, as she scanned the documents spread out before her. When she raised her head and
directed her gaze at Harry, the eye magnified by the monocle reminded him of Alastor Moody's
magical eye. He would not have been surprised if Madam Bones could see directly into his head even
more efficiently than could Moody.

"Have you anything to add to the testimony you have just given?" she asked in a formal
voice.

"No, Madam Bones," Harry said, responding with like formality appropriate to the
situation.

"Very well," she said. "Copies of this report will be sent to the head of Auror
Division, to the head of the Wizengamot, and to the Minister of Magic. When a decision has been
made, you will be summoned to appear again to hear the judgment of the tribunal. Until that time,
you will be listed as being on official leave, with full pay. This hearing is
adjourned."

When Harry rose with everyone else, a gentle hand fell upon his shoulder. He turned to look into
the soft brown eyes of Remus Lupin. As he steered Harry out of the courtroom and into the corridor,
Remus said in a voice meant for Harry's ears alone, "Don't give up hope, Harry. There
*is* a loophole here, I think. Severus was a wizard, after all, and Auror Division has full
authority to deal with Dark wizards. Granted, you *did* operate outside channels, but it still
should fall directly into Kingsley's lap when it's all said and done."

"But he has the authority to sack me every bit as much as Arthur does," Harry
remarked.

"That's true, yes," Remus conceded. "But division heads typically look after
their own. I think a reprimand will be as far as things will get. You *did* handle the
situation in the end, however badly you started off. In fact, I don't believe any senior member
of the division could have done better."

"That's only because I'm the only one at the Ministry whose wand is made of
holly," Harry responded.

"Perhaps," Remus said. "I *will* grant that you'd have had a harder road
without it. Holly is one of the most powerful plants in the magical world. Its flowers contain the
greatest measure of power, of course. Druids harvested them under the full moon, using silver
sickles. But the wood is by no means lacking. Your holly wand piercing Severus' heart was every
bit as effective as Hermione's rowanwood stake would have been. You were uniquely qualified for
the job. I'm sure the department will see it that way."

Harry shrugged. His job was important to him, but it was far from the *most* important item on
his mind.

"How is Hermione?"

"In the pink," Remus said cheerfully. "St. Mungo's is releasing her today, along
with Geoffrey Suggins."

Harry was relieved that Geoffrey, like Hermione, had suffered no permanent damage attendant to his
assault at the hands of Snape. Still, hearing the blond wizard's name mentioned in the same
sentence as Hermione's left him with a sour feeling in his stomach that his relief could not
entirely wash away.

"I'm sure she'll want to see you the moment she's released," Remus said.
"She'll be taking a short convalescent leave, and she'll be in to sign the official
form for Amelia." He clucked his tongue in an annoyed manner. "Merlin be my witness, I
think if a falling star destroyed the entire Ministry in a single stroke, we'd all have to line
up as ghosts and sign a form to be permitted to move on to the next world."

The comment was intended to lift Harry's spirits, but Remus regretted it the moment the words
left his lips. They were mounting the stairs to Level nine to take the lift back up to Auror
Division, and Remus' words rebounded dully from the lone black door that was the entrance to
the Department of Mysteries. The pair passed the door in silence, neither wanting to envision what
lay beyond, yet finding themselves helpless to do otherwise for all that.

"Is that where they're keeping Snape's ashes?" Harry asked distantly, thrusting
aside the deeper meaning of that oppressive door.

"Yes," Remus said. "They'll be purified by a special spell, then scattered out
at sea. That will ensure that his remains won't be employed to sinister end by necromancers and
the like. And, of course, it reduces to nil the chance that he'll rise again."

Harry's throat tightened. There were now *two* persons in that secret warren of chambers
who would not rise again this side of Judgment Day. Harry quickened his steps and hurled himself
blindly into the nearest lift, giving no thought to whether it was occupied. Fortunately, the lifts
were almost always vacant on this level (in no small part because personnel from the upper levels
ritually avoided the Department of Mysteries like a contagion), sparing Harry the embarrassment of
blundering into someone in his haste. Remus followed, closed the gate, and said, "Level
two."

When Harry entered Kingsley Shacklebolt's office, the head of Auror Division was waiting for
him. Harry supposed that Kingsley either knew from experience how long such a hearing would last,
or an Interdepartmental memo had been sent off to alert him. Howbeit, he was holding a sheet of
parchment for Harry to read and sign. Harry signed it without looking at it and handed it back to
Kingsley.

"Procedure dictates that all documents be read before they're signed," Kingsley said
in a neutral voice.

"If I was a little keener on procedure," Harry said with a small smile, "there'd
be no *need* for me to sign it, would there?" When Kingsley returned Harry's smile,
Harry added seriously, "I know I can rely on you to do what's best." The brief glance
the pair exchanged communicated the deeper meaning behind Harry's words.

"I appreciate that, Harry," Kingsley said as he affixed an official stamp on the
parchment and filed it in the appropriate cabinet.

"How will you spend your holiday?" Remus asked, endeavoring to lighten the mood his
earlier words had so clouded.

Harry was about to say that he would like to visit the Burrow. If ever there was an island of
sanity in a world of madness, it was the warm confines of the Weasley house. And Molly's
excellent cuisine would go far toward putting his troubled mind at ease. But he remembered almost
immediately that Hermione was now living at the boarding house. He shrugged.

"Stay at home, I suppose," he said vacantly. "Maybe go visit Ron and Luna. Or maybe
Hagrid. I don't see him nearly as often as I'd like."

"I'm sure he'll be very happy to see you," Remus said.

An awkward silence fell over the small office. Remus saw that Harry seemed to have something on his
mind, the thought hovering like a ghost behind the emerald windows of his eyes.

"Before I go," Harry said suddenly as Kingsley's dark eyes regarded him searchingly,
"I'd like to get a special permission form."

"To do what?" Kingsley asked.

"I'd like to pay a visit...to the Department of Mysteries."

Another silence held for a moment, broken at last by the rasp of a desk drawer being opened, the
whisper of a square of parchment being placed on the desk blotter, and the swift scratch of a
quill. Kingsley handed the parchment to Harry with a compassionate smile.

"Have a good holiday, Harry," Kingsley said.

"Thanks," Harry replied. He folded the parchment and tucked it into his robes. With a
nodded goodbye to Remus, he left the director's office and entered a vacant lift.

"Level nine."

When the lift clattered to a halt at the lowest level to which it traveled, Harry stared across the
short distance separating him from the somber black door whose threshold he had never again
expected to cross. Drawing a long breath, he left the lift, swept across the stone floor and pushed
open the door. He held his breath involuntarily as he stared down the dark corridor, remembering
again his first glimpse of that ominous door lurking in the far shadows, revealed to him in the
visions planted in his mind by Lord Voldemort via their psychic link. He shuddered slightly. If
only he had done as Sirius and Remus -- and Dumbledore -- had urged and learned Occlumency. But his
curiosity, his vanity, and his hatred of Snape (mutual, to be sure) had crippled that owl long
before it could take flight. Shaking his thoughts free of those oppressive specters, he strode down
the corridor and through the door, which opened easily before him.

The circular room in which he found himself, with its flanks of black, featureless doors curving
away on either hand, was itself in no way altered from Harry's memory of his first, and only,
visit six years ago, when he and his mates had set out on their ill-fated mission to
"rescue" Sirius from Lord Voldemort. The only difference was that, whereas the chamber
had been deserted that night (Voldemort's Death Eaters having done away with the security
personnel to facilitate Harry's carefully engineered mission), now he was met by a large,
stone-faced wizard, dressed from head to toe in black, who acknowledged his presence with a short
ritual bow.

"May I help you?" the wizard said politely, his stony face hardly twitching a muscle.
There was no menace in the challence, but Harry's Auror-eye saw the imperceptible tightening of
the guard's wand arm, the hand of which was tucked into his robes and was undoubtedly clutching
his wand at that very moment. Carefully maintaining eye contact, Harry reached into his robes
slowly (lest the guard think he was drawing his own wand) and produced the note. The guard read it,
nodded, and drew his wand smoothly. Harry thought the guard was about to search him magically
before letting him pass on, but instead he directed his wand at one of the dozen-odd doors ringing
the circular room. The door at which the wand was pointed opened silently. Nodding his thanks,
Harry crossed the broad chamber and walked through the door, which closed after him.

Harry found himself in a small, dungeon-like room with rough stone walls. It was supported by
interlocking arches that braced the concave ceiling without need of columns. The very air seemed to
hum at a pitch beyond the range of human hearing, and Harry imagined that he could feel the hairs
on the back of his hands vibrating to the symphony of the spheres. There was without doubt powerful
magic permeating this chamber.

A low dais of black stone sat squarely in the center of the room. He supposed that the object he
sought were sitting thereon, but he could not confirm this visually. A figure stood between him and
the dais; tall and spare, with long silver hair reaching down his back and tumbling over his narrow
shoulders like a waterfall of liquid moonlight. Even before the man turned to greet the new
arrival, Harry knew what he would see: a long, flowing silver beard, a narrow, crooked nose, and
bright blue eyes peering through the lenses of a pair of half-moon spectacles.

"Come in, Harry," Dumbledore said, in a cordial manner as if inviting him into his
personal chamber for tea and cakes. "We were just talking about you, Severus and
I."

As Harry approached the Hogwarts headmaster (and, he reminded himself, head of the Wizengamot, upon
whose judgment a portion of his fate rested), he saw the object whose presence had drawn him hence.
It was a silver urn, finely wrought and etched with mystic symbols. Did Harry tilt back the hinged
crown, he knew, he would find inside the mortal remains of Severus Snape.

"Have a seat, Harry," Dumbledore said invitingly. "We have much to discuss, the
three of us." The old wizard waved his wand, and an upholstered chair resolved itself from
thin air and settled onto the stone floor. As Harry sat, Dumbledore produced a second chair and
seated himself with a sigh of relief. "That's better," he smiled. "My legs are
not what they used to be. Now, if you would, please tell me why you have come here."

Harry hesitated. Why *had* he come?

"I...don't know."

Dumbledore nodded understandingly. "Yet you *did* come," he said. "That speaks
well of you, Harry. Most in your position would not deign to acknowledge a fallen foe."

"These weren't exactly ordinary circumstances," Harry said.

"Indeed," Dumbledore chuckled, "they were not."

"How much do you know about what happened?" Harry asked.

"About what happened?" Dumbledore countered. "Or about what *caused* them to
happen?"

Amending his question at Dumbledore's obvious prompting, Harry said, "The
latter."

"Well, now," Dumbledore said in a slow, thoughtful manner. "Had you asked me that
question only a few days ago, I should have had very little to say. Now, however, there is much
light I may shed on the subject."

"How did this happen, Albus?" Harry asked, his voice betraying an anxiety he'd not
known he was concealing.

"I presume you are asking how Severus came to suffer the curse of the vampire,"
Dumbledore said definitively. "I learned that myself only this morning."

"How?"

"By journeying to Azkaban," Dumbledore answered placidly.

"Azkaban?"

"Yes," Dumbledore said. "But first, allow me to turn the clock back to a few years
ago. The present can be better understood by first seeing the past in a clear light.

"As you well know, Severus Snape, in his younger, more foolish days, was a Death Eater. For
reasons wholly his own, he left Voldemort's service and took it upon himself to work toward his
former master's overthrow. It will come as no surprise to you that this made him a marked man
in Voldemort's eyes."

"Yes," Harry said. "Back when Voldemort had me tied up on his father's
tombstone, he summoned his Death Eaters to him. When Snape, among others, didn't appear,
Voldemort said he'd see that he was killed as payment for his betrayal."

"That was no doubt his intention, yes," Dumbledore agreed. "But when you destroyed
Voldemort, you preserved Severus' life."

"I don't reckon he was too happy about that," Harry murmured.

"No," Dumbledore chuckled, "he was not."

"But not all of Voldemort's Death Eaters fell when he did," Harry said. "As
blindly loyal as they were, wouldn't the survivors have taken it upon themselves to avenge
their master by carrying out his unfulfilled orders?"

"Indeed," Dumbledore agreed. "Yet, in their master's absence, any or all of them
would seek to do his own will first, and his master's second. And those who *did* choose
to honor their master's bequest might yet do so by their own individual
interpretation."

"I don't understand."

"For whatever its value," Dumbledore said, "Voldemort believed that there was
nothing more terrible than physical death. Thus, when Severus left his service, no other thought
would have occurred to him but to kill his enemy, death being the worst punishment he could
envision. But his followers were not necessarily in accord with their master's beliefs. I can
think of one in particular who believed that to torture the living was better revenge than to kill
outright."

"Bellatrix LeStrange," Harry said instantly through clenched teeth.

"Nor was she alone in this perversion," Dumbledore said. "When Kingsley informed me
that the menace stalking the streets of London was none other than my former Potions Master, my
suspicions were instantly aroused. This, I was certain, bore the mark of Lord Voldemort,
implimented by one of his Death Eaters. I held little hope of finding the one responsible. Many
served Lord Voldemort invisibly, even as Barty Crouch Junior, and their camouflage is such that
they are not seen for what they are until it is too late. But nonetheless, I felt it were better to
seek the truth and perhaps fail than stand by idly while evil triumphed by default."

"So you went to Azkaban," Harry said, "because that's where all the known Death
Eaters are."

"Just so," Dumbledore nodded. "With the aid of some Veritaserum procured from
Hogwarts' *new* Potions Master -- " Dumbledore paused to observe Harry's reaction
before carrying on, " -- I ultimately learned that Voldemort had engaged one whose skill lay
in the area of breeding dangerous beasts, for purposes of both terror and subjugation. His location
is presently unknown, though it is said he abides in a far land, out of the reach of the Ministry.
One of his specialities, so I was informed, was a particularly virulent strain of vampire bat. And
do not mistake me, Harry, I use the term quite literally here. These bats were bred for the sole
purpose of cursing Voldemort's foes by transforming them into the living dead. Blood and fluids
from true vampires, captured and imprisoned by this servant, were injected into the bats until
their bite would inflict the curse as surely as if imparted by the human variety.

"Severus resigned his position suddenly," Dumbledore reflected. "I presumed that he
was distraught over my passing him over for the position of Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher
yet again. In truth, he is more than qualified; but his talent at Potions so far exceeds -- rather
I should say exceeded -- his other gifts that I would have been guilty of robbing one position to
fill the other, to the detriment of the first. Though I made my position clear -- with all due
courtesy, I trust -- he was not to be mollified. When he sent me his letter of resignation,
therefore, I harbored no suspicion as to his motives. Only now do I see that I allowed two very
important clues to escape me. First, whatever the depths of his bitterness, Severus should have
tendered his resignation in person, out of simple respect. That he did not do so should have
alerted me that something was amiss."

"What was the other thing?" Harry asked.

"As you may know, Harry," Dumbledore said, "I read a great variety of foreign
publications, both wizard and Muggle, in addition to those published in Britain. As I followed the
attacks in London, I noted that similar attacks had also afflicted certain areas of the continent.
I gave these little account, as they are not as uncommon abroad as they are here. Nevertheless, I
should have suspected that so many attacks occurring at the same time might be attributed to
something other than coincidence. I have since confirmed that certain other clandestine foes of
Voldmort's cause, whose names are known but to few, have gone missing in those same regions
where the attacks have been reported. The testimony I gleaned in Azkaban has left me with no doubt
that these incidents are all related. I have sent owls to the magical authorities in these areas,
advising them of my conclusions. It is my hope that, with the help of our own Department of Magical
Cooperation, we may pool our resources and eliminate this threat once and for all. The sooner we
remove these last remnants of Voldemort's insidious organization, the more quickly we can
finally write *finis* to Tom Riddle's legacy of terror."

"If Snape's been a vampire all this time," Harry puzzled, "why did the London
attacks begin only recently?"

"Unlike mortal monsters such as Voldemort," Dumbledore said, "vampires do not kill
without need. In the early stages, vampirism may leave the one cursed with enough inate human
decency to resist the urge to feed on those who were once as he. The blood of any mammal will
sustain a vampire, though it is said that the temptation of human blood becomes irresistible with
time. The Muggle news reported a number of wild beasts found drained of blood over the past few
months. They were passed off as the work of cultists whose habit it is to employ blood sacrifices
in their dark ceremonies. I suspected otherwise, however, and my fears were polarized when the
animal attacks ceased at precisely the same time that the attacks in London began. I was certain
then that a true vampire was loose, though I had no notion of his identity. Not then."

Harry hadn't realized that his hand was caressing the silver urn containing Snape's ashes
until he idly fumbled with the lid. The hinge squeaked softly, and Harry's Auror training
snapped him alert. Dumbledore smiled but said nothing.

"If it was Voldemort who cursed Snape, whether directly or indrectly," Harry said,
"why did he say that *I* was responsible?"

"Did he, now?" Dumbledore said, his eyes twinkling with deep amusement. "I suppose I
should not be surprised. He found it most convenient to blame you, or your father, for whatever
setbacks might befall him. It is a weakness to which we all fall prey from time to time. No doubt
he believed -- or rather, deluded himself into believing -- that his troubles could all be traced
back to the day you came to Hogwarts and thrust the school into Voldemort's sphere of
attention. And there *is* a grain of truth in that. Had not Voldemort's eye turned toward
you, Severus might have escaped his former master's notice, tucked away as he was at Hogwarts.
For indeed, that was one of the reasons I engaged Severus as Potions Master immediately following
Voldemort's unsuccessful attempt on your life more than two decades ago. Teachers are a
relatively invisible fraternity, their names known to few outside their immediate circle --
excepting those who, shall we say, take it upon themselves to blow their own horn..."

The shadow of a smile curled the old wizard's moustaches momentarily as both he and Harry
recalled the brief but memorable tenure of Gilderoy Lockhart, who had come as close as any to
usurping Harry's position as Snape's most detested person at Hogwarts.

"Thus," Dumbledore resumed, "Severus remained in virtual obscurity for ten years --
until, as was inevitable, you received your Hogwarts letter and arrived to begin your schooling.
One might reason, therefore, that you *were* responsible for his woes, in that your presence
drew Voldemort's attention directly onto Hogwarts. There appears to be no question that Severus
believed that. No doubt this was one of the reasons he placed such a heavy burden on you during
your school years.

"But the guilt, if there is any to be had, is far from yours alone. I placed him in harm's
way any number of times in my capacity as head of the Order of the Phoenix. If he chose to minimize
my portion so as to increase yours, it is not surprising. He despised your father, and James'
death deprived Severus of a most convenient scapegoat. You filled that vacancy quite nicely in his
eyes."

Dumbledore paused just long enough to wipe his glasses on the sleeve of his robes. When he replaced
his glasses, he looked down the length of his crooked nose into Harry's unreadable eyes.

"Much has befallen us all as a result of your presence, Harry. And there will always be those
who will choose the easy path and blame others for their own misfortunes. Lord Voldemort achieved
much of his domination through the cunning art of division and mistrust. It was even as I warned
the students at the Leaving Feast on the occasion of Voldemort's return. We are only as strong
as we are united, as weak as we are divided. It was a lesson Severus was hard pressed to take to
heart, and it cost him most dearly in his turn."

"I despised him," Harry said. "For as long as I can remember, I wanted to see him
suffer, as he had made *me* suffer. But..." He paused, his voice growing thick as his
eyes came to rest once more on the graven silver urn. "No one deserves this. Not even
Snape."

"He risked his life in the cause," Dumbledore said, his words a sort of eulogy.
"More often, I think, than any other operative. He was tortured more than once -- by Bellatrix
herself on at least one occasion -- yet he never betrayed us. Many there are who will ever suspect
turncoats. Once a traitor, always a traitor. But it is my solemn belief that betrayal is a one-way
street. Evil can betray good, but good *cannot* betray evil. It can depart from its shadow --
even oppose it openly -- but it cannot truly betray it. When Severus turned his back on Voldemort
-- and once I was convinced that his reasons were pure -- my doubts were put to rest. I knew that
there was no sacrifice he would not make for the cause of righteousness, even unto the price of his
life."

"THEN WHY DID HE REFUSE TO HELP BRING SIRIUS BACK?" Harry shouted suddenly, startling
himself far more than he did Dumbledore.

"Is that what you believe, Harry?" Dumbledore returned gently.

"It's what I *know*," Harry said, his voice controlled only with the greatest
effort. "Remus and I were ready to do what was necessary to bring Sirius back. You yourself
prepared the spell. And then Snape threw a spanner in things by turning his back on us. If
that's not betrayal, I'd like to know what *is!*"

"Despite what you may have heard, Harry," Dumbledore said, "Severus did *not*
refuse to assist us in the cause of rescuing Sirius."

"It's not anything I 'heard,'" Harry said coldly. "Snape told me
himself."

"Indeed?" Dumbledore said mildly, his snowy eyebrows rising. "What did he say to
you, Harry? I wish to know his exact words, if you can remember them."

"I'll never forget," Harry said fiercely. "My shift had just ended, and I had
just got off the lift and was about to enter the Department of Mysteries, where I knew you were all
waiting for me. But before I could go though the door, Snape burst through and nearly knocked me
down. I asked him where he was going, if he was getting something he needed for the ceremony and if
I could help him. And he said, 'There will be no ceremony, Potter.' I was stunned
speechless. When I found my voice, I asked him what the bloody hell he was talking about, telling
me there would be no ceremony. And he glared at me and said, 'I cannot do what the Headmaster
asks of me, Potter.' And I screamed at him, 'I knew we couldn't depend on you!
You're abandoning Sirius! He did his part to bring Voldemort down, just like we all did! And
now you're just going to let him rot in that bloody Dark realm! I thought you'd changed! I
thought you were finally going to do the right thing! But I was wrong! You still hate him! After
all this time, after everything we've been through, nothing has changed, has it? You still hate
him!'"

"And he looked me squarely in the eye and said, 'yes.' And then he was gone. I never
saw him again after that night. Not until... "

"I'm glad you told me that, Harry," Dumbledore said. "Had you not, I should not
now be able to tell you the truth with full understanding."

"I know the truth," Harry said, his eyes seeming to pierce the silver urn like emerald
lasers. "Snape was a monster whose heart was full of nothing but hate. I told Hermione that he
was an inhuman thing long before he became a vampire."

"Yes," Dumbledore agreed with a slight tremor in his voice. "And that is why
*I* called off the ceremony that night."

Harry nearly fell out of his chair. "*You* called it off? *No!* You *never!*
*Why?*"

"Because I knew we could not succeed," Dumbledore said.

"This is -- " Harry stammered, his head spinning. "But -- Snape volunteered to take
part in the ceremony! He volunteered!"

"So he did," Dumbledore said. "But that in itself was not enough to ensure its
success."

"In order for the spell to work," Harry said, his head spinning, "Sirius'
greatest enemy had to participate willingly. Snape *did* that. No one forced him. I don't
undertand any of this."

"It is both simple and complicated," Dumbledore said. "The spell can only work if,
as you said, the greatest enemy of the one to be retrieved volunteers to play the most critical
part. But there is a subtle codocil to that. The true power of the spell is sacrifice. You and
Remus were willing to make certain sacrifices to bring Sirius back. So, too, was Severus. But I
discovered, to my dismay, that Severus was tragically bereft of that by which he might have have
completed the spell."

"And what's that?" Harry heard his voice say as if echoing from a long, dark
corridor.

"Love," Dumbledore said sadly.

Harry stared at Dumbledore in silence, his mouth open. The old wizard's pale blue eyes fell
upon the urn glistening like a silver teardrop on the black dais.

"In order for the spell to succeed," Dumbledore said, his eyes rising above the rims of
his glasses to embrace Harry's, "Severus would have had to physically pass through the
veil and wrest Sirius from those who would hold him in bondage, combating supernatural forces the
nature of which we can only guess. That was his part, nor could any substitute for him. But the key
to success in such a venture is to establish a link between this world and the other, anchoring
that link so that the one lost may be drawn back along that invisible chain, link by link. In
touching Sirius, Severus would have linked their souls. Then would have ensued a tug of war of
unimaginable scope, a contest between two souls, one of them rooted in *this* world, the other
in the world beyond the veil. And therein lies the tragedy, you see. For Severus' soul was not,
and perhaps never was, a part of this world."

"What are you talking about?" Harry asked hoarsely.

"The anchor that roots us to this world," Dumbledore said quietly, "is love. And as
you yourself observed, there was no love in Severus' heart, only hatred. In this, you saw more
clearly than I. Despite the evidence of my own witness over more than a decade, I believed that
there was a spark within Severus that could be fanned to flame.

"Severus' early days, both before and during his Hogwarts years, were -- tragic, for want
of a better word. Do you imagine that you suffered at the hands of the Dursleys, Harry? I tell you
now that what you endured was but a shadow of Severus' existence. For throughout your
confinement, yet you retained a spirit of self which your aunt and uncle could not suffocate,
strive though they might. You regarded your abuse as unjust, placing a value on yourself above that
which the Dursleys recognized. Not so Severus. Forged in fires unguessed, his soul was bereft of
all self-worth. He was barren of even that most basic element which defines us all. I speak of
self-love, Harry. For that is the anchor which roots us to this world and serves as our foundation
as we strive to rise above our limitations and become more than we are. Lacking that, we are
groundless, floundering helplessly with nothing to cling to. Without love of self, we cannot give
*of* ourselves. For who can give freely of a vault that is empty?

"In his own mind and heart, Severus was not a part of this world. He was ever alone, whether
in solitude or in the company of others. From his earliest days, he was trapped behind walls he
could never assail. Smite them as he might, they would not crumble. Climb as he would, he could not
surmount them, for ever they grew higher, eluding his reach. Untimately, it was he who heaped them
skyward, stone upon stone, until they towered so high that he abandoned any attempt to breach them.
Thus was he a prisoner not of the world, but of himself. And as such, he could not be released by
any save himself alone."

Harry lifted a hand to his face to remove his glasses. He pressed his fingers to his eyes in an
effort to block out the images conjured by Dumbledore's words. Instead, the darkness merely
cast them into sharper relief.

"When Voldemort's servant placed the vampire curse on Severus," Dumbledore said
heavily, "no doubt he thought he was punishing his master's enemy in a manner more
terrible than death. And that was the final jest, you see. The intent was to replace the joy of
life with the dark shadow of empty existence for its own sake. But in his own mind, Severus was
already an outcast of humanity. When the curse descended upon him, he was, in effect, merely
changing rooms in a house that was already his life's abode."

Dumbledore reached out a long arm and placed his hand on Harry's shoulder.

"You and I have each known our dark days, Harry. Your own portion has no doubt been greater
than your due. Yet there ever burned in you the flame which is the joy of living; the pure,
unsullied elation of *being*...of knowing that you are part of a vibrant, living world. A
world of hope. A world of love. And no matter the tragedies that befell you, you never permitted
that flame to be extinguished. You kept it burning, through faith -- in yourself and in those
around you. And, if I may say so, in a power greater than all of us. That is why Lord Voldemort
could not prevail against you. And that is why, ultimately, Severus could *not* prevail. For
his was the one opponent he could not defeat -- himself."

"What would have happened," Harry asked heavily, "if Snape had gone in and tried to
bring Sirius out?"

"He would have failed," Dumbledore said simply. "It is even as I said, that in order
to retrieve a lost soul from the other realm, the seeker's soul must be anchored solidly in
*this* world. Alas, I saw barely in time that Severus could not succeed. Indeed, had he gone
through the veil and joined his soul to that of Sirius, he would have been trapped himself. Though
his motives were pure -- or as pure as they might be -- he lacked the anchor by which to return to
this world. For, though he would have pretended otherwise, I perceived that he did not love his own
life enough to wish to return to it. Not only would he have failed to bring Sirius back, he would
have been irretrievably lost himself, and that I could not permit. I did not tell him this, of
course. He had volunteered to make the attempt, and his pride would not permit him to withdraw. I
therefore had no choice but to send him off as I did. There was nothing to be gained, and so very
much to be lost."

Silence fell like a pall over the small chamber. The flickering candle flames sent gray shadows
dancing across the floor. Harry stared into the reflection of one of the flames in the polished
silver body of the urn. In the black seed of that flame, Harry saw again that night, the night that
almost had been but never was. What would have happened if Snape had gone in after Sirius and been
lost himself, as Dumbledore was certain he would have? It was unlikely that another could have
taken Snape's place. By the very nature of the spell, only an enemy of blackest stripe could
bring a lost soul back through the veil, and surely none loathed Sirius to the degree that Snape
had. If Snape had been lost, would Harry have mourned, or merely been bitter that his effort on
Sirius' behalf had failed?

And another thought elbowed its way into Harry's brain, unwanted, but no less irresistible for
its intrusiveness. Could he, Harry, have done what Snape had been willing to do -- risk his life,
perhaps his very soul, to retrieve his most hated foe? If Draco Malfoy, or Snape himself, were
trapped behind that mysterious veil with Harry his only salvation, would he, Harry, have done what
Snape had been willing to do? And if he could not -- *would* not -- was he any better in the
final analysis than Snape? Indeed, was he not far worse?

"My, my," Dumbledore said. Harry looked around and saw that Dumbledore was regarding his
curious pocket watch through the lenses of his half-moon glasses. "Where has the time
gone?" The old wizard nodded at the tiny, whirling planets, clearly divining their meaning in
a way Harry had never been able, before turning an elfin smile Harry's way. "Minerva will
have a few well-chosen words for me when I return, and I daresay I'll have earned them."
Dumbledore rose from his chair, rubbed his back with a groan. Smiling down on Harry, he said,
"It appears that my back is scarcely in better condition than my legs."

Harry stood up as well, and Dumbledore drew his wand and banished the chairs with a deft flick of
his wrist.

"Praise Merlin that my *hands* still work," he chortled. Then, more seriously:
"Take care of yourself, Harry. When next we meet, may it be under more pleasant
circumstances."

Dumbledore turned, paused for the briefest of intervals, then left the chamber, closing the door
behind him. Harry turned and stared with unwinking eyes at the silvery surface of the urn. He
closed his eyes, and when he opened them again his vision was misted with the beginnings of
tears.

"I've hated you for as long as I can remember," he said. Staring at the urn, Harry
saw his own face reflected back at him. He saw the irony immediately. How many times might Snape
have said those words while looking at his reflection in a mirror, or in the bowl of water with
which he splashed his face every morning? (Though, Harry reconsidered, the latter scenario seemed
rather remote, given the state of Snape's hair.) As if to sharpen his next words, Harry tilted
the lid back, exposing the pale ashes within. "I hated you as I hated no one -- not even
Voldemort. He didn't go out of his way to treat me like vermin, at least. I was merely an
obstacle to be eliminated. But you -- I got the feeling that you would have swum naked through a
lake of Bubotuber pus just to do or say something to make me feel small and useless.

"I always thought it was because you hated my father. Well, that was true enough, wasn't
it? And I suppose you had cause, at least at first. And Sirius was even worse, wasn't he?"
This concession came with more diffiiculty. Harry sighed deeply. "But there was someone you
hated even more than them or me -- yourself. Not that knowing that would have mattered to me then,
of course."

Harry paused. Did it matter *now?*

"It's all over now," he said with a finality that seemed to ease a great weight from
his chest. "It's time to shut the past in the broom cupboard and lock the door. I have
better things to do than feed off old hatreds. I've wasted too much time on things that seemed
important while ignoring those that really are. I have a lot of sins to make up for. We share
*that*, at least, if nothing else."

He paused, allowing a reverent silence to permeate the chamber. His eyes fell again onto the mound
of gray ash just visible above the rim of the urn.

"Albus said that if I hadn't destroyed Voldemort, he would have made good his pledge to
kill you. You might say I saved your life that night. Like father, like son, eh? You hated being in
my dad's debt after he saved you from Remus, and scarcely do you get *that* paid off than
I come along and saddle you with *another* one. Well," he sighed, "if that's so,
you might as well hang me for a dragon as an egg, as Mrs. Figg used to say."

Harry smiled thinly, tasting the salty bite of the tiny rivers streaming from his eyes. His voice
fell to a whisper as his eyes squeezed shut against the itchy wetness clouding them.

"All those years -- it's like you *wanted* me to hate you. It was certainly the easy
path to take. But Albus once said that it's the measure of us all to do what is *right*
instead of what is easy. Maybe I was never able to see just what the right thing *was.* But if
I didn't know before...I know now." Drawing a slow, almost painful breath, Harry looked
into the mouth of the urn and said softly, "I forgive you. Do you hear me, wherever you are,
you damned greasy-haired son of a bitch? I...forgive you."

The faint echo of Harry's words had not faded before the encroaching silence was broken by two
tiny sounds: a muted scuffing, as of a foot moving upon the stone floor -- and a hushed, almost
imperceptible sob. Whirling suddenly, Harry saw Hermione emerging from a shadowy corner of the
chamber.

"How long have you been here?" Harry croaked.

"I came in while Dumbledore was talking," Hermione said contritely. "You didn't
hear me open the door. You were a bit...distracted."

Harry laughed gently, his cheeks glistening in the dancing light. "Fine Auror *I* am,
letting you sneak up on me like that."

"You're a splendid Auror, if my opinion is worth anything," Hermione returned as she
glided across the floor and looked up into Harry's damp eyes.

"I don't know as Kingsley would agree," Harry said. "He still might sack me, you
know. And I wouldn't blame him."

"There are other jobs," Hermione said with quiet assuredness. "We'll get
along."

"We?" Harry said, hardly believing his ears.

"We," Hermione said. "And if you *do* get sacked, don't worry about losing
your flat. I know someone who's in the market for a roommate."

"Witch or wizard?" Harry teased.

Laughing, Hermione stretched to her full height and pressed her lips to Harry's. He swung her
off her feet, drawing her against him as he inhaled her with the gratitude of a condemned man
reprieved from the gallows. When he set her down again, her cheeks were wet with his tears and
hers. Feeling suddenly ill-at-ease by his overt display of sentiment, Harry jerked his hand across
his face and flicked his damp fingers behind his back in a gesture of manly disdain. As he essayed
to wipe his hand on his robes, he looked into Hermione's eyes, and he started in surprise. She
was not looking at him. Her gaze was fixed at some point over his shoulder, and her eyes were wide
with an alarm verging on terror. Whirling about, Harry saw the object of that terror. A column of
smoke was rising from Snape's urn, flowing outward as it billowed up and hugged the ceiling
cloyingly. The silver urn burst like a flower pot struck by a stone hurled from a sling. The
expanding smoke roiled like boiling porridge, filling the better part of the modest chamber in
moments. The dais on which the urn had sat was swallowed up by the dark, billowing clouds,
completely lost to view.

Harry and Hermione had both drawn their wands without a thought, but neither could decide what to
do with them. They could only stare, dumbfounded, as the smoke continued to boil and seethe as if a
volcano were erupting through the bedrock under London.

The smoke began to dissipate at last. As it thinned to transluscence, an anomalous shape appeared,
just discernable through the swirling clouds. It was indistinct, sticking out at odd angles. On a
venture, Harry sent a light wind hissing from the tip of his wand. Hermione emulated his action a
moment later. The smoke was swept away, left to huddle around the base of the dais like dirty fog.
Harry and Hermione gaped, their wands hanging limp in their hands.

A figure lay huddled on the dais, its limbs folded and interlocked in a mockery of the fetal
position. It was naked, with pale, ashen skin and long, lank black hair. Harry darted in front of
Hermione, his wand thrust out before him.

"When I give the word," Harry said tensely, "run for the door. My wand did him
before. He won't get by me."

But instead of poising herself to turn and flee, Hermione slipped her arm around Harry's waist
and planted her feet firmly on the stone floor. Harry had no time to berate her, nor even to curse
under his breath. The pale figure rose from its unwieldy tangle and stood on shaking legs, fixing
Harry with a cold, merciless gaze. His black eyes hard as the stone from which he had just risen,
Severus Snape curled his lip beneath his long hooked nose and hissed, snake-like:

*"Potter!"*



12. Return from Beyond
----------------------

**Author's Note:** What do you do when your hard drive crashes? You cry a little, you
curse a little, and you give thanks that you had the sense to keep your story files on disk.
It's later than I'd hoped, but here it is at last. Let's see if we can go out with a
bang, shall we?


***


"What happened after he spoke your name?" Kingsley asked, one eye on Harry, the other on
the enchanted quill that was hastily recording his words and Harry's on a long roll of
parchment.

"Nothing," Harry said, still dazed by the events of the morning past. "He just sort
of caved in, like a puppet with no strings."

"And that's when Hermione went and fetched the guard," Kingsley said
conclusively.

Harry nodded.

"Right, then," Kingsley said as he settled back in his chair and snatched the quill from
atop the parchment. "Adding your account to the guard's report, it's all lined up neat
and proper. Arthur will be pleased." He paused to look at Harry, who sat in his chair before
Kingsley's desk as if in a daze. "You look exhausted, Harry. Out you get. Have a good
sleep and we'll sort out the finer points tomorrow."

Nodding dumbly, Harry rose and left Kingsley's office. He was walking the familiar path to the
lifts purely from routine, his eyes only half-focused. He was startled when something soft and warm
slammed into him, knocking him back a step as he was smothered in an embrace the Devil's Snare
guarding the Sorcerer's Stone under Hogwarts had been hard pressed to equal. Responding without
thought to the familiar (and welcome) feel of Hermione's arms clinging to him, Harry hugged her
against him for what seemed a very long time before allowing his arms to relax.

"Let's go home, Harry," Hermione said with a sort of quiet urgency.

As he allowed Hermione to steer him toward the nearest lift, Harry wondered absently whose home she
had meant, his or hers. He decided he didn't care. He rode the lift to the lobby in silence,
and together they walked past the Fountain of Magical Brethren until they reached the Apparation
area. Harry cleared his mind (easy enough to do, as he found it increasingly difficult to piece two
cogent thoughts together) and allowed Hermione to Apparate the both of them to their
destination.

When Harry raised his eyes, he saw that they were standing in the Weasleys' kitchen. This feat
was easily accomplished, as the Weasleys had long ago modified the anti-Apparation wards protecting
the Burrow to permit Harry to pass in and out as if he were a member of the family (which, in their
eyes, he was). Hermione's signature had been added shortly after, for the same reason. The
boarders' private rooms were another matter, each being Charmed to admit none but its paying
occupant.

"Will you be having lunch, then?" Molly Weasley asked tentatively, her eyes soft and
compassionate as they regarded Harry and Hermione. She evidenced no surprise at seeing Harry as she
stood at the stove, her wand orchestrating the preparation of the midday meal with the skill of a
general directing troops in battle. Either Hermione had apprised Molly over breakfast of her
intention to fetch Harry home with her today, or Molly simply intuited Harry's arrival, no
doubt having learned of the morning's events directly from her husband's personal
fire-com.

"Not just yet, thank you, Molly," Hermione said as she directed Harry toward the stairs.
"We'll be down later."

"I'll save you both something," Molly called up as Harry and Hermione disappeared up
the stairs in a decidedly more conventional way than they had arrived at the boarding house.

Harry hardly noticed the long climb to Hermione's room in the loft of the Burrow, did not hear
the click of the lock as Hermione opened the door with a wave of her wand. Before he knew it he was
being eased down onto a soft surface that was cool and soothing as his palms instinctively braced
themselves against it. Harry slowly brought his eyes into focus. He had never been in this room
before, unlike the other bedrooms, all of which which he had visited at one time or another when
the younger Weasley children were still living at home. It was a single chamber with no
partitioning walls. A large double window was set in the slanted wall opposite, before which sat a
writing desk and a plain wooden chair. A small couch and a stuffed chair sat against the side wall
facing the door through which they had entered. A small, round table sat in between, bearing an oil
lamp identical to the one sitting on the desk. It was evident that the former attic made up in
floor area what it lacked in head room. It was hard to imagine that this warm, friendly chamber had
once been the abode of the Weasley family ghoul.

With the other furniture having been visually accounted for, Harry knew he must be sitting on
Hermione's bed. It was pressed against the slanting back wall, and even sitting down, he only
just managed to avoid bumping his head against the roof. The covers were turned down, and the feel
of the cool, smooth sheets was almost hypnotic in its invitation. He suddenly became aware that
Hermione was bending over his shoulder, her hands fumbling with the tie at the back of his robes.
He turned his head and smiled weakly.

"Are you trying to have your way with me, Miss Granger?"

"You wish," Hermione smirked as she loosened the neck of Harry's robes and drew them
over his head, leaving him clad only in a T-shirt and briefs. That was more true than Hermione
knew, Harry thought -- or was it? If Harry had learned nothing else in the past few days, it was
that Hermione could be counted on to know a good deal more than she let on. Either way, Harry was
in no state to pursue such fantasies. He did not resist when Hermione removed his shoes and lifted
his legs onto the bed. She tucked his feet under the covers and pulled the sheet up to his
chest.

"You're not joining me?" Harry inquired, lifting an eyebrow suggestively. "I
seem to recall that the St. Mungo's healers ordered *you* to rest as well."

"I'm going to read a bit," Hermione said, "then write some letters. That's
*my* way of relaxing. Now sleep," she ordered sternly. "I don't have a sleeping
potion, but a Stunning Spell will do in a pinch."

Smiling, Harry closed his eyes and was asleep almost immediately.

The setting sun was tinting the loft with dull red when Harry awoke. He sat up, and Hermione turned
from where she sat at her writing desk and looked over her shoulder at him.

"Feel better?" she asked hopefully.

"Yeah. I needed that."

Hermione tossed Harry his robes from where they lay draped across the back of the couch. He
expected her to turn away while he dressed, but she just stood smiling down on him.

"Do you mind?" he said promptingly.

"No," Hermione replied casually, "I don't mind at all."

"You're not worried what the other boarders will say if they learn you have a half-naked
man in your bed?"

"Why should I mind?" Hermione returned. "Seeing as I'm the one who undressed you
in the first place?"

Grinning, Harry threw back the covers and drew his robes over his head. As he tied them behind his
neck, his manner grew serious.

"What happened back there? In the Department of Mysteries? No one said anything to me, and,
well...I don't know if I'd have been able to understand if they did, given the state I was
in. But now..."

Hermione sat down on the bed next to Harry. Shorter than Harry by a head, she was in no danger of
dashing her brains out against the slanting roof. By contrast, Harry had to bend a little to look
into Hermione's soft brown eyes, which he quickly saw were suddenly thoughtful.

"I wasn't sure myself until I spoke with Dumbledore," Hermione said.
"Apparently, he was just stepping into the Apparation area in the lobby when the alarm
sounded. He went straight off to St. Mungo's to see about Snape, but I caught him just before
he left. He told me to go to the Ministry library and consult a particular book I'd overlooked
earlier, that it would explain everything."

"Is Snape really back?" Harry said, still disbelieving even after what his own eyes had
witnessed. With his brain still clouded with the fog of sleep, he was not sure even now that it was
not all a dream.

"Yes," Hermione said.

"Is he still a vampire?"

"No," Hermione smiled, her hand seeking out Harry's and squeezing it. "The curse
is broken."

"But what *happened?*" Harry said desperately.

"You happened," Hermione said, her eyes suddenly adoring in a manner that baffled
Harry.

"Me?" Harry stammered. "What did *I* do?"

"You forgave him," Hermione said. "You forgave your worst enemy."

"But that's -- " Harry said, his lips stumbling over his tongue, " -- that
couldn't -- "

"There was one thing more," Hermione said, her voice even softer now. "When you
wiped your face -- you know, with all that ruddy macho bollocks you men all seem to favor -- one of
your tears must have landed in the urn. It's the only explanation that fits."

Harry stared, uncomprehending.

"Tears of forgiveness," Hermione said, her own eyes misting. "According to the book
in the Ministry library, the only 'magic' in the world that can restore a vampire's
lost soul is a tear of forgiveness from one wronged. I discovered that certain other books also
make reference to it, though most hold it to be apocryphal, nothing more than legend. That may be
because it's been so long since anyone truly forgave, as you did. And that was when I
knew."

"That's when you knew that my tears had brought Snape back," Harry said.

"No," Hermione said, her voice trembling. "That's when I knew...when I
understood...how much I love you."

Harry stared at Hermione's face, a radiant oval framed in its omnipresent halo of bushy brown,
as if he had never seen a more beautiful sight in his life. He cupped her face and kissed her
tenderly, their lips clinging like soft, warm vapor caressing a sunlit moor. He eased her down onto
the bed and kissed her face and neck until she was panting in faint, mewling squeaks. The sigh that
escaped her lips when Harry eased back was laced with a curious mixture of relief and
disappointment. When his hand gently cupped her soft breast through the loose fabric of her robes,
she made no effort to dissuade him.

"Let's go away somewhere," he said. "We both have time off, and our orders
didn't say anything about *where* we're supposed to recuperate. There must be some
British possessions where we can lose ourselves without our accents drawing attention."
Following a thoughtful pause, Harry mused, "I've always dreamed of the two of us basking
on the beach of a tropical island. Fancy a few days and nights in the British Virgins?"

Harry was surprised when Hermione giggled, her cheeks going slightly pink.

"What?" Harry said, smiling as her amusement proved infectious. "Have you wanted to
visit them?"

"It's not that," Hermione said, stifling her laughter with a hand over her mouth.
"It's...the chapter on vampire resurrection that I read said that there are different
theories on the tear principle...but most seem to agree on one thing..."

"What's that?" Harry said, playing Hermione's game as he lifted an eyebrow
promptingly.

"That it takes more than *just* tears of forgiveness to break the curse," Hermione
said softly, her humor vanishing as quickly as it had arisen. "They must also be...the tears
of a virgin. The woodcut in the book was of a maiden...but after this morning, I think the books
can safely be updated, don't you?"

Hermione's earlier blush was nothing next to the one suffusing Harry's face now. But the
wounding of his macho pride at being exposed as sexually inexperienced was warring with a profound
sense of pride that he had not yielded blithely to the temptations of the flesh, vowing from the
beginning to share his bed with none but Hermione. Their eventual joining -- for which he had never
ceased to hope and pray (and never more fervently than now) -- would, he knew, be all the sweeter
for his patient chastity. But at this thought, the corners of his mouth began to stretch outwards,
defying his half-hearted efforts to summon his stoic Auror's mask.

"What are you grinning at?" Hermione said, for Harry was now doing a fair imitation of
Ron with his mouth stuffed full of Chocolate Frog.

"I was thinking that Snape came *very* close to spending the rest of his days in that
ruddy urn."

"How so?" Hermione said, her eyes dancing mischievously under her full, dark
lashes.

"When I saw you in that dress the night I fixed you dinner," Harry rumbled, leaning in
until their noses were nearly touching, "it was all I could do not to tear it off you with my
teeth."

"If it comes to that," Hermione purred with a devilish gleam in her eye, "when I was
in the shower the morning after, I found myself wondering what I'd do if you suddenly pulled
the curtain back and joined me."

"And what did you decide at the last?" Harry said in a low guttural that tickled
Hermione's cheek.

"I'll tell you...someday."

The pair of them laughing like children on Christmas morning, Harry smothered Hermione with
volcanic kisses as they thrashed about on the bed as if it were a piece of flotsam pitching on a
stormy sea. But the storm sweeping over them was not from without, but within. It was only when
Harry heard the dull thump of the bed bumping against the wall that his reason prevailed and he
rolled aside, his face buried in the tangle of Hermione's hair as it spilled out over the
pillow. Bad enough that Molly (not to say the tenants) suspected the worst already without adding
sound effects to the circumstantial evidence.

"You know what I want to do more than anything in the world," Harry said as his teeth
gnawed at Hermione's collarbone, leaving red welts on her ivory skin.

"What's that?" Hermione said invitingly as she squirmed anxiously beside him.

"Eat."

"WHAT?" Hermione sat straight up, bumping her head on the roof.

"Whatever Molly's fixing up downstairs smells fabulous," Harry said. "I'm
famished! I could eat a ruddy hippogriff, beak, talons and hooves."

"Men!" Hermione huffed, rubbing the sore spot on her head.

Sitting up next to Hermione (while carefully avoiding the roof), Harry caught her up and swung her
across his legs. He kissed her longingly, and she responded without reservation. When they were
both gasping for air, Harry panted, "And after supper, I'm having my dessert up here. And
her name is Hermione Jane Granger."

"You think so, do you?" Hermione laughed, swinging up to sit on Harry's lap. Her arms
snaked around his neck. "I'm not that easy to bed, Potter. I seem to remember you
promising me a beach on an island. An Auror's armor is his honor. The only thing you'll get
in this bed -- or yours, for that matter -- is sleep."

They came together in a steamy kiss that left both gasping again.

"I love you, Hermione."

"I love you, Harry."


*


When Harry and Hermione walked through the lobby of the Ministry of Magic the next morning, every
witch and wizard turned as one and applauded. Hermione's cheeks reddened as Harry's face
screwed with a mixture of anger and amusement.

"Alright," he demanded in a voice that echoed from the high ceiling, "who ratted us
out?"

"That would be me, actually."

Harry saw Remus leaving a lift and walking toward them, his tired eyes alight.

"I dropped in at the Weasleys' yesterday, to see how you were getting on," Remus
said. "Molly told me you'd skipped lunch, so I went up to see if I could get you
something. I was going to knock on Hermione's door, but I heard, well...noises...so when I came
in this morning, I told everyone that you and Hermione might be a little...late...getting
in."

"Nothing happened!" Harry said, his eyes darting left and right.
"Honestly!"

"I believe you," Remus said, sounding like he had more than a few doubts on the matter
that he was too polite to voice.

At that moment, a young wizard with blond hair exited a lift and strolled toward the Apparation
area. When he saw Harry and Hermione, he stopped, shifted uncertainly, then resumed in a manner as
if nothing had interrupted his journey.

"Good to see you, Harry," Geoffrey said, extending his hand. "And it's
positively smashing that you're back with us, Janie luv -- " He broke off when Harry shot
him a look that could have melted a pewter cauldron into a pile of slag. "Hermione," he
corrected himself hastily, quailing under Harry's withering gaze. "I expect you're
here to sign your papers, what? Just heading off on my own holiday, so I'll...see you
later."

Geoffrey hurried into the Apparation area and vanished without a backward glance.

"Feeling rather...territorial, are we, Harry?" Remus said innocently. "By the way,
Hermione, did Harry ever tell you about this little witch down in accounting who's had her eye
on -- "

"He's winding you up," Harry said quickly, his face flushing. "I've never
looked at *any* witch in anything other than a professional manner since the day I was
hired."

"As may be," Hermione said with narrowed eyes. "All the same, I think I'll pop
on down to accounting after I've filled out my forms. I'm feeling a bit territorial myself,
actually."

Remus ushered Harry and Hermione to the lifts, but when Harry made to follow Hermione into a vacant
lift, Remus held him back.

"We're not going up today, Harry."

"Doesn't Kingsley want to see me," Harry puzzled, "so I can flesh out my
report?"

"No, that's all squared away," Remus said as he steered Harry into another lift.
Hermione's lift rose on its way to MLE division, and she waved down at Harry until she was lost
to sight.

"Where are we going?" Harry asked as the gilded grate slid home, sealing him and Remus
in.

"Level nine," Remus said, his answer also serving to set the lift into motion.

Harry needed no more information regarding destination. The only department on the lowest main
level of the Ministry was the Department of Mysteries.

"What are we going to do down here?" Harry asked cautiously.

"Oh, just clearing up some unfinished business," Remus said casually as the lift
debouched them onto Level nine. When they entered the familiar circular room at the end of the
corridor, the guard did not challenge them, but bowed them in without a word, pointing his wand as
he did so. Passing through the door that opened automatically before them, Harry and Remus stepped
into a large rectangular room over which a dim light hung, giving the chamber an aspect as of
endless twilight. At first Harry did not know where he was. The doors of the circular outer chamber
rotated constantly to confuse any who might enter without official sanction. Harry knew this only
too well, having been guilty of such transgression in what he dismissively referred to as his
"reckless youth."

As if his and Remus' entry were a signal, a light sprang up in the center of the room. Harry
cried out. The center of the rectangular chamber was not directly before Harry's eyes, but down
below his feet. Tier upon tier of stone benches descended from every wall. At their sunken apex
stood a raised stone dais, and upon this reared a stone archway whose aspect was so ancient that
Hogwarts castle appeared by contrast to have been built yesterday.

"What's going on?" Harry demanded, his humor sorely tested. Was this a sick joke? Of
all places in the Ministry -- of all places in the *world* -- the *last* place he ever
wanted to set foot again was *here!*

"Harry," a calm, ancient voice said, its echoes floating up from the depths. "Remus.
Come. All is in readiness."

An unnatural radiance surrounded the stone arch, as if the air itself were suffused with a living
aura of magic. This light threw all objects into a murky, abstract relief in which details were
impossible to distinguish. But Harry did not need to see the tall figure standing before the veiled
archway to recognize its voice.

"Albus," Harry said as he and Remus clambered down the stone benches until they were
standing on the floor of the chamber. "What is this?"

Before Dumbledore could answer, another figure stepped from the murky shadows. Nearly as thin as
Dumbledore, this one was dressed from head to toe in black. He stepped forward until the dim light
cast into fuzzy relief a sharp face dominated by a long hooked nose.

"If you will close your mouth, Potter, we can begin the ceremony. I have no wish to tarry here
longer than absolutely necessary."

"SNAPE?"

Snape regarded Harry sourly as Remus stepped forward with his hand out.

"Thank you, Severus," he said, shaking Snape's hand. Snape merely scowled as he drew
his hand back quickly and turned his face to the shadows again.

Harry was on the verge of tears.

"Why didn't someone *tell* me?"

"To what end?" Dumbledore said. "There was nothing you could have contributed to the
preliminaries. In addition, you have endured much of late, from which I suspect you are not yet
fully recovered. I saw no reason to fill the intervening hours with pointless worry. I needed to be
absolutely certain about *every* aspect of the ceremony before summoning you." The blue
eyes glowing behind the half-moon spectacles flickered for the briefest moment in Snape's
direction. "When my fears were all put to rest, I instructed Remus to bring you as soon as
might be. Severus and I were prepared to wait as long as necessary."

Snape looked around just long enough to scowl at Harry before turning his face back to the
darkness.

"This is really happening," Harry said, finding it difficult to draw breath.
"We're really going to bring Sirius back!"

"That is still up in the air, Harry," Remus cautioned. "We have no idea where Sirius
is in the infinity beyond the veil. We presume that he will remain nearby, if it is within his
power to do so. If I know Sirius, he won't have given up hope, even after all this time. He
knows that, if it is within our power to try to retrieve him, this is where the attempt must be
made."

"But," Harry stammered with a sidewise glance at Snape, "what about -- I mean, the
last time -- "

"Much has changed since the last time, Harry," Dumbledore said. "Thanks in no small
part to you. I am fully confident that Severus *will* be able to do that which is required of
him -- or, at the least, make the attempt with every hope. And in the end, that is all any of us
can do."

"Enough of this babble," Snape snapped. "Potter, Lupin, prepare yourselves! Let us
get this over with!"

Harry now saw that Snape had discarded his black robes. The former Potions Master of Hogwarts was
wearing what appeared to be a long, flowing toga of royal purple. A hand nudged Harry's
shoulder, and he turned to see Remus holding a red garment of a similar design to Snape's. He
handed this to Harry before accepting a like garment of metallic blue from Dumbledore, who, Harry
observed, had exchanged his own robes for a mantle of pure white that seemed to give off light of
itself. With his silver hair and beard, the old wizard looked like one of the Hogwarts ghosts as he
glided about on soundless, unseen feet.

Harry donned his ceremonial garb hurriedly, his heart in his throat. "This is really
happening," he kept repeating to himself. "It's not a dream. We're going to
rescue Sirius."

Harry and Remus joined Snape in forming a semi-circle before the archway. Harry saw the filmy veil
fluttering, as if moved by a breeze born in another world. He heard sounds, too; voices, mournful
cries from beyond the veil. Was Sirius' voice one of them? Was his godfather even now crying
out for Harry to bring him home from his enforced exile?

Dumbledore had set three copper bowls before the arch, each supported by a narrow iron tripod.
Harry knew that these bowls were presently empty; he likewise knew that they would not remain so
for long. Dumbledore spread his arms majestically before the arch, and Harry bit back any comments
he might have felt compelled to voice. For any save Dumbledore to speak now was to risk the purity
of the spell.

"Beyond this veil," Dumbledore said somberly, "lies a door without key. It freely
opens from this world to the one beyond, yet it is ever shut to those who would return thence. This
is wisdom, for many things dwell beyond the veil that were better not seen, nor even suspected, by
mortal eye. Yet there is one whom we *would* see, whom we desire to journey from the world
beyond to his former plane. We call him forth now, to stand by the door that we may take his hand
and bring him out, that he may dwell among us once more."

Harry saw the veil flutter, as if stirred by the breath of the voices whose timbre rose now, as if
in response to Dumbledore's words.

"No door can be opened without the proper key," Dumbledore orated. "A key of metal
or wood serves only where there is a keyhole; here is none. Magic is the key. Yet not without
price, for he whom we seek is beyond price in our hearts. Thus do we pay for his presence with the
blood of life."

Dumbledore turned smoothly toward the three standing at his back, and Harry's stomach lurched
as he saw a long, wicked-looking knife in his hand. It instantly brought his thoughts back to the
night when another knife bit into his flesh and loosed a crimson flow to evil purpose. But where
there had been fear in Harry's heart then, there was none now. Dumbledore stood before him, and
Harry extended his right arm without hesitation.

Dumbledore was holding a small silver goblet in his left hand. It had gone unnoticed before,
Harry's attention being focused on the knife. The old wizard extended both now. As Harry held
back his sleeve, Dumbledore drew the keen edge across the arm that had known in days past not only
the bite of steel, but of the terrible fang of the basilisk in the Chamber of Secrets. Harry winced
as his skin parted, but even as he held his breath against the pain, he did not avert his eyes. He
watched as his blood ran down into the silver goblet. Abruptly Dumbledore flattened the knife and
swept it across Harry's arm. The cut healed instantly, though it continued to burn deep under
the now unmarked skin.

Dumbledore turned and poured Harry's blood into the first bowl, saying, "Blood of the son,
freely given; restore unto him his father."

The bowl containing Harry's blood began to smoke. The dark red vapor drifted up, hovered, then
swirled around the arch until the crumbling stone was completely obscured. As all watched, the
smoke grew transparent so that the runes engraved upon the stone arch could be seen easily as
through a red-tinted glass. The last wisp of smoke evaporated, but its signature remained, the arch
giving every appearance of having been stained the color of blood.

Dumbledore repeated the procedure with Remus. Pouring his blood into the third bowl, he said,
"Blood of the brother, given freely; restore unto him his brother."

More smoke rose, emerald green this time. This hovered for a moment before spreading out to fill
the space within the arch dyed red by the smoke from Harry's bowl. The fluttering veil was now
completely hidden, the murmuring voices stilled. The smoke smoothed out until it looked like a soft
tapestry of green velvet, set squarely in the embrace of the blood-red arch.

Now it was Snape's turn. Unlike Harry and Remus, he did not present his arm to Dumbledore.
Instead, he laid his hands on the neck of his garment and spread it wide, baring his pallid chest
(which, Harry noted, bore no trace of the wounds inflicted at Grimmauld Place). With the measured
skill of a surgeon, Dumbledore drew a mystic rune on Snape's chest, using the point of the
knife as if it were a quill. But the symbol that appeared on Snape's flesh was not written in
red ink, but in his own seeping blood. This ran freely, and Dumbledore caught the flow in the
silver goblet as Snape looked on impassively. His narrow face was immobile as if carven from stone.
Harry saw therein a strength and courage he had never suspected Snape possessed, and it
strengthened his own resolve.

Dumbledore healed Snape's not inconsiderable wound as he had Harry's and Remus'. He
poured the blood into the remaining bowl, saying, "Blood of the adversary, freely given;
restore unto him his foe."

The smoke that rose from the middle bowl was blacker than the shadows lurking in the corners of the
chamber. Hovering for a moment, it sank down and spread itself into a narrow ribbon, looking like a
black silk carpet covering the stone floor. Sinuous and snake-like, the dark strip slithered toward
the archway, sliding smoothly under the edge of the green-masked veil; its other end terminated at
the feet of the one of whose blood it was formed. Snape stepped forward and placed both feet upon
it.

"Do not leave the path, Severus," Dumbledore warned, his voice as compassionate as his
eyes were sharp. "If you do, there will be no road back, for either of you. Bring Sirius if
you can, but I implore you, do *not* leave the path for *any* reason."

"Yes," Harry said firmly, at which Snape turned sharply. "I want Sirius back. But if
you can't bring him, don't be a hero."

"Heroics are *your* department, are they not, Potter?" Snape returned icily. But
Harry almost thought he saw a corner of Snape's mouth twitch, as if the former Potions Master
were attempting to smile but not knowing quite how to accomplish something at which he'd had so
little practice.

As Snape advanced, Harry's eyes followed the black "road" to where it disappeared
under the smoky green door. Would that door open wide at Snape's approach, inviting him to
enter? Harry dismissed that possibility almost immediately. If that emerald door opened to admit
Snape, what was to prevent the nameless dwellers beyond from employing that portal as their avenue
of escape? That, he was sure, Dumbledore would never permit, given the old wizard's cautionary
preamble. How, then, was Snape to accomplish that which he alone could do?

As Harry watched, his heart hammering against his ribs, Snape walked straight up to the green door.
His stride not faltering, his sour features set in stone, Snape passed through the door as easily
as if it were common smoke. And like the smoke it was, it closed behind him, leaving no sign of
Snape's passage. A moment before Snape's foot vanished, Harry heard a low muttering which
he recognized as the voices on the other side of the arch. Whoever, whatever, lurked on the other
side was evidently aware of Snape's invasion of their dark realm. When the green mist closed
behind Snape, the sound of the voices was cut off as if the switch had been thrown on a radio.
Harry felt a wave of relief that whatever lurked on the other side would not be able to cross over
in its turn. But then he remembered that Sirius was likewise trapped behind that barrier. Could
*he* pass back through into the world he had left behind? More accurately, could Snape bring
him back by way of the magical pathway against whatever forces were arrayed to stop them?

"Don't sacrifice yourself," Harry heard himself mutter, his eyes fixed unblinkingly
on the door whose color they mirrored. "I don't want two lives lost."

Time passed as if it had been slowed down by magic. It would have taken very little to convince
Harry that he had unknowingly overturned a Time-Turner and was living the same minutes over and
over, with no end in sight.

The three wizards stood motionless, none speaking, their eyes fastened as one on the smoky green
door. Suddenly the emerald smoke churned. His hand clutching at his robes, Harry saw a splotch of
black appear amidst the green. No, not black. It appeared so only by contrast with the green of the
smoke. Purple! Harry lurched forward, but Dumbledore thrust his hand out.

"No, Harry," he said severely. "If you touch him, or set foot upon the path, all is
lost. The battle is his alone."

His body screaming as he fought to restrain the impulse to leap forward and drag Snape and Sirius
(for so he prayed) through the door, Harry trembled as he watched the green smoke swallow up the
island of purple. The dark patch reappeared a moment later, only to disappear again.

Harry didn't know what to wish for. He wanted his godfather back, but if that were impossible,
there was no point in both wizards being lost.

The purple blotch appeared again. This time, instead of being swallowed up as before, it increased,
filling the center of the door. Harry made out the narrow frame of Snape, who appeared to be
struggling with something lost to sight beyond the green smoke.

As at the impetus of a silent explosion, Snape flew back and out of the smoky door. His claw-like
fingers were clutching a writhing shape whose resemblance to anything human appeared illusory at
best. The pair rolled off the black path and fell to the floor. Harry leaped forward, and this time
Dumbledore did not stop him. Remus had preceded him to the scene, being closer than Harry, and he
fell upon the pair and pried Snape's fingers from the tattered black robes he was clutching.
Harry heard the rending of cloth, and the figure in black rolled away and lay still.

"SIRIUS!" Harry shouted, his voice reverberating from the lofty ceiling. He fell on his
knees and caught up two handfuls of black robes. He spun the figure over and onto its back.
Sirius' eyes stared blankly up at the ceiling. Harry let out a cry of anguish, but before he
could cry out for help, it came on its own in the form of Dumbledore. The old wizard held a flask
in his hand, and he thrust it at Harry.

"Make him drink it, Harry," Dumbledore ordered. "Every drop."

Acting without thought, Harry tore the cork from the flask with his teeth and spat it away. He
caught Sirius by the hair, jerked his head back and tilted the flask until its contents began to
pour sluggishly past the man's tightly stretched lips.

"Drink it all, damn you!" Harry growled. "Drink it!"

As if responding instinctively to Harry's words, Sirius allowed the liquid to flow sluggishly
down his throat. When the flask was as empty as its thick contents would permit, Harry tossed it
away and shook Sirius with both hands.

"Sirius! Sirius, it's over! You're back! Sirius!"

To Harry's unexpressable relief, Sirius' tightly knotted muscles began to relax. His
labored breathing became smoother. After perhaps a minute, Sirius opened his eyes. They were
clouded over, but Harry perceived the unmistakable light of reason behind them.

"Sirius!" he gasped.

"Harry," Sirius said wearily. "I had...dream...wouldn't...believe..."

Sirius' head fell aside limply, and Harry cried out again. But Dumbledore placed a reassuring
hand upon Harry's shoulder.

"He is merely sleeping, Harry," Dumbledore said. "That is partly from his ordeal,
and partly the effects of the potion. He is in no danger now. The crisis is past."

Still on his knees, Harry allowed his hands to relax. He released Sirius' tattered black robes,
which were splattered in places with drops of the potion from Dumbledore's flask.

"What sort of potion was that?" Harry asked.

"It is a Restorative Potion," Dumbledore answered. "Very powerful, and quite a
challenge to brew, I might add."

"Did Snape brew it?" Harry said woodenly, wondering just how high the tally of his debt
to Snape would rise before the day were over.

"In full possession of his faculties," Dumbledore said, "he could have done so quite
easily. But after his ordeal, I thought it best to seek out another." Dumbledore raised a
snowy eyebrow in Harry's direction.

*"Malfoy?"* Harry said, feeling that one more surprise added to this day would
surely overwhelm him.

"*Professor* Malfoy, Harry," Dumbledore said with a twinkle in his eye.

Harry was looking down on Sirius now, watching the quiet, rhythmic rise and fall of his
godfather's chest. Dumbledore placed a gentle hand on his shoulder.

"Put aside your worries, Harry. Someone who survived twelve years in Azkaban should have no
great difficulty recovering from this little, ah, holiday. Unless I am much mistaken, a brief stay
under the auspices of St. Mungo's excellent Healers will see him completely
recovered."

Harry fell back, his eyes burning wetly. He felt hands pulling him up, and when he blinked away his
tears of joy and relief he saw the tired, smiling face of Remus looking down on him. The graying
wizard helped Harry to his feet, and they both looked down on the sleeping form of Sirius.

"Welcome back, Padfoot," Remus said, his voice breaking slightly.

Harry turned to wipe his eyes, and he found himself staring directly into the styptic face of
Snape. Snape's purple robes were torn, virtually shredded in some places, and he readily
divined the question in Harry's eyes.

"Do not ask, Potter," he said coldly. "There are some things you are better off not
knowing." Then he added acidly, "If you had learned that lesson a little sooner, none of
this would have been necessary."

"You're right, Severus," Harry said. "If I had listened to you -- done some of
the things you told me -- a lot of misery could have been avoided. Of course," he said with a
crooked smile, "if you hadn't been such a bugger-all son of a bitch, maybe I'd have
*done* those things out of simple respect."

After a long pause, Snape said, "Perhaps. In any event, I believe we are now squared as to our
debts. I shall be very grateful if I never set eyes on you again -- you *or* your damned
godfather. You are two of a kind, Potter, even as you and your father."

"Yes," Harry agreed, his eyes drifting toward the sleeping figure of Sirius, whom
Dumbledore was now levitating upon a magical stretcher. "And I'll have the chance now to
become even *more* like him, thanks to you."

Harry offered up his hand. Snape shrugged uncomfortably before extending his own. As they shook
hands, Harry looked Snape full in the face for the first time since the encounter at Grimmauld
Place. He stifled a gasp. In the center of Snape's forehead, at the spot where the silver
pendant had struck him, was a mark that looked as if it had been burned into his flesh by a
white-hot brand. Even as Harry with his lightning scar, Snape would never see or feel that mark
without remembering the events that had produced it. Harry's gaze lingered only a heartbeat
before falling to meet Snape's black eyes squarely. Their hands parted, and Snape turned
without a word and strode up the stone steps leading to the outer door. He vanished into the
shadows and was gone.

Harry felt a gentle hand on his shoulder, and he turned to see Remus smiling up at the empty place
where Snape had stood.

"There's so much about him I never knew," Harry said.

"I knew a little more than you," Remus said. "But it wasn't my place to say
anything."

"I hope he finds some peace at last."

"Perhaps he will now," Remus sighed. "Thanks to you, Harry. I know I've said
this to you many times, but it bears repeating. You parents would be very pleased at the kind of
man their son has become."

Harry said nothing, but his smile widened as he wiped his tear-stained face.

"How much does Hermione know?" he asked. "About the ceremony, I mean?"

"What do *you* think?" Remus chuckled.

"I think," Harry said decisively, "that it's past time I stopped doing things by
half measures."

"What do you mean?" Remus asked, his left eyebrow rising.

Harry's answer was an enigmatic smile.


*


The door opened as if a blast of wind had slammed into it. Into its breach strode the earthly
embodiment of wind and storm, black hair touseled, gray eyes shining with mischief. Harry looked up
from his desk, his own eyes narrowing reprovingly.

"Bloody hell, Sirius, don't you *ever* knock?"

"Nope," Sirius said, unfazed, as his eyes drifted idly over the sign on the outer door
reading *Please Knock*. "Never learned how."

"And how did you get past the Locking Charm, anyway?" Harry demanded. "Hermione and
I tested it with every counter-spell we could think of."

"I'll tell you if you buy me lunch," Sirius grinned. "And as you've brought
her up," Sirius swept his gaze around the small office, "where *is*
Hermione?"

"At MLE, signing some papers," Harry said. "And that's another thing -- what if
you'd walked in just now and caught me and Hermione in a...compromising position?"

"All the more reason to buy me lunch," Sirius countered. "Why is Hermione at MLE?
Some bother over her resignation?"

"No," Harry said. "Just paperwork. We caught someone they've been after for
months, and we don't get the reward until the paperwork is in order. She's better at that
sort of thing than I am."

"On the subject of resignations," Sirius said in a more serious tone, "I'm still
not happy about *your* resignation from Auror Division." Harry started to say something,
but Sirius cut him off. "I know, you told me your reasons, and I even agree with some of them.
Kingsley was in an awkward spot, and you spared him having to slap you down to set an example. Even
so, I wish there'd been another way. It's a rough world, Harry. A steady salary is nothing
to thumb your nose at."

"There are more important things than money," Harry said as his eyes fell on a photo of
Hermione smiling and winking up at him from his desk.

"Not if you're in the habit of *eating* every day," Sirius grunted. "But as
you've left the owlry door open, when are you and Hermione getting married?"

"Well, if we want a big ceremony -- and Hermione *does* -- we'll have to wait until
next June. And since her parents will naturally want to be there, we need to find a place that will
accommodate both wizards and Muggles. But as far as the wizarding world goes, we've both taken
our Secret Vows, so we're as good as married now. That tradition predates the Ministry charter,
remember, but it’s still recognized as valid. The ceremony is mostly for the Grangers, and to give
everyone a chance to celebrate with us.

"But," he added, "since I gave up my flat and moved into Hermione's loft,
it's only a matter of time before it becomes legal anyway, even if we *hadn't* taken
our vows."

"There've been a lot of changes since I've been away," Sirius said. "When
did the Ministry pass that co-habitation law?"

"About a year ago," Harry said, "retroactive to the previous January first. Any
witch and wizard who live together conjugally for one year are summarily registered as husband and
wife by the Ministry. An enchanted quill fills out the forms automatically and files them in the
Hall of Records."

"That's going to come as a big surprise to couples who don't keep up with the
political page of the Daily Prophet," Sirius remarked.

"You should have seen the look on Ron's face when the Ministry owl arrived at his door
with his copy of the official papers," Harry laughed. "I think Luna knew all along, mind.
Not much gets by her."

"A lot like *another* witch we all know and love," Sirius grinned, his eyes falling
onto the photo sitting on Harry's desk.

"Someone talking about me?" a musical voice chimed.

Hermione walked in (the door having been left wide by Sirius) and seated herself on the edge of
Harry's desk. She crossed her legs so that her robes rode up, exposing a shapely calf.
Sirius' dark eyebrows rose appreciatively.

"Everything all legal, then?" Harry asked.

"The reward will be deposited in our vault tomorrow," Hermione announced. "One
thousand Galleons." Sirius whistled appreciatively.

"See?" Harry said. "Who needs a paltry Auror's salary?"

"And with all the budget cuts at the Ministry," Hermione added, "a junior
Obliviator's salary isn't enough to put food on the table nowadays."

"Speaking of food," Sirius said, rubbing his hands together, "with all that gold
coming in tomorrow, you'll be wanting to show your old godfather how much you love him by
buying him the best meal in London!"

"If I buy him lunch," Harry explained, "he'll show me how he got past our
Locking Charm so it *won't happen again!*" He stressed these last words while fixing
Sirius with a piercing stare (which Sirius avoided by turning his head and fixing his gaze with
uncommon interest on Hedwig, who sat dozing on her perch with her head under her snowy wing).

"Worth the price," Hermione agreed. "If he'd walked in on us *yesterday* --
you know, when we were playing "Interrogate the Death Eater" in the back room -- we'd
probably have to buy him lunch for a *month!*"

"Oh-*ho!*" Sirius beamed, clapping his hands together with roguish delight.
Grinning, Harry swung Hermione off the desk and onto his lap. He kissed her fiercely as she ruffled
his hair into a state that would have made Aunt Petunia cringe.

"Where are we eating, then?" Hermione asked as she stood up and tucked a strand of her
chestnut hair behind her ear seductively.

"The Golden Unicorn," Sirius said, naming the most expensive wizarding restaurant in
London.

"You're *barmy!*" Harry barked. "They charge more just to sit down than the
price of a whole meal anyplace else!"

"Tell you what," Sirius said expansively. "The tip is on me!"

Grumbling, Harry rose and drew his wand. He was about to reactivate the Locking Charm on the door
when his eyes fell on the sign painted on the window facing his desk. From this perspective, the
letters were backward; from outside, passers-by in Diagon Alley would look up and read: Granger and
Potter, Private Investigations.

"What the hell?" Harry clucked. He pointed his wand at the two names; with a flick of his
wrist, they reversed themselves so that Potter preceded Granger. But instantly the names reversed
again, placing Hermione's name before Harry's. He flashed Hermione a sharp look.

"Is there a problem, Harry?" she asked sweetly as Sirius roared with laughter.

"Good one," Harry said grudgingly. "You *were* planning on telling me the
counter-spell, right?"

"That depends," Hermione said coyly. "You're buying Sirius off with the best
lunch in London. What do *I* get?"

Grinning evilly, Harry said, "Negotiations begin tonight. The moment we get home."

"I'm warning you, Harry," Hermione said in a low, suggestive murmur, "When it
comes to negotiation, I take no prisoners."

"I'll reinforce the Silencing Charm, then," Harry said. Hermione bared her teeth,
gnashing them playfully.

"I *am* still in the room, you lot!" Sirius announced with an air of supreme
offense.

Cocking an eye at his godfather, Harry said, "Right, then. Let's get this bloke fed. I
don't want *anyone* getting past our door *tonight!*" Turning to Sirius, he
added, "And don't you stonewall me, either! One lunch, or Merlin help me, I'll chuck
you back through the veil and Curse Snape's legs off so he can't go fetch you
again!"

"One lunch," Sirius agreed. In a casual voice, he said, "Does either of you know if
truffles are in season? I've come over all peckish all of a sudden."

"Bloody hell," Harry muttered, scribbling a mental note to make a stop at his Gringotts
vault before they went off to the restaurant.


***


**Note From Fae Princess:** **sad wave goodbye** Well, my friends, this is the end. A warm thank
you and a piece of pumpkin pie goes out to all the reviewers (hey, give me a break -- it's
Thanksgiving weekend -- i.e Pumpkin Pie weekend, so as of now I'm sleeping, eating, drinking,
watching, loving, bleeding pumpkin pie ... mmmm.... pumpkin pie ...)

As for this story, the only thing I requested was a Snape-as-a-vampire story. Everything else (i.e
Sirius "Returning from Beyond") was an absolute, unexpected bonus. While I'm on the
fence about Sirius and whether he's gone for good or not, that doesn't mean I don't
enjoy reading stories where he DOES return. Stories like that give me hope. Nevertheless, I hope
you enjoyed this lovely birthday present to ME. I'm pretty positive that Stoneheart will start
posting a new story next week (he has a little vault of stories waiting to be posted). Anyway, keep
an eye out for it! (Psst, it's called "In the Cards").

Thanks again! And for those Canadians out there -- Happy Thanksgiving!