Author's note: Many, many thanks to my beta-reader, Lady Diamond. ^_^ If you see any mistakes on the text, that's my doing, not hers. I have a tendency to add a few things here and there post-beta. '-_- So if you find yourself reading a perfect chapter in the future, the credit must go to Lady Diamond, because I will never, ever be able to write anything without any errors in them. Typos are ingrained in me. Bad grammar is my chronic affliction.
So here's Chapter Seven, as promised. Came around soon enough, I hope.
Standard disclaimers apply.
Chapter Rating: R
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Chapter Seventh: Nightfall
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Harry and Ron arrived at St. Mungo's Special Injuries Unit laden with presents. There were more people walking in the halls and there was actually an active nurse's station.
Harry could feel eyes upon him as he passed personnel and he hitched his load a little higher, positioning the flowers and inflating the balloons so that they covered his face partially. He didn't know if Ron had noticed; probably not. His lanky best friend had a distant look in his eyes, as if he hadn't quite recovered from his nap that afternoon.
They sat in the waiting area to rest for a bit.
"D'you reckon she's already awake?" Ron asked.
Harry nodded. It was dark outside by the time they had left the house. He had read that vampires only slept way past nightfall when they needed to recover from exhaustion or injury. Other than that, they rose immediately after the sun had completely disappeared behind the horizon, as if the sleeping spell the sun cast on them was temporarily lifted. The spell would fall once more upon the rising of the sun. Ancient vampires, and the occasional three hundred year old, were capable of resisting the lulling solar light, so long as they stayed well beyond its rays, but they still needed sleep, if only for a few hours before nightfall came again.
Hermione should be awake, and Cicero should be awake as well.
Harry was just about to set the presents aside to look for Healer Kearney when the healer emerged from behind the double doors to meet them.
Healer Kearney smiled. "Just as I expected. You've come to speak to Mr. Iswold?"
Harry had an urge to ask if Hermione was permitted to see them but knew it would be futile. He merely nodded in response to the kindly healer's inquiries.
"Very well. Wait here." Healer Kearney left through the same double doors.
Harry settled back in his seat and saw Ron pull something from a parcel he carried. He gave it pensive inspection.
"That a book for Hermione?" Harry asked.
Ron's cheeks turned a bit pink. "She might like it. It's a history book, after all." He held it up and the cover said Four Founders.
Harry could see Hermione appreciating it. It was a relatively thick tome; the sort that Hermione liked to curl up with in one of the big, soft chairs by the common room fire. And while she might not have time to read the book while she was recovering, she would love the book, anyway.
Several minutes later, Cicero emerged from the sealed anteroom. He looked as pristine as ever, though he wore the same suit they last saw him in. If he had slept, it did not show. Nothing about him was rumpled or disheveled. It was as if he had slept standing up. He was, however, slightly more pale than vampires are wont to be.
He hasn't fed, thought Harry. He eyed the small man for a moment before deciding that other than Cicero's lack of color, the vampire looked perfectly composed. At least he doesn't look like he's going to rip into us…
Cicero smiled, fangs hidden behind his lips. "Good evening Mr. Potter; Mr. Weasley. I am glad to know that Ms. Granger has such good friends looking out for her."
On any other day, Harry could do small talk, but not tonight. "Please, Mr. Iswold. How is she?"
Cicero gave them a wan grin. "A tad lonely, Mr. Potter. First thing she asked when she woke was whether she would be allowed to see you and Mr. Weasley, but I told her I cannot let her see you."
Harry knew that would be the case, but he was disappointed to hear it, anyway.
"We've brought her some presents," said Ron. "Can you pass them on to her?"
"Of course," said Cicero. "The presents will help, I assure you."
Harry remained quiet as Ron handed the presents over one by one, telling Cicero which came from whom.
When Ron was done, he looked to Harry.
Harry brought out the journal and quill set he purchased from Flourish and Blotts. His letter was tucked safely inside the journal.
He handed the present over in its paper bag, but as Cicero took it, Harry gave in to an impulse.
"Mr. Iswold, may we speak to Hermione? Even for just for a while."
Cicero frowned, clearing his throat a bit. "Well, as I've said-"
"We don't have to talk to her face to face," Harry added hastily. "Healer Kearney summoned you, didn't he? He didn't go down into the dungeon. He went somewhere else and informed you of our presence from there. Maybe we can talk to Hermione through the same device. Please? Just for a few minutes."
Cicero paused a few seconds before replying. "I suppose that could be arranged. I'd have to ask Ms. Granger, of course, but I'm quite certain she'll want to speak to you. However, I'd have to ask you to come back in a few hours. Is ten in the evening alright for you?"
Let me check my fabulously busy schedule.
"That's perfectly alright, Mr. Iswold," said Harry. "Ron, you alright with that?"
Ron smirked. "I'll cancel high tea with the Queen."
Cicero nodded. "It's settled, then. Be here at ten and I'll have it set up with Healer Kearney. In the meantime, I'll deliver these packages." He adjusted his burden then glanced briefly behind Harry and Ron. "Ah, they're here."
Harry turned and saw a young couple walking across the waiting room. The man had dark brown hair and blue eyes and he was dressed like a muggle. The woman was petite and pixie-like, with long black hair and grey almond eyes. She wore witch's robes and her wand was tucked into her sash.
She eyed Harry's scar speculatively for a brief moment before Harry found the sense to turn his head away from view.
"Need help with that, Cicero?" asked the woman, tearing her gaze away from him.
"Oh, no. I'm fine." Cicero turned his attention to the man and smiled welcomingly. "I'm glad you made it here on such short notice, Ethan."
The man called Ethan smiled. "Please… like I can say no to you."
Cicero chuckled softly. He did not introduce them and let them walk through the anteroom door. He gave Harry and Ron one last glance and said, "Ten," before disappearing behind the door.
"I'm not even going to ask what those two are going to do in there," said Ron.
Harry sighed. It was only just a bit past six so there was a lot of time to kill. "I'm going back home for the meantime, read some books. How about you?"
Ron shrugged. "I 'spose I'll go and read with you… or play chess with Remus. Tonks said he could play so long as I move the pieces for him. I guess she doesn't want Remus getting too close…"
Harry's eyebrow arched. He was surprised that Ron was willing to keep Remus company at all (what with the spiders in the dungeon), much less play chess with the werewolf. It seemed Ron's emotional range was making vast improvements.
Hermione would be proud.
He glanced longingly at the sealed doors. Moments later, he felt a hand on his shoulder.
"Well, come on then. Don't just stand there, daydreaming!" said Ron.
Harry grinned at the familiarity of Ron's ribbing. He turned to leave with Ron, clapping his best friend's back in appreciation. "Right. I've actually got this interesting book for you to read. It's called Bloody Mary's Not A Drink…"
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Hermione closed her eyes, shuddering at the aftertaste of Ethan's blood. It had been a good ten minutes since she fed off him, but there was something about the taste of his blood that lingered and satisfied.
The turmoil she had felt feeding off Allan had been no different when Ethan's turn came, but she was much hungrier now than the first time. Cicero explained that it was the prolonged deprivation, that it was still part of her initial blood lust, and that the first taste of blood always provoked it. He assured her that so long as she remained disciplined, the hunger would eventually wane to something manageable enough for her to lead a relatively normal routine in life. Disciplining the hunger, in fact, would be the main focus of that day's lessons. Cicero also explained that he had chosen Ethan as a feeder for a reason. He did not say more, only promising that they would talk about it after she had fed, and that she should remember to exercise control.
Ethan was, as Cicero warned, more a flirt than Allan. While Allan's boyish sensitivity was endearing, Ethan's playful urging summoned something entirely different from her, and she couldn't be resistant even if she wanted to. He had an obvious willingness to please, and it had been trying in the extreme to control herself. Unlike Allan, Ethan had offered his neck, and she had-much to her horror-responded less brusquely, more… sensually to his encouragement. It hadn't even been a conscious effort on her part. It came to her instinctively; the gentle touch of her lips; the slow extension of her fangs; the tender caress of her fingers.
She had sucked on his lifeblood, her eyes closed as she felt the nourishment and pleasure coursing through her. And in spite of the hunger, she had found herself imagining. It was no longer Ethan in her arms. Cicero had to remind her to stop, and when she let his words permeate through her senses, she was horrified enough to find the will to do as she was told.
Shocked, she pushed Ethan away, and while the shame she felt was no less than what she had felt for Allan-nay, it was even worse-she found herself staring at Ethan instead of hiding herself. Eyes wide as she gazed at him, she couldn't believe what had just happened.
Ethan, though pale with blood loss and staggering on his feet, pouted. "Aw, I thought you were enjoying yourself!"
She gaped at him, the taste of him still on her tongue. He had been delicious, but she couldn't quite explain why. That frightened and scandalized her all at the same time.
Cicero came around to support him, sighing as he helped Ethan to a chair. "Oh, for heaven's sake, Ethan! Stop teasing the poor girl. You know why she did what she did." He handed Ethan a vial and Ethan drank it. Ethan then dug something out of his bag. It was a bottle of milk chocolate.
"You don't mind, do you, Cicero?"
"Not in the least."
Hermione had kept staring at Ethan as he drank from his bottle and Cicero bandaged the punctures on his neck. Ethan had winked at her, which had caused her to look away, mildly mortified.
Cicero had excused himself then, telling her she should reflect on what had happened while he stepped out for a bit, and that if she needed anything, Ethan would be there to help. She hadn't wanted to have anything much to do with Ethan then, and she had watched Cicero go, spying a girl through the dungeon door.
It bothered Hermione slightly that she looked upon the girl hungrily. Was this hunger never going away? But then Cicero shut the door, and the presence of the girl was cut off. It gave her the focus to mind Cicero's last instruction.
Now, lying on her side, she desperately sought answers to the brief loss of inhibition she had felt with Ethan.
While feeding on Ethan, she realized something that both horrified and excited her: She had imagined holding Harry in her arms, had pictured herself running her fingers through Harry's unruly hair. She had wanted to wrap herself around him; hold him close. It had intensified the experience of drinking and she hadn't wanted it to end, because aside from the hunger, there was something more; something sexual.
She hadn't pushed Ethan away because the thought of killing him had frightened her; she had pushed him away because she had felt guilt. It felt almost as if…
As if I was cheating on Harry.
Hermione squeezed her eyes shut and pressed her fists to her lids. She gave a slight moan. "Good lord… what have I done?"
"Gave me one mother of a hickey, I think," said Ethan.
She hadn't expected him to reply; much less reply like that. Now she felt worse.
"I'm sorry." It sounded more like a whimper. She peeked from behind her hands and saw that he was leaning back on his seat, perfectly relaxed while he drank his milk chocolate. He was grinning. She didn't know how he could be so off-hand about everything. Then again, Allan had been quite at ease, too.
"Don't be," he replied.
She sighed, taking deep breaths of nothing. The undead didn't need air, but it was a soothing exercise nonetheless. "I can't help it. I'm sorry about many things right now, but mostly, I'm sorry that I feel like I cheated on my boyfriend."
"Relax. Your boyfriend doesn't consider it cheating when he enjoys a treacle tart."
"Well, he doesn't give it a hickey, does he?"
"That's what you think."
She frowned before giving a resigned chuckle. "I do wish you weren't so accommodating. If you acted the git, I can very well tell myself that I'm only feeding off you to survive this hunger."
Ethan made a noncommittal shrug. "My vamp friends tell me it's never pleasant to feed from someone you don't like. Or from someone you're not attracted to. Of course, if you frighten them and they begin to smell like fear, you'd love to sink your teeth into them, no matter how repulsive you think they are, but other than that, their blood would taste flat and-well-bloody. Like copper and salt."
She arched an eyebrow. That was most interesting. "The taste of the blood-"
"Has most to do with how you feel about the person and what the person feels about you. The way you feel or respond to the feeder affects the way he responds to you. So if he already likes you to begin with and he feels your acceptance of him, it just makes the blood taste much better."
"So the feeder's health has nothing to do with it?"
"A feeder's health is still a factor. A bloke who jogs everyday would taste slightly better than an overweight couch potato, and an anemic's blood would have a somewhat runny texture, but if the blood's flavored just right…"
Hermione shuddered. I am NOT exchanging recipes. It's not right. It's-
The heavy dungeon door opened and Cicero stepped in carrying a load of packages, flowers and balloons. His eyes were a bit droopy and his cheeks were mildly flushed, but he was as poised as ever. He smiled in Ethan's direction. "Alright, Ethan?"
Ethan gave him a thumbs-up sign.
"D'you mind giving us some privacy? There are a few things I need to discuss with Hermione."
"Sure thing. I need to go, anyway. Piña colada night at Grimm's Fang-Tango."
"Well, have fun. Oh, and Mia's still outside. She'll help you out of the facility."
They made their goodbyes and Hermione thanked him rather shyly. Ethan winked one last time before finally leaving.
Cicero set the packages at the foot of her bed and brought out a wand. "Healer Kearney said you could use this wand to lengthen your chains a bit. Enough to let you sit up, at least. I'm afraid the wand's spell-specific, so you can't do more than that with it."
"I understand," she said, taking the wand. "Did he give you an incantation?"
"Duplico. Once for each shackle."
Hermione nodded and began to lengthen her chains. The links doubled in number for each limb. It was an interesting transfiguration spell, which probably wasn't as simple as it seemed, but the wand made it simple enough for any wizard or witch to use, whether or not transfiguration was their specialty.
She was sitting up when she handed Cicero the wand back and he pocketed it.
He smiled and gestured to the packages at her feet. "These are for you. From your friends. They care for you a great deal."
She crawled to the foot of her bed and began sifting through them, her eyes misting over. She took the flowers first, and put her nose to them, closing her eyes at the fresh scents. She smiled and saw that the flowers were from Charlie and Arthur.
Cicero scrambled for a vessel to put them in. The hospital's plastic pitcher was used for the meantime. He filled it with water from one of the dungeon taps and propped the entire set up between books so it wouldn't fall over.
Hermione longed to transfigure the pitcher into a nice crystal vase, but the flowers were beautiful enough to lend comfort for the meantime.
"Who-umm… brought these?" she asked nonchalantly as she played with the purple and pink balloons.
Cicero gave a knowing smile. "Mr. Potter and Mr. Weasley."
She said nothing, the ache in her heart too great. She wanted to see them so badly. Harry, especially.
She sifted through the presents. She was delighted by the twins' gifts, was warmed by the letters Molly and Ginny sent her, and was curious about the charm that Remus sent her.
"Ah, chocolate!" said Cicero, pleased. "Someone knows his vampires! It's one of the few human delicacies that we can still enjoy. Go on, then. Have some. It does nothing to sate the hunger, but its flavor would be most welcome. You'll see."
Hermione craved the normalcy of chocolate. She opened the pack and shared it with Cicero. The chocolate was blessedly chocolaty. It tasted the same and it was immensely soothing. Cicero went on to say that she could eat as much of it as she wanted, too, without worrying about gaining an ounce. It had a bit of an intoxicating effect, though, so she should be mindful of how much she ate.
It was while nursing a truffle that she turned to Harry and Ron's presents. She hugged the journal and the book, lying back down and holding them against her chest. "I will see them again, won't I? You're not just telling me I will when you're actually thinking that I won't, are you?"
"I wouldn't lie to you about that, Hermione."
"Good." She opened the book Ron gave her and she read the short note in Ron's huge, cramped and right slanted handwriting:
Dear Hermione,
Thought you might like this. It was either this or an Arithmancy book, which looked bloody boring, if you asked me. I figured this would make better reading. History isn't so bad, actually, just that Professor Binns isn't the most lively professor to have for the subject.
We all hope to see you again soon. We miss you.
Love,
Ron
She smiled at the Ron-esque tone as she traced the familiar curves of his script.
Setting the book aside, she opened the journal and something fluttered out of it. She sat up and saw that it was folded parchment. On the flap was Harry's handwriting: "To Hermione." The letter was sealed with a bit of wax and a basic decorative imprint. Unlike the Malfoys and Dumbledores of the wizarding world, those like her and Harry didn't have fancy family seals.
She broke the seal and unfolded the parchment. Though the letters of his script were close together and slightly pointy, his words were spread apart. His lines weren't perfectly straight, but neat enough. That she could feel the indent of the words through the surface of the paper was telling of just what kind of person he was.
Dear Hermione,
This is, officially, the third attempt I've made at beginning this letter. The fact is, I don't want to be writing to you. I want to see you and be with you, and I want to tell you everything I'm feeling, face-to-face. I've missed you so horribly in the last twelve hours that I've had to keep myself busy just so I won't go mad. Cicero promised I'd be allowed to see you in a few days. I think he even said you could come straight home after he releases you, but until then, I'm just beside myself worrying about you.
I can't ever express what a nightmare it was when I thought I'd never see you again. It was the worst few hours of my life, so not being allowed to see you is just killing me.
You probably know by now that everyone sent presents. Everyone wishes you well. And if you haven't figured out what to do with the journal I've given you, I will be truly worried, because my Hermione would know exactly what it could be used for.
She smiled at this. Yes, she did know what she could use the journal for. She had already decided that she would quill her experiences, being what she was, now. She could record her progress and perhaps even make a study of herself and the inevitably new lifestyle she would lead. She glanced briefly at the quill set Harry sent with the notebook. Aside from the basic black ink, there were tinier vials for red and blue.
She continued to read.
St. Mungo's sent me your things: Your wand, you hair ornament and the locket, so don't you be worrying about those. Just focus on getting better. I don't know how long I can endure being kept from seeing you, but believe me when I say that I managed to find a passable distraction. You'll be pleased to know that I'll be spending a lot of my hours reading, so rest easy. I'll be productive whilst pining over you.
Again, she smiled at this. Harry knew it would make her feel better, which was why he wrote it in.
Just remember that you're always in my thoughts and dreams, and when you get out of the hospital, I'll be right here for you. Whatever difficulties we have to face, we'll be able to get through them together. We always do. Don't be afraid.
I love you, and I count the hours until we see each other again.
Harry
She thought that if she were ever the slightest bit inclined, she would swoon, but that was more Lavender and Parvati's style than hers. Instead, she just sat there, staring at the letter while she longed to be with him.
She sighed as she folded the letter carefully.
Cicero cleared his throat. "I've arranged for you to speak with them."
Her eyes widened as a smile blossomed from her lips.
"But you can't be in close proximity of them just yet," he added hastily. "There's a magical object you can speak through. It's the muggle equivalent of a short-wave radio. Its audio is clear enough and it will serve its purpose."
That was slightly disappointing but she was willing to take as much as she could get. "Oh! Can I speak to them now?"
"Ten o' clock. We need time yet to discuss a few things."
"What time is it now?"
"Almost seven."
It was a long time yet. She wondered if she could bear it. "Right. Of course it is."
He gave her an apologetic smile. "It will be ten before you know it. In the meantime, we talk."
She sighed, resigned. "About what?"
"About how it felt drinking from Ethan."
She froze before she felt her cold, clammy and undead skin go warm with embarrassment.
"It's alright," said Cicero gently. "You can tell me. And it's important for your self-awareness."
"What do you want to know?"
"What emotions were running through you? What were you thinking about? What were your physical reactions?"
Sighing, Hermione shared with him what she first shared and didn't share with Ethan. She saw no reason to hold back since she already considered Cicero a healer of sorts. Perhaps she trusted him by default, but there was nothing remotely untrustworthy in his demeanor.
When she was done telling him everything, she sighed.
"I've turned into a freak, haven't I?" she asked bitterly. "I've becomes some weird creature with a blood fetish."
Cicero chuckled. "Well, we also call it being a vampire, but if you want to nit-pick…"
Hermione buried her face into her hands. "Will it always be like that? Will it… will it always be so sexual? Will I look at Harry and-I can't believe I'll say this-want to suck his blood?"
"Drinking, for you, will be about many different things, but yes, a lot of it has to do with stimulating the limbic lobes of your brain. This is the part of your brain that-"
"Controls emotions and sexual activity. I know. God! I'm a vampire! Do the functions of the brain even matter?"
"Well… maybe not in the conventional way. I use the old, mortal terms to simplify things about us, so that I can help the newly risen like you begin to understand. I chose Ethan to feed you for a reason. He is always a willing donor, and unlike most mortals, he… derives pleasure from giving blood. This is important, as he has explained to you. Taking and sharing blood is a two-way experience. Some vampires get their fix by flavoring their victim's blood with fear. Others find the flavor of willingness more enticing. The more willing the donor, the more… delicious he would taste."
She shuddered at the remembrance of using the same word to describe Ethan.
"This is why," Cicero continued in a serious tone. "Vampires exchange blood in… certain situations. It is also why a mortal would willingly give blood when caught in a vampire's embrace. There are sensations involved that make it pleasurable for them, too. Suffice it to say, unless the mortal wishes to become undead, you mustn't let them drink off you. And to turn someone… well, there are certain rules to follow in that, too, though there is but one authority to enforce them. It also bears mentioning that our society has certain vampire laws that are enforced by an organized group. We will come to all that in time. Right now, we concentrate on the most basic aspects of our kind. Blood is nourishing, and sensual, and-"
"I can't ever be like my friends anymore, can I?" she interrupted. She hadn't meant to disrupt the discussion, but the words came out unbidden. "I mean, of course I'm a vampire, and they're human, but… we can't-we can't, really… because we're not human anymore. That makes all the difference." The realization pressed heavy against her. It was the reality of her situation after all.
Cicero did not admonish her for the interruption. "The sooner you realize how utterly apart our two societies are, the better. I will not lie to you, Hermione. The chances of you and your… human lover are slight. We coexist with humans, and every two centuries or so, we come across an all too familiar love story of the vampire and human, living and loving each other in spite of the odds. I'm not saying the story can't be true. Sometimes, the love is real, not just some mortal-slave-vampire-master game. But when it is true, it's all the same story in the end… in the end the human dies. At times, it's not even death that separates them. Sometimes it's because the mortal craves heirs, or the mortal's love fades. And that's even more tragic, isn't it? Because these are things we cannot help. Whatever the reason, the older a vampire gets, the harder they love. 'Harder' in all the sense of the word. Vampires find it more difficult to give themselves over to that emotion as the years go by, but when they do, they do it with everything they have, because they've seen more, and experienced more than any mortal. And each time a love is lost is more devastating than the last."
"Then… then why let them die at all?"
Cicero smiled sadly. "I told you… there are certain rules to follow in turning."
Her eyes widened. "There are rules forbidding the turning of your loved ones, then?"
"The rules of turning are governed by yourself. You, alone, have the authority to select who it is you wish to turn. It usually takes a vampire a few years before they gain the power to turn others. Not a lot of years. It takes three to five years to develop this power; like puberty, to put it simply. It just happens. But by the time you do gain this power, you'd have learned a few more things about yourself as a vampire. You'll have developed standards; vampire principles; and you'll have realized that even being the creature that you are, you have responsibilities to your kind and the ones you love, be they vampire or mortal."
"In other words," she said softly. "By the time I have the power to turn others… I wouldn't want to turn the mortals I love."
"Yes. As a vampire, we live with this affliction in the best way we can, but it is what it is: it's an affliction. You do not want to inflict it upon those you hold most dear."
She nodded. "Of course… I-I don't want what happened to me happen to Harry, or Ron. I just-after a few centuries of having your heart broken over and over… doesn't it seem logical to keep someone, just once, maybe, or finally, because you love them?"
"Of course it is. Sometimes, it takes less than a century to come to that realization. Your first heartbreak is just as devastating as the last one, after all… but when you do that-when you take that all-consuming step… you will burden your soul forever with a million dreadful possibilities. You've taken his life and made it your own. Can you live with that responsibility? Can you bear it? You'll have to be braver than you ever were, and if it fails; if it turns out badly and he goes mad, or he realizes that he never wanted it, or he looks at you and sees the demon that turned him into a monster, you'll have to be stronger than you ever envisioned yourself to be to survive it."
She closed her eyes in despair. "That bad, huh?"
"That bad."
"You've…?"
"Almost, but I nipped it in the bud. I'm not that much of a sucker for punishment."
"How can you stand it?" she asked, truly shocked. "How can you just separate yourself from that emotion?"
Cicero leaned over and smiled sadly. "You simply live for something else."
And she could tell, by the look in his translucent eyes, that there was nothing simple about it.
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At the stroke of nine, Harry went to the nearest pay phone and called Jaime at Cicero's office. Before the call, he'd spent at least fifteen minutes collecting muggle change just so he'd have coins handy in case he needed to extend the conversation. He didn't know what he was calling for, exactly, but Cicero had told him to contact the number.
The bustle and noise of Tuffnell Park station nearby made things a bit difficult in spite of the fact that he had shut the door to the phone box. Outside the box, Ron look apprehensively around him, arms crossed over his chest. Harry was sure Ron was holding his wand. There was always something about train stations that set wizards on edge.
Harry dropped the coins into the slot and punched the numbers in. It took only a few rings to pick up and what he got was a peppy, friendly voice from the other end of the line, greeting him a good evening, that Iswold & Company: Initiation and Other Vampire Needs was always there to make the transition easier and asking him how she, Jaime, might help him on this glorious night of the full moon. Unused to talking to anyone on the phone, Harry found himself a bit lost for words. It was no ordinary phone conversation if you were calling about your undead girlfriend. What was he supposed to say?
"Erm… I-well, you see…" He winced at his own ineptitude. "S-Sorry. I just-"
"Oh, honey! I'm sure you're feeling quite overwhelmed now, aren't you? What is the newly risen's name?"
He sighed with relief. At least one of them knew what to do. "Hermione Granger."
"And who is speaking for Ms. Hermione Granger?"
"Harry. Harry Potter."
"Well then, Mr. Potter, I see Ms. Granger's name right here in my logs. We should be able to work it out. Tell me, is she muggle or witch?"
"Witch." Harry wondered what a muggle would say if asked that same question. Most muggles didn't even know they were "muggles."
"And you?"
"Wizard."
"I'll have to owl you, then. You don't happen to be familiar with the internet, by any chance?"
"Umm, not really."
"I thought not. It's really quite fascinating. You wizards should try it sometimes. Now… does your home have a basement or do you have any underground facility that can be sealed against sunlight or uninvited intrusion during the day? If your answer is yes, is it at least one hundred meters away from hallowed grounds?"
"I don't think we're anywhere near hallowed grounds and… and we have a dungeon…"
"Perfect! That's what I love about wizarding houses. You always have dungeons in your basement. It's almost kinky."
Harry was too surprised by this assessment to blush.
Jaime went on. "And will Ms. Granger be staying in said home?"
"Y-Yes."
"Excellent. Most newly risen don't quite have it so easy. Can you give me the address of this home?"
"Er-that's going to be a bit of a problem…"
"Let me guess. It's unplottable."
"Yeah."
"That's what I hate about wizarding houses, but that's not really a problem. Is there a place where the installation crew can wait-"
"Installation crew?"
"Yes. The installation crew will see to it that the chamber in which Ms. Granger will be placed is vampire friendly and, for an extra fee, fitted to her taste. They will also be in charge of installing the coffin Ms. Granger shall be sleeping in."
Harry fell silent. Good God…
"Sweetheart," said Jaime. "She's a vampire. She isn't exactly going to sleep in pink-canopied beds with unicorns embroidered into the draperies. However, if she is so inclined, we can line the inside of her coffin pink. Most vampires hate pink, though, I'll have you know. Even if we loved it as humans, we develop a natural aversion for all things pink in a hurry. Must be some kind of unconscious association with thinned blood, or something. Besides, it's atrocious against our complexions."
"R-Right."
"Well? Where can the crew meet you, then? Give us a rendezvous point."
"14 Grimmauld Place," he said, his mind still awhirl. "Tufnell Park, London…"
"Wonderful, darling. The crew shall visit just as soon as you send back your answers to the questionnaire I just owled you. The owl should be with you shortly. You're not that far from our office, after all. You don't happen to have a telephone in this wizarding home of yours, do you?"
"No."
"Drat! Oh well, c'est la vie. Give me a ring should you feel the need, but owling is good enough for me from here on. Shall you be paying for the cost of installation and materials in cash, credit or shall you be availing of the public-issue plan? Frankly, the public-issue plan sticks you with the ugliest coffins known to the undead, but everything is free, so I suppose that's a good deal, eh?"
However surreal it all was to Harry, he had a distinct feeling that he didn't want to stick Hermione with a public-issue anything. He has, to this day, lived with his government-issue glasses. Even he thought it wasn't a pretty sight. Besides, it wasn't as if he was short on money. He still had quite a bit left over from his parents, and Sirius had been lavish enough with his estate. Harry couldn't think of a better way to spend it than buying Hermione the best comfort. "Cash, if you please. You accept galleons?"
"Of course we do, luv. Your galleons are good. You'll have a price list to look through with the owl I sent you. You'll know exactly how much all of it will be, just so you don't get any surprises. I'd imagine finding Ms. Granger undead was surprise enough. We'll not make things any more difficult than they already are."
She exchanged a few more words with Harry, and just when the telephone's timer beeped to signal the last twenty seconds of the call, Jaime said goodbye and their conversation ended.
Harry stepped out of the booth still in a bit of a daze.
"Well?" asked Ron.
"Th-That's done." He didn't exactly feel like going over the details again.
Ron eyed him carefully but let it go. They walked back to Grimmauld Place in silence. It took them about fifteen minutes.
Tonks let them back into the house and just as they began to settle down, an owl came through the kitchen window. The owl held a relatively large wrapped package. Tonks took the owl's burden, fed it a quick treat and saw it fly off.
"It's for you," she said, handing the package to Harry.
Harry saw that it was from Iswold & Company. Stifling a sigh, he opened it. It was a binder with about half an inch thick of paper inside. There was a questionnaire with standard questions and not-so-standard questions. Among the most non-standard ones was the kind of coffin Hermione would like. He stared at the choices in despair.
"Blimey…" Ron said, paling.
Tonks didn't look quite that comfortable, either.
Harry leaned his head back on his seat, hands to his face as he expelled a breath. "Oh God… can we do this, Ron?"
Ron sighed. "I don't know."
He felt hands on his shoulders, squeezing encouragingly. It was Tonks. "You both have to believe you can. If you two give up on her, she'll have no one else. As much as the rest of us would be willing to help her, you two are really all she has left. Do you understand what I'm saying?"
Harry did, and he nodded. Ron did, too.
Raking his fingers through his hair, Harry bent over the questionnaire and tried to answer as best he could.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Healer Kearney led Harry into his quiet office. The smell of sterilized everything permeated through the air and Harry felt the chill that always seems so prevalent in healer offices.
He was going to talk to Hermione. For the first time since he found out she wasn't dead, he was going to hear her voice. It made him nervous, yet he'd been longing for this since Ron snapped him out of his grief.
Cicero said she was eager to speak to them, and Harry found that comforting.
There was a couch to one side of Healer Kearney's room and a small coffee table to go with it.
The healer gestured to the couch and Harry sat at the edge of it while the healer took what looked like an abstract sculpture of raw crystals clumped together on a round wooden base. He placed the object in front of Harry on the table.
"Summoning crystals," explained Healer Kearney. "Very handy for short-distance communication. Have your wand handy and say vocacio Hermione as you touch your wand to the crystal. The summoning crystal will alert her of the summons and she will reply. If you are summoned, just touch the crystal to activate the connection. To end the connection, say concludo."
Harry nodded. "Easy enough."
"Good. I'll leave you alone. Mr. Weasley will be right outside awaiting his turn."
It was short of telling him not to hog Hermione all to himself.
When the door closed, Harry took a deep breath and said the incantation. As soon as his wand touched the crystal, it glowed pink and blue. It flickered for a bit before it steadied and the crisp sound of something shifting emanated from it. To his utter astonishment, a three dimensional laser-like outline of Hermione's face hovered slightly over the crystals. It wasn't in any way realistic. The only colors there were blue and pink, and he could see right through the lines of the image, but it was she. He could see her blinking, and he could see the curls of her hair.
"Harry…"
Her voice, perfectly audible and true, struck him. He struggled against his emotions. He had thought he would never hear that voice again. Cautiously, he touched the image. His fingers fell right through and it hurt to be so close yet so distant.
"It's me, Hermione," he said rather hoarsely.
She smiled, tight-lipped. He couldn't make out the expression in her eyes. The image could not give him that, but her brows knotted slightly. "Oh, Harry… I'm so sorry."
It was almost too much for him to bear. "Hermione, no… don't apologize. This isn't your fault. This isn't-" If it's anyone's fault, it's mine, he thought bitterly. But he stopped himself from saying it. He didn't come here for any of that. "I miss you. I want to be with you. But this is the best we can do for now, so we'll make the most out of this-this odd crystal… thingy…"
She stared at him a moment before she sighed. "You're right. I didn't mean to-I suppose I'm a bit out of sorts."
"We all are. How are you?" he asked in a gentle tone. "Did you like the present I sent you?"
This time, the smile on her reached her eyes, though it was still tight-lipped. "I did. It's wonderful. The leather on it is so nice, and it must have cost you some. I know just what to use it for. It will make things easier, I think. And the other presents were such a comfort. Harry, you don't know how much it means to me to know that you… you and the others are still there…"
"Of course we're still here. And of course I'm still here. I love you. I won't ever abandon you. Not for anything."
"Harry… do you blame yourself for this? In the slightest?"
That caught him. He flinched.
She didn't wait for his answer. "Don't. Please don't. If there's anything that will help me through this, it's knowing that you don't feel responsible for what happened to me. I brought this upon myself, because I chose to fight for the right side. My family and I were attacked because mum and dad were muggles and I'm muggle born. I was turned because… because the vampire who wished it decided he would. Harry… I don't think he was supposed to turn me. I think his orders were to kill me, but he decided to make me a vampire instead. And it wasn't because of you, either."
Harry felt a chill run through him at the rage her words invoked. Janus. "Why did he, then? Why did he-hurt you this way? What could you have done to him to-"
"Vampires don't turn people they hate," she said softly. "It wasn't hate that compelled him… and no one can order him to do it, either. A vampire's reasons are his own. Whatever… Janus saw in me, he liked it. That's why I'm this way, Harry. That's why I'm vampire."
It felt surreal, hearing the name spoken from her lips, and he had a distinct feeling that Hermione was being deliberately forthright, as if she were laying out the awful truths, just so he was reminded of this obstacle between them.
"He'll come after you again, won't he?" he asked.
She sighed. "I don't know, really. He said he would see me again and it didn't sound like he was going to… do anything. It's all just a game to him, Harry. He finds it all very amusing…"
He stared at her flickering image a moment. "How do you know that?"
She was quiet for several seconds. "I'm not sure. Maybe the blood exchange has a residual connection. Cicero said it happened sometimes. Nothing permanent or powerful. Just what it is: residual. Certainly nothing conscious on my part."
Harry couldn't temper the roiling fury inside him if he tried. He had been determined enough about getting back at Janus for what he'd done to Hermione without having to hear Hermione's thoughts on the matter. Now her words were just giving him more reason to aspire for Janus' destruction. As someone who had to fight the great evil of the Wizarding world in the last six years, he had learned duty, responsibility and perhaps even courage. Duty to his parents, responsibility for the people around him and courage for himself, so that he wouldn't go mad with terror. But this, by far, was the first time he had felt such a strong urge for revenge. He hated Bellatrix Lestrange for causing Sirius's death; hated Antonin Dolohov for hurting Hermione; hated Severus Snape and Draco Malfoy for sealing the end of Albus Dumbledore, but for all of them, he craved justice. For Janus, it was something else. The feelings he had for Janus were raw; overwhelming. He wanted to be the one to hold the sword that would sever Janus' head. He wanted to chain Janus to a stake on a hill where the vampire would meet his demise when the sun rose above the horizon. Harry wanted to be the one to drive the cross right through Janus' heart and have him pinned against hallowed ground. Harry had imagined half a dozen horrible deaths for Janus; none for the faint of heart. Between him and the vampire, he didn't know who was more bloodthirsty.
"I won't let him get to you," he said with a calm that surprised even him. "I won't let him touch you ever again. I-"
She made a sound, like a whimper, and he wasn't quite sure what it was for. "Harry, no! I can't let you-I want you to promise me that you won't-you won't hunt him down and try to kill him yourself."
He turned away in exasperation. Was he that transparent?
"I'm serious, Harry. Vampires are dangerous. I'm dangerous. The reason I can't be near you right now is because I might-I might hurt you in the worst possible way. I have to learn how to control my hunger before I see you or anybody else. And Harry, I love you so much it hurts not to be with you, but if I can't hold my urges, can you even imagine how vicious an enemy vampire would be? He'll rip through you until there's nothing of you left."
He actually felt compelled to listen to her, mainly because there was an odd undercurrent to her tone. There was something in her voice that he had never heard before, and for the life of him, he couldn't place what it was. He would have to ask her, and that's assuming she even noticed it in herself and could explain it. But not right now. Now, he was beginning to realize that this was not the kind of conversation he had wanted to have with her after having missed her for what felt like forever.
He wished he could reach out and take her in his arms. That's all he wanted to do. Talking was fine. Talking was all they had right now, but when was talking ever enough when it was about missing someone and wanting to keep them safe?
"Do you promise, Harry?" Her eyes were wide, as if willing him to give her what she asked.
He sighed. He wasn't going to make a promise he couldn't keep, but as always, she put order in his mind where once there was nothing but chaotic emotion. "I know I can't fight him now. And I won't go off on some macho, suicide mission. I'm not Harry Bloody Potter. I'm Harry, the seventeen-year-old kid who crashes and burns in History and Potions class and couldn't conceive of becoming Head Boy if McGonagall hits me with the badge between the eyes. I know I don't shoot laser beams from my fingers nor can I pull lightning bolts out of my arse."
She stared at him a moment before she finally dissolved into giggles.
The sound of it made him smile.
"Oh, but I miss you so much!" she said. "And I miss that normalcy. Since I woke up, everything has freaked me out. I couldn't even bear to look at myself in the mirror."
He supposed a bad joke about vampires and mirrors wouldn't exactly be well received at the moment, so he just cocked a placid smile. He hoped she had completely missed the fact that he hadn't promised anything at all, just that he agreed to back off… for now.
"And Harry… I've got… fangs."
"Well… that happens, you see. When you're a vampire, I mean."
She laughed, and it was a real laugh. He could listen to it forever.
"I know it's silly," she said. "But I… I've been wondering if I could kiss you without nicking you with 'em…"
A pleasant blush rose in his face, his mind wandering to that precious book under his bedside table. "I'm-er-sure we can work around that."
"And it's not just the kissing, either. It's lots of other things I used to-I used to be able to do with… parts of me when it comes to… you know… pleasing you."
Now his blood was rushing somewhere else and he felt horribly guilty for it.
She sighed. "I'm awful, I know. I'm sure sex is the last thing on your mind right now, but-"
"Well, I wouldn't say it's the last thing."
"Oh, Harry, really?"
"Wha-good Lord! Did I say that out loud?"
"Oh, but it's alright that you did! Now I don't feel like such a slag! So you've given this some thought?"
His mind drifted. "Hoo, boy. You bet I have." He paused. "I said that out loud again, didn't I?"
"For heavens sake, Harry! Pay attention!" She was scolding, but she was grinning too. This time, he could make out a bit of fang.
"I am paying attention… I'm just-I just really, really miss you. As in right now."
"Oh? And what are you going to do about it, Captain Standish?"
He groaned as she giggled. "Don't do that. Don't mock the wand."
"Last thing I want to do with it right now is mock it, you understand. I'd give it the old swish and flick if I were right there…"
"Dear God, witch! Don't encourage it, either. I'm not supposed to stay here all night, you know. Ron's waiting outside and he wants to talk to you, too. If I go out there with a roaring Jack in my pants, Ron's never going to let me hear the end of it."
"Well… maybe I can help take care of that from here-"
"No, no and no. I'll never be able to look at Healer Kearney in the eyes again if I disgrace his couch… or coffee table… depends on where I-ahem-aim, really."
She was giggling like mad.
"I'm serious!" he cried, though he looked anything but.
This only served to make her giggle some more. She seemed to enjoy tormenting him, and he knew it wasn't the vampire in her that made her do it. He'd seen the old Hermione turn on the vicious teases.
She calmed down a few minutes later. "Oh, Harry… I can't wait to see you. And not just because of that, either."
"I know."
"Besides, I think we'll need a while yet to… sort things out about our relationship before we even get around to dealing with… sex."
"I think so, too."
They talked a few more minutes. He asked her about Molly and Ginny's letters, and explained what Remus' gift meant. She was amazed and touched by Remus' gesture.
When he got the notion to say goodbye, Harry felt the pain of separation again, though it wasn't nearly as sharp as thinking he'd be separated from her forever. Within the course of their discussion, she had grown more real. He had reconnected with her somehow, and now his need to see her grew more intense. She had also grown more tangible; no longer a myth; no longer a dream. She was up and about and it hadn't been a sick joke. There was no mistake. He would be with her again and she would be alive, though not in the normal sense of the word.
He reached out to touch her image again. There was one more thing he wanted to talk about and he didn't think it should be put off. "Hermione, you put me down as one of your decision makers…"
Her gaze lowered. "Yes, I did. I'm sorry."
Whatever he had expected her to say, it wasn't an apology. "Sorry? Why?"
"Because-Because I really didn't think about how that would be like for you. I mean, when I put my parents, that was a given, but then there was this third space there… it was just such a spur-of-the-moment thing. I didn't have to fill that space but I did, and because I did, you were given the horrible task of deciding whether you wanted me to rise or not."
He was amazed that she thought of it that way. "The decision was easy. I never gave it a second thought. I wasn't going to let them kill you."
She chuckled sadly. "Was it easy? What if I… what if I hadn't wanted to rise like this?"
Harry frowned. What was she saying? "Hermione… surely you couldn't expect me to-to let them-"
"Of course not. Of course not, Harry. I'm sorry. That was a stupid question. I would have decided the exact same thing for you. I never would have let them execute you."
He wasn't sure why, but he felt relief hearing her words. Was there ever any doubt that she'd want to rise again? He hadn't had any doubts.
But you didn't exactly consider how she'd feel about it, did you? You just went ahead and let her rise because that meant you'd have her back.
"I watched you die, Hermione," he found himself saying. It was as if he had an overwhelming urge to explain. "I held you in my arms and you were just… all this blood-and I couldn't stop you from dying."
She was silent, but her image stared steadily back.
He went on, trying to still the wave of emotions threatening to overcome him. "And I had to bear the thought that I'd lost you forever. I couldn't take it. I just-it was like falling into a hole and there was no bottom in sight. There was just nothing. So when Ron told me… when he told me you weren't dead; that you would rise again, it never occurred to me that you wouldn't want to. And I suppose I was just so desperate to have you back… but now that you're here, and I'm talking to you, I can't see myself ever regretting that decision. I just wanted you back, Hermione."
Something trickled from her eyes, sliding down her cheeks. She was crying.
He sighed, helpless to comfort her. "God, Hermione, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to-"
She wiped her tears with a swipe of her fingers. "It's not-I just wish you didn't have to go through all that. I saw you those last moments. I didn't want to leave you behind. But I couldn't help it… so y-yes… yes, I'm sure of it, I would've wanted to come back if I were given the choice. You did the right thing."
"I can't think of it any other way, Hermione," he said softly. "I love you too much. Do you understand?"
"Yes. Yes, I do. I love you, too, Harry." Her hand came up, as if she wanted to touch him through the projection.
He reached up to meet her hand with his own, but of course, his hand passed right through. He smiled wanly at the futility of it.
She sniffed, laughing a bit. "I'm sorry I cried. I know you hate it when girls do that, but I can't seem to control it. I've been a bit emotional since I first rose. Cicero said my mind's still adjusting to the trauma."
He didn't need for her to explain. "Everything's going to be fine, Hermione." He wasn't sure if that was true. If it wasn't, he was willing to work on making it so.
She nodded. "With you, I know it will be."
Hearing her express her belief in him always touched him. It wasn't like with the rest of the world, where the weight of responsibility made it a burden, because coming from her, he knew that she wasn't blinded by the hoopla of the Boy Who Lived or the Chosen One. She knew everything about him; knew exactly what drove him and what he was capable of. Coming from her, it was real, not fabricated by newspapers, myths or legends.
"I love you," he said again.
"I love you, too, Harry. So much…"
They exchanged tiny smiles.
His gaze wandered momentarily to the clock and saw that he'd been talking to her for a long time. It was Ron's turn. "Hermione, I have to go. Ron's…"
She sniffed but nodded. "Go. We'll have time to talk again."
Even better than that, he thought to comfort himself. You'll come home and I'll see you again.
"I'll see you soon," she said softly, as if reading his mind.
"I'll be waiting."
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
After Harry told Ron it was his turn, he sat waiting in Healer Kearney's patients' lounge for about twenty minutes. He couldn't be impatient, considering he'd been in there for thirty.
When Ron emerged, he looked subdued. "She seems alright," was all Ron said.
Harry didn't know if Ron said that to be obtuse or because he didn't want to have to tell Harry the things he talked about with Hermione.
Well, that's just fine, thought Harry a bit sourly. If he doesn't want to share then I won't either. Besides, what could they have talked about that was so important? They only talked for twenty minutes.
There was really nothing left to do in the hospital, so they decided to go home. Harry left word with Healer Kearney that they would come back the following evening. He hoped they could talk to Hermione again.
The thing about Grimmauld Place was that it was a very intelligent house. It allowed apparitions for those who had permission to do so and it let people floo out of its fireplaces. However, flooing in was absolutely forbidden, which presented difficulty to those like Harry and Ron who weren't licensed to apparate yet.
It was while getting off the Knight Bus that Harry and Ron discussed getting their licenses already because it was such a pain to travel by land. They had just agreed to let Tonks know their intentions and ask for her help when they came upon the house and saw a van parked right across the street from it. The van sat right in front of 14 Grimmauld and Harry saw that the side of the van read: Iswold & Company: Initiation and Other Vampire Needs.
He immediately crossed the street and knocked on the driver's black-tinted window. The power window rolled down and Harry saw himself staring at a pleasant but maturing face. He was human. Harry had half-expected a vampire.
The driver wasn't alone. There was someone else on the passenger seat and it seemed there were two more in the back.
"Pardon me, but did Jaime send you?" asked Harry.
The human seemed surprised, exchanging looks with his colleagues.
"And what do you know about it, kid?" asked the driver.
Harry frowned. "Well, I spoke to Jaime on the telephone this evening but I hadn't expected a response to the questionnaire so soon."
His companion nudged him, scowling. "Don't be an idiot, Max. 'At's Harry Potter! Can't you see the scar?"
This caused their two companions in the back to gasp.
Harry had to stifle a sigh. He would never get used to it.
Max laughed, opening his door. Harry had to step back to let him get out while the rest of the crew began to spill out on the street. Harry saw that they were in overalls and that Max had his name sewn on the breast pocket of his uniform.
"Dunno 'bout scars, mate. I'm just a muggle. All I know is, if he's Mr. Potter, then he's the chap we're looking for," said Max. He shook Harry's hand. "Sorry 'bout that. Didn't expect that you'd be so young, but I suppose I shouldn't be surprised anymore. Lots of odd things about this job, and the vampires ain't the half of it."
His crewmates pulled out wands, swishing one way and another as they brought out crates and equipment from the back of the van.
The one tagged Liam backed up beside Harry while locomotor-ing a large wooden box. "Max is new, Mr. Potter. He don't know a thing about our world as of yet, even if 'is sister's been a witch all these last thirty five years."
Max scowled. "Oy! I only just found out, y' know!"
Harry honestly didn't care. He was feeling a bit overwhelmed all over again and he didn't even know how he was going to go about letting these men into Grimmauld Place, or whether he should, at all.
Ron nudged him. "Harry, maybe I should get Tonks out here…"
"Yes," said Harry in relief. At least one of them was thinking. "Yes, please. I'll wait out here with the crew."
Ron nodded and left, disappearing into the magic protecting 12 Grimmauld.
The installation crew set their cargo down on the sidewalk, waiting for Harry to tell them where to go.
"Well?" asked Max.
Harry wasn't sure what to say. He was emotionally exhausted and he really didn't want to trouble himself with niceties. He opted for the truth. "Well, the thing is, see, I don't know who the hell you people are."
Max seemed a bit offended by this, but Liam and the rest of the crew nodded.
"Lots of bad guys after Mr. Potter, Max," Liam explained. "He fights baddies and all… it's only right that he be suspicious of strangers. Would'n'ave survived fighting You-Know-Who if he was all soft and trusting."
Harry fidgeted uncomfortably at the awed stares he was getting from the two other crewmembers who were tagged as Sid and Boris.
"Oy," said Sid in a solemn tone as he removed his hat respectfully. "I read 'bout your friend in the papers, Mr. Potter. Really sorry 'bout that. My deepest condolences. My heart goes out to you and your family."
It sounded a bit practiced, though Harry knew Sid was sincere. He wasn't supposed to be telling them that Hermione had survived, not that it was a heavily guarded secret, and he wondered if they hadn't put two and two together yet, what with her "death" and him suddenly having Iswold & Company setting up coffins in his home. He had to assume they hadn't quite figured it out, so he supposed he had to lie a bit, but it was horribly disconcerting.
"Erm, thanks," he muttered, shoving his hands into his pockets. Boris and Liam gave him their condolences as well, hats off.
"The baddies got his girlfriend," Liam explained to Max softly while making a not-so-subtle neck slashing motion with his finger.
Max seemed moved, removing his hat as well. He looked at Harry sympathetically. "Ah, what a tragedy! So sorry for your loss, Mr. Potter."
"Yeah," was all Harry said.
After a long while, Tonks and Ron finally emerged from the magical barrier. She asked for identification from every crewmember, waved her wand at each card before handing them back. She introduced herself and shook hands with them before she pulled Ron and Harry aside. She spoke to them with a lowered voice.
"They checked out fine," she said. "You can let them in, Harry, but if I were you, I would only let them in with limited capacity so that they can't come round here whenever they like."
Harry's brows knotted. "How am I supposed to do that?"
"Well, you own the house now, don't you?"
"Yeah, so?"
"You can speak to the house, then! Tell it who you're willing to admit in by apparation, or who you're willing to let through the magical barriers… didn't you know that?"
Ron turned to Harry, a surprised look in his face.
Harry was a touch irritated. How did they expect him to know these things without anyone telling him? "No! What do I know about owning wizarding real estate? I didn't even own a decent pair of trousers until I was eleven!"
"Oh, dear. Well, then, I'm telling you now how it's done. Now I have to wonder how the lot of us have managed to apparate into the house if you didn't tell it we were allowed to…"
"Well, maybe the house knows I'd allow it," muttered Harry, annoyed. "Heck, I don't know. Can we just get this over with? I want to get hauling-a-coffin-into-my-house out of the way, if that's alright with you."
"Right," Tonks and Ron said together.
Grumbling, Harry let everyone through the barriers. The crew seemed unaffected by the unplottability of the house. No doubt, they'd come across many.
For Harry's part, he didn't know what to say to 12 Grimmauld Place. He felt stupid talking to it. Was he supposed to face just any wall and start talking? Or was there some kind of central processing station? He wasn't about to talk to the paintings. Many of them were unfriendly and he wasn't even going to talk about Mrs. Black whom they managed to move (no doubt, dark magic had been employed) to the upper floors, in the most isolated corner of the house.
Amidst his irritability, he led the crew to the dungeons, past Remus' cavern and deeper down.
The torches were lit and the crew set themselves to work. Harry, Ron and Tonks sat around Remus' side of the dungeon to keep him company while the crew bustled about in the next cavern. Ron looked a bit jumpy; probably on account of the few spiders they spotted on their way down there.
Remus was even wolfier now than he was that afternoon. While he didn't transform, his eyes had grown darker, and there seemed to be a permanent sneer on his lips where there wasn't a muzzle and canines. His ears perked at the sound of strange voices and he sniffed the air thoughtfully.
"There are a pack of males up the hall," he said. "Four of them. Did you clear them first, Tonks?"
Harry could almost see Tonks stifling a sigh.
"Yes, I did. I promise you, the pups are safe."
It took another moment for Harry to realize that she was referring to him and Ron. He didn't think he liked being called a pup. Ron didn't look like he fancied it much, either.
Remus eyed her suspiciously, a soft growl rising in his throat. "They touched you."
"Well, that happens when you shake hands with new acquaintances, see."
"Wash it off. I can smell them on you."
She arched an eyebrow. "Remus… sit."
He stared at her a moment then sighed, blushing. "Sorry. I'm awful, aren't I?"
Tonks smiled in understanding. "Only on a full moon. Have some steak, love. You'll feel better."
Remus was scary when he was territorial.
"I think I'll go check on the installation crew," said Harry. "I'll only be a minute."
They let him and he took out his wand to light the way.
It was in the darkness of the hallway that the searing pain of his scar hit him.
He didn't even know if he cried out or whether he simply crashed soundlessly to the ground. All he knew was that the flash of heat sliced through his head, like it was splitting his skull with a red-hot blade.
He was assaulted by visions of a man, tall and slender, like he was built for grace. His short black hair bore red highlights and his eyes gleamed golden against his unearthly, pale skin. The man bared fangs and Voldemort's rage surged through him like molten lava.
A scream rose out of Harry's throat, just when Voldemort's lumos solem seared through half of the vampire's beautiful face with the torturous rays of an enchanted sun.
The vampire fell to his knees, collapsing backwards in his agony. His hands shot up to cover his face, pulling at the material of his blouse at the hem.
Harry saw a flash of inked skin, peeking from the waistband of the vampire's black leather pants.
The vision faded, and it was in the darkness of nothing that he found blessed relief.
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A/N: Let me just say that the handwriting I assigned both boys were deliberately chosen for their given personalities. It's interesting to note that the handwriting ascribed (pun intended) to Harry in the books (OotP illustration for Chapter 13: Detention with Dolores, Scholastic) matches exactly with his personality as far as handwriting analysis goes. His letters are straight (tries to keep emotions in check); he presses down on his quill hard-ouchie! Not pleasant for detention with Dolores! (strong emotional energy; feels things strongly, but since he keeps them in check on the outside… yikes! He blows up!). He doesn't write in perfectly straight lines (which means he has a certain emotional flexibility) and his writing is tall, concentrating in the upper zone (so he might be an intellectual thinker in spite of his more instinctual tendencies. He does, after all, have fairly impressive grades). His letters are slightly cramped together-you can tell because the loops of the L's touch (this means he's not exactly the most self-assured person in the world, but he doesn't have a big inferiority complex, either) and his words aren't spaced too closely apart (which means he has a tendency to isolate himself); also his M's and most of his other letters are pointy at the top (quick mind and above average brains). I gave Ron a bit of an analysis, too. For Handwriting analysis, check here: http://www.viewzone.com/handwriting.html
I'm sure JKR, or at least her illustrator, took into account Harry's character before deciding on the kind of handwriting he'd have. ^_^