Author's Note: And here we are, in Part 2. After all that harrowing angst, we have even worse angst now. Just a little detail: I changed Yasmin's name from Yasmin bint Omar to Yasmin ibna Omar. It means the same thing: "daughter of" but since "bint" in Brit-English means something bad, as Lady Diamond pointed out, I figured changing it wouldn't hurt.
Much thanks to Lady Diamond for this chapter.
Standard disclaimers apply.
Chapter rating: R
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PART TWO - SUNSET
Chapter Fourteen: Lost
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FIVE YEARS LATER…
Rain was such a pain in the ass, especially when the winds of September were just a bit colder and it made the water icy as it soaked into one's bones. It didn't help in the least that the Southbank just beneath London Bridge hadn't a shred of warmth to its name. It was a dark enough night, the moon hidden behind thick clouds, and the only light to be had was the dim glow of street lamps overhead. The nearby pubs, unabashedly seedy, didn't offer much for lighting. Nobody who frequented the area liked bright lights, anyway.
The dark kept the tourists away, they said.
Soft thunder rumbled in the distance and Harry huddled closer into his wool coat. Not that it made much of a difference. Sure, he had impervioused his coat and ski hat, but his hair and skin still got wet at the edges, and cold droplets trickled down his face and neck.
He shivered.
"I still don't know why we have to wait out here when we can wait in there," Ron muttered, jerking his head to the nearest pub. It was the Wheatshead, and it was even older and seedier than the area's low-key fare, but they weren't tourists, and they rather liked Wheatshead, anyway.
"Because," Harry said patiently. "I was told to meet the bloke here, at this precise spot. Quit complaining. It's only a bit of rain."
Ron continued to grumble, but mostly to himself.
Harry let him. He was thankful enough that Ron had agreed to keep him company this time around. It had been an hour and a half since they first began to wait, which was usual for these clandestine meetings Harry arranged with his informants, but Harry couldn't have managed alone this time.
Not tonight. Any night but tonight.
He suspected it wasn't the night Ron wanted to be alone with his thoughts, either.
Five years to the day…
Harry wondered when he'd ever stop counting. Not anytime soon.
A lumbering drunk passed them by and shot profanities at them. Ron only had to glare at him to shut him up. The lush didn't think to bother them again. He scurried away, terrified by Ron's imposing bulk.
Ron had, in the last five years, grown rather huge. He wasn't fat or anything like that (in spite of the copious amounts of food he'd been consuming), but apart from being almost freakishly tall (six feet, four inches), he was wide and thick at the shoulders, had trimmed facial hair and a scar cutting down the side of his face. He kept his hair short, because otherwise his mother would never let him hear the end of it, but it was what Ginny called an "army cut".
"You look like a soldier," Ginny had muttered in a most unflattering tone.
Five years of war had turned Ron into a regular toughie in spite of the fact that he walked around acting like he was still seventeen. Ron still thought everything was funny and he certainly didn't waste good whisky and ale to depressing diatribe. When Ron sat at a bar, he was a hell of an enjoyable drinking companion; him and his brothers.
Brothers… less Percy and Fred.
The war had supposedly come to a screeching halt when some months into Harry's supposed seventh year, several key Death Eaters were captured and sentenced. It was a small victory, and it seemed effective enough to set Voldemort back, but the many attempts to catch him after that proved futile, and just when they thought that Voldemort's momentum was on the decline, it regained full-ferocity in a Ministry explosion two years ago. It was in that attack Percy perished; crushed to death beneath a slab of marble caved in from the floor above. The supposedly fading war began to escalate again. A year later, Fred took a powerful curse, yet unidentified, for his twin when Diagon Alley was taken siege by Death Eaters. Fred was still alive, but had been in a coma ever since, and while George continued to be optimistic about his twin brother's recovery, those closest to him could almost feel that George was saddled by chronic anxiety and guilt. It hurt Harry just thinking about it.
Hogwarts continued to run amidst the turmoil and it remained one of the safest places in all of Great Britain, but sometimes, Harry felt that it was primarily there to train the next recruits. It was a sad way to use his alma mater, but the uncertainty of the times made it necessary.
Harry just wanted this war to end. Too many lives had been taken; too many relationships destroyed, too many futures left uncertain, but try as Harry might to engage Voldemort in a one-on-one duel, the Dark Lord remained elusive, amassing his dark army yet remaining hidden. Some of the information gathered suggested that Voldemort had suffered some kind of setback, yet there were theories that the postponement was intentional, and then there was the rumor that this was the plan all along…
Harry had very little to contribute to all the postulating and speculation. Though he still had some kind of connection to Voldemort through his scar, he had not utilized this supposed advantage to its fullest. The fact was his improvement on the matter of occlumency had far surpassed his legilimency. The Auror Department had quite a few occlumency masters in their rosters, and many of them had willingly trained him to improve on his skills, but legilimency, it seemed, was far more rare and specialized. Many could learn the skill of protecting one's mind, but very rarely did anyone have the aptitude, let alone the talent, to read into the heart and mind of someone else. So the fact that he could block his mind from Voldemort's intrusion but couldn't read Voldemort's thoughts… well, it simply cancelled out the use of the connection. It didn't mean Harry's scar never tingled. It didn't mean Harry never suffered those searing, blinding headaches when Voldemort was angry, or the fierce cold when he was delighted. He might catch a vision or two, but the images were nothing substantial.
Harry did, however, suspect that Voldemort knew something was up with his horcruxes and therefore stayed out of harm's way, just in case.
And as slow as Harry's development in legilimency was in the last five years, he knew in his gut that if Voldemort had done something as horrendous as create new horcruxes, Harry would've known about it. He wasn't certain as to why he was so sure of that, but he was. And in spite of the fact that all but one of Voldemort's horcruxes were destroyed, Voldemort seemed to have made no further attempts to make new ones.
Harry could only suppose from the accumulated data they had on horcruxes that it was because Voldemort was stretched too thin to make a new horcrux. Dismembering one's soul played tricks on one's sanity, and even Voldemort couldn't risk losing his faculties. Still, Harry wouldn't put it completely past him to try anyway. There was still a chance Voldemort hadn't the slightest clue about what was happening to his wretched soul fragments. They just had to find that one elusive horcrux, that object of Gryffindor's that simply couldn't be found.
All that searching… all the fighting. Can't say I'm tired, but a pleasant change would be nice. Some tranquility would be a welcome thing.
Harry pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose and shoved his hands into the pockets of his coat.
He wasn't that much changed from five years ago. He was probably a bit taller, but he had stopped growing at five feet, eleven and three-quarter inches, six feet when he wore his field boots. He had his own share of battle scars, but none more prominent than the one on his forehead. He really didn't look all that different. He had experimented once or twice with facial hair but always decided in the end that the hair on his head was troubling enough, so he preferred the clean-shaven look, after all. He probably wasn't as scrawny as he used to look. It was only natural he'd gain more bulk around the shoulders, but he still looked rather small compared to the hulking mass of Ron.
A mild warmth issued from the dragon tattoo on the back of his left shoulder, and while it wasn't uncomfortable in the cold weather, Harry wished it would stop trying to get his attention.
Buggery thing…
If it had been up to him, he never would've gotten that tattoo. He hadn't known what he was about, anyway, when he got it. He had been dead pissed, and Ron wasn't in his right mind, either. He and Ron had stumbled drunkenly into a tattoo parlor and sat their banjaxed assess down to get inked. Harry had been so out of it that he didn't even remember requesting it. All Harry could really remember of the entire debacle was waking up at home with what felt like a bitch of a burn on the back of his left shoulder. Upon closer inspection, Harry found out that he was the proud (supposedly), and rather bemused (more likely), owner of an inked Hungarian Horntail the size of Ron's palm (which is huge in its own right) that reared and spewed jets of fire while it crawled around and preened.
After a flash of bitter déjà vu with respect to jokes about hippogriff and Hungarian Horntail tattoos, he realized in retrospect that it could have been worse. In his intoxicated state, he could have asked for something like stars and daisies, or something sad, like "Hermione". He had, in fact, gotten the better end of the deal relative to Ron, who had ended up with an "I (heart) Mum" tattoo on his arm. Molly Weasley sent Ron howlers everyday for a week after that.
"What's taking this bloke so long anyway?" Ron asked, pulling his coat more snugly around him. "Is this info so important that we'd wait martyr-like for him under the rain?"
Harry stifled a sigh. He couldn't exactly blame Ron for complaining and it wasn't as if he had been completely honest with Ron about this, either. He had told Ron that the informant had something that the Order of the Phoenix would be interested in. If Harry had told Ron the truth, Ron might not be with him right now.
"Just wait a while longer," said Harry. "If he isn't here in ten minutes, you can go on ahead to the Wheatshead and I'll just follow, alright?"
"What time is it?"
Harry checked his pocket watch and gave Ron the time.
"Muggle rugby game's on. That'll do. Fine, then. Ten minutes."
Ten minutes went by and Ron guiltlessly left him standing in the corner while heading to the pub across the street.
Harry sighed. He hoped he didn't have to wait alone for very long.
Five years to the day that she left…
He groaned softly. This was why he didn't want to be alone with his thoughts on this night, of all nights.
It wasn't as if he never thought about her. In fact, he thought about Hermione all the time. In the last five years, when he wasn't fighting to survive a Death Eater attack, or he wasn't raiding decrepit old castles for hidden horcruxes, or he wasn't plunging wooden stakes through rogue vampires' hearts, or slicing through werewolves with a silver blade, his thoughts were about her, and where he'd gone wrong, or perhaps why they could have been so right…
The pain of her leaving, while most days manageable, was scraped raw on days like this; days where there were so many thoughts or memories, good and bad, attached to them. It was just worse on his birthdays, or on Bill and Fleur's wedding anniversary, and on this day.
Her birthday. The day she left.
It was odd, considering he was still in sleep stasis the night she joined the Coven of Isis. He was asleep from getting stabbed by that bastard Janus.
Ron had left St. Mungo's to fetch Hermione from Grimmauld Place that night, only to find her preparing to leave. Harry later found out that Ron had tried to incapacitate her with a hex, but Hermione had out-maneuvered him and she had ended up hypnotizing Ron with a blast of pheromones.
Having been on the pleasant end of that kind of attack several times in the past, he understood how Ron hadn't stood a chance, and perhaps it was the reason why Harry never thought Ron could've tried harder. He had, in fact, resented no one for her leaving except for… well, her.
She left. Just like that she left. She didn't even wait to say goodbye to my face. She left a goddamn letter and that was the last I heard of her.
The sad thing about it was, no matter how hard he tried; no matter how hard he wished it, he couldn't hate her, and he couldn't stop hoping-praying-that one day, he would find her again.
And it was that hope which dragged him to seedy little corners of London meeting strangers and vampires who claimed they could deliver his message to her, the oft-whispered-about Hermione Granger, latest-protégé of Yasmin ibna Omar.
"Yasmin's the master of the most powerful vampire coven there is," said a muggle vamp-phile whom Harry had met during his rounds of the vampire circuit. "You'd best not mess with that one. There's this story…" There was always a story. "…about one of her soldiers. 'Sent the bloke on an important mission… turned out to be a clusterfuck and when he went back to her, telling her he had royally botched it up, she had him nailed to a dungeon, had his friends and family hauled in and had every single one of them beheaded before his very eyes before she killed him herself."
It hadn't comforted Harry in the least that Hermione had associated herself with someone like that, but as he later found out, many of the worse stories were untrue, or exaggerated. At least that's what it seemed to him.
He had, in the last five years, learned so much about vampires and vampire culture that he could almost be considered a vamp-phile himself. It had become an obsession, something that gave him hope, something that could hurt him over and over again. It was like an addiction; like a drug. He went with it feverishly and enthusiastically when he was on the trail, despaired and hated it when he had nothing, and when he had been too long without leads, he sought ways to find that next fix: a rumor; a blood-flunkie who knew a guy, who knew another guy; a sighting; and so on and so forth.
Ron sometimes found it disturbing, but every once in a while, Harry would catch something that even Ron couldn't resist putting his faith in.
"She's out there, Ron," Harry would say while they waited in some junkyard or deserted park because some bloke or bird had sent photographs of smiling strangers with what looked like a blurry image of Hermione in the background. "I just have to find her, is all."
A lot of times, Harry wondered why he was doing this to himself. He would think: This is ridiculous, or I've absolutely lost my mind, and even Get a life, already! But it was impossible to resist when a lead cropped up, or a rumor reached his ears.
Ron had only tried to talk him out of it once. Harry must've looked so devastated because Ron had apologized to him profusely afterwards, buying him drinks until they were both smashed out of their wits. Ron never suggested such a thing again.
Honestly, Harry had tried to move on.
Once, he tried so earnestly that even he thought he had managed it. It was some time two years ago that he made a conscious effort to get on with his life. He reconnected with Cho Chang, had quite a few dates with her, had pretty good sex… it could've been a real relationship, but he had been fooling himself, and he only ended up hurting Cho. They were in a London street-fair and Cho was modeling one of those interesting ethnic shawls…
~~
Cho flashed him one of her devastatingly pretty smiles that had the whole of Hogwarts sighing in its wake.
He smiled back, telling himself how lovely her straight black hair was and how lucky he was to have a girlfriend who liked Quidditch as much as he did.
"What looks better against my complexion, Harry? Red or blue?" She wrapped the blue one around herself becomingly and held up the red one with a flirtatious slant. She grinned as she switched views for him.
He stared at the blue shawl rather intently, thinking of another woman who looked brilliant in blue.
"You like the blue one. I can see it in your eyes," she said, winking. "I'll get it, then."
A warm flush rose in his face but he nodded, telling her that the blue one really brought out her eyes.
Cho was paying for her purchases when a flash of frizzy brown hair caught his gaze. He turned to look and saw the brown ringlets weaving through the crowds. Without the slightest hesitation, he shot out after the anonymous woman.
Or perhaps, she wasn't so anonymous.
Her name kept repeating in his mind.
It might be her, he thought. I've got to try. I swear, I just have to know.
It took several minutes. There were so many people. He came up behind her, saw that it could be her by the shape of her body; her height, and when Harry clasped her shoulder, he actually said her name.
"Hermione!"
The woman turned, startled. She wasn't the least bit like Hermione. The woman had sharp, long features and her eyes were a brilliant gray. She wasn't all that young either.
Harry stepped back, shocked, and he stammered an apology before turning to leave.
Only then did it occur to him that he wasn't sure where he was, that he had left Cho behind, and that the sun was up in full summer.
It couldn't have been Hermione in the least, yet all sense of reason had left him at the slightest whisper, at the mere memory of her.
He sat on one of the park benches, wondering what the hell he was doing to Cho.
~~
He had broken up with Cho after that, telling her he wasn't ready to have another meaningful relationship, just yet.
Cho hadn't taken it so well. "Unbelievable… even from the grave…"
"Er… grave?"
"I'm sorry she's dead, Harry, but I…" She sighed in exasperation. "I can't deal with this. I can't-I can't compete with a dead idealized woman! That's twice she came between us."
Harry didn't know what to say. She said it like she had Hermione's name carved under her desk where she'd slice the tip of a blade over it every time Hermione "came between" them. He had a strong urge to tell her that Cho had let Cedric Diggory come between them twice, as well, but he stopped himself. It was a petty thing to say.
Cho left him in the restaurant, furious. He hadn't tried calling her again. If she stayed angry with him, it was just as well. He couldn't very well try with Cho a third time if he ever got the notion. It was too much, even for him.
His few casual sexual encounters before and after that with other women didn't count as sincere attempts. Those were women who offered him comfort and consolation when the loneliness and despair became so overwhelming, and perhaps they had wanted a trophy of their own: Sex with Harry Potter. They had more to give him than he ever did, but they never asked for much, except maybe for a nice memory. Harry obliged. It was the least he could do for them when he could give them so little of himself.
Most often, when lying in bed with such women, he thought about Hermione being with other men. The hurt, anger and jealousy became palpable then, and it was usually around that time he would get up, dress and leave.
His interludes with the women were less about temptation and more about frustration, and loss, and pain, so when he was fixated on a lead, when he was hot on the trail of a rumor or clue, he could go without intimacy for months on end. The hope renewed his feelings for her. The hope made him feel like he was in a relationship again, therefore he would be faithful.
This was what worried Ron the most, Harry reckoned, and this was what Draco Malfoy took such delight in mocking him for.
Harry welcomed thoughts of his awful "houseguest". It was better than being miserable thinking about her.
Draco Malfoy was still in number 12 Grimmauld Place. He was a prisoner of sorts, but he didn't have to stay in his dungeon anymore. He actually had a room, and he walked freely around the house and he kept a job-in fact, as an archives-keeper in one of the Ministry's many dusty, decrepit storage rooms. It was the most undesirable job there was, as it entailed very little human contact, was tedious, boring and overall wretched… but someone had to do it, and when all but this position had been denied Draco Malfoy, he indeed became that "someone", as befitting, after all, of one who attempted to murder Albus Dumbledore and let Death Eaters into Hogwarts to boot-to support himself, because Harry would be damned if he dished galleons to support Draco. He was, however, bound in captivity by a charmed anklet when he didn't actually have someone guarding him in the background. The anklet prevented him from leaving the house without permission, speaking to anyone in secret unless it was Harry, Ron or Remus and it magically prohibited him from flooing, apparating and sending owls. It bugged whatever wand he happened to have on hand to inform Harry, Ron, Tonks and Remus every single time he cast a spell, no matter how simple or harmless. The bugging-charm allowed them to see what spell he had cast, where he had cast it and to what he had directed the spell to. And while the anklet was a burden to Draco, it was no party for the rest of them, either.
In his worse days, Draco would cast spells that would have any of the four of them running to catch him at his dastardly deed. It never was quite as dastardly as Draco made it seem. Pranking them in this manner had once been Draco's favorite pastime, until finally, they realized they had to do something about it. They bound Draco hand and foot and placed him with Mrs. Black's painting in one of the many storage rooms of Grimmauld Place. Mrs. Black had wailed and screamed "Blood traitor!" with maddening volume. It was all well and good for Harry and the rest of them who had simply put an insulating spell on the room to keep the noise from escaping the storage room walls, but after an entire day in solitary with Mrs. Black, Draco had begged and threatened to be let out. He learned his lesson then, but on days he was feeling particularly vengeful, he would prank them again, regardless of the consequences.
There was still nothing lovable about Draco. He was still as sarcastic, still as soul-leeching, and still as haughty. He could be mopping the kitchen floor and he'd still be oozing aristocrat.
"You can take the boy out of Malfoy Manor, but you can't take the Manor Malfoy out of the boy," Draco had once said in his infuriatingly superior tone.
"Well, I'd imagine having it up your ass would make it a tad challenging to take out," Ron had replied with equal haughtiness.
"Personally, I think it's all that inbreeding," Harry added.
Draco had scoffed. "Weak. If Granger were here, she'd be ripping into the marrow of my bones, by now. Mudblood though she is, she had the most deliciously vicious comebacks, unlike you two pussies."
Harry knew Draco liked mentioning Hermione in a pseudo-positive light to irritate him. It made Harry think-whether he believed it or not-that Draco and Hermione had forged some kind of connection, which really grated at Harry, and just gave Draco something to taunt him with.
But really, Draco's self-serving, narcissistic, acidic nature aside, he was usually bearable, or else one got used to him. At least, in the few times that Draco got caught in a Death Eater attack with them, he hadn't turned-coat and hexed Harry behind his back. Draco usually found himself a safe hiding place and waited it out. Forced to defend himself, he would do so, with uncanny skill, and if he happened to save anyone's life in the process, one can bet one's wand that he only did it to save himself. That's his story, and Harry didn't think that much of Draco to even venture a hunch that Draco was doing anything for anybody. There was just no way in hell that Draco would do anything out of the goodness of his own heart. When asked if he even had a heart, Draco replied, "If I even have a what?"
Harry, at least, would never trust Draco completely, and if there ever came a time that Draco does betray them, it wouldn't be a shock at all. One thing was certain: Harry never slept without his wand within easy reach.
A shuffle in the darkness cut through the showery sound of rain and Harry gripped his wand beneath his coat. Slowly, he turned, staying alert.
A figure emerged, coming into the dim lighting.
Harry could immediately tell he was human. He had that ungraceful gait that vampires never had and he was sloppily dressed. Vampires were always-as the joke went-dressed to kill.
Harry also noticed that the stranger had a fresh bandage wrapped around his wrist.
Blood flunkie? thought Harry with only the slightest arch of his eyebrow.
The stranger came closer and Harry remained where he stood, though his stance was defensive.
"That's close enough," said Harry. "Who sent you?" Not that he didn't know, but he had to have some means of verification.
"Er-Henry Dresler?"
Harry relaxed only enough to throw the new arrival off his guard.
The name Henry Dresler wasn't a code. The man did exist. He was a vampire who owned Tirgoviste, a club that catered to vampires and the humans who liked to hang around with them. The club was a high-end establishment and it liked keeping its fangs clean. Harry endeared himself to Henry Dresler when Harry took care of the Death Eater recruiter infestations in his club and-on occasion-various other irritants.
Vampire establishments and groups had lately found themselves at an impasse as a number of their brethren were rumored to be setting up camp with Voldemort. The unconfirmed defections were still on an individual level, but it was, to many traditional vampires, disturbing to have so many rumors of disassociation. Solitary hunters though vampires were, they liked to congregate in packs, hives, covens, fraternities and sororities. To have separatists affiliating themselves with a human was just wrong, at least according to Henry.
Henry, to maintain the prosperous quid-pro-Haul-Death-Eater-Ass-Out-Of-His-Club relationship he had with Harry, provided Harry with information and informants regarding all-things vampire. Most of the time, Harry acted in the capacity of the Order, but there were times like these that Harry was simply a bloke looking for the woman he hadn't quite gotten over. Henry was always happy to oblige a romantic notion or two. Henry wasn't all that old and jaded, to begin with. He said he hadn't been a vampire for very long. That was the only history of himself he gave. He didn't like going into details.
"Henry Dresler said you had some information I might find useful," said Harry, trying to get a better glimpse of the stranger's face.
"Yes-hey, hold on… don't I know you?"
Harry shrugged. "Maybe. I've been around the vamp circuit a lot."
"No, I mean, I know you. You're that Harry Potter chap!"
"No shit, Sherlock," muttered Harry dryly.
The stranger laughed. "Look here, don't you remember me?" He stepped closer and Harry moved back in response.
Harry swore that he often found himself emulating Mad-Eyed Moody, but it was difficult not to act so paranoid during these dangerous times. "I said that's close en-"
The stranger's face was thrown in sharp relief and Harry found himself mesmerized at the sheer familiarity of his visage.
"Shite. I do know you," conceded Harry, looking at the tall, medium-built man with the dark hair and boy-next-door face. "But I can't-"
"So Your Sweetheart's A Vampire, by Angel N. Buffy."
Fuck. Me. Hard. It was Allan.
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Harry downed his third shot of whiskey and blew a breath through his lips. He blinked off the initial punch of the liquor and let the warmth settle in the pit of his stomach. It was working. He was feeling less agitated.
"Ah," said Ron after squinting at him observantly. "We have color! Now all you have to do is breathe."
Harry frowned at his best friend and nudged his glass so that the bartender would fill it up again. "I'm fine, Ron. I'm just a bit shaken, is all. Give me a second."
"Good lord, what in hell did the informant tell you?" Ron asked while the bartender refilled Harry's glass. "Bad news? Horrible news?"
"Nothing like that…"
"Now I need a drink." Ron signaled for the bartender to give him a glass of whiskey.
"What are you talking about? You've been drinking in here for the past half hour while I was out there in the cold!"
"I've a fast metabolism," said Ron with a shrug. He got his drink and he held it lightly over the table. "Now, tell me what happened out there. You come in here looking so pale and you down three shots of whiskey in less than two minutes… better be good!"
Harry sighed and braced himself. "Alright, first thing's first… it wasn't Order business."
Ron stared at him for several heartbeats before downing his whisking and shooting Harry a glare. "You bastard, I knew it! I knew it! This is a Hermione-thing, isn't it? Of course it's a Hermione thing! It's her bloody birthday today! You lied to me. You know what, Potter? Fuck this. I'm leaving."
Ron threw down a wad of muggle bills and left. Harry sighed and leaned over the bar, head between his hands.
Oye… the drama.
Moments later, Ron returned and sat back down beside him. "I'm only back because I'm hella curious."
"Right."
Ron got himself another drink. "Well, don't just sit there and brood. Tell the damn story!"
Harry nodded, glad that the obligatory walk-out was done and over with. "That bloke I met outside… we knew each other. Met each other before."
"When, where and how?"
"Five years ago, in St. Mungo's. It was the night Hermione was turned. She needed to feed. This bloke was her first."
Ron looked a bit confused. "Her first? Her first what? Her first shag? I thought you were her first shag."
"I am," Harry said with martyr-like patience. "She didn't shag the bloke, she fed off him."
"Oh. Fed off him. Got it." Ron shuddered.
"We on the same page now, Weasley?"
"Yeah. I think I remember who you're talking about. That bloke-what's his name… Chester… Jake…"
"Allan."
"Right! I knew that. So… old acquaintance. That's cute. Does this mean you have to send him Christmas cards from now on?"
Harry ignored Ron's wisecracking. "He saw her, Ron. He SAW HER a week ago."
That shut Ron up for a good while.
One scotch later, Ron was ready to listen again. "Saw her where? How? Are you sure this bloke isn't screwing you sideways?"
"He saw her in Gossips."
"Gossips? That club off Oxford?"
"Yeah. She was there and she needed to feed… she called vampire services and Allan just happened to be available. It was a regular ruddy reunion."
"Holy hell…" Ron let out a breath and got yet another drink. "I can't-"
They sat in silence for several more minutes and Harry let Ron mull it over. He needed the quiet time himself.
Finally, Ron broke the silence. "This could be nothing, you understand. Even if this guy is someone you knew in the past… well, maybe he did see her, but it hardly means he'll see her again. Or that you'll see her…"
Harry nodded. "You're absolutely right."
They stared at one another a moment.
Ron cleared his throat. "So did you ask about how she seemed to be doing? Who she was with? How she looks?"
Harry recalled the details of his conversation with Allan and told Ron as much as he could remember.
~~
Harry tried to slow the rapid beating of his heart. She was in London. Might still be in London. He couldn't believe it. This was the first time in five years that someone had actually and definitively come to him and said, "Yes, I saw Hermione. We talked a bit. Had a few drinks…" It was always, "I heard she was…" or "A friend of mine might have mentioned her…"
Calming himself, Harry struggled to steady his voice. "H-How… how is she? I mean, did you ask…?"
Allan seemed surprised. "Oh, well, of course I asked. It's only polite, isn't it? I asked her how she was doing and she said she was doing alright. She had a good job and she was in good company. She was drop dead gorgeous, by the way. No pun intended. Didn't know she could look that good in leather, but oh my God."
Harry had to focus really hard not to daydream. "What did she tell you? Did she tell you where she was staying? How long she was going to be in London? Did she tell you where she was going from here?"
"Well, she didn't say where but she did say they were sticking around for a while. She didn't give a specific date, but considering vampires live forever, 'a while' could be anything from a month to a couple of years."
"Did she say if she went to that club often? I mean-"
"Knew the owner, she said, but that was it. Doesn't mean she goes there all the time. For all I know, it could've been her first time there."
Harry nodded. This was true. London was a relatively small place and Harry had been frequenting the vampire circuit for almost five years. If Hermione had frequented Gossips, he would've known about it. However, it was big news that she knew the owner of the club. It was another solid lead.
"What else did you talk about?" asked Harry.
"Well… I asked her if she was seeing anyone."
Harry frowned. "Oh, did you, now?"
Allan saw the look on his face and understood it, but he was as easy-going now as he was five years ago. "Hey, she's hot. Can you blame a bloke for trying?"
Trying? Harry didn't know if he was glad or disappointed that Allan got turned down. On the one hand, he wasn't sure if he could bear it if she began to date someone else, yet if they had arranged a date, it would've been a sure fire way to see her again. "Blew you off, did she?"
Allan shrugged. "I don't think she's seeing anyone, or anyone serious, at least. She would've said so. But she said she was done dating humans, which pretty much finished it for me."
Harry didn't know what to think. Did that mean she'd dated a lot of them before?
He shook his head. That was hardly important right now. "Is there any chance at all that you'll see her again?"
"I might, if she calls vampire services again to feed, but then chances are the dispatcher would send someone else."
Oh God, thought Harry with rising excitement. "Maybe you can make arrangements with the dispatcher, you know, to send for you if it's her? Then you call me when you do get sent for. Make it happen and I'll pay you triple of what I'll give you tonight. I'll even fund the grease money. Just let me know how much it's going to take."
He hesitated. "Umm… you know, I'd love to help you, but even if I knew who the dispatcher was, lots of vampires, specially the ones that don't want to be found… they get pissed when their blood donor rats them out. Hermione might not kill me, but Yasmin might get word and she might complain to the management and… well, you know how vampires get."
Harry's heart sank even as he understood Allan's predicament. Vampires didn't fire you for things like that; vampires killed you for things like that. And if Harry went to Gossip's owner for a similar deal, the owner would be just as afraid of Yasmin.
He had very little choice but to resort to a different tactic. It wasn't completely hopeless. There was more than one way to go about it. After all, not everyone was afraid of vampires.
"We're done here, then. It was good information, thanks." Harry paid him and emerged from the darkness, crossing the street to Wheatshead.
~~
Ron expelled a deep breath when Harry finished his story. "What are you going to do now?"
"I've to get Dobby to stake-out Gossips for me."
"Dobby! Harry, d'you-"
"I have no choice. A human's too conspicuous and nobody I know in the circuit would do it for me. I'd do it, but… but I couldn't risk my presence forcing her back into hiding. It has to be Dobby. Besides, maybe she'll be more accommodating to an elf."
Ron smiled wanly. "How do you know she hasn't changed in so many ways?"
"She wouldn't, at least not so much that we wouldn't know her."
"How do you know?"
"I just do."
Ron didn't reply. He knew enough not to argue when Harry was being obstinate. He ordered Guinness stout and drank gulps of it before speaking again. "Harry, if you do finally find her-and I'm not saying you will this time around-"
Harry smiled tiredly. Ron had watched him try and fail for five years. If he was going to crash and burn again, Ron at least wouldn't be the one who poured the gasoline.
Ron continued. "What are you going to say to her?"
Harry chuckled miserably. "Are you kidding? So many things that the problem is, I don't know where to start."
"Are you still angry with her?"
"I don't know. I haven't had angry thoughts about her in the last four years, but… I don't know how I'd feel when I see her."
"If you see her."
Harry swirled his shot-glass and saw the sliver of whiskey pooling at the bottom. He asked for a refill. "I'll find her sooner or later, whether she wants to be found or not."
Ron sighed, tilting his glass of Guinness slightly. "And how long do you expect me to haul your banjaxed arse from seedy bars every time you come up to a dead end?"
"For as long as it takes?"
"I know you're not mental… yet, Harry, and I don't believe you're a sucker for punishment… yet-,"
Harry had to sneer.
"-but why do you keep doing this to yourself?"
"I don't know. To prove a point? I always told her that if she ever disappeared in some far-off corner of the world, I'd find her."
Ron snorted softly. "I wonder which one of your parents was this bullheaded, because you had to have come by it honestly, or else you're just a bloody jackass."
Harry paused ponderously. "Maybe Ginny's right. Maybe I just need closure. If I can get Hermione to tell me to my face that we're over and done with, forever and ever, amen, then I can go on."
"But her letter…"
"It's a letter, Ron. She didn't even give it to me herself. At least she handed yours over to you face to face…" He looked at his glass of whiskey miserably. "At least you got to say goodbye."
Ron clapped him on the shoulder. "Actually, it was more like me sitting on my arse on the floor, weak-kneed with longing, but hey… same difference!"
Harry managed a smile. "Amazing, what those pheromones could do. It only works two ways, though. Did you know that?"
"No."
"The first way is if the vampire is sucking your blood. The second way is if you're attracted to the vampire in the first place…"
Ron reddened. "Touché. You know I fancied her then."
"Do you, still?"
"Hell if I know."
"Fair enough. So, are you done with that Guinness, or what? I've a few things to do before we go home."
"I'm done, but I can't go with you from here. I promised George I'd meet him at the Leaky Cauldron."
"Fine. Don't get too drunk, then. Your dad's going to be at the house tomorrow and you don't want to have to greet him with a hangover."
"Yeah, yeah. And you… don't let them get their fangs on you."
"I never do."
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Harry kept a tight grip of his wand while keeping his other hand close to his kit of vampire deterrents. He had two wooden stakes strapped to each arm and silver knives holstered to his hip and boot. Of course, if these vampires ever got the notion to swarm him, he wouldn't stand much of a chance fighting them off. The best way was to cast a patronus and run, and then pray that they were all too busy trying not to get burned to follow after him.
Of course, there wasn't much to worry about being in Tirgoviste. The high-end club for vampires and humans thrived on the idea that humans can prance into it without fear of getting attacked. Still, Harry was completely cognizant of the fact that he was a key player in a war, and that he couldn't very well go anywhere unarmed and unprepared.
He approached the darkly lit entrance of the club and cut straight to the front of the line.
Humans and vampires alike complained but he paid them no heed as he hitched a nod in the direction of the bouncers. The bouncers, Benjamin and Earl, knew him well. Benjamin, the vamp, smiled at him and nodded to his human counterpart, Earl.
Earl unlocked the chord that closed him and his partner in. "Nice surprise, Potter. Boss is a little busy, though. You might have to wait a while."
Harry shrugged, glancing uneasily at the enraged line of club-dressed customers. He looked terribly grungy with his loosely fit jeans and grey t-shirt. Even with his wool coat, he wasn't fit to get into a swanky club. "I'll wait outside his office for as long as it takes. No big deal."
"You've weapons on you?" asked Benjamin.
"Always."
Benjamin sighed. "Just don't kill anyone along the way."
"Hey, as long as they leave me alone, I'll leave them alone."
Earl smirked and gestured for him to move along.
Harry walked through the ropes and wove through the crowded floor. Tirgoviste looked like a castle with carved gargoyles and dungeon-like décor. The gothic design was offset by modern touches amidst the medieval ambience. The air smelled of all kinds of smoke: tobacco, cigarettes and pot. Immediately, anyone could tell between the humans and the undead. While the humans smoked, drank and ate, the vampires nursed their pretty pieces of chocolate and seduced their humans for the darker delights of later.
Harry felt someone slither up his arm, stopping him in his tracks with a burst of pheromones. The pheromones didn't quite affect him as much as the lady vampire probably wanted. He shuddered slightly but shook off the effects. She was pretty, but it wasn't the type of look he got attracted to. Besides, he was here on business.
He gently shook off the fingers that were trailing along the scar of bite marks along his neck. "Sorry, umm… I'm a bit busy." He left, not the least bit eager to see the look on her face. Vampires aren't supposed to get blown off by humans in places like Tirgoviste.
He passed the packed bar and heard the bartender shout out a greeting to him. Harry waved and moved along, letting himself through the ropes of the staircase to Henry's office.
Henry's office was dark from the inside and Harry could only assume its occupant was out on the floor, but he knew the club owner never stayed out of the office for very long. Henry would be back soon and Harry could wait.
He sat himself down on one of the reception couches and watched the crowd beneath.
Vampires and humans interacted as if no barrier of death existed between them.
I didn't care about that either, he thought randomly. He spotted a human and a vampire making out in one of the dark corners of the dance floor and he sighed. He recalled Henry's words about his club.
"Nobody comes here to find love, Potter. Humans come here for the euphoria of dying, without the hassle of death."
Harry frowned as his gaze roamed to other club goers, dancing like they were ready to take their clothes off and shag standing up. Pointless, meaningless encounters. Sex is a fix and there's no such thing as a human-vampire relationship.
He was just beginning to get depressed when the lights in the office suddenly blinked open. He stared at the office door in surprise.
An expensively dressed vampire stepped out and she stopped in her tracks at the sight of Harry. Like most vampires, she exuded a sultry allure, instantly attractive with her dark aura and blood-red lips. Her curly brown hair with blonde highlights framed her mocha tinted skin like rays from a dark sun and she stood staring intently at Harry with her nearly-transparent green eyes.
She seemed so powerfully familiar that Harry had to wonder just how long he'd been doing this that he would find himself staring at familiar faces in the vamp circuit.
Seconds later, a tall man with an athletic build emerged from behind her. He had dusty blonde hair, an undeniably handsome face and he looked absolutely polished with a crisp, expensive business suit. He was surprised to see Harry but he probably wasn't as surprised as Harry was.
Henry had, up to that point, seemed like such a straight-laced vampire. The man, by all appearances, kept his nose clean, acted mostly like a human being and poked fun at the entire club-culture. He certainly never seemed like a man who would have illicit interludes with strange women in his office.
"Potter!" said Henry, smiling his fanged grin. "Well, I wasn't expecting you."
"Er… yeah. Sorry."
"I was just going to have chocolate with Aida over here." He looked at the woman. "Why don't you wait for me at the bar, sweety. I'll join you as soon as I'm done here."
Aida… where have I heard that name before?
Aida cast him a smoky smile right before she stared at Harry with barely veiled curiosity.
Harry stared right back. He wasn't the newbie in this joint.
She descended the stairs in a graceful, vampiric glide.
Harry arched his eyebrow at Henry ever so slightly as he walked into Henry's office.
Henry grinned. "What's the matter, Potter? Never had sex with a vampire in the dark?"
As a matter of fact… but Harry didn't say that out loud. "Just tell me where you didn't do it and I'll sit there."
Henry chuckled, gesturing to the couch.
"Well, of course you didn't do it on the couch. Why would you when there's an office desk and a mini-bar?" said Harry wryly as he sat.
"Indeed. So, did you meet the informant?"
"Yes, I did. Did you know we knew each other?"
Henry's eyebrows hitched as he sat himself behind his office table. "No. Do you, really? Wow. Small world. So you liked the information he gave you?"
"Oh, yes. Might be a winner."
"Good! What brings you here, then?"
"I need to know why she came to London."
Henry leaned back on his seat, eyeing Harry with a hint of warning. "I don't know what you're talking about."
"Henry, you're not a very good liar. Hermione was in London if she's not still here. She wouldn't come back here for kicks because I'm here. She's spent the last five years hiding from me, and now all of a sudden she's risking being found. She wasn't here of her own accord; she was ordered to be here. I want to know why."
Henry waved his fingers in a silky dismissal. "It flatters me that you come to me with such questions, thinking that I have the answers."
Harry counted to ten mentally. The thing about Henry was that as likable, as accommodating and as human as he seemed, he was as just as vicious as any vampire. He just didn't make it so obvious. "You may not know all of it, but you know enough."
"Really, Harry," said Henry, looking at his nails. "Even your Death Eater busting's not as valuable as losing the good graces of my fellow vampires. If, by discussing my guesses with you, I inadvertently spread rumors about vampires I certainly don't want to anger, I'd rather have Death Eaters on my floor every night. Do you understand what I'm saying?"
Harry thought hard about this latest obstacle. It was amidst his reflections that he realized just who Aida was. "Well, of course, you wouldn't want to anger any of the important vampires, which is why I'm finding it difficult to reconcile it with the fact that you're fucking Andrew White's baby girl in your office… in a nightclub. How very precious of you to treat his daughter with such class."
Andrew White was one of the richest vampires in the city. He made his money off humans with illegal transactions and shady dealings, and while his primary influence existed in the underbellies of humans' organized crime, he was a force to be reckoned with in vampire society. Businessmen like Henry liked to stay on White's good side, and shagging White's daughter in a nightclub was definitely a sure-fire way to get on White's bad-side really quick.
Aida White was Andrew's daughter from his human life. She was one among his many children from different women, but it was Aida who somehow managed to win her father's complete affection, and it was the reason that-when Aida asked to be turned, Andrew did so without hesitation. A vampire's daughter was no small thing, as most vampires haven't had the pleasure of procreating before getting turned.
Henry studied Harry carefully. "Andrew White wouldn't take the word of a human against the word of a vampire. He won't believe you."
Harry sighed. "Won't he? I'm not one for bragging, Henry, but I've stuck around this circuit long enough to have a… reputation. I might not be a vampire, but I can play your games. Everyone knows that."
Henry sighed. "Look, it's not as if I have any confirmed information. They're all just theories, really. If you want to follow unconfirmed leads, fine."
"Just tell me, Henry."
Henry tapped his fingers on the surface of the table. "There was a massacre in Albania, about three weeks ago."
"A massacre?"
"Ten vampires killed in their coffins at high noon. They were set on fire while they slept."
"Who did the deed?"
"It wasn't a vampire, else they would've found his remains either in the chamber or right outside it. It had to be a human or a werewolf, but since humans and werewolves don't mess with vampires unless another vampire tells them to, they were very well working for someone. The big deal is that out of the ten, two were very close to Yasmin ibna Omar."
Harry's eyebrow arched in astonishment. "You're not meaning to tell me someone messed with her Blood Kin, are you?"
"Abraham and Rashad are dead."
"Jesus." This was big.
"Indeed. So you could imagine the phenomenal rage this put Yasmin in. An investigation was launched, and while it's practically a given that Janus is behind it all, Yasmin wanted the perpetrators of the crime hanged by their balls in a slow, painful death for all to see and remember. Given the significance of the task, and in a true dramatic, Yasmin fashion, who does she send on the hunt?"
Harry's brows knotted. "Hermione?"
Henry looked annoyed. "Well, of course! Who else? I already told you, Potter. Short of making Hermione her Blood Kin, Yasmin considers Hermione one of her more special protégés. It would be beyond poetic if Hermione managed to bag the ones responsible for the massacre. Now here's the theory part: Hermione followed the trail of the perpetrators to London, and while perhaps she has caught them-"
"Oh? How do you know that?"
"Like I said, this is all theory, but the sudden reappearance of two particularly smarmy individuals, a werewolf and a human, who have, previously, been none too delicate about their prowess in offing 'snooty vampires' leaves little to the imagination."
"Reappearance?"
"Nobody really noticed that they disappeared, but their bodies turned up a couple of days ago… well, what remained of it, at least. Their chopped up remains had signs of torture and… oh, I'd imagine it wasn't an easy death at all."
Harry looked grim. "Hermione wouldn't do that. She wouldn't torture anyone; not for anything. She just wouldn't."
Henry shrugged. "Maybe not. I'm just guessing, after all. I'm thinking that if she's still in London, there are two reasons. One, she isn't quite done with the hunt. There might be a couple more of them out there. It's possible. Or two… Yasmin's in London for some reason and Hermione, like the dutiful protégé that she is, is sticking around for her. Now, considering it's a bit silly to suppose that Hermione hadn't caught these supposed extra perpetrators, I'm leaning towards the second reason."
Harry pondered this information. "I can't imagine that Yasmin would take it lightly that humans had the gall to perpetrate an unprovoked attack on vampires, even if they were ordered to. Usually it's just werewolves. Since when have humans been taking such extreme orders from vampires?"
Henry chuckled. "You know when."
"Do you think vampires should be taking sides in our war?"
Henry was quiet for a few heartbeats. Finally, he spoke. "Seems to me, Potter, that this war… isn't just yours anymore."
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Grimmauld Place was always an ideal meeting place for the governing board. It was protected by a new Fidelius Charm; it was comfortable and it was accessible. Meetings that included significantly more attendees required a different venue, owing to the fact that Remus and Arthur thought it best that the less people who knew about Grimmauld Place, the better.
Harry sat in the tearoom with Remus, Arthur, McGonagall and Shacklebolt while Tonks and Ron kept Draco company in another room. Of course, Ron keeping Draco company meant verbally abusing one another, but that was a minor detail.
"How are we doing on the vampire-werewolf situation?" Shacklebolt asked.
Harry and Remus exchanged glances, both of them with a look of futility.
"Shall I go first, or should you?" Remus asked.
Harry shrugged. "Hardly matters. I probably have as much relevant information as you do, which probably isn't much to begin with."
Remus sighed. "Most of the werewolves stand by their vampire masters, so when their master defects, they'd defect right along with them. None of them have a voice in the vampire hierarchy. They're servants and more often than not, they like it that way. But the vamp masters are hardly our main concern since vampire defectors and separatists usually happen in the lower ranks. Masters stay put because they usually like where they are, which is at the top. The real problem is with the independent werewolf packs. We know that Greyback has been with Voldemort from the start, but we've lately had more pack-wide defections. Voldemort's gaining momentum with the werewolves."
Independent werewolf packs were werewolves unassociated with vampire masters. They were a society in themselves.
"How do we counter the pack-wide defections, then?" Arthur asked.
"I've still got strong ties with Kramer and Patel, and they're quite good at keeping other packs neutral, if not totally on our side. That should hold us up for a while, and I'm confident they wouldn't defect. They want to end this war for our side as much as I do, but Wainwright… he might be a problem. He was a mercenary to begin with. I don't know how long before Voldemort figures that out and buys Wainwright's loyalty."
Teri Kramer, Jamil Patel and Zachary Wainwright were alpha males, ulfric, to three considerably formidable werewolf packs in Europe. They'd thrown in their support for the Light when Fenrir threatened to usurp them should they refuse to join Voldemort's side. They were important allies and much would depend on them in the final showdown, if and when the war came down to it.
"But I thought we had Wainwright under control," McGonagall said, frowning.
"Stella and Guy could only rein him in for so long," said Remus gravely.
Stella was Wainwright's lupa, the ulfric's mate and alpha female. Guy was Wainwright's frekki: beta male. Both had more influence on Wainwright than anyone else, but Wainwright wasn't ulfric for nothing. He still had his own mind, and the only thing that had almost as much influence on Wainwright as Stella and Guy was galleons.
Arthur frowned. "Should we start paying him, then?"
"No," said Shacklebolt. "That'll give him and his pack, including Stella and Guy, the idea that they're back on the market. They have to understand that being on our side is a matter of choice, not galleons."
Remus nodded. "Kingsley's right. We're just going to have to rely on Wainwright's integrity."
Harry thought that wasn't very encouraging.
Shacklebolt looked at Harry. "How's the vampire situation, going?"
Harry shook his head, half-embarrassed. "Same as always. The vampires aren't exactly joining Voldemort in droves, but the fact is he's getting fangs while we get none. Henry said it's an old-school vampire thing, that if I got the right vampires to join us then the rest would follow, but the problem is, I could barely get a look at these revered vampire masters, much less get their secretaries to schedule appointments with me. Short of offering blood, I've done all I could. Things aren't going well."
Arthur sighed. "At least Henry is being cooperative… d'you think he'd pull for us if we ever need vampire muscle?"
"We already do need vampire muscle, but he isn't budging unless his betters tell him it's alright. He's just as snooty as the rest of them, except that we have a working relationship, which, if you want me to put it bluntly, only means we have use for one another."
"Is there any hope at all for this situation, Potter?" McGonagall asked. "We know how to fight these vampires, yes, but we can only cast patronuses every so often. If there's too many of them to fight off…"
Harry nodded. "I understand, and yes, there is hope. A sliver of hope. I'm working on it, Headmistress, but I'll have to get back to you on that one."
Remus's eyebrow arched ever so slightly in his direction. Harry inclined his head in a gesture of, "I swear I really am working on it!"
Not that Harry was a known slacker. Harry had, in fact, grown more dependable as a leader in the last five years than he had ever been in Hogwarts as a student, just that the vampire issue seemed as futile to Remus as ever, and the good werewolf couldn't help but doubt Harry a bit when he declared that here was "hope".
Remus, apart from Ron, was almost as privy to Harry's Hermione-obsession, except that Ron was at Harry's disposal when he needed company to pursue it while Harry left Remus to his own devices. The man, after all, was married and had a wife to shower his attentions on.
Nymphadora Lupin was, of course, still called Tonks. That would never change. What had changed since Tonks and Remus married three years ago was where she'd been living. In times of war, it seemed silly to be particular about keeping house. So Harry took the opportunity to beg them to stay in Grimmauld Place, arguing that it would be safer for them both and more strategically sound. Harry also pointed out that Remus would need the dungeons, anyway, whenever the full moon came around. Besides, the old mansion was too big a place for two friends and an enemy to live in.
When Tonks did give in, Harry made it a point to make Tonks feel that she didn't have to take care of all of them. It worked out quite well, considering Tonks was about as un-fussy as any bloke. Sure, she was cleaner, and she kept hers and Remus's private space spic and span, but she could care less about cleaning up the rest of the house on a regular basis. The cleaning bug only ever bit when everyone was in accord that they all had to pitch in and do something about the dust, grime and mess, so really, cleanliness, or the lack thereof, was hardly an issue. Draco complained about it quite a bit, but since he wasn't willing to take the initiative, he was generally ignored.
Mrs. Weasley sometimes made her disapproval known, but since it wasn't her house and she wasn't the one living in it, she said very little. It was all in her eyes, really; the way she arched her eyebrow and the way she stared at a particularly dirty spot.
Digressions aside, Remus and vampires were moot. Remus didn't hate them; he just didn't think they'd ever be helpful or manageable. The only reason Remus let Harry do vampire-detail was because Remus knew Harry used the resources to look for Hermione on the side, and Harry had grown exceptionally good at defending himself against them, so there was only a bit of worrying to be done for Harry on the matter of safety.
"Vampires," Shacklebolt muttered none too pleasantly. "Buggers think they're better than everyone else, is the problem."
"Well, they are notorious for their vanity," said Remus in a matter-of-fact tone. "They couldn't help it, I suppose."
Shacklebolt continued to grumble.
They settled a few more details before they adjourned. McGonagall and Shacklebolt left for their respective residences.
"I have to go talk to my son about his antics with my other son," Arthur said, looking somewhat nettled.
Harry stifled a wince. He had a pretty good idea what Arthur was going to talk to Ron about. It was never a good thing to stumble into one's childhood home dead pissed while one's mother bore witness to the indignity of one's drunken behavior. He understood why George drank, and he certainly understood why Ron drank, but Molly Weasley was never quite sold on the idea of her boys drinking, and she was under the impression that if they just found nice, charming witches, they'd settle down and be good.
There was very little chance of that happening in the near future, but Harry wasn't going to tell Mrs. Weasley that.
Alone with Remus, he braced himself for the confrontation.
"What, pray tell, is this sliver of hope you're working on?" asked Remus.
"I talked to Henry again last night. Went to his club and everything," Harry explained. "I managed to get him to admit to me that Yasmin's in town."
Remus didn't look quite as impressed as he ought to be. "Oh, joy."
Harry sighed. "Oh, don't be like that, Remus. You know it's a big deal. She hasn't been in London since… well, since she came to recruit Hermione. That was five years ago. She's like the bloody queen of vampires, Remus, if I can get her to our side-"
"Ah, there's the rub."
"It's completely possible that she'd give me a chance. If she saved my life five years ago, it means she just might-"
"She saved your life because she would get Hermione for it. A vampire's good graces doesn't come cheap, especially if you're talking about a vampire as powerful as she is."
"I understand, but the timing is good. The vampires are keeping things under wraps, but something happened in Albania three weeks ago that might have shaken our Mistress of the Dark enough to reconsider taking our side in the war."
"You're postulating, Harry. You're assuming far too much-"
"If Henry is thinking that this war we're in is trickling into vampire society, then Yasmin is thinking it too. She isn't the type to sit back and watch the situation get worse. She'll want to do something about it, but being a vampire, she won't ask our help. We have to do the asking, and if we have to make them believe that they're doing us a favor, then I'm willing to prostrate myself at her feet and beg."
"That'll work," said Remus dryly.
"I'm counting on it." He told Remus about Hermione in Gossips, and about his plan to get Dobby there to stake the place out.
"And if Dobby does spot Hermione?" Remus asked. "What are you going to do? Apparate on over there and try to convince her to get her boss to join the cause?"
Harry chuckled bitterly. "I wish, but no, I won't apparate on over there. I instructed Dobby to give her a written message. What she does with it is up to her."
Remus eyed him suspiciously. "You're not going to go over there?"
"No."
"Who are you and what have you done to Harry?"
Harry just shook his head and leaned tiredly against the wall of the hallway. "I'm not entirely blind to the fact that if Hermione had wanted to be found, I would have found her. God knows… I denied it long enough to get myself sent to St. Mungo's in a straight jacket, but five years is long enough to come to terms with a lot of things, isn't it? So she doesn't want to be found. I can… respect that, but I can't let the search go completely, either. I've invested too much of my time and emotions on it, so I'm thinking that the least she could do is give me closure."
Remus nodded sadly. "And you'll have no one but Ron to help you pick up the pieces."
"The fool cast his lot with my sorry arse long ago, Remus. Far be it I'd tell him otherwise."
"Can you do it, Harry? Sit back and wait? Supposing it were true that Hermione's still in London… she's so close, Harry. I don't know if I can stand it if I were in your shoes."
"I don't have much of a choice, do I?"
"And what if you don't get your chance, this time? What if she walks away from this? What'll you do then?"
"Then maybe… maybe I'll let it be the closure I'm looking for. If she could walk away now, then I've lost her, Remus. That's the awful truth of it, isn't it?"
Remus nodded gravely.
Harry then prayed that the truth wasn't as awful as that.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
From: henrydresler@tirgoviste.com
To: yio@coi.net
Subject: Order No. 09191979
Order No. 09191979 has been completed. Awaiting further instructions.
H.D.
~~
From: yoi@coi.net
To: henrydresler@tirgoviste.com
Subject: Re: Order No. 09191979
Excellent, my love. Stand by. Taking over this matter at present.
Y
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
A/N: The club Tirgoviste does not exist, at least as far as I know. "Tirgoviste" is the name of the Wallachian castle in which Vlad, the Impaler, grew up. Later, he used the castle to entrap the undesirable individuals of his kingdom after he fed and entertained them, then he burned them all alive. Vlad, in case you don't know, is the person upon which the character of Dracula of Bram Stoker's Dracula was based.
Gossips and Wheatshead exists according to the internet. Yay to the information highway!