Author's note: You're probably going to hate me for this chapter because it's kinda boring, but I had to write this because I love you. I swear.
A few readers also mentioned that Harry seemed so obsessed with finding Hermione that he'd forgotten everything else. Not true. Although it was briefly mentioned in the previous chapter that he has been doing important things aside from finding Hermione, this chapter expounds on just how much Harry's done in the last five years.
You must all thank Lady Diamond for the quick release of this chapter. Great big thank you! ^_^
Standard disclaimers apply
Chapter rating: R
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Chapter Fifteenth: Search
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Harry pushed through the doors of the Hit Wizards morgue facility. The facility was brightly lit, chasing away the darkness of night outside. He had worked all day that day to procure the necessary permits and ID passes to get past these doors, but there was something to be said about being Harry Potter in a world where it meant something. Though it had taken him hours to get the necessary signatures and recommendations, he had no doubt in his mind that he had still managed to cut through a sizable chunk of red tape.
The witch behind the reception desk looked up from her The Good, the Bad and the Dead: Examining A Crime Corpse, by Hugh Dunnit. She was dressed in eerily muggle-like scrubs and she wore glasses that were even uglier than Harry's. She looked to be in her late twenties and her short strawberry blonde hair was tied up with rubber bands in two stiff pig-tails.
She rose from behind the counter to attend to Harry. She had a big smile, as if it was a pleasant surprise to actually have someone walk into the room on their own two feet, instead of being rolled in horizontally.
Parallel to his musings, she said, "Well, you're not inferi, are you?"
That was one of the oddest questions Harry had ever heard. "Er, no."
In retrospect, when one worked the night shift in a Hit Wizard morgue facility, it wasn't such an odd question, after all.
"Just checking!" she chimed, smiling pleasantly through her slightly buck teeth. "You're way past regular hours, you see. A normal person would come here around fivish, sixish. It's past midnight, so you understand my concern."
"Umm… yeah."
"I'm Mary," she said. "Mary Lee. Trust me when I say I've heard every conceivable joke there is about my name. It's worse for my brother. His name's Frank."
"Frank… Frank Lee?"
"Yes, as in, 'Frankly, my dear, I don't give a damn!' He gets it every time from muggles. With wizards, it's just 'Frank Lee, it's nice to meet you,' or 'I'm not very keen about our new minister, to tell you, Frank Lee.' Hardly anyone calls him just plain Frank. They always have to stick his last name in. They find it amusing. At least my name doesn't fit as easily into regular conversation. The best anyone's ever done is sing my name in song, as in 'Merrily we roll along…'"
Harry could only stare at her as she chattered on incessantly. He supposed she didn't have that many people to talk to who could actually answer back. The problem with dead, unanimated folk was that they were dreadfully boring.
"Now," said Mary in a voice that woke Harry out of his stupor. She produced a logbook and plopped it in front of Harry, pushing a pot of ink and quill nearer for him to use. "Write your name and the purpose of your visit. Identification would be nice, too."
Purpose? Stifling a sigh, he did as he was told, stating "Auror business" under purpose. He took out his badge and laid it atop the logbook.
Mary glanced at the logbook and badge when he was done and arched an eyebrow. "Harry Potter… bet you don't get jokes with that name."
He thought about Draco and the countless times Draco disparaged him. Draco never said his name nicely, and sometimes Draco would turn it into "Potty" or "Potthead" or something else equally offensive, but he never directly made fun of the name name. He gave her a contrite smile. "No."
"Come along, then." She closed the logbook and tossed his badge back to him without ceremony. "When people write 'auror business' like that, they usually want to see a body and be told all about it. Am I right?" She ducked out of the reception desk and beckoned for him to follow her through more double doors.
Harry wondered about leaving the front desk unattended but realized that there was hardly anything to worry about. This was a morgue, not the Café de Paris*. There wasn't exactly a line to get in.
He walked right behind her, following in her surprisingly brisk strides. She wore big, clumpy black boots, and the soles of it gave her about two more inches of height. She didn't break her stride in the least when they entered the containment facility. This morgue looked no different from all the other morgues Harry had been to, and in the past five years, he'd been to quite a lot, just not the one in the Hit Wizard facilities. Like most morgues, the walls were lined with rows and columns of compartments with airtight trap doors. Most, if not all the compartments had a body preserved in it.
"Well?" said Mary. "Am I right?"
"R-Right," said Harry, recomposing himself.
"Talk to me, Mr. Potter."
"Er… I'm looking for two bodies, actually. I don't know who they are or what they look like. They probably came in about three or four days ago and my sources tell me they might be mutilated, one or both of them possibly lycan… anything like that lately?"
She smirked at him, amused. "Oh, well, not exactly your run of the mill request, is it? Mutilated… I suppose you can say that. And lycan! We have those, but this one in particular came in four days ago. Is a body very important, or were you talking more along the lines of body… parts?"
Harry wasn't sure if he wanted to know the answer to that. She must have understood the look on his face.
She brought out her wand and waved it. Two trap doors at the end of a low row opened. The beds of metal upon which the bodies were placed had white sheets covering them. It seemed to Harry that the bodies were unusually small.
Mary tapped her wand on two examination tables and the metal beds settled gently upon them. She gave her wand another wave and the sheets lifted off the bodies, or what was left of them.
On one bed was a head. On the second bed an arm. They were in perfect condition, if slightly unattached.
Harry stared at them, only mildly surprised. "Well, there's not much left of them, is there?"
Mary shook her head, the grin not quite gone from her face. She put on rubber gloves. "Now, who would you like to do first?"
That came out wrong, but Mary didn't look the least bit perturbed.
Harry didn't know exactly how to say it. He gestured to the head.
"Ah, Mr. Shortstaff," she said. "I'd wager my attached neck he got loads of disparaging jokes for that name. Care to take the wager?"
Harry supposed that working in a morgue made jokes about dead people actually funny. He shook his head. "And lose? Perish the thought." And there he was, making dead puns.
She chuckled. "'Twas easy to identify this one, as you might imagine. We ran a check based on his facial features and came up with Bobbin Shortstaff. Local lowlife. His blood had massive traces of the lycanthropy veneficus and his skin tissue, even dead, still reacts to silver. The detachment of his head from his body was done with one clean stroke, almost surgically precise, but since no surgeon I know works with such a big scalpel, this had to have been done by a swordsman. 'Twas silver sword, or silver alloy, if the cauterization at the edges of the skin-tissue of his neck mean anything. The trajectory of the slice had to have been from the back of the neck. The sword would have come out through his throat. Hardly matters, as he would've been dead before he knew it. Could've been worse for him. Someone as skilled as the one who killed him could have very well made it slow and painful, but see the look on his face? Blissfully unaware."
Harry wasn't exactly seeing "blissful" in the dead man's eyes. He looked to the limb. "And this one? Cut by a silver sword, too?"
Mary shrugged. "Could've been the same sword. Same precision; same skill, but this arm is human. Muggle or wizard? We couldn't have known by examining the remaining tissue, but here…" She took the arm and turned it over, palm up. Just beneath the back of the elbow was a tattoo of the Dark Mark. "It's not magically inked," she said. "It's an honest to goodness muggle tattoo. We made inquiries based on the markings and came up with the name Leonard Reichert, wizard. Leonard and Bobbin weren't exactly buddies before this, but they frequented the same circles, and then there were reports of them going somewhere to take care of the same business. Nobody wanted to know details when they talked about it, just that about three weeks ago, they disappeared for three days. When they came back, they had tall tales for their respective friends. No one believed them, of course, but they'd gotten paid for something, and in the end, their stories sort of matched."
"How, matched?"
"Well, they had equal amounts of bullcrap, I'll tell you that, but they had one detail in common: Arson."
"Lovely," Harry muttered, mulling over all the new information he had gathered. So far, Henry's information seemed to be checking out, but it was entirely possible that Henry was leading him the wrong way in the first place. Henry had, after all, called it unconfirmed information. "Were there any signs of torture at all?"
"That I can't say. These tissue samples are in relatively good condition. There were no fractures in the skull and bones and I didn't find any bruising. I didn't find anything foreign in the traces of hemoglobin, there seemed to be no singeing of any kind-something that could have been caused by electrocution-and they didn't have pins sticking through their nails and eyeballs. If there was any kind of torture, it would have consisted of physical blows to the other parts of their bodies, not these."
Harry felt a bit unsettled, realizing that even if his beliefs about Hermione not resorting to torture were true, he wasn't sure if her being able to cut off heads and limbs made it any better, or worse.
Maybe she didn't wield the sword. Maybe someone else did the execution. After all… Hermione was never one for violence…
"I can make copies of the written reports for you," she continued. "It can give you more details that I couldn't quite remember right now. It's got pictures and everything, too, so in lieu of these body parts, you still get to take home good visuals. You investigative types like that sort of thing, I noticed."
"Oh?"
Mary regarded him thoughtfully. "You don't talk much, do you?"
He could brood, yes, but he was never quite the strong silent type. "Well, not when there isn't much to say…"
"It's the morgue, isn't it? Happens all the time. Most of the people who walk in here begin to whisper, as if they'd disturb someone if they talk loud enough. I don't know where they get the notion, really. I don't care what they say; nothing's noisy enough to wake up the dead," she declared with a flourish, pulling the sheets back over the head and the arm. She peeled off her gloves and threw it in the bin, waving her wand to put the beds back into their compartments.
Harry shoved his hands into his pockets as she put the remains away. "I've seen a person rise from the dead. I mean, I didn't see it, but she was dead… and then she wasn't…"
"Vampire?"
"Yeah."
Mary shook her head and wagged a finger. "Never trusted the creatures. When the evidence guys roll a body in here, I always look for bite marks first, and then I test the blood for vampiric veneficus. Last thing I need is some newly risen vampyr rampaging through my morgue thirsting for blood, and it doesn't help that I'd be the handiest fresh blood in these parts. Nope. I send the infected ones straight to the nearest medical dungeon. Either that or I cut off their heads. You can't believe the shite I get for doing that, but hey, they can take this job if they think they know better. The point being: Vampires aren't dead, they're undead."
"That I know," Harry said, mostly to himself.
Mary must have heard him. She looked at him with one upraised eyebrow and Harry had a feeling that she was staring at the scar on his neck. She said nothing, however, and went to the office to get him the paperwork she promised.
Apart from the soft sounds coming from the office, it was really quiet. It wasn't graveyard quiet. It was sterile quiet, like there was nothing alive in the room to make the slightest sound, which was really quite true being in a morgue, and all.
A muggle might find it creepy, but wizards, especially a wizard like Harry who, besides having lived and spoken with ghosts and poltergeist, has had a relationship with a vampire, averted dragon attacks, set inferi aflame, battled boggarts, dementors and werewolves, and dueled with the scariest dark wizards. He couldn't really be spooked by a bunch of dead bodies in a room which, as Mary pointed out, wouldn't wake up no matter how noisy it was.
Mary later returned with two tightly rolled scrolls tied with dainty pink ribbons. Harry supposed he could appreciate the decorative touch.
"Thanks, Mary. I appreciate your help, 'specially at this hour."
"Oh, I wouldn't have done it for just anybody," she said with a mischievous grin. "You're Harry bloody Potter. Now I can tell all my friends I laughed and flirted with you. You really are as handsome as they say you are… in a geeky, dorkish sort of way. Like a dreadfully endearing nerd, actually."
"Er… thanks, I think."
"We could look like nerds together, if you're so inclined. Coffee, maybe? Not like anyone around here's going to miss me if I'm gone for half an hour."
He figured he had to be the only bloke in England who could score a coffee date in a morgue. "Well, see…"
Mary rolled her eyes. "Of course you have a girlfriend."
"Something… like that." He didn't feel up to making complicated excuses. It had everything to do with his girlfriend, and he didn't have to explain that said girlfriend happened to be his ex, who was a vampire and whom he was hopelessly hung up on.
Mary sighed. "Oh well, 'twas worth a try. You only live once." She shrugged, and it half looked like she was gesturing to the morgue, as if the entire room of dead bodies was testament to the number of lives one was entitled to.
Harry could only offer her a half-smile. In a typical dorky fashion, he saluted her with the scrolls he gave her as he left the morgue.
However depressing a morgue might be on any other day, Harry was feeling a tad giddy. If Henry's story about the two body parts had merit, then it was entirely possible that everything else Henry insinuated about Yasmin and Hermione may have merit as well.
This was a good lead. It could most definitely get him somewhere.
Snatching up his wand, he quickly apparated to Grimmauld Place where he called on Dobby to perform the task Harry had set for him.
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Staring into the fires beyond the hearth always put Harry in the mood to remember, even if some of the memories were ones he wished he could forget.
Maybe 'wishing to forget' is a bit much. I just wish it wouldn't hurt so much remembering.
Two weeks had gone by since Harry first put Dobby on duty in Gossips. Every time Harry called on Dobby to report, he was disappointed by the same words: "Dobby didn't see Hermione Granger, Harry Potter, sir. Hermione Granger, ma'am, was nowhere to be found."
There was a whiskey bottle and glass poised on the coffee table already. He wondered just when he would accept that this was another failed attempt at finding her and that he needed to drink himself into a stupor, yet again.
At least I'm home, he thought with bitter humor. That'll save Ron the trouble of hauling my drunk arse back to Grimmauld Place.
A sound disturbed the silence of the library but Harry didn't bother to look up. He wasn't quite up to dealing with Ron in his present mood. He wasn't sure if he was up to dealing with Remus or Tonks, either.
Apart from his constant anxiety over the situation, he'd had to meet Order-duties almost everyday of the last two weeks. He was exhausted physically, mentally and emotionally. He simply could do with a lot less drama at the moment.
"Moping again, Potter?"
He almost groaned. I don't need Malfoy, either. Then again, the rest of the world could do without the damn bugger. "Sod off. I'm not in the mood."
He realized a moment later that he shouldn't have said that. It only served to make Malfoy want to stick around.
"Let me guess," sneered Draco. "You came up with another false lead. Pity."
Harry didn't reply.
"Shouldn't you be drinking yourself into a coma with Weasel, by now? It's rather late in the day for you to be so sober."
Harry looked up at him and glared. Fine. He wants to pester me, then fine. He's asking for this. Harry cast a spell and Draco yelped as he found his ass getting stickied to the sofa chair across from Harry. Draco's pants stuck to the upholstery like he was crazy glued to it.
"Potter--!"
"I have a brilliant idea, Malfoy. Why don't I drink with you? You always said I was a sucker for punishment, so I'll suffer your company."
"You ought to feel bloody privileged that you're in the presence of Malfoy, is what you ought to be thinking. Goes to show that you have to cast stupid spells just so I wouldn't walk out on your self-pitying arse."
Harry conjured another whiskey glass and filled both glasses up. He magically slid a shot-glass to Draco. "There's a muggle game, Malfoy. Don't know if you've heard of it. It's called 'I Never.'"
"I'm all aflutter to know this game," said Draco through grit teeth.
"It's a lot of fun, and right up your alley. You'll see. The object of the game is to get your opponent to reveal things about himself that he would never otherwise admit. It requires honesty, I admit… think you can be honest just this once, Malfoy?"
Draco scowled. "I'm many things but I've never outright lied, Potter. Never had to. I'm Malfoy, remember?"
"Oh yes, I forgot. Why lie when you have your name to hide behind with?"
"Now you're getting it."
"This works out well, then. We take turns saying we've never done something, and if that something you've never done is something your opponent has done, he has to drink his whiskey. But if what you've never done is something your opponent has never done, either, you have to drink your whiskey. Following me?"
"Never, but I get it."
"Do you want to play?"
"Humph. If you dare. Pointless, to me, though."
"Oh, I'd reckon you'll like it in a bit. I'll start, to demonstrate. I never met my mother."
Draco glared at him and downed his whiskey.
Harry grinned. "See? It's fun."
Draco's lip curled in disgust. "I never had to do laundry until I came here."
Harry scoffed, downing his drink and refilling their glasses. "You can do better than that, Malfoy. Like so: I never had to pay for sex."
A deep flush rose in Draco's cheeks and he shot Harry such a murderous scowl that it could've killed Harry if an avada kedavra was attached to it. Gritting his teeth for a few heartbeats, he quickly knocked his whiskey into his mouth and swallowed.
Harry howled with laughter. This was turning out to be a great idea.
"Alright, Potter," spat Draco. "If that's how you want to play, then I'll bite. I never had my heart broken."
Harry smiled bitterly. "That's the spirit, Malfoy." He drank his whiskey. "I've never wanted to kill Albus Dumbledore." He waited for Draco's response and saw the fey young man tense for a heartbeat.
Draco's fingers tightened around his shot glass and in the next second, he knocked the jigger full of whiskey into his mouth.
Somehow, Harry felt that the brief flinch from Draco colored the gesture ambiguous. It didn't quite give Harry the answers he was looking for.
A flush rose in Draco's cheeks. Draco wasn't really much of a drinker. He never drank too much because he thought it was undignified and Harry and Ron never really asked him to join them. Whether the reddening of Draco's cheeks had to do with the alcohol or something else, Harry would likely never know.
Harry filled the glasses.
Draco loosened his collar a tad. "My turn, Potter. I've never been abandoned by someone I love."
Harry had to admit that Draco was pretty vicious at this. "Liar. Your father abandoned you."
"Who said I love my father?"
"Your mum, then."
"She didn't abandon me. She's probably dead. You don't disappear from the face of the earth while in the service of the Dark Lord unless you're dead."
He shook his head in mild disbelief. No affection for his dad and so seemingly unaffected by his mother's death. Draco was indeed a piece of work. Harry drank his whiskey. "I've never ratted on my friends."
Draco cackled. "Boy, you must think I'm an absolute prick! Anyway, I'll take it as a compliment. Drink your shit, Potter."
"Bullocks! You never ratted on your friends?"
"I'd have to have friends, first. Quit stalling and drink."
"Sad," said Harry, refilling his glass and drinking its contents.
Draco sneered. "Spare me your pity. Friends are a burden. I haven't had to grieve for 'friends' since this war started and I'm perfectly fine about that, thank you very much. Now where were we… ah! I never slept with my best mate's sister."
Harry shot him a grimace. "Well, neither have I, twat."
Draco gasped. "No! You've never slept with the Weaslette ever?"
"Unlike some people I know, I've got scruples. Drink your whiskey and don't call her Weaslette."
"She lets me call her that," Draco said as he gulped down his shot.
Harry filled up their glasses and leaned back on his seat, grinning. The hot flush of the whiskey was already rushing through his system and he knew that the alcohol was doing to him what it did best: Numbing the pain. "I never slept with Millicent Bullstrode."
"I don't sleep with ugly women, no matter how pure their blood is."
Harry laughed and drank. "I just had to know, you know."
An evil grin spread on Draco's lips. "I never fucked a vampire."
Harry scowled. "For the record, I never thought of it as fucking." He picked up his glass and drank, immediately refilling.
Draco threw back his head and laughed. "Wasn't sure if you had it in you, scar face! I have to admit, I'm impressed! Was she good?"
"In what universe would I honor that with a response?"
"I'm not asking for details, you know. Just a general comment."
"It's been five years, Malfoy… and I'm still looking for her. That general enough for you?"
"Hell, yes. Most interesting."
"Alright, move along. I never slept with Crabbe or Goyle."
Draco's lip curled in distaste. "Look here, you just want to drink whiskey!"
"Ain't that the truth. But seriously, you've never?"
"Blow me, Potter. And for your information, if I'm going to sleep with men, it wouldn't be with ghouls like Crabbe or Goyle. I'd choose manly blokes like Cedric Diggory or Sirius Black. Too bad they're dead because of you."
Harry glared at him before downing his drink. "Careful, Malfoy… you know you don't like it when I get upset with you."
Draco smirked but backed off from that conversation. He immediately carried on with their original purpose. "I've never had to fight my best mate for a woman."
"Whatever," Harry grumbled, pouring whiskey in his glass and drinking it. He'd had a lot of shots already and the whiskey was really kicking in. His vision blurred but he was far from drunk. Tipsy, maybe. "Like you said, you'd have to have friends, first."
Draco ignored Harry's last jibe and chuckled, pleased with himself. "I knew it! So you did fight over the mudblood! Figured back then it was only a matter of time before you did. For a mudblood, she was pretty hot."
"Don't call her a mudblood, and I didn't realize you saw Hermione that way. You always harped about how unattractive you thought she was."
Draco shrugged. "Doesn't take a genius to figure out what that was all about. I was obviously an insecure child trying to mask my true feelings. Not that I was secretly in love with her, you understand. I just wanted to nail her. That's all."
Harry couldn't help himself. He threw his fist and landed it right on Draco's nose. It was like an instinct instilled in him. Draco talked trash about Hermione and Harry had to defend her honor.
Draco's head snapped back and he doubled over, hands to his bleeding nose. "Son of a BITCH! Are you still on about that? For fuck's sake, it's been five years!"
"Don't talk about her like that. She wouldn't have touched you to hit you, Malfoy, so you can just shut your trap about her virtue. Merlin, after all these years… you're still a twisted little fuck."
"You say that like it's a bad thing."
Harry couldn't fathom at all how Draco could manage one of his smart comebacks even with his blood spilling on his hands. That was true arrogance. "I think we've exhausted the use of this game, don't you think?"
"No shit," Draco said nasally.
Harry undid the sticky charm on Draco's butt and Draco stood, pulling out a handkerchief.
It still astounded Harry that Draco could have an immaculate handkerchief on him; this from the boy who never did laundry before he came to Grimmauld Place.
You'd think Mr. Lord of the Manor here wouldn't be bothered to launder handkerchiefs and press them to be perfectly folded in his pocket. But there was Draco, shaking a perfectly starched kerchief out.
Harry watched Draco walk out of the library, muttering swear words as he left. His anklet clicked against his shiny shoes.
Five years and they barely talked to Draco, unless it was to disparage him or to tell him to sod off. Harry didn't know if he should feel sorry for the guy. Draco certainly didn't make it easy to feel sorry for him. The bloke made it clear enough that he was only sticking around to keep safe from avenging Death Eaters, and Harry had to admit that over the course of five years, there had been attempts to kill Draco, though he wasn't really number one on the hit-list.
The only ones who ever had proper conversations with him were Tonks and Ginny, only because Tonks felt obligated as Draco's relative and because Ginny found a somewhat disturbing fascination in his dysfunctional existence.
Harry's thoughts turned to Ginny. Ron had hinted every once in a while that Harry should try to renew ties with her. In the few times that Harry gave it serious thought, he always came to the conclusion that he wasn't willing to risk hurting Ginny the way he had hurt Cho. Besides, Ginny had enough issues trying to keep George from falling off the deep end; the last thing she needed was another bloke with emotional baggage.
Anyway, Ginny was back with Dean Thomas, now. They'd been together for a year and Ginny was showing signs of a willingness to move in with Dean. Harry saw no reason why everyone shouldn't just let them be happy. Dean had, after all, grown up since their days in the dorm rooms of Gryffindor tower.
But in retrospect, thought Harry bitterly. A lot of us would give anything to be 22 years old and act 22, instead of having been forced to act way beyond our years…
He looked at the bottle of whiskey. It was only just half-empty and he could very well finish the entire thing all by himself, but after having traded barbs with Draco, it seemed silly to wallow in self-pity and finish the entire bottle all by himself.
Sinking deeper into the couch, he just closed his eyes and let sleep overcome him.
~~
Harry felt like someone had punched him in the kidney and that he would be pissing blood for most of his life. The weakness in his body was palpable and all he wanted to do was lay very still. He opened his eyes and let himself get oriented. It took a while, but it finally dawned on him that he was in a hospital, and that there were far too many charms and potions attached to him. Must've been bad, this time around, he thought dazedly. The curtains of his room were drawn over the windows, but he could tell through the cracks of the cheap upholstery that it was dark outside. He tried to recall exactly what happened and realized that things had gone fuzzy after Janus stabbed him with the tip of his sword. "Hermione?" His voice sounded raspy and sleep ridden. How long had he been asleep?
Someone in the room stirred. It was too noisy to be Hermione.
Sure enough, Ron came into view. "'Bout bloody time," he muttered.
Harry wondered what he was so cranky about. He wasn't the one who had gotten attacked by a vampire. "Where's Hermione?"
"Nice to see you, too."
He supposed it was rather mean of him. "What happened?"
"Well, apart from you getting stabbed?"
"After that. What happened after that?"
"We managed to get you to Saint Aedan's on time. It's a wizarding hospital in Ireland… you almost bought it, mate."
"The hospital? I'm rich, but not that rich." He didn't know where he got the energy to be snarky.
"I'm serious. Hermione and I were desperate to get you help…" Ron looked up at the windows. "You were moved to St. Mungo's soon after…"
A sinking feeling coagulated at the pit of Harry's stomach. "How long have I been out?"
"Four days."
He knew it. "Shite. I missed Hermione's birthday." It's just as well. Not like I can take her out to dinner and dance in my condition… then again, I could've given her present… "Where is she, anyway?"
Ron looked terribly uneasy at the question. "She's not here."
Harry's eyes widened in horror. "You didn't forget her in Ireland, did you?"
"Er… no. Wouldn't that be a nightmare, though? She'd be so mad…"
Harry waited for Ron to go on, but when Ron didn't add anything else, he began to feel a worry infinitely more profound. The silence extended and Harry was struck with a cold sense of foreboding.
She can't be dead, can she? Ron would tell me if she was…
"Ron? Where's Hermione?"
Ron's gaze lowered momentarily, his hands digging nervously into his coat. "She… left."
Harry's eyebrow arched. "And where did she go?"
"I… I don't know, Harry."
It was at that moment Harry felt a spike of panic. Oh, God… she's gone after Janus, or something. He knew he was too weak to get up and do anything but he wanted answers. "Well, does anybody know?"
Ron shook his head.
What the hell was wrong with Ron? Why wasn't he more freaked out about this? Why wasn't he-
"Maybe…" Ron began, holding out what looked to be a sealed envelope. "Maybe she tells you in her letter…"
Harry stared at the letter in Ron's hand. He didn't quite understand.
Ron nudged it forward, not meeting Harry's eyes. "She wrote me one, too. I… I've read it and it didn't say anything about where she was going. Maybe yours…"
Harry's anxiety gave way to confusion, eyeing the letter suspiciously. "Ron, what's going on?"
Ron's brows knotted, like he was going to cry but was making a supreme effort to stop himself. He swallowed. "I already told you… she left. She… she's not coming back, Harry. She's gone."
Harry's insides went cold and his mouth felt dry. "What do you…"
"I went to fetch her at Grimmauld Place three days ago and she was… packing. I tried to stop her Harry, I swear, but she… she did something to me. I could barely move…"
Ron continued to speak but Harry had stopped listening. He was shaking his head and trying to clear his mind of the sudden daze that had befallen it.
"I-I don't understand," he said. "She left because… is she going after Janus…?"
Ron paused, his breath hitching. "I don't know. I don't know, Harry, but she told me she was leaving because she had to; because she didn't belong with us, and that you… you should… you should have better things to look forward to than-I don't know-the coming of sunset, or something…"
"Coming of sunset…" Harry repeated softly by rote. "W-What does that mean? What was she trying to say? What is she-"
"Harry, I-"
Harry blinked and refused to let the sting in his eyes coalesce into tears. He knew what Hermione meant but he didn't want to believe it. "WHY would she say that, Ron?"
"I don't know!" Ron cried, frustrated.
Pain flared on Harry's side, where his wound was, and he gasped. He was cramping. For a moment, all manner of emotion scattered at the overwhelming pain.
"Shit," Ron hissed, summoning a healer. "Harry, just relax…"
Harry grit his teeth against the pain but grabbed the sleeve of Ron's shirt in a tight grip. "She left me, didn't she?" he rasped.
The healers came and began to administer potions and charms on him. The stabbing ache on his side became a dull throb and disappeared with the healer's soothing voice.
"She left me," Harry moaned miserably, the numbing caress of the charm liquefying his thoughts. "Merlin, she left me…"
He could hear Ron whispering "I'm sorry, mate… I tried… I'm sorry…" in the turmoil of his grief.
Questions began to bubble to the surface in an effort to fill the sudden void he seemed to be falling into.
Was she angry at me? Did I do something wrong? Did I not love her enough? Did she not love me? Why did she leave? How could she leave? What did she want from me? What did you want from me, Hermione?
Hazy from spells, he turned to his side-away from Ron, away from the healers, and curled up on his side to close his eyes.
"Harry?"
"Hush," said the healer. "He's medicated. Let him sleep it off. And next time he wakes up, try not to upset him…"
Harry closed his eyes, tuning them out. The questions repeated in his mind, over and over. He had no answers and he was torn between anger, hurt and utter disbelief.
This is a nightmare, is what it is, he thought desperately. I've felt this before. I thought she was dead but she wasn't. Now Ron's telling me she left… well, she hasn't. She couldn't have left. She wouldn't leave me like that. She wouldn't. She wouldn't… Hermione would never do something like that…
Similar thoughts and questions continued to plague him, and it was these feverish musings that rocked him into a drunken slumber.
~~
Harry was nudged awake quite gently by someone small. His eyes heavy with whiskey, he woke instantly when he saw the familiar tennis ball eyes of Dobby.
Bolting off the couch, he almost knocked Dobby over with his legs; never mind that Harry had a headache the size of England. It was dark out and Dobby had come calling without being summoned. He had to have news about Hermione. It was the only reason.
"Did you see her? Did you give her the message? Did she-did she ask about me?" It was official: He became seventeen again when it came to Hermione.
Dobby looked horribly apologetic. "D-Dobby was discovered, Harry Potter, sir. Dobby was commanded to leave by the Mistress of the Dark Club. Dobby would have stayed anyway but they wanted to attack Dobby…"
Harry's heart sank and his headache worsened. Pressing his hand to his eyes, he sighed. "It's alright, Dobby. It isn't your fault. It's my…." He noticed Dobby's overall appearance for the first time. "Are those tea towels you're wearing?"
Mournfully, Dobby wailed and began to bang his head on the coffee table. "Theys took Dobby's clothes! Theys grabbed and pulled and theys took Harry Potter sir's message! Dobby's a great big failure!!!"
Harry had to wrench himself out of his daze to register that Dobby's head banging was far louder than both their heads could take. He scrambled to stop Dobby, promising to give him clothes right now if he just stopped doing that.
Hiccuping and grateful, Dobby did stop and skittered to Harry's side.
Stifling a wince, Harry lumbered through the library and led Dobby to his room where Harry had to dig through his drawers to find any possible throwaways.
There was a time in his life when everything he owned was worth discarding, now he had to look for them in his drawer full of decent clothes.
You've come a long way, Potter, he thought with bitter humor.
He finally found a t-shirt that had a hole through the armpit. It was repairable by his standards, but poor Dobby shook and sobbed so pitifully in his tea towels that Harry handed the shirt over without hesitation.
Dobby gratefully wore the oversized shirt and Harry was compelled to throw in a couple of mismatched socks.
Only after Dobby had gone did Harry realize that his chances of finding Hermione in Gossips had gone to nil, and that his failure, yet again, left him utterly and completely disappointed.
He sat on the edge of his bed, slumping as he stared into nothing. What was he going to do now?
The loud clap of apparition shook him out of his daze and sluggishly, he made his way out of the room and down the stairs. He felt miserable, but he'd swallowed enough disappointment to know how to get on with life when all he wanted to do was lock himself in a bathroom and drown himself.
He found Ron and Charlie in the living room looking quite filthy. They smelled like it, too. Like they had crawled through sewage.
Harry fanned his hand over his face. "I'm not going to sugarcoat this. You stink. Like hell you stink."
Charlie laughed, slapping a hand to Harry's chest on the way to the kitchen.
The blow was considerable. Charlie was no wilting flower, and the dirty handprint he left on Harry's shirt smelled of something else entirely.
Ron grinned at the disgusted look on Harry's face and patted his bespectacled friend's shoulder as he followed after his brother.
The handprint Ron left didn't smell all that good, either.
"Where'd you two come from?" Harry asked. "Weren't you two supposed to be feeding dragons today, or something?"
Ron, when not fighting Death Eaters, had taken employment with Charlie, caring for dragons. While Charlie was still based in Romania, a new habitat in the highlands of Scotland made it possible for London-based blokes like Ron to keep a career in dragon keeping.
Never, in Harry's wildest musings, did he ever envision Ron would be a dragon keeper. Ron didn't like beasts in the first place, but Harry supposed many things changed in such uncertain times. Ron certainly couldn't think about pursuing a Quidditch career, not with the way he had been so involved in the war. It was surprising that he was able to keep a job at all.
Harry was in an odd job himself, though many thought it was everything he wanted. He had, after Hermione left, spent the next two years going through books of N.E.W.T.s level subject matter. It was partly for the horcruxes, partly for his own sanity, and partly for his obsession to find her. At the end of two years, Tonks convinced him to try taking the necessary exams to pursue a career as an auror. Though Harry might have preferred trying for a Quidditch career himself, Tonks mentioned that being an auror would give him access to many resources that he would be able to use (and abuse, if he so desired) in his more "personal quests." Becoming an auror was a means to an end, and he had to admit that it gave him credibility in the Order.
Harry took Tonks's advice, qualified for N.E.W.T.s, applied for the auror training program and found that he was quite good at it. Actually, he seemed to be better than average. So now, three years after Tonks first put the notion in his head, he was a highly competent auror. He would have much preferred to be a seeker for Puddlemere United, but as Hermione once said, "Well, we don't always get what we want, do we?"
"We were feeding dragons," said Ron, opening the chiller to pull out cold muggle softdrinks. "But one of the newly hatched Peruvian Vipertooths wandered out of his nest and nearly drowned himself in a bog. Had to rope him out ourselves, and the bog water… well, it's no blue lagoon."
Harry took a seat around the kitchen table. "D'you run by Hogwarts today?"
"Yep. They still need a Quidditch instructor," said Ron, pulling the tab off his soda can.
Harry shook his head. "It's beyond me how McGonagall expects me to keep a part-time job like that while she very well knows how the Auror Department has me jumping through hoops seventy hours a week."
Charlie shrugged, taking the seat across from Harry. "You know how she is about school. It's her thing."
Harry grinned. "It ought to be. She's the Hogwarts Headmistress. But honestly, what's the big deal? Does she think I need extra galleons, or something? Sure, aurors don't get much-"
Ron barked a sardonic laugh. "That's a huge understatement, lad."
Harry ignored him and went on, "But it's not like I'd ever run out of money…"
Which was true. Harry had enough good investments from his massive inheritance to give him a steady income and it wasn't as if he was some kind of swinging bachelor. He indulged himself every once in a while with a nice pair of shoes, and sometimes, he shelled out a bit more money to informants and the like, but apart from that, he didn't live an extravagant lifestyle. Not by any stretch of the imagination.
Ron shrugged. "You know what I think? She just doesn't want to say it, but it'll do the school loads of good if the Boy Who Lived was teaching in it."
Harry frowned. "Bite your tongue."
"I'm just saying."
"You take the job, then. When you think about it, it's a practical choice for you. Your first job's in Scotland and all you really have to do is drop by Hogwarts twice a week for a couple of hours."
"I have no problem taking this second job, but I have to get asked, first, don't you think?"
"Sod asking. Take the initiative and apply."
"I don't think Ron's good enough on a broom to be a Quidditch instructor," Charlie said.
Ron frowned. "Well, who needs Malfoy when I've got such loving, supportive brothers like Charlie, over here?"
Charlie sighed. "I'm just telling the truth, Ron. Would Malfoy tell you the truth?"
Right on cue, Draco pranced into the kitchen and headed straight for one of the cabinets, never losing stride as he spoke. "All the time! Observe: Your hair's too red. Your noses are too long. You both smell like dragon poo. And best of all, you both have faces only a Hungarian Horntail would love-to eat, that is." He reemerged with a take-away box labeled "Draco's". "Ah, my éclair and no one else's, because I paid for it and it's mine."
Draco smirked and left the room triumphantly.
Charlie sighed. "Remind me never to ask the truth from Malfoy again."
Ron scowled. "The truth can't ever be as awful as Malfoy."
Harry thought it could've been worse. Draco could have stayed and regaled Ron and Charlie of tales about Harry's latest failed attempts at finding Hermione. Right now, he didn't want to think about the colossal implications of this latest dead end.
"He has a point, though," said Harry. "Lots of shower rooms in Grimmauld Place begging to be used, especially right now."
"Fine. I get it," said Charlie, making his way out of the kitchen.
As Charlie left, Ron took his time enjoying his drink, not the least bit bothered by his filth. "Harry, I spoke to Ginny today and… you know what? I think she's happy."
Harry pretended to gasp and gush. "No! You don't say? Terrible. Just terrible!"
Ron shot him a wry grimace. "Yeah, yeah. Old news… or so I've heard."
"Ginny and Dean have been happy for ages. You're the only one who hasn't accepted it, mostly because you've got this strange idea that Ginny and I should be dating…"
"Oy, it's not that far-fetched. You came up with the idea first, as a matter of fact."
Harry chuckled. "Yes, I did, didn't I? And I suppose it doesn't matter in the least that I'm the one who ended it."
Ron shrugged. "It doesn't. Anyway, I just really thought a second try would suit you both. It's not like you and she broke up in bad terms. It was more like a mutual parting of ways, and she seemed to work out her issues about you and Hermione getting together back then. I think she only really took it against Hermione. Never you, you know? But she worked it out with Hermione, too, so it's absolutely a non-issue."
Harry stifled the twinge of pain at the mention of him and Hermione. "Well, of course she would work it out with Hermione. Issues like that seemed silly after what happened to Hermione, you know. But what I couldn't understand is… why would you want to saddle your sister with someone carrying so much emotional baggage?"
"I wasn't thinking of it that way. I was thinking you needed someone who could help you let go of the baggage. I was thinking you needed someone like Ginny."
It only became clear to Harry, then. "There's only one person who can get me to let it go. You should know that."
Ron shrugged a shoulder. "She's not here, is she?"
Harry could very well hate Ron for saying it, but he didn't. "If that means anything to me at all, I would have stopped searching a long time ago."
Ron gave a barely discernable sigh. "How's the last lead going?"
Harry should've known he couldn't avoid the subject for very long. "Dying. They found Dobby out and threw him out of the club. They took his clothes and everything he had on him. The poor elf came reporting to me in tea towels."
Ron looked truly sympathetic. "I'm sorry, mate. It was a good lead."
"Close… seemed so close. Allan saw her. He irrevocably, undeniably, most assuredly saw her." Harry felt the situation sinking in and the disappointment pierced his heart. "She was in London and I didn't know it… how can she be that close without my knowing it?"
"How could you have known? Where were you three weeks ago?"
"Canterbury," said Harry. "I was investigating an abandoned Death Eater hideaway."
"There was absolutely no way you could've known."
Harry sighed, slumping miserably in his seat. "It could be the last time she'll ever be in London, Ron. And to make matters worse, I blew my chance at speaking to Yasmin about the war. The more I think about it, the more I realized that if I could've made that part of the plan work, so many lives can be saved… I should've risked staking out Gossips. I mean, maybe-"
"If you staked-out Gossips, your chances of finding Hermione would have been worse," said Ron sternly. "They know you in the vamp-circuit, Harry. If you hung out in Gossips, word would get around, and there's no telling what kind of opportunities you would have missed because everyone knew you were there. Dobby was your best chance, but it's not entirely over, is it? You can still find out if she's in London."
Harry shrugged. "Don't think I haven't asked Henry about it in the last two weeks. He's clammed up. I threatened him once with Andrew White's daughter, but that threat isn't going to work again."
"Well, doesn't that mean Henry's hiding the fact that Hermione's still in London?"
"It doesn't mean anything. Henry could pretend he knows something just as well as he could pretend he knows nothing. As agreeable as Henry seems, he's still a vampire. He does what he thinks suits him."
"So you have nowhere else to go from here?"
Harry didn't quite want to accept it just yet, but what else was there for him to do? He had an urge to go to Gossips and beat information out of the owner, but even on Harry's worse day, he hadn't quite crossed that blurred line, yet. He had been lucky as an Auror. As of yet, he didn't have to make ambiguous decisions, but on days like this, he couldn't help but wonder if he might have gotten just a bit further if he had-say-planted a tracking charm on Allan in the off-chance that he'd run into Hermione again, or tapped into Allan's mobile phone records so Harry could trace the call to the dispatcher, hence gain access to an even better means of finding Hermione. Of course, both methods could have seriously put Allan in danger with his bosses, or the coven's vampires, but the risk, and perhaps the guilt if Allan came to harm, would have to be a price Harry was willing to pay. He hadn't found himself willing. Not yet. Sometimes he thought it was only a matter of time.
"I'm still desperately trying to find a way to revive the lead," said Harry. "She was in London if she isn't still here. Surely it wasn't just Allan who saw her, and among the dozens who did, there's another one willing to give me this information. I confirmed the existence of a couple of dead blokes two weeks ago… what was left of them, at least. A head and an arm, from two different people. The head belonged to a werewolf and the arm was human-wizard. It had a tattoo of the Dark Mark."
"Of course it would," said Ron dryly.
"The bodies gave a lot of credibility to Henry's theories about why Hermione and Yasmin may still be in London. If Allan was willing to talk to me about Hermione, then there's another bloke out there willing to do the same. I just have to find him…" It sounded impossible, of course. Short of distributing fliers, he honestly didn't know how he was going to manage it.
"In the meantime?"
"In the meantime… life goes on, I suppose."
"Hey, it happens when you're making plans!"
Harry didn't feel as enthused. "Right." He rose from his seat to head back to the library. "You, my friend, are in desperate need of a bath. Give it a try. You might like it."
Ron shrugged. "I might. Are you going to drink tonight?"
"Done it. I don't think I need to do it again." Harry was just about to leave the kitchen when Ron called his attention. Harry looked at him over his shoulder.
"I don't know whether I should keep your spirits up or whether I should tell you to let it go," Ron said, "but whatever it is, Harry… I hope it works out."
It was times like these Harry understood why Ron was his best friend. "Thanks."
Ron waved him off and proceeded to finish his drink.
Harry left without the slightest clue about what to do next.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Harry must have dozed off on his desk, because next thing he knew, Tonks was nudging him awake none too gently.
He found his arm buckling from the weight of his head and his forehead came crashing down to the surface of the table. It was all quite painful. A very rude awakening, but it was still somewhat embarrassing to be caught sleeping at work.
"What did I tell you, Harry?" Tonks asked him sternly as he tried to blink himself back to consciousness.
As he took account of the time (10:30 pm), where he was (at work, taking his usual night shift) and why he was so goddamn tired (stayed up all day the previous day threatening/convincing his informants to tell him anything that might help him revive his dying lead), he tried to answer Tonks's question. "Erm… stop giving Crookshanks cookies because he's gotten too fat?"
Tonks frowned. "Okay, I did tell you that, but that's not what I mean right now. You were up all day again, weren't you?"
"Not on purpose. I swear," he replied in sleep-ridden tones. Blimey, I must've really been out of it. "I'm usually better at sleep-deprivation than this. Someone must've done something to the coffee. I need the good stuff…"
"The coffee's fine. You haven't slept in days, is what. You're Harry bloody Potter, not Superperson!"
Harry smirked. "It's a bit difficult to be a politically correct caped crusader, Tonks, but even Superperson has a weakness."
"Oh, you know what I mean. I'm going straight home. You're coming with me. I'll explain everything to Shacklebolt and frankly, he wouldn't mind kicking your arse out in the curb. The last thing he wants is an auror who couldn't stay awake during a Death Eater raid."
Harry was instantly awake. He couldn't go home! He had things to do! "I promise, I'm fine, Tonks. I just took a power nap, is all."
Tonks sighed and pulled up a chair beside Harry's. "I'm not your mother, and I'm not Molly. I try to keep out of your business because you're a grown man and Remus told me to leave you alone. But goodness knows… that testosterone infested house of yours will drive you into some idiotic manly limbo and you'll never be able to get your head out of your arse ever again."
"That sounds like an awful place, Tonks."
"I'm serious. I know boys can't be all touchy-feely and that 'talking' means having a bottle of whiskey between you until you're both too dead pissed to get into the important things, but I'm just going to pretend I don't know that and just this once-heaven forbid-I'm going to stick my girlie little nose into your business. You can't keep doing this to yourself, Harry. Even a machine can't keep going without eventually loosening a few screws. Understand?"
Harry always knew having Tonks get maternal on him would give him a headache. He bent over, elbows to knees, and began to massage his temples between his fingers. "I'm afraid it's a little too late to save my screws, Tonks."
"Do I have to hex you to get you to bed?"
"You know I love you, Tonks, but don't. Remus would never forgive us, and you know how testy he is on a full moon."
Tonks frowned, not the least bit amused by his wisecracking. "You need sleep. And I think you need to take a few days off and not think about things. You're a disaster waiting to happen!"
"Last time someone told me that, Hermione walked out of divinations…"
Tonks crossed her arms over her chest. "Fine. If you get another auror killed because your faculties are liquefied right now, don't come crying to me. I won't be your therapist."
Harry sighed and closed his eyes, head between his hands. Tonks had a point. He was about as useful as a rookie auror right now and nobody deserved to get killed because he was being an idiot, but he could be up and about with massive doses of caffeine in about an hour or so. He was good at this sort of thing. Sleep was a luxury he couldn't quite afford. He could just tell Tonks what she wanted to hear and he'd do as he pleased, as usual. "Fine. I'll take the night off. And please don't spike my tea later. I can't have you drugging me to sleep for three days. Are we agreed on this?"
Tonks smirked. "Absolutely. Close shop, Potter. I'll wait for you in the reception area."
"Escorting me home, are you?"
"I'm agreeable, Harry, not stupid," she said as she left.
So maybe he couldn't con Tonks. Perhaps he did need to get some rest.
Nodding, he began to put away his papers.
The night shift in the auror department was as alive as the department was during the day. Many of the Death Eaters' most covert operations happened at night anyway and it was Harry's favorite thing to bust in on them while they blissfully thought they were safe under the cloak of darkness. Of course, it has been common of late that one out of ten Death Eater raids had a vampire with them, five out of ten with werewolves.
The vamps usually got away, if a bit burnt from a cleverly thrown patronus, but half-a-dozen times, Harry had slain a vampire with his bare hands. There was no avada kedavra-ing vampires. Crucio only turned them on and cutting charms sort of gave them something to giggle about. A patronus was most handy, yes, but no matter how many times a wizard has been in battle, it was still difficult to cast a patronus when one was surrounded by death, destruction and dementors. And besides, patronuses couldn't kill vampires. It only drove them away. To kill a vampire, one had to cut off its head, drive a stake right through its heart, entrap it on holy grounds or expose the creature to sunlight. The sunlight was a tad inaccessible in the dead of night, so in lieu of that, fire could do the job. Harry was very adept at fire spells, and thanks to Hermione's (legendary) notes, aurors could carry around explosive bluebell fires in tiny vials which they could throw at a vampire to set it on fire, however, when engulfed in flames, vampires didn't exactly sit their asses down to die. They sort of ran around, flailing, presumably to take everybody else down with them. They could even put out their own flames if they managed to cast a proper extinguishing incantation, or if they happened to have a wizard to douse the magical fire. Because of this, Harry favored heart-staking. He'd driven stakes through fanged buggers-through sheer will of survival, Harry often said-usually while they were awake and fighting. Of course, Harry made it a habit to take off their heads after that just to make sure, but technically, the stakes were enough.
Taking off a live vampire's head was not easy. Apart from having to learn how to wield a sword with competence, one had to be fast enough to actually take that blade to a vampire's neck. Harry could use a sword. He had to learn it as part of his auror training, but if one needed a sword to kill a vampire that couldn't be managed with a stake… well, that was just suicide. A sword-wielding vampire was death on steroids. Harry knew he wouldn't stand a chance against a vamp that knew how to use a sword, so in such cases, he employed fire and a patronus then ran. Of course, that had only happened once.
There was a vamp who introduced herself as Tanya. She said, "I've heard many things about you, Harry Potter. When a human has six dead vampires under his belt, word gets around, so won't I be popular if I killed you?" She had brought out a sword and her form was quite excellent. The bitch knew how to use it. Harry hadn't even given it a thought. His exact words were, "Oh, bugger," just before he threw a bluebell fire and then the patronus. Harry disapparated even before he could hear her agonized screams. He wasn't a coward, but neither was he stupid.
It was the reason he didn't often carry a sword. There were certain missions that he would arm himself with his blade, but every time he did, he always prayed he didn't have to be forced to use it against a vampire, because that would mean he was desperate, and when vampires had something to do with that desperation, that meant he was fucked. Contrary to what Draco thought, getting fucked by a vampire did not always mean one was happily getting laid.
Harry had more grace defending himself against werewolves. He had a lot of silver weapons on him, even his sword was silver alloy, but one could kill a werewolf from a distance. Silver-tipped arrows were excellent for fighting werewolves, and Harry was not ashamed to employ the shoot-now-hand-to-hand-combat-later method. He had a handy cross-bow for that express purpose. It was retractable and could be strapped to his hip. Very portable. Forget guns with silver bullets. Guns went haywire when exposed to and surrounded by too much magic. Mad-Eye Moody shot off his wooden leg when they tried to bring guns in for show-and-tell in one of the major Order meetings. Sometimes, when Harry and a few other Order members had to escort Remus into werewolf haunts, they carried a gun or two, usually spelled to withstand magic messing with it, but that rendered the guns useless after two reloads, so yes, Harry knew how to use a gun, but he carried one even a lot less than he carried a sword. Ron didn't like them either. He thought muggles were crazy for inventing them.
Harry was just shutting his file cabinets when Seamus Finnigan, his partner, reappeared with two cups of coffee.
Seamus chuckled when he saw Harry putting away his things. His blonde hair, blue eyes and Irish drawl was the delight of many a hapless damsel. Of course, his commitment-phobia had long been exposed to the female populace of the auror department, and perhaps to most of the Ministry, too, but there was always a naïve young thing out there willing to get conned by the roguishly gorgeous Irishman.
"Thought it might only be a matter of time before Tonks found you and sent you home, Potter," Seamus said, settling himself on the desk connected to Harry's. Like most auror partners, they had their desks set face to face on the department floor. But where Harry's desk was relatively immaculate, Seamus's desk was piled with scrolls, parchment and various other unidentifiable substances.
"She thinks I might get you and a few other aurors killed if I went out on the field like this."
"Well, you've saved my arse enough times out there for me to sit here and say, 'She's crazy!' and mean it, but I'm guessing that wouldn't help much."
Harry cocked a grin. Even with Seamus's ruined reputation with the ladies, Harry always thought Seamus a dependable partner. The years had turned Seamus into an astonishingly responsible man and really, the only thing Harry didn't trust Seamus with was women. "I reckon not, but thanks. Appreciate it. Think you can manage without me until tomorrow?"
"I'll try."
"See you, Finnigan."
"See you. And get some sleep, for God's sake."
Harry chuckled and was just pulling away from his desk when the mail-trolley rolled by their desks with Ivan, the mailroom guy, pushing it along.
"Harry Potter?" Ivan said, his Russian accent as thick as ever. He was a man in his forties, about Harry's height and of a medium build. His curly brown hair was cut neatly in a crop and he was always immaculately dressed.
The guy had been delivering Harry's mail for months. Harry had even invited Ivan to drink with him, Seamus and Ron once. The guy had loosened up a bit with good vodka, regaling them with tales of "Elizabetha". They didn't even know if the woman existed, but she sounded a little bit too fantastic and Ivan never mentioned her again. Not when he was sober, at least. Harry thought Ivan would warm up to them after that, but Ivan went back to his detached, half-batty self at work. And he still did the roll call.
Exchanging looks with Seamus, Harry gave Ivan a casual wave. "Yes?"
"You have mail. I give." Ivan held the sealed envelope up in the air like a wand.
"Sure, Ivan. Thanks." Harry gestured for it.
Ivan narrowed his gaze at Harry and pointed the envelope at him rather fiercely. "You listen, Harry Potter. You read this now. Oolaavlivaats?"
Harry's eyebrow arched in surprise. "Now? As in right this minute? This second?"
Seamus chuckled.
Ivan was not as amused. "You read! I get attacked by creature this night, after I leave flat. Creature gave me this to give to you. So you read now or I hex you. I promise you, Harry Potter!"
It took another heartbeat for Ivan's words to register. "Whoa, hey! You got attacked? Ivan, did you report this to the Hit Wizards?"
"No Hit Wizards! It kill me if I go to them!"
Seamus came up behind Ivan, hands up in a calming gesture. "Calm down, Ivan. Have a seat. Take deep breaths-"
Ivan shook him off. "I just give message. That all! I give to Harry Potter and make sure he read now. No report. No nothing. Want nothing more to do with this. What you say… I just work here!"
Only then did it occur to Harry that something had happened to Ivan and that it was because someone had tasked the poor guy to deliver a message to him.
Did Ivan say he was attacked by a CREATURE?
Harry hesitated. "Ivan, did you say it was a crea-"
"Vieszcy!" Ivan shrieked.
"What?"
Ivan made a sound of frustration. "It come with dark. With-" he seemed to grope for a word "-sharp teeth. Vieszcy!"
Vieszcy… holy hell, that's Russian for Vampire.
Harry found his senses and grabbed the envelope from Ivan's hand. He looked at the seal. It was of a naked woman with wings and a sphere floating above her.
The letter was from the Coven.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
A/N: Thanks to Paula Danziger (who doesn't know me) for the names Mary Lee and Frank Lee. Now, do you REALLY, REALLY wish Harry would find Hermione? Good. Imagine how Harry feels about it, five years going. Now that I'm sure I've deviously gotten you to feel how absent Hermione is and identify with Harry (laughs apologetically), we can get to the Harry and Hermione reunion.
The Café de Paris is supposed to be a really hot nightclub in London. I'd have used Studio 54, but the seventies are over…
See, I told you I do this because I love you.