A/N: Hello, my beauties! I'm so excited you're here :D Let me give you the lay of the land...

– Synopsis –

If Harry Potter, Penny Dreadful, True Blood, The Mummy, and Discovery of Witches had an orgy that somehow produced one very confused offspring, this would be their story.

– Pairings –

Tomione and a bunch of others, including, but not limited to, slash and femslash.

– Trigger Warnings –

Please avoid consumption if you are allergic to any of the following:
horror, violence, smut, violent smut, smutty violence (not to be confused with non-con, dub-con, or comic-con, all of which are also included. Wait.) sketchy Google translations, heavy reliance on Google maps, fast and loose historical facts, characters dropping their weapons and running upstairs when they should go out the gd front door (pls be nice to the characters they work so hard but do not pet them they will bite), gratuitous descriptions of washboard abs, and/or cliché literary quotes.

But fear not! No animals were harmed in the making of this fic. I only butcher people. Lots and lots of people. And then I write Harry Potter fanfiction.

Confused? Me, too! Now let's have some fun.

"Once again… welcome to my house. Come freely. Go safely; and leave something of the happiness you bring."

~ Bram Stoker, Dracula

. . .

New York City, 1925

Harry gripped the handrail with all his might as his life flashed before his eyes.

The cab made another tight turn, narrowly missing a head-on collision with an oncoming vehicle in the neighboring lane.

The driver turned the wheel once more, weaving past a pedestrian stepping off the curb.

"Get out of the street, you goddamn hobo!"

He pressed the horn manically for several seconds before making another tight turn and glancing into the rearview mirror.

"Sorry, kid. You gotta be direct with the vermin out here. They'd lie in the middle of the road if they could fit between the bumpers."

Harry released the overhead bar and glanced to his other hand.

Only to cringe.

The letter was clenched in his fist, the paper tightly balled. He loosened his hold and carefully smoothed the sheet over his thigh, mourning the smudged ink from the sweat of his palm.

He shook his head, chest tight, despite the fact he'd read the missive over a hundred times and already memorized every word.

A sea of red tail lights illuminated the opposite end of the street, traffic at a standstill. The driver smacked the dashboard, slamming on the breaks with a colorful curse.

The tires released a deafening screech, the acrid odor of burnt rubber filling the backseat and turning Harry's pounding headache into a skull-splitting migraine.

He folded the letter along its worn seams and tucked it into his back pocket, glancing up to find the driver once again watching him in the mirror.

"This your first visit?"

Harry began to roll the window down, feeling more claustrophobic than ever. "I grew up in Sunset Park."

The driver laughed, tapping his thumbs on the top of the steering wheel. "No shit? A Brooklyn boy." He arched a brow, eyes skimming lower. "You get that tan on vacation?"

"Not exactly."

The man nodded, glancing through the windshield. "Strong silent type. I get it. You're paying for the ride, not the small talk."

"I don't mean to be rude. I just got off a three-day train ride and can barely keep my eyes open, little less follow a conversation."

"Three days? Christ. You come from California or something?"

Harry dragged a hand over his face, wiping away sweat courtesy of the oppressive summer heat. "Los Angeles."

"Los Angeles." The driver enunciated each syllable as though speaking a foreign language for the first time. "You an actor?"

Harry couldn't contain his bark of laughter. "Not in the slightest." His expression rapidly sobered, head falling back against the top of the seat. "I was a boxer."

"Wow. Impressive." The driver's gaze flickered back to the mirror. "That how you get the scar?"

Harry set his jaw, staring at the domed ceiling.

"No."

It came out more guttural than intended. The driver straightened, gripping the wheel tighter and falling blissfully silent.

The light finally turned green ahead, brake lights slowly dissipating as the traffic crawled forward. The driver switched the blinker on but before he could turn the wheel a steady gallop sounded beside them.

"Look at this moron!"

Harry closed his eyes as the man gestured wildly.

"Dumbest shit I've ever seen! People still using an animal over an automobile. Astounds me."

He shook his head, finally pulling into the neighboring lane and trailing the horse and buggy.

"They got many checker cabs in Los Angeles? I'm getting tired of this shit. Could use some palm trees and warm ocean breezes in my life."

Harry's eyes snapped open. He shifted forward, ready to crawl through the window. "You can drop me off on the corner."

The driver blinked. "We're still fifteen blocks–"

"I'll walk. I need to stretch my legs."

The man shrugged, turning on the blinker once more. "It's your knees."

He pulled along the curb, changing gears and then checking the ledger on the center console. "A dollar sixty-six."

Harry fished two bills from his duffel, handing them over the seat. "Keep the change."

"Hey, thanks, kid."

He scrambled out of the backseat so quickly he nearly forgot to take his bag, adjusting the strap over his shoulder as he peered up at the tightly packed buildings stretching endlessly in either direction.

The cab started to pull away.

"And welcome to Queens!"

The driver saluted him through the window, tossing his head back with a boisterous laugh and nearly colliding with a yellow cab. Both drivers honked, shouting through the windows at each other.

Harry shook his head and turned, making his way up the sidewalk, the letter burning a hole through his pocket with every step.

. . .

He inhaled the warm summer air, filling his lungs with the sweet scent of flowering bushes and expelling the last remnants of smoke exhaust.

The street was quiet, the narrow sidewalk barren of the youthful chalk art he was used to seeing. An elderly man watered his lawn up ahead, carefully watching Harry's slow progression. Harry tipped his head in greeting but the man gave no acknowledgment.

Something in the air felt charged, alive, dangerous. He glanced over his shoulder on instinct, a swelling presence at his back, but saw only a stretch of tightly clustered homes. The same street he'd walked countless times before, but somehow not.

Somehow different.

Tainted.

His hand clenched at his side as he stepped off the sidewalk and onto the street, glancing quickly in either direction before making a quick sprint to the other side, bag bouncing heavily off his side.

He stopped before the white picket fence, swallowing nervously as he gazed ahead at the lopsided structure beyond. His heart skipped a beat as he pushed the gate open, stepping onto the pale stone path leading to the porch.

The curtains were drawn in every window, the riotous noise he'd grown so accustomed to over the years entirely absent. All he could hear was his own thundering heartbeat and the distant spray of the hose.

He stopped before the door and raised a hand, fist hovering over the wood, limbs solidifying to stone.

He closed his eyes, inhaling once more and bringing the side of his palm down in three hard strikes before he could think better of it.

There was a muffled thud from inside, followed by faint shuffling and finally footsteps.

His pulse spiked higher, anticipation building, feet and shoulders braced as he unconsciously slipped into a defensive stance.

The door opened.

A familiar face appeared, outlined by the darkness of the hallway beyond.

"Harry."

His hand curled tighter, even as his shoulders relaxed.

"Ron."

A tense beat.

And then his friend surged forward, embracing him tightly.

Harry went stiff in his hold, silently cursing himself before forcing his posture to ease, slowly embracing the man in turn.

After several lingering seconds, Ron started to pull back.

"Fuck. It's good to–" His eyes widened. "Your face."

Harry smirked, dropping his arms and glancing away. "Good to see you, too."

Ron stepped back, eyes fastened to the line of raised flesh stretching from Harry's dark hairline to the top of his cheekbone, bisecting his brow at the center.

"What happened?"

Harry idly traced the scar. "What, this old thing?"

"Seriously, Harry. Were you in a car accident or something? Why didn't you tell us?"

"It was nothing that serious, Ron. It looks far worse than it is. I forget it's there until people see fit to remind me."

His friend's jaw worked silently for several moments, as though milling over how far to push the matter. Harry felt his spine ease as he saw the familiar gleam in the man's blue eyes, his visage morphing from acute concern to mischief in the space of a beat.

"Makes you look dangerous." The corner of his lips quirked. "Women like dangerous. You're guaranteed to get laid whenever you want."

Harry adjusted the strap on his shoulder. "That was my first thought as well."

Ron's gaze darted to the duffle and back again. "I wasn't expecting you this early."

"I came straight from the station."

"You could have gotten settled first."

Harry shook his head. "This is more important."

Ron held his gaze for another moment before wrapping a hand around the edge of the door and stepping back.

"Come on in. I'll put on a pot. You look like shit."

Harry's face split across the center, grin stretching from end to end. "I was afraid you wouldn't recognize me otherwise."

Ron tipped his head back, rolling laughter trailing him down the hallway as he led the way to the heart of the Burrow.

Harry followed slowly, distracted by the family portraits lining either wall. Freckled faces smiled back at him, eternally trapped in varying stages of childhood and awkward adolescence.

"Molly home?"

Ron turned the corner. "No. She's with her Church group. They do a prayer circle every afternoon and then hand out missing flyers."

Harry rounded the corner behind him, stepping onto the cracked linoleum and emerging into the small, brightly lit kitchen.

"How is she doing with all this?"

Ron reached for two mugs sitting on the open shelf above the stove. "She's holding it together."

"After Bill, I thought–"

Ron slammed the ceramic on the countertop. "This is nothing like Bill." He turned his head, pinning Harry with a defiant stare. "Nothing."

Harry wet his lips. "Of course not, I just meant–"

"Gin's still alive." Ron faced forward, reaching for the metal canister beside the ice box. "She isn't dead, Harry. That's the entire fucking reason I asked you here."

He unscrewed the lid and reached into the opening, grabbing the wooden scoop.

"We just need to find her."

Harry watched him shovel loose grounds onto the drip paper, the slight tremor in his hand nearly imperceptible.

He glanced away, making his way to the small table pushed against the opposite wall.

"How long has she been missing?"

"Two weeks today."

Harry blinked, dropping his bag to the floor. "Why didn't you contact me sooner?"

Ron screwed the lid back into place with force. "I wrote you the day after we found her room empty. I knew something was wrong even then." He glanced over his shoulder. "When I didn't get a response I rang the motel. They said you checked out a month prior without leaving a forwarding address."

Harry collapsed into the chair, the air deflating from his lungs in a powerful rush.

"I'm sorry, I–"

"That doesn't matter." Ron slid the canister back. "Remus helped me track you down. And now you're here."

He made his way to the sink, shoulders stiff and eyes hard. Harry's intestines twisted like a swarm of eels. He raised his hand and gripped the back of his shoulder, pressing his fingertips against the long-healed wound.

"What do you think happened?"

Ron turned the faucet on, holding the pot beneath the emerging stream. "She was taken."

Harry's hand dropped. "Taken? You mean kidnapped?"

"What else do you call it when a girl is stolen out of her room at night?"

He raised a dark brow. "Are you sure she didn't sneak out?"

Ron's spine turned rigid.

"Yes."

"I'm not saying she wasn't taken off the street somewhere else, but maybe she left the Burrow voluntarily–"

"She hasn't had reason to sneak out since you skipped town."

Harry leaned back, winded by the force of the blow.

"Ron–"

"This isn't about you and her. This is about Gin." He turned off the sink. "About finding out what happened."

Harry leaned forward, gripping the worn edge of the table. "I want to help. But surely the police can do more than either of us."

Ron shook his head, jamming the pot onto the base of the percolator. "The police won't do shit. I told you in my letter. Her missing person's file is at the bottom of a two-foot stack."

"Because she's not a minor?"

"That, and she's one of a dozen missing people this month."

Harry pressed back into the chair. "Sounds pretty low for New York."

"This is different."

His heartbeat swelled as Ron turned to face him, eyes raging like the turbulent sea.

"The people disappearing aren't the kind to go missing. Young men and women from respectable families, people with influence and power." Acid dripped from his tongue, corroding the already peeling plastic floor. "And of course, they get top priority with the detectives."

Harry watched him flick the coffee maker on, trying to make sense of the madness.

"Are they being ransomed?"

"Nothing that's been publicized." Ron turned once more, leaning against the sink and folding his arms across his chest. "No one knows what the hell is going on. According to Percy, the Governor is trying to issue a citywide curfew."

Harry released a humorless laugh. "That'll never pass."

"No shit." Ron carded a hand through his hair, shoulders tight. "The bottom line is, Ginny's from a poor family in Queens. She's low on the list. The police haven't even been to the house to search her bedroom. They told us she probably skipped town with some guy, despite the fact she took nothing with her, not even her purse."

Harry could hear his friend's teeth grinding from across the room.

"We've been doing all the work ourselves. Charlie got home last week and is crashing with Fred and George. They took as much time off work as they could, but now they can only go out after their shift ends."

He scrubbed a hand over his face. The water began dripping into the pot like the ticking of a clock.

"Which means if by some dark fate the curfew does manage to pass, we're royally fucked. There'll be hardly any opportunity to search."

Harry eyed him closely. "What about you? Are you still working?"

"I quit the factory after she disappeared. We all agreed it was for the best. Dad took on extra hours to make up the monthly ledger, and I'm able to search during the day."

He released a deep sigh, tipping his head back and closing his eyes, lines creasing his forehead. "But it's too much ground for me to cover alone. That's why I wrote you." His head snapped forward, eyes bright. "Will you help?"

Harry responded without hesitation or thought. "Of course I will, Ron. I'd do anything for your family, anything for Gin. But–"

He wet his lips, silently cursing himself for the slip.

Ron's gaze narrowed. "Spit it out."

Harry kept his tone measured. "But two weeks is a long time–"

"She isn't dead."

He raised his palms. "I'm not saying she is." He held his friend's lethal glare without offense. "All I'm saying is… I just traveled clear across the country in three days." He lowered his hands, bracing his thighs. "She could be halfway around the world by now."

Ron stood away from the counter. "Then we'll search the entire goddamn globe." He raised his chin. "But we start here."

An electrical current pulsed through the air, raising the fine hairs along their arms.

"We start with New York."

Harry inhaled slowly, waiting until the charged moment dissipated before speaking.

"Alright. I'm with you."

Ron walked the few steps to the table, leaning over and fishing a newspaper from beneath a butter dish.

"Another girl went missing last night."

He slid the paper sideways. Harry leaned in, picking it up and skimming the bold headline, eyes darting to the grainy photo beneath.

"Central Park."

Ron nodded, studying the image from beyond his shoulder. "They recovered her shoe, soaked in blood, but no sign of her or an attacker."

He glanced at Harry. "There was no sign of a struggle in Gin's room either."

Harry set the paper down, choosing his words carefully.

"Ron, Manhattan is bustling with crime. The chances that the two disappearances are connected–"

"It's all we have to go on. And it's the first fresh lead we've had in over a week. The last disappearance was too high profile for us to get close to."

Harry rubbed his brow. "Okay, what do you propose we do then?"

Ron backed away to the counter, watching the coffee pot steadily fill. "The crime scene will be guarded during the day. But it'll be accessible at night."

"The Park will also be closed."

"Since when have you shied away from breaking and entering?"

Harry rolled his eyes. "Just tell me where to meet."

"Merchant's Gate, 2 a.m. That'll give us a few hours to search before it reopens."

"I'll be there."

Ron scanned his face with uncharacteristic astuteness. "You should get some sleep until then. You really do look like shit." He watched as Harry pushed to his feet. "You can crash here."

Harry shook his head, reaching for his bag. "That's alright, I need to see the house. I can't put it off forever." He met his friend's eye, lifting the strap onto his shoulder. "I'll take a raincheck on the coffee. Give Molly my best."

He started for the doorway but faltered when a hand gripped his arm from behind.

His vision faded in and out, every muscle strung taut, ready to pounce, ready to fight.

He sucked in a sharp breath, fighting the urge with every ounce of strength and sanity left over from the arduous journey.

It's Ron.

He closed his eyes, fists trembling.

Just Ron.

He swallowed heavily, forcing his head to the side, meeting Ron's eye over his shoulder.

The man appeared blissfully unaware of the war raging inside his friend's head.

But his expression still looked tense, the distress in his blue gaze pulling Harry free from the heavy fog and back to the present moment.

"You need to tell her you're back."

Harry's body throbbed with the force of his heartbeat. "I will."

"She's been worried out of her mind–"

"I'll pay her a visit next."

Ron's grip tightened. Harry set his jaw.

"I promise."

The hand fell away. Ron stepped back.

"I'm glad you're here."

Harry swallowed heavily, forcing his knees to bend, his feet to unstick.

"So am I." He held his gaze, the air turning dense, hard to breathe. "I just wish it had been under different circumstances."

Ron glanced away, eyes brimming with pain, unable to keep his emotions tamped any longer.

Harry started to leave once more, intent on affording his friend some privacy. "I'll see you tonight."

"Harry."

He stopped at the threshold, bracing the frame and looking back. A cloud passed before the sun, bathing the room in a pool of darkness.

Ron's eyes gleamed from the shadows. "You still have Sirius's gun?"

Harry gripped the wall tighter.

"Yes."

"Good." Ron turned for the sink, offering his back. "Bring it."

. . .

Harry stared at the white street sign for several minutes, studying the letters of Waverly Place with quiet intensity, biding his time while he waited for his courage to surface.

Greenwich Village was far more bustling than Queens had been, and was much more crowded than the last time he set foot in the neighborhood. It seemed more immigrant families had moved in and set up shop over the last two years, a refreshing change considering the state of immigration reform following the war.

Hostilities remained high as debate ran rampant throughout the country, though the issue was less spoken about on the West Coast, where so many people flocked to each year it hardly seemed to matter where they originated from.

But Ellis Harbor once served as the Nation's Golden Gate and was ground zero for political and social unrest. The ramifications of immigration reform could be felt all over the city and seen in every neighborhood Harry traversed by foot, heavily segregated by either Nationality or race.

So he kept his head down, long legs eating up the sidewalk as quickly as possible as he ventured past sprawling mansions and tightly packed ghettos separated by only a few city blocks.

But the moment he stepped into Greenwich his step felt lighter, an invisible weight lifted.

The neighborhood served as a cultural melting pot, filled with a wide variety of housing and storefronts ranging from neoclassical to Avante Garde and exotic.

And Waverly Place was no different, for at its center stood a single-family brownstone that was home to one of the most brilliant and eccentric scholars in the country.

And someone else...

Harry glanced away from the sign at long last, squaring his shoulders and stepping into the street.

Only to leap back onto the sidewalk as a horn blared to life at his side, a checkered cab whizzing past at blurring speeds.

He took a steadying breath, sweeping the fallen bangs off his forehead and trying once more.

The door opened across the street.

He leaped back onto the curb, ducking behind a tree, shaking his head at his own childish stupidity.

He peered through the branches, catching a flash of navy skirt through the leaves. Pedestrians continued to walk in either direction, undeterred by his voyeuristic exploits.

He inhaled slowly, hands opening and closing at his sides as he watched her lock the door. Her hair was tied up and tucked beneath a dove gray cap, face turned away.

She tucked her keys into her pocket and spun around at last.

Harry stood straight, heart thundering as her eyes came into view.

His jaw clenched as she made her way down the steps and onto the sidewalk, moving a leather case to her other hand and slipping seamlessly into foot traffic.

He stood stock still, watching her progress steadily to the end of the street, pausing at the intersection with the rest of the crowd and tucking a loose curl behind her ear.

The traffic stopped.

She crossed.

And then turned the corner.

Disappearing from sight.

He released a hissing breath and closed his eyes, forehead dropping to the rough bark.

"Idiot."

He stood back a moment later, turning around and heading in the opposite direction she had ventured.

On his way to drive the third knife through his heart.

. . .

He once more kept his eyes averted as he entered the gated community, though this time for an entirely different reason.

Gramercy boasted an air of grandeur that Harry had always found unsettling, the exclusive district bedazzled with Italian marble, Greek Revival facades, and high-end, glittering storefronts.

He was quite aware he stood out from the shiny opulence like a sore thumb, still sporting his rumpled travel wear and the ever chaotic mess atop his head.

But he forced his shoulders back, avoiding passing stares as he turned the corner onto Grimmauld Place, silently counting down the numbers in his head as he passed each massive estate by.

Until at last he reached the end of the row.

He stood before the narrow three-story mansion and stared at the ground, unable to look upon it for several moments.

But the air around him buzzed, the wind spinning at his feet in a soft cyclone, blowing stray leaves and debris upward, forcing his chin to lift and his eyes to follow.

Yet all he could see was the black shingled roof and bent chimney stack.

He raised a hand, pulling away dead ivy twisting through the bars of the gate, obscuring most of the property from view.

"Excuse me."

He jolted, turning in place, heart skipping as a black patrol car pulled along the corner, red light flashing.

The officer rolled his window down the rest of the way, eyes narrowed. "Can I help you?"

Harry blinked, looking either way down the sidewalk and spotting residents at both ends, whispering sharply to one another while staring blatantly at their exchange.

His fists clenched.

"No."

The officer sighed, pulling the vehicle to a stop. "This is a private neighborhood, you can't cut through."

Harry fought the urge to drive his boot into the side of the shiny black paneling.

"I'm not passing through. I live here."

The man raised a brow. "That so?"

Harry cursed Grimmauld Place and all its rich, dimwitted inhabitants as the officer switched the engine off, opening his door and stepping out with exaggerated slowness, as though waiting for Harry to bolt.

"Then we have a problem. Because I happen to know for a fact this is the old Black Estate, and the last of them died off nearly three years ago."

Harry lifted his chin, tendons throbbing in his neck. "I'm well aware."

"Let me guess, you're a long lost heir of the family fortune?"

"Something like that."

The man rolled his eyes, stepping onto the sidewalk. "And what's your name?"

"Harry Potter."

He smirked. "Your mother was a Black, I take it?"

Harry's emerald gaze flashed at the mocking lilt.

"My godfather."

"Look, kid. I'm in a generous mood. Move along now and I won't have to take you in."

Harry reared back. "Under what charge?"

"Being a pain in my ass."

He shook his head, stepping forward with the force of his outrage. The Officer drew back, feet spreading in a battle stance Harry recognized well. He watched the man reach towards his holster and red flooded his vision.

"Is there a problem, officer?"

They both blinked. Harry went rigid, recognizing the voice without seeing its owner. The Officer turned his head, though his hand still lingered on the hilt of his weapon.

"Good afternoon, Mr. Slughorn."

Footsteps sounded across the street at Harry's back. The cop shook his head, raising a staying hand.

"Please, Sir, don't–"

"You've met young Mr. Potter, I see."

The officer's eyes darted between them.

The footsteps stopped at Harry's side, and then hands seized his arm in a vice, spinning him in place.

"Harry, look at you, so much taller than I remember!"

The newcomer gripped his other arm, squeezing hard enough to bruise. Harry fought the urge to pull away, nerves severely strained from the previous encounter.

"And wider, too! Were you wrestling sharks during your California adventure?"

The Officer shifted. "You know this man, Mr. Slughorn?"

Horace glanced sideways, laughing buoyantly. "Of course! This is Harry Potter. I've known him since he was a wee tyke."

The Officer glanced between them once more, looking unconvinced. "He claims to live here."

"Then he's returned home! I dare say a celebration is in order."

Harry couldn't help but smirk, at last addressing the man holding him captive.

"It's good to see you, Horace."

Horace beamed from his short height, eyes fixed to Harry's thin scar, and then the officer drew their attention, clearing his throat as he backed away to the curb.

"My apologies, Mr. Potter." He tipped his head. "Can never be too careful. You understand."

Harry arched a dark brow, pulling free of Horace's grip and pinning the man with the full intensity of his gaze.

"Certainly." He smiled, teeth gleaming in the sunlight. "With all the missing person cases piling up at your office, you must be under a lot of scrutiny."

The man blinked, color heightening. He stepped forward again, inhaling sharply as though to speak–

Horace moved between them, hands resting atop his stomach.

"Thank you, Officer Collins, for endeavoring to keep our neighborhood safe as always."

They continued to watch each other above the elderly man's head, eyes unblinking. But after several seconds the Officer relented, returning to his vehicle in silence and pulling away without further comment.

Harry watched the car round the corner and turned, the cluster of neighbors scattering in every direction from their watchful posts.

"Thanks, Horace."

The man smiled, patting him on the back. "Collins is a well-meaning nuisance, I assure you. And to his credit, you do look as though you swam free of Alcatraz and walked the entire way here."

Harry rubbed the back of his neck. "Feels like it, too."

"Are you home for good?"

He swallowed heavily, peering at the house through the gaps in the overgrown foliage.

"I came to search for Ginny."

Horace shifted at his side. "Oh, dear. Such devastating news. Such a beautiful girl."

Harry glanced at him sharply, Ron's stricken face taking root in his mind. "We don't know she's dead."

His neighbor's grey brows furrowed. "Of course not. I merely meant her disappearance itself. And after everything that poor family has already suffered through." He tilted his head, holding Harry's gaze. "And you as well."

Harry glanced away, focusing on the shuttered windows ahead. "The war took its toll on everyone." He wet his lips, gripping a rod iron bar. "It was nice to see you, Horace, but I think I've delayed the inevitable long enough."

The man edged closer. "Would you like some company? There may be bats inside."

Harry laughed shortly. "Then they're welcome to stay. They've lived here longer than I have." He pulled open the gate door, cringing as it creaked loudly on its rusty hinges. "I appreciate the offer, but I'd prefer some time to myself."

"Of course." Horace clasped his shoulder. "It's good you're here, Harry." His eyes shimmered. "It's good to have you home."

Harry smiled in turn, face brittle with the effort, and watched the man slowly meander back to his own estate directly across the street.

And then his expression fell like a dead weight, shoulders impossibly rigid as he turned around and took his first unobstructed look at the house.

It was darker than he remembered. Eerier. The lawn was dead, the trees in the yard grey and petrified.

The neighborhood youth always touted that the property was haunted by the dead and living alike. Gazing upon the gothic-revival structure now, Harry couldn't agree more.

He started along the pebbled pathway, never taking his eyes off the front door. The dark lacquer made it gleam like onyx beneath the midday sun.

He made his way up the rotting steps to the porch, the slats bending beneath his weight, and fished the keys from the side pocket of his duffle, bracing himself for the onslaught, thankful for the mindless exhaustion rendering him all but numb.

He slid the key into the lock, the bolt clicking loudly and clipping away something inside him.

He turned the knob and pushed open the barrier.

A drafty cloud of stale air rushed out, blowing dust into his eyes and mouth. He stepped back, coughing into his hand and peering into the darkness beyond.

The windows remained boarded, thin slivers of daylight peeking through, illuminating the sheet covered furniture pushed against the walls.

He straightened, setting his jaw and stepping over the threshold, the air pressure changing the moment he set foot in the entryway.

He ignored the unsettled feeling, closing the door and tossing his bag to the frayed rug.

A floorboard creaked near the steps.

He glanced up sharply, and his eyes were immediately caught by a hawkish glare.

The massive portrait dominated the wall at the top the staircase, just as he remembered.

Walburga.

Narrowed gaze ever watchful, face set in an eternal scowl of judgment.

He tore his attention away and made his way to the parlor, heading straight for the liquor cabinet.

Probably empty, but worth a shot.

The room itself was as dark as the entry, faintly lit by the meager daylight bleeding through the wooden boards.

He opened the cabinet doors, disturbing a fresh cloud of dust and coughing into his forearm, eyes tearing.

And then he blinked.

A single crystal decanter remained.

His heart leaped.

Thank you, God.

He grabbed it by the neck, holding it in a narrow strip of light to study the contents, relieved to see it was half full.

He sighed deeply, leaning against the peeling wallpaper and sliding to the ground with a heavy thud.

He pulled the stopper free with his teeth and spit it aside, taking a deep pull of the mystery liquor and cringing at the burn that erupted along his tongue, the trail of fire racing down his throat. But the pooling warmth in his stomach was a welcome comfort.

He tipped his head back, staring at the cracked and water-stained ceiling.

"I'm back, old man."

He swallowed heavily, releasing a sharp sigh that broke apart a dust cloud hovering above.

"And I've really fucked it up this time."

He took another heavy swig, this gulp going down easier than the first. A phantom breeze swept through his hair and scattered debris along the dark wood floors, lifting the corners of the sheets draping the nearby upholstery.

"You once told me a man's past will always find him, no matter how far he runs."

He closed his eyes, resting the decanter in his lap and tracing the spout with the pad of this thumb.

"Let's just hope I got a big enough head start on mine."

. . .

His lungs were on fire, pumping furiously as he ran with all his strength, struggling to stay upright, to keep one foot moving in front of the other.

His shoulder collided with another tree. He gasped in pain, choking back a cry, terrified of giving away his location, though he sensed the predator gaining speed on him all the same.

A branch snapped at his back with a deafening crack. He stifled a shout of terror, losing his footing and stumbling, catching himself against a trunk, jagged bark breaking the skin of his palms.

Blood was thick on the air.

As was a rumbling growl.

Gaining speed rapidly.

He dug deep into his last reserves of strength, squinting into the darkness as sweat dripped into his eyes, stinging, blinding–

Steam seared his neck as an enormous weight collided against his back with such force it tore him clear off his feet, knocking the air from his lungs.

He threw his arms out, shouting as he made impact with the hard-packed earth, wrist snapping beneath his crushing weight.

Claws shredded through his shirt, the fabric falling to the dead leaves in filthy scraps.

He tried to move, to crawl, to brace his arms beneath him, but the weight centered atop his spine was immovable, solid, scorching.

And then a large hand braced the back of his neck, shoving his face into the dirt, suffocating him.

"Alright, Potter."

Lips grazed his ear, the low voice a rumbling purr that shook the earth and split the sky.

"Let's try this again."

Harry gasped, eyes snapping open as he reared forward.

The decanter slipped from his lap and hit the floor with a jolting thud.

He pushed away from the wall, grasping his shirt and pulling it away from his sweat-slicked chest, panting, head turning from side to side as he searched for the predator in his midst.

Yet the dark corners of the room bore no glowing eyes, no monstrous wings or gleaming fangs.

He wet his lips, bracing the floor with his hands as he tried to gain his bearings.

And then he remembered where he was.

And why he was there.

His head snapped up, eyes latching onto the slats covering the windows. Moonlight cut through the gaps, bright and insistent.

He pushed shakily to his feet, holding his battered wristwatch up to the pale glow and gritting his teeth.

"Shit."

. . .

Ron turned, ears visibly perking at the sound of approaching footsteps.

And then his gaze narrowed. "You're late."

Harry stepped onto the curb. "I'm sorry, I ran as fast as I could."

His friend sighed, turning to face the tall gate once more. "It's alright. Fred and George dropped me off not long ago."

"They have a car?"

"They know how to hotwire one."

Harry rolled his eyes. "Wonderful." He gazed at the rod iron barrier before them. "So, how are we supposed to get in?"

"We climb."

He raised a dark brow, glancing sideways. "You up for that?"

Ron drew back. "What the hell does that mean?"

Harry smirked, raising his hands. "Just checking."

"I'll have you know, just because I don't prance around with my shirt off for a bunch of rabid spectators doesn't mean I have anything to hide."

"Boxers don't prance, dipshit. We parry and pivot."

"What's the difference?"

Harry shook his head with a smile, sweeping an arm forward. "Alright, Adonis, you go first. Show me how it's done."

Ron stretched his arms over his head, rotator cuff popping loudly. "Watch and learn, my friend."

Harry barely suppressed a smirk, watching as the man stepped forward and grabbed the bars above his head, grunting low and attempting to hoist himself up, shoes scrambling for purchase.

He shook his head, leaving Ron to his struggles and heading to the gate entrance. He tugged the chains, testing their strength, keeping view of his friend from the corner of his eye.

"Need a boost?"

"Fuck off."

He smiled, tugging the chains once more.

Ron groaned, landing on the pavement with a pained grunt, panting hard. Harry glanced over, emerald eyes gleaming.

Ron pressed a hand to his side. "I need to take a running start is all."

"Don't bother. The gate is open."

He blinked, straightening. "What?"

"The padlock's broken."

Ron shook his head, stepping closer. "There's no way. I checked it myself."

Harry gestured forward. "It's busted. They just knotted the chain."

"No, I checked the lock before you arrived."

He began to pull the chain loose. "Then maybe it busted with laughter watching you try and scale the wall."

Ron scowled without heat, watching Harry pull the large metal door open and stepping through. "Hilarious."

Harry shrugged, following him inside. "I thought so."

He closed the door at their backs, then glanced around the moonlit landscape beyond.

Ron gestured to the right with his chin. "The newspaper photo showed the pond in the background."

Harry nodded, noting that the perimeter of the park was awash with orange street light. "Stay out of view of the fence."

They journeyed off the designated path, heading through the grass and deeper into foliage for cover. They traversed quietly for several minutes, until Harry broke the permeating silence against his own better judgment.

"Ron, are certain Gin didn't sneak out?" He hurried on quickly, sensing his friend's reaction. "I only ask because if she was meeting someone then we have another lead to follow."

Ron glanced at him sharply, face hidden in shadow as they stepped over a rotting log. "Who would she be meeting on a Wednesday night?"

"Friends? Co-workers? A boyfriend?"

"We've spoken to all her friends. The women in her office are as old as our mom and she doesn't have a boyfriend."

Harry sighed, maneuvering around a row of thorny bushes. "Are you sure about that?"

A heavy beat.

"She loved you, Harry. It broke her heart when you left."

He rubbed his brow, a heavy weight settling upon his shoulders, slowing his steps.

"Ron, we never–"

"It broke all our hearts."

Harry swallowed heavily, focused upon the dark ground. "I had to go. I had to get away from it all."

Ron pushed aside a low hanging branch. "It wasn't the leaving that hurt. It was the silence. You never wrote. Never called. Never responded to any of our messages." He glanced sideways. "We didn't even know if you were still alive. When you didn't reply to my last letter I thought–"

"I'm so sorry, Ron." Harry met his eye, heartbeat echoing in his ears. "From the bottom of my heart. I never meant to hurt you. I never meant to hurt anyone."

His hands opened and closed convulsively, step faltering. "I didn't know how to handle it, and I didn't handle it right. I wish I could go back and change things. You've no idea how much I wish I could go back."

He wet his lips, gazing forward, seeing nothing but a dark haze of trees and fractured moonlight. "Maybe then Gin would still be here. Maybe she wouldn't have–"

"It's not your fault she's gone, Harry." Ron braced his shoulder, slowing his tracks. "If anything it's my fault for not hearing her get taken–"

"Ron." Harry gripped his shoulder as well, arms bracketing one another. "If I can't blame myself, then neither can you."

Ron gazed at him for a long moment, at last dropping his hand and shifting out of reach. "I'm not stupid, Harry. She's been missing for two weeks. I know what all the statistics say." He set his jaw, glancing away. "But I can't think about it. I can't."

He started forward once more, pace steady, voice calm.

"Seven years ago, mom woke up screaming in the night. She had a terrible nightmare but couldn't remember what it was about. She spent hours pacing the house, scrubbing the floors, washing every dish in the pantry, said she had a bad feeling she couldn't shake. And then she didn't eat for three days. We thought she was sick, or going mad, and had no fucking idea what to do."

Harry nodded solemnly, following along beside him. "I remember."

"I know you do. And you were there when the letter came." They emerged from the wooded area, stepping onto a narrow pebbled trail. "Bill was shot the same night she woke up screaming. The very same night." He glanced sideways, eyes glittering in the pale beams of moonlight. "She knew the moment he died. An entire ocean away and she felt the bullet tear through her own chest."

Harry sighed deeply, focusing on the path.

Ron edged closer. "I know it sounds crazy, but you hear about this kind of thing all the time. A mother's connection with her kids." His voice turned low, eager. "And she can feel Ginny's alive, Harry. She knows."

They turned the corner, the pond appearing directly ahead. "Maybe it's all madness. Maybe the nightmare was a coincidence. Maybe our gut instinct is nothing but buried desire."

They started across the wooden bridge.

"But I have to believe my sister is still alive." The water shimmered beneath them, encrusted with black diamonds. "And if she's not…"

Several beats passed, their heavy footsteps echoing along the beams.

Ron swallowed, shoulders squaring. "Then I have to bring back proof to my family. To my mother." He lifted his chin. "I have to bring them closure."

Yellow-dyed rope became visible, tied to either end of the exit ramp, along with a posted sign that was too far away to read.

Ron sighed. "And I need it just as badly."

Harry nodded, recognizing the police insignia on the bottom corner of the poster.

"We'll find her, Ron." He wet his lips as they drew closer to the crime scene. "One way or another, we'll bring her home."

Ron opened his mouth but before he could reply a twig snapped ahead, loud and distinct.

They froze in their tracks.

"Did you hear that?" Ron whispered, eyes wide.

"Yes."

"Did you bring the gun?"

"It was probably just a raccoon or–"

"Did you bring the gun, Harry?"

"Ron, I can't just wave a gun around in Central Park."

"Fine. I will."

He reached into his coat and withdrew a gleaming pistol.

Harry reared back.

"Ron, put that away!"

"It's 3 a.m. Anyone walking around is up to no good."

"We're walking around you fucking lunatic!"

Another twig snapped, louder, closer.

Ron raised the gun, pointing it ahead.

"Ron, put it away! What if it's a night watchman?"

He set his jaw, searching the treeline. "What if it's a killer returning to the scene of his latest crime?"

Harry pinched the bridge of his nose, closing his eyes. "Ron, I'm really sorry."

His friend blinked, glancing sideways. "For what?"

Harry's hand shot out with lightning speed, gripping the man's wrist and twisting his arm, stretching the tendons.

"Ah! What the fuck, Harry!"

"Drop it."

"Jesus Christ!"

He tightened his hold, causing Ron to bend, desperate to alleviate the pressure.

"Drop it."

"Fine!"

He opened his hand, the gun hit the bridge with an echoing thud.

They both peered down at it.

And then a large shadow passed overhead, moving rapidly across the wooden slats and their grappling forms.

They went rigid, springing apart and glancing up.

The sky was clear, stars hidden behind a thick layer of pollution and city light. But the moon watched them steadily, nearly full.

There was a wet splash several feet away. They spun on their heels, gazing over the railing.

The water rippled heavily.

"Harry–"

"Shh."

Harry gripped the railing, straining to listen.

At first, he could only hear his own heartbeat and Ron's panting breath, but then another twig snapped, followed by the sound of movement in the brush.

Ron spun to face the woods. "Someone is on the other side!"

He reached down and reclaimed the gun, then bolted forward, sprinting down the short stretch of remaining bridge.

Harry took off after him.

"Ron, stop!"

He slowed to duck beneath the yellow rope, carefully sidestepping the marked crime scene, and then raced ahead once more.

They were halfway to the trees when a light appeared at their backs, reflecting off the leaves.

"Who's there?"

They both halted, spinning around on instinct.

Harry's heart stuttered painfully. "Fuck. Nightwatch."

The spotlight fell on their faces, blinding.

"I see you! Don't move!"

"Run!"

They sprinted for the trees.

"Stop!"

Harry could hear the guard's rapid footfalls along the bridge as he gave chase, and then they emerged into the woods and he became distracted by branches slapping him in the face, clawing at his hair and clothing.

He paused behind a thick trunk to catch his breath, glancing around rapidly.

"Ron!" He hissed, unable to see or hear his friend.

Fuck.

"Hey! You!"

Harry froze, every muscle tensed to the point of pain as footsteps crunched at his back, the flashlight beam appearing just to his left, bouncing off the bushes.

He braced himself, caught–

The footsteps turned, heading in another direction, the light passing the tree at his back and cutting to his right.

The watchman was so close Harry could hear him breathing.

"Stop right th–"

He cut off abruptly, the sound of a wet crunch quick to follow.

Harry blinked, every survival instinct flaring to life and demanding he run.

But all he could think of was Ron.

And suddenly, a familiar scent filled the air, permeating his lungs, suffocating.

Blood.

His heart thundered.

He darted out from his hiding spot, spotting a uniformed man in a nearby clearing, face turned toward the sky, illuminated by moonlight.

Revealing wide, terror-filled eyes.

Harry slowed his steps, jaw hanging loose as he caught sight of another man pressed against him, face hidden behind his neck.

Harry stumbled back, unnerved, confused, and tripped over a rock embedded in the soil.

The second man lifted his head, cocking it like a bird, eyes darting in Harry's direction.

Harry hit the ground with a muffled thump, biting back his groan, terrified to even breathe.

The man's chin was coated with a gleaming black liquid. He released the guard and wiped a dark sleeve over the mess, smearing it, eyes continuing to search the trees.

The guard staggered back, sputtering, clutching his neck and dropping his flashlight. It rolled along the ground, illuminating twisted roots.

And then he collapsed to his knees, trembling violently before falling to his face in a motionless heap.

Harry was frozen, unable to move, to think. And then the stranger stepped forward, face awash with moonlight.

The black liquid shone crimson.

He took another step, entering the treeline and submerging himself in shadow. His eyes gleamed with unnatural brightness, like a cat in the dark.

"I know you're there."

Another step.

"I can hear your heartbeat."

Harry swallowed.

The stranger stopped.

And turned his head, gazing directly upon him.

He smiled, teeth gleaming. "There you are."

Harry regained his senses in a heady rush, leaping to his feet as the man surged forward, swinging out a hand, fingers curled like claws.

Harry dodged the strike, effortlessly slipping into boxing stance, striking out with all his strength and clipping the stranger in the jaw.

The man's head flew back, but his feet remained fixed in place.

Harry blinked.

The man slowly brought his face forward, eyes gleaming. "My, my, what do we have here?"

"Harry!"

Harry instinctively gazed to the side, drawn by Ron's frantic voice.

The distraction cost him greatly.

The stranger caught him around the middle with the full force of his body, driving them both off their feet and onto the uneven ground.

Harry aimed a well-placed punch to the man's kidney, earning a low groan of pain and unbalancing him enough to roll the imposing weight off.

Ron emerged from the dark trees.

"Shit!"

"Ron!" Harry met his wide gaze. "Run!"

The man tackled him from behind, causing his chin to strike the ground with brain-rattling force.

Ron raised the gun, arm trembling. "Get off him!"

The man reared back, gazing up as he wedged a knee mercilessly into Harry's spine.

And then the weight was gone.

Harry gasped for air, peering forward and gaping as the stranger appeared directly before Ron, crossing the ten-foot divide in a matter of a fractured heartbeat.

Ron gasped, lurching back and firing the weapon in shock.

The bullet struck the man in the stomach.

They all froze.

The stranger gazed down, running his hand along his smoking middle.

And scowled.

"This was my favorite shirt, asshole."

Ron swallowed as the man gazed up with narrowed eyes and struck him across the face with a mighty blow, knocking him off his feet and into a tree.

"Ron!"

Harry leaped to his feet and charged the man from behind, once more knocking them both to the ground.

The stranger erupted into laughter, deep and melodious.

"Now you're much more interesting than your friend." He twisted in Harry's grasp, rolling over to face him. "But you already knew that, didn't you?"

Harry punched him in the face, knocking his head to the side and splitting his bottom lip.

He licked away the blood with a feral smile.

Harry gaped.

And then peered up as Ron stirred, rubbing his head and crawling for the fallen gun.

"Leave it, Ron! Run!"

Ron dragged his hands through the grass, feeling for the metal. The stranger thrashed in Harry's grip, punching him in the cheek. Harry's turned with the blow but remained fixed, pinning him in place.

Ron staggered to his feet, swaying precariously and aiming the weapon.

"Get up, Harry!"

Harry shook his head, panting with exertion. "A bullet won't stop him."

"What the fuck does that mean?"

The stranger tilted his head back, meeting Ron's bewildered gaze upside down. "A bit slow to the uptake, aren't you?"

Harry scowled. "Shut up!" He punched him again, blood from his torn lip smearing across his cheek and streaking Harry's knuckles.

The stranger laughed anew, eyes glittering like jewels inset in a pale face. "Just wait until I tell them about you."

Harry panted heavily, vision tunneling. "Tell who?"

The laughter turned manic. Harry grabbed him by the lapels and pulled him off the ground, bringing his face closer.

"Tell who?"

His eyes widened, pulse thrumming as the stranger's lips parted into a Cheshire grin, canine teeth elongating into ivory daggers before his eyes.

"Everyone."

He threw Harry off with a powerful surge, causing him to skid backward along the grass, watching in abject horror as the man sprang to his feet and advanced on Ron.

His friend took aim and fired, clipping the man in the shoulder.

But he continued to advance, laughing all the while.

Ron fired again.

And again.

And again.

Until the chamber ran empty, the trigger emitting only a hollow click. The stranger stopped just before him, sighing with exaggerated weariness.

"Fun as this is, you've gone and made me late." He flashed a wicked grin, fangs gleaming in the pale moonlight. "So we'll have to end the party here."

Harry released a low growl, earning both their attention as it shook the leaves on all sides, and then he sprinted forward with lightning speed.

The stranger pivoted and met him halfway, creating a powerful collision that split the ground and rattled the trees. Harry met Ron's eye as they tumbled to the ground.

"Run! Get help!"

"But–"

"Go!"

Ron nodded tightly, staggering back and darting into the trees, disappearing from sight.

Harry turned his focus to the snapping jaws before his face, keening laughter pouring out from between the glittering fangs.

"What the hell are you?"

The man tossed his head back and laughed harder.

Harry shook his head, pressing against his windpipe with the heel of his palm.

"Where is Ginny Weasley?"

The stranger tilted his head, lifting a brow. "Don't know her, is she hot?"

Harry growled anew, punching him.

"Where is she?"

The man licked the blood from his swollen lip, voice thinning as the pressure at his neck intensified.

"I don't know. But I assure you, I intend to find out." His eyes flashed, glowing like a nocturnal predator. "And I'll tell her you said hi."

Harry snarled, drawing back a fist, but before it could connect the stranger threw him off. Harry scrambled back, strength rapidly waning. The man seemed to sense his mounting fatigue, smiling with triumph.

So Harry pushed to his feet and ran, as hard and as fast as he could, stray branches cutting into his arms and face and neck.

The stranger was hot on his trail, footsteps rapidly approaching.

The familiarity of the wooded chase gave rise to primal fear, instilling Harry with a sudden burst of speed, barely evading the stranger's reaching hand.

He burst through the trees into a small clearing with a tall gazebo at its center.

And then the ground disappeared.

He tumbled headfirst down a steep hill, rolling endlessly for a handful of seconds, only to regain his footing on the final roll, the entire spill appearing more choreographed dance move than fall.

The stranger leaped the hill in three single bounds, seeming to defy gravity, his shadow chasing Harry along the grass.

The gazebo was fifteen feet ahead, half hidden by scaffolding. Harry reached out a desperate hand, the side of the structure just within reach–

A heavy thud sounded beyond his shoulder, followed by an unrelenting hand at his collar, ripping him back.

Harry's fingers gripped the very end of a metal pole, sliding it free of its slot in the scaffolding frame as he flew backward.

He rolled across the grass, the pole landing at his side, nestled in the weeds. The stranger hovered above him, the moon at his back, casting his face into darkness and his eyes into hell flame.

"As I said, this was fun." He licked his lips once more, blood streaking his teeth. Harry reached out and gripped the pole. "But you've ruined my shirt and made me terribly late, so playtime's over."

He dove.

Harry pulled the pole upright, closing his eyes and cringing back as the man fell upon it, impaling his chest through the center.

The stranger gasped and sputtered, unable to stop his downward momentum as he continued to slide towards the ground, black bile oozing from his mouth in a continuous stream, splattering Harry's chest and splashing his face.

Harry rolled away as the man slumped to the ground, the pole sticking straight up, gleaming black in the moonlight, as though coated in crude oil.

"Harry!"

He jolted, scrambling back. Ron emerged from the treeline above, stopping at the top of the hill.

"Harry!"

He began to skid down, fighting to stay upright. Harry scrubbed at his face, smearing more blood and dirt across his cheeks with his filthy palms.

Ron emerged into the clearing and then slowed, taking in the sight.

"Fuck." His gaze widened, landing on Harry's huddled figure. "Are you…"

He eyed the black substance soaking his friend's shirt, staining his face and neck.

"...okay?"

Harry fought to catch his breath, unable to look away from the body. "I didn't mean to–"

He shook his head, at a loss. The man's face was frozen, twisted in a grimace of agony. His tongue turned black and wilted, skin so pale it was nearly translucent, blue and purple veins showing in stark relief.

"I grabbed the pole on instinct… I didn't know what else to do."

Ron edged closer, giving the body wide berth. "It's alright."

He crouched down, placing a hand on Harry's shoulder. Harry jerked away, eyes wide and dazed. Ron held up his palms.

"Harry, it's me, calm down!"

Harry clutched handfuls of grass at either side. Ron watched him steadily. "Just breathe."

Harry nodded, pushing wearily to his feet, hands trembling violently.

Ron followed suit, watching him closely.

"I shot him six times." He wet his lips. "Harry, I emptied the bloody gun into him. He wasn't even phased." He shook his head. "He isn't normal."

Harry remained transfixed by the body. "I'd say he's pretty fucking far from normal, alright."

Ron stepped closer. "What if there are more like him? What if they're the ones who took Gin?"

Harry set his jaw, hands curling into fists. "Then we'll find them, and we'll find her." He drew his shoulders back. "But first..."

He met Ron's eye. "Help me move him."