II. The Ministry of Magic

He gazes down at me, those green eyes staring straight into mine. I wonder if he's trying to read me. There's nothing for him to see; any feelings I had for him have long since faded away. But just in case, I do a little mind-block. It's a technique I sometimes have to use on vampires, but I figure it's close enough to Occlumency that it could keep a casual Legilimens out. Harry doesn't even blink, though, so I guess he's not trying to read me. I wonder if I'm relieved or disappointed.

He breaks eye contact first and looks over my head to where Midgen is standing behind me. "Thanks, Eloise," he says. Then he looks back at me, takes a deep breath, and runs a hand through that wonderfully messy black hair. "C'mon then," he says, and turns away.

I follow a half step behind him as he makes, not for the lifts, but for the stairs. This doesn't surprise me; Harry long ago gave up waiting for things to happen, even if it's just waiting for the lift. I appreciate that about him. It's one of the ways he's grown up since I first knew him.

We climb the stairs from the Atrium to the second floor, with Harry looking back at me every now and then to make sure I'm keeping up. I scowl at his back, annoyed by his concern. He's not talking, either, but I know him well enough to know that's preoccupation, not rudeness. Something's going on, and he's taking this time to gather his thoughts together. I'm taking the time to study his very fine arse as he climbs two steps above me. Another thing I appreciate about him.

"So, how come Midgen isn't an Auror?" I ask, tilting my head back a bit to look up at him. Harry looks over his shoulder at me as we climb the winding stairs---eight steps, turn, eight steps, turn, eight steps, turn. The look on his face would seem to indicate that he's forgotten I'm there. He always was rough on a girl's ego.

"Who, Eloise?" he asks, looking puzzled. I roll my eyes; did we not just share a potentially violent encounter with a woman named Midgen? Who else would I be talking about?

"No," I say sarcastically. "Some other Midgen we've talked to recently." Eight steps, turn, eight steps, turn.

I can sense his distracted smile, even from behind him. "Well, there are other Midgens working at the Ministry," he says. "But they're far less likely to become Aurors than Eloise. Why do you ask?"

I shrug, then realize that he can't see me. "I don't know," I say. "She fancies you." Where the bloody hell had that come from?

Harry glances back, one dark eyebrow raised in mild interest. "She does? How can you tell?"

Eight steps, turn, eight steps, turn. I'm trying to figure out why I brought it up, but that fine arse of his is distracting me. I finally opt for the cowardly but unassailable, "I can just tell, that's all."

Harry doesn't respond. Two more sets of steps and I say, "She'd be a good Auror, with some training. Kingsley should consider her."

Harry gives me an odd look over his shoulder, but doesn't say anything.

We finally reach the second floor and he pushes through a stairwell door. He holds the door for me, but not really like a gentleman would for a lady. Just as well, I don't particularly feel like a lady these days. He leads me down a corridor that I recognize as the back hallway of the Auror department, and we come out near the front, where the double glass doors are, but without having to see anyone. That's interesting.

He turns a corner to where an office sits just off the main foyer. The door reads Kingsley Shacklebolt, but it opens for Harry and he strides right in without even knocking or anything. He doesn't pull his wand, but he does pull back his robes and rest his hand on it. I follow him into the office, pulling my own wand all the way out. I'm not as trusting as Harry; if we can get in, so can anyone else.

I wait quietly, if impatiently, as he closes the door and begins to perform sensory charms all over the office. He's very quick and thorough, and my respect for him, already considerable, slides up a notch. I have never worked with Harry as an Auror, though I have known him for more than twelve years as a friend. Or whatever. But right now, Auror to Auror, I can tell he's good. It's in his body language, the tension in his broad shoulders, the flexible hold he keeps on his wand, the almost palpable energy of total attention to his surroundings.

He's almost as good as I am, and that's not something I say very often.

Finally, Harry deems the office safe and secure from eavesdroppers or intruders, either visible or invisible. He gestures to a chair in front of Kingsley's desk and I sit in it. To my surprise, he walks around behind the desk and sits right in the big leather chair. Of course, I don't let the surprise show on my face, but when he props up his booted feet on the desk, I do raise one eyebrow.

I don't think he notices.

I'm about to ask him what in Merlin's name is going on, when he takes off his glasses and squeezes his eyes shut. He brings up his right hand to press his forefinger and thumb into his eyes and he gives a small sigh. I clamp my mouth shut before I can say something stupid. The sigh, the vulnerable gesture, and the remnant of thin scars across the back of his hand are all conspiring to make me feel like I want to take care of him, ease some of his burden. That's a very stupid feeling, because he hasn't even told me what his burden is yet.

See, I can be quiet when I have to.

"I'm really glad you came, Ginny," he says, not looking at me. "I need your help here."

He makes a show of cleaning his glasses on his robes, which I'm well aware is because he isn't sure of himself and doesn't want to look at me yet. My dad does the same thing. I am concerned by this uncharacteristic anxiety, this weariness. Harry's usual way of dealing with fear or pain is to come out swinging until either he or the other guy is knocked flat—usually the other guy. It's one of the things I appreciate about him. Sometimes, instead of fighting, he broods, which I used to find terribly attractive—there's nothing more romantic than a dark, brooding hero, especially to a love-struck teenage girl.

"What's going on, Harry?" I ask in my best firm-but-gentle voice. I didn't learn that one from Sylvia; it came from my mum. "Why are you in Kingsley's office?"

His jaw clenches and replaces his glasses. He looks straight at me then, for which I give him points. "How much did Kingsley tell you when he asked you to come back?"

I lean back in my chair, brushing my hand over the top of my backpack, just to reassure myself it's there. My wand's still in my left hand, and my right hand can get to a gun, a knife, or a bottle of holy water in less than a second. But here, in this place, most threats will be magical, so a wand is the most appropriate weapon.

"Not all that much," I admit. "He tracked Sylvia and me down in Wallachia last week and said that the vampires had joined Voldemort. He said he needed someone with vampire licensing to train the British Aurors and help them deal with it."

Harry drops his feet off the desk and they hit the ground with a thud. He leans toward me over the desktop, his emerald eyes glowing with intensity. I smirk; this is much more like the Harry I know and…well, the Harry I know.

"We really thought they'd remain neutral," he bites out. He's pissed off, probably at himself. "Voldemort's got nothing to offer them, and the publicity can only hurt them."

"You're wrong," I say levelly. Harry's a good Auror, but he's on my turf now. He doesn't really know about vampires.

His eyes flash. "About what?" he demands, and there's a desperate edge to the question.

"Everything," I say. "First, vampires are never neutral. They are always and only out for their own survival."

He scowls and tries to speak, but I raise a hand and interrupt him. He thinks he knows what I mean, but he's never experienced it. Not like I have.

"Second," I say, continuing to look him in the eyes, "Voldemort has one thing he can promise them that the Ministry won't."

"What's that?" Harry says impatiently.

"Legality," I say simply. "They want the laws outlawing their activities to be rescinded. They want to be legal citizens, with all the rights and protections thereof."

Harry gapes at me. I smirk again, not bothering to hide my satisfaction in knowing I have so totally surprised him.

Finally he snaps, "So, we're just supposed to say it's okay for them to murder people and drink their blood, are we?"

"Of course not," I snap right back. I don't know why he's yelling at me. I'm the one who kills the damn things. I'm not exactly their campaign manager. "I'm just telling you what they want. If that's what Voldemort has promised them, it would explain why they've taken a side."

Harry swears and leans back in the big leather chair. He is silent for a minute, gazing blankly out the window, but I don't think it will take long for the implications to hit him.

I'm right.

He turns his head and looks at me. "Ginny," he says, speaking very slowly and deliberately, "you're the vampire expert here, but it seems to me that if the vampires join Voldemort, and Voldemort wins, then having Voldemort in power will be the least of our problems."

I smile at him. He can be taught. "You got it, Potter," I say.

He takes a moment to digest that information. Then he nods slightly. "All right, what are your licenses?" he asks me out of nowhere.

The abrupt change of topic would have annoyed me into stonewalling with anyone else. What can I say? I like to be in control of a conversation. But because it's Harry, and because I know there's more he hasn't told me, I answer him.

"Auror, Dark Creature, Human, Non-Human, Part Human, and Vampire," I rattle off.

"Classification?" he asks.

"A."

He gives a low whistle, then suddenly grins. "You've come a long way from King's Cross, Weasley," he says, and I am stupidly pleased by how impressed he is. But he's right. I'm not the ten-year-old girl chasing after a train trying to catch a hero. I'm my own hero now.

"Don't you forget it, Potter," I say in mock challenge, and he laughs. The sound of his deep laughter warms me, and I hear my mocking voice, which always sounds like Sylvia, in my head. Don't you forget it, either, Weasley.

We are silent together for a few moments and it's easy, comfortable. Or, it would be, if we weren't faced with vampires taking over Britain.

"You know," I tell him casually, "Transylvania, Wallachia, and Albania have all legalized vampires."

He raises an eyebrow skeptically. "Oh, yeah?" he says. "How do they control them?"

"They don't," I say, shaking my head. "That's my job." I emphasize my.

He gives a snort at that, but I am deadly serious. I get a lot of work in those three countries. For a vampire hunter, that region is the big leagues, the Quidditch World Cup of supernatural evil. I've been playing in the big leagues for almost three years.

Harry blinks as he realizes that I'm serious, then blows out a breath and runs his hand through his hair.

"That's their policy?" he says. "Let them go, then kill them when there are too many?"

I shrug. "Basically."

He gives me a dark look. "They used to be people, Ginny," he says quietly. "Someone knew and respected and cared about them. That all seems really wrong to me."

He's absolutely right, of course. That's the problem with the whole Dark Creature category. Some of those creatures are, or used to be, people. Take Professor Lupin, for example. With my licenses, I could kill him on sight, no questions asked, because of his "condition." I wouldn't, because he's a friend, a fellow soldier, and an honorable man. But he's also a Dark and Dangerous Creature.

Harry's right about the whole vampire-people thing, but he's also keeping something from me. It isn't that he's being secretive or deceptive—he's not like that. I know that about him, even if I haven't spent that much time with him in the past four years. I look at him there with his head resting in his hand and I know that he's trying to figure out a way to keep from placing a burden on anyone else's shoulders. In this case, mine. I can feel myself going all soft and gooey inside in the face of this oh-so-Harry attitude, this characteristic desire to protect everyone.

I quelch that feeling ruthlessly. I have no time and no room for soft and gooey feelings toward Harry Potter. Besides, Harry is a colleague, and we have business to take care of. And it's business he needs me for, even if he'd rather he didn't.

"Harry," I say in my best no-nonsense voice. "Where's Kingsley?"

I'm half hoping he doesn't answer. I am beginning to think I really don't want to know.

Harry's head snaps up and his eyes meet mine. He's surprised and impressed that I'm pressing him on this. As he should be—most people play right into Harry's Messiah complex, because most people want to be saved. I don't.

"There was an attack on the Ministry," he says starkly. His hand reaches back to rub the tense muscles of his neck. "It took us by surprise. Kingsley was killed. So was Eric the security guard."

I feel a pang of sharp grief for Kingsley, my friend and mentor. I gasp with the force of it, though I am not surprised to get the news. Dark rolling sadness follows that stab of pain, and I squeeze my eyes shut. Not Kingsley…not this way. It's followed by anger, which is much easier to deal with. Someone is going to pay for this.

I allow the grief to well in me and flood my nerve ends with the acid of raw regret. Not that I have a choice. It didn't have to be this way. I gather up my resolve, wrap my anger around me like a shield, and take a deep breath. I set the grief aside for the moment; that's for later. There's no time for it now.

"When?" I ask, and Harry's eyes widen at my tone. I know I sound hard, cold, but he wanted G.M. Weasley, Vampire Slayer, and that's what he's getting. There's work to be done.

"Two days ago," he says, meeting my eyes.

"How?"

"I—what?" Harry asks, his brow furrowing. "The vampires got him."

"Got him how?" I ask impatiently. "Did they murder him straight out or did they suck his blood until he died?"

Harry barely flinches at my brutal question. Points for him. He spreads his hands on the desk in front of him. "They drained him," he says. "At least three of them." His eyes are steady, but his voice is thick. "They were done with him and Eric by the time we got here."

"God, Harry," I say, trying for my usual snapping impatience. I've handled a lot worse than this. "Why didn't he call me earlier?" It's no good. My voice comes out as a wail of pain, and I know Harry notices.

He just shakes his head. "I don't know," he says. "I told him six weeks ago he needed to get you back in the department."

I am not surprised by this news, since it has long been an open secret that Harry is a rather gifted Seer. He's also a Seer in denial, so we don't talk about it.

For just a moment, I allow myself to rest my forehead in my right hand, since my left hand is still clutching my wand. I normally wouldn't show any weakness in front of a client—my looks and age already give them doubts about whether or not I can handle this job. But Harry is a colleague, not a client. Besides, Harry has seen me at my worst. Well, almost. My worst has gotten worse in recent years.

Without looking, I holster the wand and remove the smaller of the two guns I'm wearing. I pull back the magazine and check the bullets. The clip is full. I slide the gun back into my waistband.

"Where's Kingsley now?" I ask, standing at my place. I reach down and hoist the backpack into the chair I have just left. I leave it sit there for a moment while I pull out the other gun, the Browning, from my shoulder holster. Slide the clip out, check, slide it back in.

Harry stands when I do. "What are the guns for, Ginny?" he asks, his voice full of suppressed tension and anger. Those emotions make his voice heavy and dark, and I ignore the shiver it sends through me. This is not the time.

I give a small smile. Harry would know what guns are, having been raised in a Muggle house. I turn back to the backpack and begin looking through it. My heart aches for the bloke, but I don't have time to indulge him. At least it's summer and there are a few hours of daylight left.

"Where's his body, Harry?" I ask again. "And Eric's?"

I pull out the Beretta, which has a hell of a lot of firepower, but is too big to fit my hand comfortably. It should be just right for Harry. I grab extra clips for the Beretta and the little Firestar and slide them into my jeans pocket. This should be a routine job, but you can't be too careful. I reach into my backpack again. I don't have another shoulder holster, but I do have a hip holster, which will have to do. (Note to self: get all Aurors fitted for shoulder holsters) I pull it out and walk around the desk and over to Harry. He turns to me and without a word I reach around behind him, sliding my arms inside his robes and ignoring how narrow his waist is and how broad his shoulders are. I quickly wrap the holster around him and buckle the leather strap. I should tie the string on the inside of his thigh, but I figure that's enough personal contact for one day.

Harry looks down at me, shocked and confused. I know he has never held a gun before, but I can't let him go into this unarmed. If magic worked against vampires, Kingsley would still be alive. I grab his shoulders and make him look at me.

"Where is Kingsley's body, Harry?" I ask again.

He finally answers me. "St. Mungo's morgue."

"Eric's too?

He nods.

"In the vault?" I ask, hoping to God to hear the right answer.

He hesitates, then shrugs those strong shoulders under my hands. "I think so. I'm not sure."

I drop my hands and sigh. They might not even be in the vault. They might be right out there in the open. Shit.

"Is there anyone else in the department who can fire a gun?" I ask.

He shakes his head. "I don't think so."

"Fine," I say, wishing I had Sylvia here for backup. It's not like I've never walked into a trap before, but I've usually had backup I could count on. Of course, I don't know for sure that this is a trap, but with vampires it's always best to assume the worst. Chances are, you're still underestimating things.

I take a deep breath, thinking it through. Sylvia says you can do this, I remind myself. God, I hope she's right.

"We'll need magical backup," I say. "Someone who's fast and not afraid to fight hard."

"You mean kill people." Harry's voice is flat, hard. He's looking at me like he's never seen me before. It hurts, and I raise my head to hide it.

"Yes, Harry," I say, lifting an eyebrow. "I mean kill people. Live ones. You'll just have to trust me on this. I don't have time to explain."

He looks at me for one more second. Then his jaw tightens and he nods. "Tonks is on maternity leave, but Ron and Hermione are on call. They can be here in a few seconds."

I glance up at him quickly. My chagrin at having to take these three particular people must show, because now he raises his eyebrow. "They're the strongest and fastest, along with Tonks," he says, a challenge in his voice. "That's what you want, right?"

"Right," I say.

I'm tempted to say more, to try to explain everything to him, but I don't. That particular temptation pisses me off; what the hell do I care if Harry thinks I enjoy killing people? To hide my treacherous thoughts, I push the Browning's magazine in, slide the gun into the holster, and give him my best cold-and-superior look.

"That's what I want."

15