Carrying on walking, I can't shake the feeling that I'm still being followed. Assuming it is my previous tail, I don't think much on it. That is, until the silence is interrupted by a voice, different from the one that had spoken to me, which immediately sets me on edge.

"Expulso!" Turning around quickly, to properly gauge where the spell is aimed, I dive in the opposite direction, pulling my wand from the inside of my coat. I don't recognize the face, but it doesn't matter who it is. Not in the least.

I intone an "Impervius" aiming my wand to my side to buy time to assess and not dodge. Shrapnel from the cobblestone path flies up but is repelled by the spell, giving me moment to collect myself. At least it would have, had another Expulso not come my way from the other side. Spinning to the side to present my protected side to the blast, preparing for the shock of rock shards should I be too slow. Most of it is blocked away, but I wasn't quick enough to avoid several slices to the side of the face. The warm crawl of blood down my jawline serves as a reminder of the dangers of sluggishness, and the drip of it off my eyebrow onto my cheek brings an eclectic rhythm to the fight.

Shaking my mind from its dwelling on my blood, I roll back, using the bit of dust in the air to my advantage. I move left only to just miss another Expulso aimed in my direction. Does he know any other spells?

This is nor the time, and especially not the place for an extended firefight, so I know I have to end it fast. The blood now littering the side of my face gives me an idea, and I have to move fast. It's a stupid idea; better used with more able material, but I have to use what I have now. Beggars and choosers, and so on.

"Tergeo." The blood sucks away from my face, but simply floats there, like some sickening veil, the lack of magic in the air preventing it from being vanished. Banishing it removes it from in front of me, and as it flies forward, it spreads in the air. The lack of light has made it a deep crimson, and just as I could hide while immobile in the dust, he can't see me! Firing a projected shielding spell, convex-forward, behind the steadily dissipating blood veil, I move to the side.

Allow me to say this: Wizards are interesting creatures. Few opponents of mine, even in this time, choose to dodge things coming toward them. Even as shield spells grow weaker by the second that they are cast, and are therefore easily bypassed. There is a reason for that. The population is weakening, and everyone can feel it. This brings about an obsession with magical power and the need to prove one's self strong in an age of growing weakness and magical deterioration. So, the everyday wizard will meet anything they do not understand, with either brute force, or a shielding spell.

Doesn't work so well for them, but works just fine for me. I'd rather get my cloak covered in dust, than have my head removed, thank you.

"Expulso." Seems he chose force.

Bad choice. And with that word, once against spoken, he seals his own fate. The shielding spell; Protego, while small and quite weak comparatively, has two very important positives to it. It can be projected at something, but more importantly, the spells that hits it, barring very powerful curses, gets reflected. No one-hundred-percent guaranteed direction where it would be reflected, but considered where the shield was at the time, point-blank ranged explosion curses don't miss.

His body rained from the sky, decorated the windows nearby, and painted the ground. His severed hand hit one of the few functioning street lamps lining the street, showering the ground with glass shards as the bulb flickered sporadically before blinking out. Under the flashing lights, I come to realize that seeing a human body explode is morbidly fascinating and I highly recommend everyone see it at least once. It's a way to see everything that makes a person work when so nicely put together, as it's all coming apart.

In the world most magical people live in now, no one don't go anywhere alone for this exact reason. Random attacks aren't as rare as they used to be, and it's not just "politically designated terrorists" doing them. I, however, do not live in the world that magical people live in, and routinely find myself walking through the deserted ruins of Diagon Alley in the middle of night. I have my reasons for doing so, and find myself unable to drag up the necessary energy to be afraid of things that cast spells in the night.

Even in the dead of night, my destination casts a shadow, looming at the end of the destroyed alley, rebelling against the desolation around it by somehow looking more immaculate than ever. Surrounded by years worth of deterioration and degradation, the large building appears even larger when flanked by rows of collapsing shops and empty streets.

Gringotts.

Since the Ambient Loss, the bank has gone.

Well; more specifically, the goblins have gone. The building still stands, but everything that made it the most secure bank in the United Kingdom went with its operators. In some ways, it made the bank vulnerable. In others, it made it impenetrable. When the Ambient Loss began impacting the bank, he magic sustaining the vault protections dropped, yes. But so did the magic holding together the railing system. The magic containing the dragons. The magic repelling the heat in the deep caverns. All gone. Barring the front doors, it is completely and utterly inaccessible from the outside. Ironic, the loss of ambient magic has literally turned Gringotts into a well-protected, hugely ornate, and astronomically expensive vault.

Even now, in its utter destruction, Hogwarts' influence runs deep, pun intended. The bank was my current base of operations, if you will. Physically well-protected, structurally sound, magic woven through much of the marble that crafted it. The place reeks of magic, prestige and excess.

I love it here.

The goblins had been in a rush to get out. So much of a rush, tables were knocked over, gold coins scattered along the floor, scales still loaded with galleons and pounds, it was as if they had all just stepped out for a moment and would be returning any moment.

But they wouldn't. Sorta tends to be the case when their caves all collapse due to structural integrity issues. Took the ones caught in the collapse two weeks to finally die. I know, I had to hear them whine, groan and generally bitch for half of that before the blessed silence came. Admittedly, they might have kept complaining because they could see me sitting there, reclined on Ragnok's desk with my feet up, browsing through the records only a short distance from the Director's emergency escape tunnel.

Who would have thought the goblins had files on most major families with Very Important Vaults? Made me glad my vault wasn't anywhere near being classified as such, because honestly, I now know more about the Davis family than I ever wanted to know, ever. Why a goblin found it prudent to know Tracey's bra size, I don't know, nor why it seemed like it was important to be aware of the fact that the Patriarch of Clan Greengrass happened to be sleeping with said Davis…actually, I can completely understand why all of this is important.

Blackmail.

The goblins were absurdly rich. Ridiculously so, so much so that often, mini-trains of several mine cars filled with galleons left Gringotts every month, and that was just the cut of several of the goblin leaders who owned a slight percentage, below ten-percent. And a lot that gold was fees. Half the Very Important Vaults were likely forced upon the families due to threats of blackmail. And those vaults had some of the most insane fees I have ever laid eyes on, likely more than many families made in an entire year. But one positive to these vaults is the fact that they happen to be in-house. As in, the actual bank.

Above ground.

Around the corner.

Away from huge fucking dragons.

In a place that isn't sitting at temperatures that break the body into a sweat just opening the door that used to house the mine cars.

And did I mention: Away from the huge fucking dragons?

Easy access, so on and so forth. What a wonderful service to offer. At least, it's wonderful for me, because it means I don't have to travel very far to pillage. And oh how I love my biweekly pillaging. I don't take the money anywhere, really, on average I just take money from one vault to a different one, just because I can. But other times, I just like to go in and destroy things, because…well, because I can.

You don't realize how much fun it is to do, until you find yourself dancing a jig in the Malfoy vault, atop the slowly dying portrait of one of their long-passed patriarchs. He'd sputtered about my offense to him and the coming revenge from his family right up until the magic sustaining it drained away. Seems to me that portraits so old didn't have the magic in the paint; but instead, drew magic from around them. Needless to say, such an "Old and Ancient" family as the Malfoys, were soon out of portraits that lived and spoke, all having been so old and archaic. No reason to improve what works, right?

It's a rare situation, but I find myself able to relax and feel completely unguarded. No one will be coming anywhere near where I am if they have any good sense, so anything that enters the doors of Gringotts will be upon my own choosing. Why won't anyone be coming here, when all of their money is here?

Gringotts is a huge, immaculately-designed, behemoth of an architectural alter to expense and commerce. It is also possibly the second largest structure depending on ambient magic in all of the UK, after Hogwarts. Everything from the opening and closing of the doors, to the safety and maintenance of the vaults, all the way down to the continued circulation of air in the air-tight building, was controlled by wards that operated off of the ambient magic released by the daily bustling of witches and wizards through the doors. Whereas Hogwarts seems to be sucking wraway ambient magic, Gringotts seems to be a literal dead zone of magic. It's possible to perform magic here, but the wards are so starved, there is this constant dampening feeling. Closest I can equate the feeling to, is trying to breathe through a heavy, wet, wool cloth covering your face. It feels sick and wrong just being here to most, and as such, they stay away.

Best place to hide, is in plain sight, where no one would go even if they did find out you were there. This is my home now. Yes, from a cupboard under the stairs, to the Bank Manager's office in a place constructed primarily of ancient wood and marble, reclining my feet on a new pile of gold coins every night!

Harry Potter sure has come up in the world!

"Hey Tonks!" She's just outside of the doors, I can see her. I consider waving to her, but she can't see me, so it would be moot. But I might as well do it regardless, so I wave at her before I head toward the door. I pause to look at her through the one-way glass, a moment where she is completely unguarded in front of me. I know what they think of me, all of them, and I know how it causes her to react to my presence. But here she is, knowing she's going to see me, but unknowing I see her.

I knew she was tailing me, somewhere in the back of my mind, and I could feel her at the door even before I looked up from the floor to confirm it. In such an empty void of magic, like I said, the way she…feels…is different. It's resounding. It travels, and carries. She smells of leaking energy and the air tastes of her colors. Her very existence so close to me is paralyzing in such a strong dose, compounded by the emptiness of all else nearby.

She feels of death.

The Ambient Loss is killing her.

And she doesn't even know it.

And walking in here, leaking magic all over everything…this place would eat her alive, suck her dry, and leave her dying on the cold marble floor, even as the earth beneath her reached out to partake in the remnants and fragments of the essence she once exuded with each breath.

Guess I should open the door and let her in?

"…And then I was like, 'you can't put it there because it belongs over there!' and she was all, 'really?', it was amazing." I can't stop laughing at this point, and look to her to gain a level of comedic agreement. "Why aren't you laughing?"

"Because you started the story with '…and then I was like', Harry."

Sometimes I worry about Tonks ever since the Ambient Loss. She used to be so bright and upbeat, and now she just can't see the hilarity in a good, quality anecdote. I even did the voices for her. But, it's her choice to be a sourpuss, I mean, I was only doing it to try and cheer her up. After all, she is the one dying, not me.

I'm sure she's wondering why we are sitting on the steps outside of the bank instead of inside of it, but even if she did find the courage to ask, I wouldn't answer her. So it's a good thing she didn't bother to enquire.

"Something's wrong, Harry."

"You don't say?" A cuff to the side of the head is her response to that, and I have to continue making note of the kinds of comedy that Tonks seems adverse to. A lack of positive reaction to sarcasm is another sad part of the person she has become, I must say. "What is it, Tonks?"

"Everything feels off. I mean, besides the whole, loss of ambient magic thing that we spoke about earlier. It's like," she pauses to find the words, before turning on her step to face me. I've been watching her at three-quarter view this whole time; but as she turns, I can tell that won't work for her too much longer. "It's like something is wrong with me. Everything feels different, like a part of me is seeping away into the cracks of the earth beneath me every time I stop long enough to let it." Poetic, I have to say. And not at all incorrect, in fact, more right than she'd ever believe.

She finally gets me to face her, and her face changes instantly upon seeing mine. I know she's finally seen the cuts I got from the shrapnel from the earlier fight, though the look she gives makes me wish I hadn't allowed her to. I have this habit of not healing scrapes and cuts that I get, as soon as I get them. The body naturally heals itself, and I see no reason to insert magic into that.

"Harry!" She won't drop it until I tell her. I have this thing about attracting bull-headed women into my general vicinity, I know it, so I figure I might as well just let her know now.

"It's nothing, I got attacked on the way back from our meeting. Don't beat yourself up about it, I see you preparing to, so stop it. I can protect myself better than anyone could protect me, and it wasn't a particularly difficult fight. He got me while my mind was on other things. Leaving these here as a reminder to myself of what not focusing causes." The end is a lie, but she doesn't need to know more about me than I feel comfortable telling.

She reaches out as if to touch the cuts, but I move away from her instantly. She reeks of magic, it rolls off of her, and the closer she gets to me, the more it starts to wash over me, invade my pores, and take hold on my body. She's a beautiful girl, and in her vulnerability, there's a…

"I have to go, Tonks." If there was one thing I was attempting to avoid during all of this, it was finding a reason to get myself involved in the state of the world right now. I was out, and I was staying out. "I understand what you mean, and I fully get the confusion. All I can say to you is…go. Leave. Get off of this island, leave Europe. That pull you're feeling, it'll calm as you go further south. It will stop entirely once you hit the mainland. But don't stop there. Keep going." I have to turn away from her at this point. The apparent rejection has set about a chain reaction in her face. Blue began to bleed into her hair, her eyes began to appear to tear up, and her whole countenance reflected her sadness. I couldn't bear to see her like this. "Get out of here while you can. It will get a lot worse, and won't get better. Trust me on this." I start to walk away, and she hasn't moved.

"Fine. If you aren't going to leave, then be here when I get back. I don't know when that will be, and neither do you. But be prepared for whatever I do, to make you feel better." And from there, I have to leave. I can't be around her anymore, as she leaks her magic everywhere. "Do not enter the bank. Do not."

I hope she listens. If she walks in there like that, the place will eat her alive. Literally.

The feeling of being followed pulses around in the back of my head, and annoyance begins to spread from my stomach through my body. It starts to numb my fingers by the time I acknowledge that it isn't the man who had followed me previously, no, not by a long shot. Because it was not a man.

"Who are you?"

"I'm sure my…associate has informed you that we can't tell you that."

"Then what can you tell me?"

"Simply that we are observing you. Take solace in the fact that it is simply observation, and not investigation." And she was gone. The word "yet" was left hanging, unspoken, in the air. It was burdening on me so heavily that, by the time I noticed people were approaching me, they were upon me already.

I really need to stop letting myself get snuck up on while thinking about weird, cryptic people stalking me!