A/N: Dying of the Light will be updated tomorrow. Tomorrow's update will have a little uh... surprise. The NSFW kind.
Harry paces in front of the entrance to the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures, mentally steeling himself. He hasn't step foot into the department since... since months ago and he still isn't sure if he can, but the lack of replies to his inter-departmental messages is hindering his job and he's had quite enough of hiding downstairs.
Stopping in front of the double doors, he takes in a deep breath and pushes them open.
The office is deathly quiet. Stepping into the space is like stepping into a separate dimension where everything is topsy turvy. Harry doesn't know what exactly it is that he's expecting but it certainly isn't this. Even the Department of Mystery is livelier than this.
He suppresses the shudder that threatens to break out and strides purposefully past rows and rows of empty desks and chairs to come to a stop in front of a familiar face.
"Berenice," Harry greets with a nod and a smile.
The petite woman, who has had her head tucked down and was furiously scribbling away in a notebook, startles and jerks her head up. Her eyes widen at the sight of Harry and she sucks in a sharp breath, standing up abruptly, uncaring that her chair tumbles to the ground behind her, to engulf Harry in a tight embrace.
Harry returns the hug just as fiercely. Long moments pass wherein they clutch at each other before Berenice reluctantly loosens her grip on him and takes a step back, roving a critical gaze over Harry.
"Have you been eating, sleeping, well?" clucks Berenice as she smoothes her hands over his shoulders and fussily picks at imaginary lint.
"As well as I can, under the circumstances," Harry replies. Berenice frowns, all too knowingly, but doesn't press the subject any further.
"How's Luna? Little Teddy?" she asks, continuing her line of interrogation.
Harry chuckles.
"Luna's fine. Teddy's growing so fast," Harry says, smiling to himself as he recalls the previous Sunday when he'd had Teddy and Andromeda over for lunch that dragged on to dinner. "He grew an inch since last month. It'll be a matter of time before he's too big for rides."
"Children tend do that," says Berenice, smiling as well. She returns behind her desk, apparently satisfied with her scrutiny, and sits down, assuming the face of an impeccable professional.
"How may I help you, Mr Potter?" she asks pleasantly.
"Is Robbins in?" Harry asks, inclining his head towards the closed door behind Berenice's desk.
"Do you have an appointment?" asks Berenice, grabbing a roll of parchment and running her finger down the laughably short list. She taps the last line and looks up at him expectantly.
"No, I don't," concedes Harry. "If Robbins had bothered to answer my messages then I wouldn't need to be here at all."
"I'm afraid Mr Robbins doesn't entertain visitors without an appointment," says Berenice. Harry's eyes narrows at that, but as she raises her gaze to his then, he catches the glint of mischief that flashes through her baby blues. "But if you insist on going in, then I cannot stop you."
Harry crooks a lopsided grin as she adopts a helpless shrug. "I'm just a lowly secretary. What can I do against a seasoned Auror?" she adds with a listless, defeated sort of tone.
Harry mouths a thanks to Berenice as he walks past her and flings Robbins' door open, letting it hit against the inside wall loudly once, before stepping in and turning to close it with a little more force than in necessary.
"Mr Potter," says an icy voice in greeting. Harry fixes a level expression on his face before turning to look upon the fair paleness that is Gawain Robbins. It is not an exaggeration to say that the man looks like he's capable of glowing in the dark.
"Robbins," acknowledges Harry in a similar fashion.
"To what do I owe the pleasure of your presence, Potter?" says Robbins, emphasising the word 'pleasure' in a tone highly suggesting it is anything but.
"You know perfectly well the reason I am here, Robbins," says Harry. "I made sure to flood your room in case you missed the last dozen memos."
An unamused expression pulls at Robbins' face. "There was no need for such childish antics," he says, evident disapproval in the set of his brows.
"If you had bothered to answer any, then I wouldn't have had to resort to such tactics," Harry retorts.
"And if you had bothered to keep up with current affairs, then you would have realised that vampires are no longer in my jurisdiction," Robbins retaliates. "They're nobody's jurisdiction, since they've all up and left the country."
A smile came over Robbins' countenance then and Harry involuntary shivers.
"How can you be so sure?" demands Harry, opting to bang a fist on Robbins' desk instead of putting it where he really wants it: in the middle of Robbins' creepy face.
Robbins gives him an irritated glare and flicks Harry's fist off his desk before buffing the spot with his sleeve.
"We keep track of all registered vampires. They're gone. All of them," Robbins grits out between clenched teeth as he concentrates on wiping imaginary contaminants off his table. "If they re-enter the country, we'd know right away and I'll be there instead of wasting away in this Merlin forsaken Centaur division."
"What about unregistered ones?" asks Harry, frowning thoughtfully at the ink blotter on the side of the table.
"What part of 'unregistered' do you not understand?" taunts Robbins. Harry shoots him a glare and makes a frustrated noise under his breath.
"Then at least give me the list of registered vampires," says Harry, methodically clenching and unclenching his fists as he counts to ten in his head.
"I think not," drawls Robbins and leans back in his chair smugly. "You're a thug, Harry Potter. And seeing as how I'm neither in your department nor actually in charge of vampires, I am not obligated to do anything for you."
"It is vital to a case!" Harry yells in disbelief.
"Not my problem," says Robbins, spreading his arms wide. "Unless you get an official order from above, I don't have to do shite."
Robbins spares Harry a malicious grin before pulling out his wand, causing Harry to tense, and points it to his own throat. "Berenice, would you be so kind as to escort Mr Potter out?"
Even as the door swings open and Berenice comes in to take him by the arm to lead him out of Robbins' office, Harry finds himself still incapable of speech. Berenice escorts him the entire way to the same double doors, holding them open for him even.
When he doesn't move, she pushes him out but before the door fully closes between them, she slips a folded paper into his palm and disappears into that eerie quiet once more.
Ron stands stoic and tall, a deep crease between his brows as he mutters to himself — the very picture of a man deep in thought. His clothes are rumpled and there's a crusty yellow stain on the front of his jumper from Merlin knows what. His hair, that he runs a hand through again and again, is messier than even Harry's have ever been.
He looks up at the wall, broods for a moment then shakes his head, looking away.
Ron has commandeered one of the walls in the flat he shares — used to, he has to keep reminding himself — with Lavender and has turned it into a makeshift investigation board.
Pictures and clippings from the Daily Prophet have been pinned and taped up all along the wall and over them is an intricate web of strings, linking one point to another.
For a long while, he stays there, unmoving when suddenly he yells and kicks a nearby chair so it topples to the floor, raising a cloud of dust in its wake. A frustrated groan escapes him before he doubles over, coughing and hacking from the dust that he's inhaled.
When it finally ceases, Ron wipes the spittle from the side of his mouth and straightens, swallowing dryly.
He glares at a picture of a young Draco Malfoy — thin and in shackles, just fresh from the war — like it was the cause of his coughing fit. Next to it is a rough cut out photograph of the elder Malfoys, Lucius and Narcissa, from an old spread in Witch Weekly. Lucius sneers down at Ron as he sweeps his gaze over the half of the board dedicated to the life story of the Malfoys.
The other half is a similar shrine to Hermione. One red string connects Hermione to the younger Malfoy.
Ron bites down on his lip, eyes flitting quickly between the two till they blur into one and he roars, ripping the string out. The pins clatter to the ground and rolls underneath the sofa.
He has threatened, coerced, bribed and nothing, he's found nothing, and yet... There is something there, he knows. It's just beyond his reach and if he can only stretch out that much further, he's sure he'll get it.
"There are no such things as coincidences," says Ron. The mantra echoes on his tongue and in his head as he replaces the string, fastening them with new pins.
He runs trembling fingers over Hermione's photo all the while keeping a watchful eye on Malfoy's picture as if expecting it to disappear the minute he turns away.
"There are no such things as coincidences," repeats Ron loudly to himself.
His instincts haven't failed him yet and they won't this time, either.
Harry leans back on the chair, his stomach pleasantly full and his being thoroughly satiated through the wonders of good food.
"That was lovely, Diane," Harry says, raising a glass of wine to the woman in question as she blushes prettily. From the other end of the table, a deep chuckle comes from Basil as he observes his bashful wife. Beside Harry, Luna gives a soft clap and nods enthusiastically in agreement.
When Harry offers to clean up the dishes, Diane pushes him and Basil out into the living room citing a need for womanly gossip as she pulls Luna, whose eyes have started shining at the thought of chores, into the kitchen with her.
Giving one last exasperated but fond look at the closed door that hides the two women — he still cannot fathom Luna's odd love of housework — Harry and Basil proceed to the study where the files still lie open on Basil's sturdy mahogany desk.
The mirth they had gained from dinner dissipates quickly upon landing eyes on said desk top. The two partners exchange a sombre glance and wordlessly sit themselves down on the chairs around the desk.
Harry fidgets a little, getting himself comfortable in his chair — no one else in the household sits in that chair anymore, he's been told — before turning his attention to the case files. In them are crime scene photos, grainy and blurry, but etched crystal clear into his mind. He's studied them, scrutinised them, committed every single inch to his memory — it is the least he could do.
It didn't take him long to arrive at the conclusion once Basil was done telling and showing him the details just over a month ago.
Vampire, he'd said, and Basil nodded sadly, unsurprised.
Harry had made various sounds of disgust until Basil told him about a case where a human — muggle, though Harry vowed never to use that word in front of Basil again — had killed his victims brutally before draining them of their blood. He'd then kept all their teeth as trophies. The blood, he'd made into blood cakes, and consumed them like one would consume pudding.
Vampires, at least, Basil had said, did it for survival and even then, maybe not strictly so. He'd encountered people in A&E who had been strangely anaemic with only a hazy recollection of the past few hours of their night. What exactly happened to them is speculation, certainly, at best, but Occam's Razor and all that, Basil reasoned.
Harry had quieted after that and, ashamed and slightly disturbed, directed the topic back to their current work.
Now, he hand irons the list Berenice had given him and looks it over again, hunting for any details that he may have missed. The list of names remains unchanged, foreign and strange. He recognises none of them.
"They've all left?" Basil asks, fingers laced together and closed loosely in front of him as he leans against the desk on his elbows.
"Apparently," Harry replies.
"How do they know?"
"We have ways of tracking an individual's signature, like a chip you can put into a pet, except with magic," Harry explains. "It can work like a GPS."
Basil nods, one hand going up to stroke his salt and pepper beard. "How long?"
"Months," Harry says, the slightest hint of frustration colouring his tone. "They left just shy of the first victim's death."
"It's been quiet for a while now," says Basil. "Do you think whoever did this has left as well?"
"That or they've gotten better at hiding their tracks," says Harry, frustration boiling over and spilling off the edge. "This is why we need regulations and mandatory registrations!"
Basil looks at him for a while before asking, "How are vampires like?"
"I don't know," Harry says, giving a dismissive wave at the line of questioning while staring down at the list — any harder and it'd likely burst into flames. "I've never met one."
"Aren't they, for all intents and purposes, human?" asks Basil.
Harry shakes his head vehemently. "Abominations, the lot of them."
"How would you know?" says Basil. Harry opens his mouth to argue but no sounds come out, his thoughts coming to a jerking stop. He works his jaw dumbly as he tries in vain to form a coherent sequence of words.
"They joined the other side in the war," Harry finally says lamely, the argument sounding weak even to his own ears.
"Ah," Basil nods, returning his uncomfortably steady gaze back to the spread on the desk. "I suppose you would know more about that than I do."
Harry nods weakly as one hand goes into his pocket and absently fingers the short note that Berenice had given him along with the list of names.
His fingers are still playing with the note as they sit in the car, Basil having kindly offered to drive them home, or at least to their street, what with the Fidelius Charm and all. Harry never did get round to explaining Apparition to him and by this point, it'll just be awkward.
"What would you do if she comes back," says Luna softly, breaking the silence between them in the backseat. Harry glances quickly to the front and breathes a soft sigh of relief upon seeing Diane and Basil chatting about their children. "And she's different?" Harry's fingers clench guiltily at the note in his pocket, though he keeps his face carefully pensive.
"I don't know," whispers Harry, hoping that will be the end of that. Luna cocks her head to the side and just looks at him in that vacant way of hers until he can feel sweat break out on his forehead.
"I'll cross that bridge when I get to it," he relents and turns away to the window.
"We're here," announces Basil and Harry jerks to attention. "You're sure you don't want us to drop you right at your home?"
"No, no. It's fine," says Harry, hurriedly shaking his hand. "Our house is uh... hidden a ways away."
"Ah," intones Basil understandingly, while Diane gives them both a confused smile. Harry merely smiles back and helps Luna unbuckle her seat belt before they both step out of the car.
Harry hovers for a while by the driver's side window as Basil rolls it down and waits expectantly. Harry ducks down and leans in so his voice is low enough for Diane not to overhear him.
"I... don't want to do this without your permission," begins Harry and Basil immediately narrows his eyes in suspicion, his face subtly shifting into his wary, alert, police mode. "I want to put a signature track on you and the family," says Harry hurriedly before Basil's thoughts can wander anywhere unsavoury.
"It's not an intrusion on your privacy," Harry placates. "I just... It'll be easier. For me to make sure you're safe."
"Please," Harry ends and swallows nervously.
"What were they thinking, sending children into war?" says Basil finally and Harry releases a breath he didn't realise he was holding. "If it eases your mind."
"Thank you, Basil," says Harry with all the sincerity he could conjure. Basil gives him a fatherly gaze that makes his heart ache and Harry cranes his neck to peer behind Basil at Diane, thanking her once again for her hospitality before stepping away from the car and waving them off.
Harry and Luna snuggle into each other for warmth and soft caresses as they make the short walk back to their home.
A/N: I just finished writing the week's chapter for Dying of the Light. I'm cutting it real close, guys. And if I do end up getting a job, it's going to be even tighter, but do wish me luck on getting one, a job, that is. Much as I like it to, fanfics are not going to pay themselves.
As always, review. Even a simple "I like it!" will brighten any author's day.
