CHAPTER TWELVE: PARASITE

Ginny paced back and forth. She had knocked Morana out shortly after their confrontation, and now she wasn't sure what her next move was. She had bitten off more than she could chew—and it had apparently bitten her right back. She had fought every other tough situation she'd come across in her short life and she had always come out on top. Ginny just wasn't sure how she could win this time.

She looked at Morana, and then the Muggle woman who had begged her to drink from her. She couldn't be a vampire, could she? She had never thought it would happen to her—out of all the dangers she had faced, never had she imagined that this would be one of them. She had worried more often about lycanthropy, even, than being bit by and becoming a vampire.

How could she fight this?

The only thing left was revenge, she supposed.

That was certainly something she could get behind, she decided. She would kill Doru for this and rid the world of him forever. Everyone was better off without him here, stealing and selling addictive substances and taking advantage of those in need.

She no longer felt guilt for killing the Carrows, and she wondered briefly if it was a side effect of her change. She had felt an immense amount of guilt and mourned the loss of her innocence only weeks before, and now, here she was, contemplating doing the same exact thing.

She had never thought this was who she would become. She had thought she'd been destined for great things: Quidditch star, famous artist, and a slew of other things that could have been, if things hadn't happened quite the way that they had.

Instead, here she was in this godforsaken manor house, a member of the undead.

On the bright side, Ginny thought, she no longer thirsted for those pain potions; she only thirsted for blood now. After the thought, Ginny rolled her eyes at her own internal dramatics and went back to planning.

Ginny opened the door and peered into the corridor. It looked empty. She hurried out and decided on a random direction to try to escape. She walked and walked and walked, and somehow, she found the drawing room she'd always sat in when she'd presented her work to Master Doru. From there, she was easily able to make her way to the front door. She opened it, wondering if it should have been so easy to escape, and found daylight awaiting her.

She had passed numerous windows, and they had all made it look like it was night outside. She realized now that they must have been heavily tinted to protect from the sun. She stared out at her freedom and remembered with a heavy heart that vampires couldn't live in sunlight. They burned to a crisp after a few short minutes. That was why it had been so easy to make her way to the front door. Even a few short days ago, that daylight would have assured Ginny safety from these creatures of the night.

Now, she was one of them and she couldn't escape until night fell.

By then, she was sure that Doru would be up and about. Ginny tried to remember from Defence Against the Dark Arts—did vampires sleep in coffins? She didn't have any sort of instinct for it, she decided, so probably not.

She decided that instead of sitting here, wasting away in front of the door, she would look for an umbrella. She thought that should protect her until she could find shelter. Luckily, the sun wasn't as harsh in the autumn as it was in the summer. Of course, she didn't find any umbrellas.

Forlornly, Ginny closed the door and retired to the drawing room. She watched the fire dance for hours and marveled how different it looked with her new vision. She looked at the clock above the mantel often, too. It had only been morning when she had made her way to almost-freedom, and she still had several hours to go before the sun would disappear behind the horizon.

She didn't want to live for an eternity like this, she thought.

Finally, at about 1 pm, Ginny grabbed a book off the large bookcase and began to read. It was an art history, and she was surprised to find that at least she had one shared interest with Doru. Then again, she was almost sure that her art skills were the reason he had picked her.

Ginny read with interest, finishing the book around four p.m. She wondered how the sun was making progress—it looked dark outside in the large window in the drawing room—and went back to the front door.

"Ginevra?" a voice floated toward her as the door creaked open.

She turned and found Doru. Her heart dropped.

"My, what a fine specimen you make, my dear," Doru complimented. "I knew that this was your destiny as soon as I saw you."

Ginny fought her instinct to tell him where he could get off. Instead, she decided to go along with him. "I do like this life so far. All the colours are so much brighter."

He smiled. "Is that so? Is that why you had the door open?"

"I just wanted to see what the grass would look like," she lied. She felt his gaze penetrating into her skull. Ginny had a feeling he knew that she was lying. If she were still human, she was sure her heart would be pounding away in her chest. Now it continued to beat a sedate rhythm.

"You'll be able to see it just as well by the light of the moon," he informed her, smile wide and fangs on display more than Ginny had ever seen. Some old instinct made a chill go through her body. "There's so much to teach you, young one. We'll have lessons each day. Now, I have some business to discuss before I take you to our breakfast date in the upper part of the manor house."

Ginny nodded along to what Doru told her numbly. "What business is that?"

"Follow me to my office."

She followed him as he led her down numerous staircases. Ginny didn't recognize this part of the manor, but that wasn't a surprise at all to her. He opened a large, sturdy-looking oak door and gestured for Ginny to enter.

With trepidation she did as instructed and found herself in a large room lined with yet more books and paintings. In the middle, in front of a blazing fireplace, sat a mahogany writing desk and a cushy armchair. There was a less-cushy armchair near her, as well, and Ginny figured that it was for guests and associates.

"Please, take a seat, Ginevra," Doru flashed her his fangs again as he closed the door behind him.

Ginny sat down promptly and nearly told him how much she detested being called by her full name. She stayed silent, instead, and looked around her more, taking in every detail and cataloguing the pieces of art that hung on the wall. They all looked like they were done by talented artists, and she recognized one that she had stolen from him the year before.

"You're quiet," he observed. "Most newly awakened are full of questions."

Ginny shrugged. "I figure all will be explained."

Doru's dark eyes continued to observe her and she felt as if she were an insect under a magnifying glass. She thought if he looked too closely, she might burn alive under the light. Finally, as if she had passed some sort of inspection, Doru smiled at her again.

"Well, let's get down to business. As your sire, I require your services in exchange for my deed."

"My services?" Ginny couldn't stop herself from asking incredulously. "Your deed? I didn't ask you for this life."

Now, Doru shrugged back at her. "I knew you needed me, too, Ginevra. You couldn't continue down that path and waste your talents, all numb and complacent."

She had been complacent, but she hadn't needed his help to get out of her slump. She wanted to shout and scream and cry and throw everything she could at Doru. She wanted to throttle him. She wanted him gone.

But here she was—she had to bide her time.

"I suppose you're right," she conceded. "What is it you require of me?"

"I want you to continue with what you were doing before. Helping me liberate great pieces of art and then recreating them."

Ginny gritted her teeth, knowing she had to bite her tongue. Her infamous Weasley temper, which had been absent for far too long, was rearing its head. She knew that if she were still human, her face would be turning an alarming shade of red. Luckily, it seemed that being undead could be advantageous in hiding an angry flush.

Ginny also knew that she would not be able to keep up the charade for much longer. She found herself hating every moment that she spent in the man's presence. She hadn't felt so filled with steel since she'd been at Hogwarts during the war. She no longer felt hopeless—she would have a plan soon, and then she would be gone from this godforsaken place forever.

Forever.

Merlin, that was a long time, when she considered the true length of it. Would she outlive all her friends and family? What would she do then? Travel the world and enjoy art, eat blood pops, and drink spiked wine? How dreary, she thought, to live that type of existence without someone by her side.

Ginny had begun to imagine by her side in all her future plans, but now she didn't see how that could be. She had finally had him in her reach, and Doru had taken it away all over again.

The anger nearly overtook Ginny again, but she fought to calm herself.

"Are you alright, my dear?" Doru asked her.

She supposed she had been silent for too long, so she replied, "Yes, sorry. I'm just thirsty, I think."

Doru nodded. "Yes, let's go grab some breakfast for ourselves. I have a veritable feast waiting upstairs for us."

Ginny wished her stomach had turned at the thought, but she mostly just felt excited, imagining how it would feel to have warm blood trickling down her throat again. She wondered if she could eat real food, too. She loved chocolate eclairs so much, and she hadn't had one in so long.

Finally, she voiced her thoughts. "Can we eat real food, too?"

He turned to look at her as he rose from his plush chair. "Yes, though I prefer a more liquid diet myself. I feed a little from someone each day to keep my powers strong."

Ginny nodded along. "Do you have any chocolate eclairs?"

He chuckled. "No, but Morana can fetch some when she wakes up from that nap you've made her take."

Ginny grinned a little, despite herself. "She had it coming."

"Perhaps so. Perhaps, she was just doing what I'd asked. But I must say, I've never had someone have that reaction to her before."

Shrugging, Ginny walked by his side up even more flights of stairs than they had taken down to the study. Good Merlin, she thought. Doru's manor had an even more convoluted layout than Hogwarts.

"Could I get a tour after breakfast?" she asked.

"So, you've become impatient for answers after all," Doru said. "It happens to everyone, eventually."

"Even you?" she asked.

"It's been so long I can't quite remember," he answered, dark eyes looking less cold than usual, but further away, as if cemented in the past. "My sire did not stay to answer any questions, so I am sure I figured this way of life myself."

"That must have been difficult," Ginny told him.

He looked at her and shrugged. "It must not have been too difficult. I have become who I was destined to be—a successful art connoisseur with a large family and many, many children."

Children wasn't the word Ginny would exactly use, but she bit her tongue. She almost felt sympathy for Doru but wasn't persuaded enough by the "heart-warming" story that he was weaving for her. She felt as if he may be manipulating her by telling her all of this, and she did not appreciate being manipulated.

She had been manipulated by Tom Riddle, who had woven stories of a sad life in the orphanage where he had been so lonely and none of the other children would befriend him because he had been different from them. She had learned her lesson with Tom, who had been charming and silver-tongued, and she had cottoned on that Doru was much the same.

Ginny Weasley was not someone to be manipulated.

She didn't say anything until they entered a grand dining room, where there were two witches and a wizard eating; on their plates were large piles of poached eggs, fruits, and toast. She looked between them and Doru, unable to voice her thoughts. There was again a dawning horror within her as she grasped onto what he had damned her to for eternity.

Constantly feeding from others, innocents—always a parasite.

Ginny wanted to throw a fit again but, somehow, she held it all together. She wasn't sure how she did it, except perhaps her experience lying to her brothers all her life.

"Are they breakfast?" Ginny finally asked, voice tiny.

"Yes, and they are here voluntarily," Doru explained. "They come to the manor and we provide food and shelter for them in return for what they can provide for them."

Ginny was beginning to realize that Doru was a fan of thinking he was a benevolent liege lord of the community—taking care of serfs, as he saw it. Really, though, she likened him more to some sort of fae, or puck, wheeling and dealing for his own entertainment and needs. She saw how dangerous he was—his charity led down a path from which one could not return.

She would end him, even if it was the last thing she did.

The thought of vengeance had never before tasted quite so sweet to Ginny Weasley.

Harry

Harry paced and paced, nearly wearing a hole in the floor of the Ministry. All he could think was of the danger Ginny must be in, and what sort of peril she was being subjected to.

Her older brother, Ron Weasley, entered the room with Hermione then, both looking tired and worried. "Any news?" Ron asked Harry.

Harry shook his head wordlessly, continuing to pace.

"My mum is going spare," Ron explained. "She already knew before we told her. She has this clock, you see, and it keeps track of each of us kids, telling her where we are, if we're safe. Ginny's is exactly where Fred's is—"

Harry was having a hard time following what Ron was telling him. "It tells her exactly where you lot are?"

Ron shook his head. "No, just a general—like work, or school, or home, or if we're presently in danger, like when the war was on, mortal peril. But Fred's, after he died, was on traveling, and then after a while, lost. Mum never saw Ginny's move—she just woke up the morning we found the shop and it was on lost, just like Fred's."

Did that mean that Ginny was dead?

It couldn't be—Harry refused to believe it. She had to be alive somewhere; he could no longer imagine a world without her laugh, or her jokes and impressions.

"Does lost always mean dead?" he asked Ron, point-blank.

"No… sometimes, someone is actually lost. I got lost in Harrod's once with Hermione, and Mum went spare and called the cavalry."

That was something he could work with—someone else joined them in the Auror office. The footsteps didn't sound like anyone that Harry knew, so he looked up and saw that it was the wizard from the Potions Lab.

"What have you got?" Harry asked without greeting.

The wizard frowned but handed Harry a piece of parchment. "Here are the different components of the potions you turned in. It breaks down each magical compound and traces where each of the compounds originated—we have this registry, similar to the Muggles, of which well-known potions suppliers and dealers use which compounds and from where. As you can see here, this compound originates on Transylvania, and we only have one potions supplier who uses these compounds from that area—Doru Rabinovich, known also as Master Doru in criminal circles—he is also called The Vampire."

Harry and Neville both cursed while Hermione just paled. "Not Rabinovich," Neville argued.

"Fuck—" Harry said. "What the bloody hell did she get herself into?"

"There's no telling, but I'll see if I can pull any information on him. Do you want to check with your C.I.?"

It was about time he caught up with Cho, Harry thought. He hadn't heard from her since he'd spoken with her the morning they'd found Ginny's shoe at the shop, and it wasn't like her to go radio-silent, as the Muggles would say. "That's a good idea," Harry told his partner. "I need to follow up with her on some other things—and she probably at least knows someone who knows someone who knows Rabinovich."

They bid each other farewell gruffly, leaving Ron and Hermione standing in the Auror offices, staring at each other in consternation.

Harry practically ran through the Ministry to the fireplaces, flooing straight to Cho's gallery. He didn't bother with their usual cloak and dagger, too wound up and not in the mood to wait for her at the dirty pub table, nursing something that he wished was stronger.

She was standing in the gallery when he arrived, showing a painting to a wealthy looking witch in elaborate robes.

"Harry—er, Mr. Potter," Cho said, gaping as he stepped through the grate. "Is there something I can help you with today, sir?"

The witch was gaping at him, as well, as if she'd never seen an Auror in a hurry before. "I need to speak to you urgently regarding some information you may have, Miss Chang," Harry said bruskly. "Is there an office we could speak in privately?"

Cho nodded and turned toward her client. "I am extremely sorry, Madame Lafevre. I have to help Mr. Potter, but I'll be back with you momentarily."

Madame Lafevre nodded at Cho in confusion, but Cho led him away, sensible (yet fashionable) heels clacking against the marble floors. "What's this about?" she whispered to him angrily. "You know we don't meet here for information."

"It really is urgent, Cho," he told her as he stopped her and held her still, hands on her shoulders. "We traced some evidence back to Doru Rabinovich in that missing persons case I was having you check on. Is there any other information you could give me regarding his whereabouts, or what his motives may be?"

At Rabinovich's name, Cho blanched. "No, I don't know anything about that," she told him flatly. "I should see you out."

"Cho," Harry said warningly, hand tightening on her shoulder. "You need to tell me what you know. Someone's life is in danger."

"It's a lost cause," Cho said. "You will only find the body—if he wants you to—or if there even is a body. I don't cross him, and I don't ever work with him."

"I understand, Cho, but I have to find the victim. Please tell me what you can."

She glanced around, looking primed to run away. "He's… the worst of the worst when it comes to the stolen art circle. His work is always exquisite and barely discernable as fraudulent to even the best authenticators, but his methods…" a shiver worked its way through her body so strongly that even Harry felt it. "No one crosses the Vampire."

"Fuck," Harry nearly shouted, barely controlling his volume. "Do you know where to find him?"

Cho shook her head, pretty hair waving back and forth with her movement. "I know where he'll be tomorrow night, but nothing beyond that."

"Where's that?"

"It's an underground auction and they will be selling Last Year in Capri."

"You didn't think to tell me about this auction?" he asked roughly, pushing her against the wall.

She whimpered. "I'm sorry—I only just got the invite and information from my colleague, Lucretia."

Harry let go of her. "Tell me where this auction is."

Cho told him, and Harry immediately apparated away, leaving Cho standing in the hallway of her gallery, shaking from head to toe.

Harry couldn't find it in himself to feel guilty about how he had treated his C.I.—she was his C.I. for a reason, and she couldn't seem to do her damned job. He was grumbling to himself as he made his way back up to his office at the Ministry, hoping that Longbottom would be there as well with information more useful than a fancy underground function.

Unfortunately, Neville hadn't found any previously listed addresses, or anything else that would help them locate Rabinovich, other than Ministry intel that had been logged into his file—mostly rumours of illegal dealings and reports that they had never been able to authenticate.

"So, we set up a sting, of sorts?" Neville asked.

Harry nodded grimly. "Yes. And I know the perfect person for the job."

Later that afternoon, Cho and Hermione stood before Harry, both looking extremely nervous.

"Do I have to do this, Harry?" Cho whinged.

"Yes," he told her gruffly. "All you have to do is act like she's an interested client who paid her way into the function like anyone else."

"Won't they recognize her?" Neville asked.

Harry shook his head. "No, we'll put a glamour on her. For all I care, we could make her look like Romilda Vane or Pansy Parkinson."

"Now, I don't think that's necessary," Hermione told them. "I'll be perfectly fine with a few glamours here and there to disguise my identity."

"Just remember that we cannot fuck this up," Harry said.

"They'll do fine, mate," Neville reassured, putting a hand on his shoulder, pulling him aside. "Are you alright? Do I need to have Robards pull you from the case?"

Harry shrugged out of Neville's touch. "No, I need to see this through. I can be clear-headed about this."

"Listen to me, Potter. If you bullocks this up because you're too involved, I will report you. And then, I'll kill you myself."

Harry nodded. "I'll be fine. I promise."

"If I see you losing your head, you're out."

"You've got it, Longbottom."

They turned back to Cho and Hermione, who had pulled a little mirror from somewhere—Hermione always seemed to be able to pull useful things out of absolutely nowhere—and were working on placing glamour charms on Hermione.

He had to hand it to the two witches—they were talented with their glamour charms. He would never have been able to tell it was Hermione under those charms, if he didn't know the way she sounded. "So, let's go over the plan one more time…"

Harry and Neville sat in their Auror tent in the trees outside the auction, watching on the screen as Hermione and Cho entered the function. It was a useful little invention from Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes that the Ministry had snatched up almost as soon as it hit the shelves—a small camera that could be disguised as a flower or a piece of jewelry that took so many pictures they came out like film. Hermione was wearing the camera on a necklace that had looked extremely expensive once she had paired it with her gala robes.

She was also wearing a hair piece that was a new updated version of their Extendable Ears. It sent the sounds from where the piece was to a radio. Harry wondered how they could come up with so many interesting, progressive inventions, but no one could invent a digital camera.

"It's amazing—" he began.

"Please don't start about digital cameras again, Potter," Neville interrupted. "We can save that discussion for our next case."

Harry grumbled but agreed with his partner. He did need to pay attention to the event.

"There's the Vampire," he heard Cho tell Hermione softly. He paid attention to everything they heard from there on out. Cho and Hermione made their way around the room, making boring small talk as they worked the room. It turned out that Hermione had a lot to contribute to conversations about famous art pieces, and it became evident that there was quite a lot of curiosity about what new pieces would be unveiled that evening.

Finally, they met Rabinovich. "We'll need to be careful," Cho warned. "We don't want to seem too interested, but we also don't want to appear rude or uncouth."

"Why, if it isn't the glorious Cho Chang," he heard the monster greet. "And who is your friend?"

"Master Doru, this is my friend Cassandra Black. She's extremely interested in purchasing something tonight."

There was a slight shuffling, and Harry couldn't hear what was going on, and then, finally, everything came back into perfect clarity. "Well, good luck, ladies. Enjoy your night."

"Damn, we missed most of that," Neville complained.

"We'll have to find out what happened afterward and check the film once it's developed at the Ministry."

Harry nodded in agreement with his partner and continued to listen as the auction began. They waited for quite a while before Last Year in Capri was announced. Hermione bid on the piece, which had started at a high price. Even higher than it had been valued at by the Ministry of Magic when the theft had first happened. Apparently, notoriety had made it even more coveted.

She was in a bidding war with some wizard that Harry couldn't catch the name of. Finally, the wizard gave up and Hermione won the bid. Harry had begun to sweat anxiously as the battle had waged, so he was quite relieved that their operation wouldn't be ruined.

"Okay, I think it's go time," Harry told Neville.

Neville spoke into the lapel of his Auror robes, "Operation Vampire is a go," he told their team.

Harry and Neville emerged from their tent, magically folding it and shrinking it to fit into one of their pockets and making their way to the front doors.

"Excuse me, sir, you can't go in there," a poshly-dressed witch told them.

"You see these robes and this badge?" Harry asked. "We'll go anywhere we please."

They had their smoking wand, so they didn't need a warrant.

As soon as their hit team made an appearance, the auction floor turned into complete bedlam. Witches and wizards were attempting to apparate out, finding that the wards wouldn't allow for it. Then, they all began to run about. Harry made his way straight to Rabinovich, who was watching the scene with a serene curiosity.

Harry took in the appearance of the famed Vampire, finding that he understood why he was called such. He certainly looked like one: his skin was pallid, his black eyes were deep and fathomless, and he had a strange smile on his face that filled Harry with a sense of hatred he hadn't felt for years.

He knew the face of evil when he saw it.

"I was wondering when you would show up, Mister Potter."