A Requiem in B Negative

Chapter 2

A/N: Some suggested listening to set a mood – 'The Spine, from the Transistor OST'.

Tags: Very Dubious Consent due to Magical Vampire Seduction. Being upfront and clear – at the end of this chapter a vampire character (Hermione for clarity) and a human character (Harry, again for clarity) are in a sort-of-but-sort-of-not spicy situation (not smut, but smut adjacent, perhaps?). She is physically violent prior to the event and then magically coercive, though arguably there's a lack of consent on both sides as she isn't exactly acting under her own control either. I think that I'm making it sound worse than it is with this description, but the last thing I want is for people to read something that might make them uncomfortable. This is uncharted writing territory for me, so please excuse if I have handled it poorly!

In complete violation of dramatic convention, they are not immediately attacked by unknown assailants the moment they acknowledge they've been lured here.

Instead, he asks "Why are you here, Hermione?"

"Isn't it obvious?" She makes a half gesture towards him, and he can't help smiling slightly. It's an awkward, unfamiliar action but although strained he remembers how to do it, like trying to do a sit up after a decade of sloth.

"I was serious about buying you a drink, by the way" she says, "There's a pub next door, we could talk about this there, if a public place will be any better for you? At the very least we can't carry on like this, with you half in the corridor and holding a weapon. I can't imagine you want to come back to mine."

When he hesitates, she rubs her forehead, her patience starting to wear thin a little, "I'm not going to bite you, Harry."

"Past experience leads me to doubt you," he says bitterly, ignoring the sudden itch on his wrist and neck.

He immediately regrets it because he can see on her face that it stung. "Yes. Yes, I suppose you're right. I can't promise I would never hurt you, but I am in control right now." She gracefully shifts her weight from one leg to the other, "I wasn't exactly myself the last time we saw each other. I do owe you an apology though … I've spent the last decade being sorry about it."

"I got over it," he claims, fooling neither of them. The silence is deafening.

"Well, I never did," she says softly, and he vividly remembers her expression at the time, before, during and after. It is a line of thought he slams down hard on. "Especially considering you'd literally just prevented me from dying a second time that day." It is her turn to sound bitter now and there is a conspicuous lack of thanks.

His face twists sourly, thinking that the second time didn't matter. Not since he failed her the first time.

"After turning … when you awake, the Beast is in control, you see. It's fresh into the world and starving, and … I wasn't me. I couldn't stop myself. I'm so sorry, Harry, I …" her eyes well with tears, she looks down and trails off.

The trouble is that's only half the truth. He could see it in her eyes. It's old news to him though. Yes, she frightens him, but it's not the Hermione part of her that needs to apologise, not really. He's had a decade to come to terms with the fact she wasn't in control, and even when she was, everything must have been new and confusing. It's forgiving himself for his own actions that night that has been hard.

"I left you there. The sun was coming up and we didn't have a wand, and …" she chokes up, unable to finish what she was explaining. The fingers in his free hand curl, the nails biting into his palm. He should be angry, and he is, but he also pities her in equal measure. And he never could stand to see her in any pain.

It comes down decision time – does he trust her remorse is genuine, or is she just getting under his defences? He could summon the feindfyre right now, burn it all down, take her and everything else with him. Or, he can lower the wand, and either die or talk to her. He gives that about 50/50 odds. He has spent every day of every week of every month of every year wishing he could talk to her, so why is it so hard now?

The wand tip lowers slightly, and she relaxes almost imperceptibly. A good sign. He lowers it the rest of the way, and motions for her to pick up her wand. Paying it more attention, now that he isn't watching her for signs of impending violence, he does what he's learned to do best now. Watching, perceiving. Taking in details. Making connections. He is only half surprised to find he does recognise it, after all. Cherry, eight inches, phoenix feather. It was his spare, many years ago. It had been carved with just a shallow spiral and a very comfortable grip.

"I see you got a new wand," he says, forcing his tone casual, trying to start on safer territory than the conversational landmine that is the bite, "where'd you get it?"

"An … acquaintance. We were in Vienna and it, shall we say, fell into her possession. It was no use to her, but a surprisingly good match to me considering it didn't pick me." She wipes her eyes, reaches down, and picks it up from the floor, checking it over with a fondness.

He wouldn't exactly call it 'falling into her possession' from his side of the experience. Still, her 'acquaintance' could have killed him, as she took pains to make clear at the time so, as these things go, he's prepared to let it pass. He decides not to tell her. Some shrivelled, stupidly romantic part of him (that he thought was long dead) won't let him. It thinks that at least however this goes down something of him will leave here with her, but he's afraid she might discard it if she knew the truth of its origin.

"Right, well. You first then," and he gestures out and towards the corridor. He puts his wand away, but with his reflexes that doesn't put it far out of reach. Faster than her reflexes? Almost certainly not, which is why he wants to follow her. He doesn't know if the extra second she'd need to turn around would make the difference, but every little incremental advantage counts.

He feels a little twist of guilt, treating her this way, but the last time they met she nearly killed him. Or whatever dark forces she was in thrall to nearly killed him, via the medium of her body. That does tend to make a boy nervous.

She collects a yellow raincoat that was hung behind the door, and he shakes his head. What sort of vampire wears lurid, luminous yellow? He locks his room behind him (for what little good it did, she had no issues breaking in) and they walk in silence through the reception. He turns his collar against the storm he can hear raging outside.

Even expecting it, it nearly blows him off his feet. Hermione has no such issues, instead the wind breaks upon her. She steps lightly, as if it was just some summer day.

The pair of them are struck by the violence of the sea and the wrathful sky. The storm is raging on the island, but that's nothing compared to its ferocity at sea. A great ring of black, evil cloud sits above them, the island at its centre. She tilts her head to one side, as if listening to something he can't hear, and says "Well, if you can't tell by the clouds alone, this storm isn't natural."

He checks the apparition field; it is still up. "Guess they don't want us going anywhere then. I couldn't fly in this weather, even if I had my broom with me."

She nods, raising her voice to be heard over the winds, "And I couldn't swim in that sea. I suppose I could walk along the bottom of the sea floor, not needing to breathe and all, but I don't think I could last all the way back to the mainland. The cold would just drain my reserves away too quickly. I'd … run out before I got there."

He shivers at the thought of her down there, expiring alone in the deep and the dark. Harry doesn't know if fish have blood, and he's comfortable in that ignorance.

Mercifully, the walk to the pub is short. He holds the door open for her, aware of how ridiculous that is. He feels stupid, like he's holding a door open for a jaguar. Or a jet fighter. A strange comparison, but they're both agile, fast, and potentially deadly, even more so depending on who's sitting at the controls. He struggles to reconcile her physical capability with the, so far, non-threatening persona. Witches and wizards go around armed literally all the time and that doesn't bother him, so why is he so nervous of her? Beyond her likely having insane strength, blinding speed, and inhuman healing. He supposes that a decade can't undo the trauma she inflicted. Not when he relives it in dreams nearly every night.

The pub is surprisingly crowded. A few locals are here, at the bar or in booths, muttering darkly and looking with apprehension at the others. To be fair, he can't blame them – the rest of the room's occupants are some of the worst dressed bunches of witches and wizards he's ever seen. Mismatched clothes, colours clashing, and many of them in styles that haven't been popular in a very long time.

She blinks, and murmurs, "That's Jasnam Bhatt. Over there, in the blue cocktail dress. She's a world-renowned transfiguration master. They say she's probably one of the most powerful witches born in the 20th century. Oh! I swear, that's Miranda Goshawk. She wrote half our school textbooks! And that's Dr. Igwe – he's got more papers published on arithmancy than anyone else alive."

Looking around, there's people he recognises too. "I know some of them from the ministry. Aides, advisors … that might mean there's a minister on the island? I'm pretty sure some of them are embassy attachés too, so maybe something diplomatic going on? And over there, that's Jocunda Skyes, she flew the Atlantic by broom when she was young. See the guy by the window, with the pipe he's definitely not allowed to be smoking in here? Pretty sure there's Albert Cooper, he's some high level obliviator. They say he's a world class legilimens too."

"What are they all doing here?" she wonders, "This is … too much of a coincidence. This is a gathering of the powerful and famous, or at least their support staff, on this little island?"

Mentally he is memorising descriptions, the names of those he recognises. He would usually write it all down in his little notebook. He had ditched quills for biros as soon as he could. He'd prefer to write in pencil, there was something oddly comforting about the gentle give of graphite on the page, but pen was more professional. He could charm the pages to be unalterable, so it's not like pencil was unacceptable from a traceability point of view (not that any of his colleagues or the ministry cared about that), but when he hands in his case notes he likes them to look presentable.

"Well, I guess these are the party guests then. Hotelier said something about an extravagant party happening up at the manor house soon."

"Shit," she says, the swear seeming alien in her mouth to him, "Pretty sure that's Theodore Nott's father."

Harry nods and frowns, Nott is a big donator to political causes. He's always shaking hands with some minister, or smiling next to some beneficiary, in photographs in the paper. He is tall, broad chested, infuriatingly well-tailored, dressed far more stylishly than any of his companions. A glass dangles insouciantly in one hand, relaxed and comfortable. His companions laugh at something he says. "Think he'll recognise you?"

"Maybe? And if not him, then maybe some of the others from the ministry. It's not like they didn't plaster my face on wanted posters for a few years. If Theodore's here, he'll almost certainly know me. We … probably shouldn't stay here." She looks enviously at the gathered dignitaries.

Practicing his small smile, he suspects walking away from this learned assembly will be difficult for her. A room full of varied, accomplished people, within reach but forbidden to talk to. The smile disappears as he wonders if this is just a microcosm for her entire existence now.

"Not temped to do some charms, alter your appearance, and mingle?" he asks, blandly.

She bites her bottom lip gently, like she always used to when she thought about wanting to break a rule. Except this time there's just the barest suggestion of incisor. Not enough to make someone look twice, but he knows her well enough to notice. That, and he's spent the last third of his life noticing things. Despite his many and varied personal failings, he is a good Auror.

The lip biting lights something inside him, dimly, a feeling long forgotten but definitely present. He scowls at himself, for being this weak, needy and also a little bit because she still looks so young, it makes him feel like a letch.

"Tempted? Yes. But this is too much, I can," she swallows nervously, "I can already tell that. Too many people, too many scents, too many heartbeats all in one place."

She backs out through the door; he spots the tremble in her hand as she goes. She can face down a fully qualified Auror, one of the most capable in Britain, with complete composure but a room full of happy, social people? That caused her some alarm. Some things really don't change.

Leaving, again struck by the weather, he sees that she is already walking up the road, heading out of town.

"Wait!" He calls, shouting himself hoarse so she can hear him over the winds.

She tenses for a moment, clearly not intending to come back to him, so he quickly shouts first thing he can think of that might stop her running away entirely, "We need to triangulate where the anti-apparition ward is coming from."

Stopping, but not closing the distance between them she manages to say, "Right. Yes. Ah," she shakes her head, and takes two or three deep breaths "it probably covers the entire island. Not much good just warding the town. They won't want to spend forever maintaining it, so they've probably carved the runes into something."

He nods, that was his assessment too, "You're faster than me, so take the north and south-east points of the island, get a reading on its strength and bearing. I'll take the south-west and we can meet back up, figure out our next move. There's an abandoned church on the cliff top. We could meet there?"

It's a good plan, he thinks. Neither of them is exactly defenceless, so they don't necessarily need to shadow each other for support. It's obvious she's not keen on company right now, so the best he can hope for is a commitment to meet up again. There's a risk she finds the ward on her own and destroys it, of course, but he thinks that's not very likely. And if she does, so what? He keeps looking, but this time, he can work backwards too. After Vienna the trail went cold, but now he has something to work with.

She nods, bends her legs and leaps. If the raging winds cause her any trouble, she doesn't show it, landing perfect on the roof top, leaping from level to level, and disappearing up the top of the cliff. It underscores for him just how physically out matched he is. She's not just preternaturally fit, she's legitimately supernaturally fit.

Harry couldn't ever hope to match that feat, no matter how he trained, even though he's in good shape now, which would surprise some of his old friends. He had hit a low point a few years ago (try a low valley, for several years, more like), developed a bit of a gut, until Ron and the twins had cornered him with their concerns. Harry wouldn't exactly call it an intervention; he hadn't been an alcoholic in any real or medical sense but if things had carried on as they were…

For the second time tonight, he sets off in the pouring rain, this time following the cost line away from the Church and manor house.

The weather is worse, and the walk is miserable, but Harry keeps going on. He couldn't hope to hear anyone approaching over the roar of the wind, so he keeps a close eye on his surroundings. Against someone lacking inhuman celerity the open ground works well for him.

After about 40 minutes he reaches the south-eastern tip of the island. The cliff line runs at least this far, and further still. The heavens are open, still pouring with rain, and the waves beat relentlessly against the cliffs. So, like everywhere else on the island, really, he thinks.

In fact, the only surprising thing is a scraggly tree, growing out of the side of the cliff here. It is weather beaten and missing most of its leaves but somehow it seems to be thriving regardless. Harry feels a weird kinship with it.

Taking out his wand, his performs some diagnostic spells. Taking readings on the wards. He spins slowly, getting as much data as he can. He won't know the full picture until he puts his readings together with Hermione's, but at the very least he's confident that the ward stretches a reasonable distance out to sea. Too far – he had a mad hope that they could struggle out a little way and apparate from there, but it's clear whoever set it up had accounted for his particular brand of disregard for personal wellbeing.

Frowning, there's something interfering with his diagnostics. He widens the spectrum of his analysis and is shocked to find someone is broadcasting on an emergency DMLE signal. It was weak, only reaching locally, he probably couldn't pick it up on the eastern side of the island. The source wasn't too far from here.

Setting off in a sprint, his feet slip on the wet rocks so he must charm his boots to improve his grip. Logically, Harry can only assume that this has something to do with Dawlish, unless the island is swarming with Aurors.

Following the signal, he eventually reaches the source, but can see nothing out of the ordinary. He does a basic sweep of the area, no obvious danger. The source is a rock, the size of his fist. The signal rune for the distress call is burned into it.

Fortunately, he has his wand in his hand, so when the curses come, he is not caught flat footed. Proving that he still has a lot to learn, his attacker is coming from the direction of the cliffs. He had assumed that direction would be safe, and now he's paying the price for complacency.

A powerful shield absorbs the first few, and after that he is moving, sprinting. The anti-apparition field is a massive headache, because Harry's ethos in a fight is to keep moving. Keep them guessing where you'll pop up next. Manoeuvrability, reaction time, surprise, those are key, he feels.

His assailant is a single man who favours literally the opposite stance. John Dawlish stands tall, as he always does. No running around for him, he simply swivels on the spot, following Harry implacably.

Harry calmly returns fire, chaining spells as he goes, so that the end of one wand movement flows into the next. The downward swing of a cutter flows into the spiral of conjuring darts, into the side swipe of a banisher, and on, and on. Dawlish bats aside each of these with practised calm and returns fire himself. Occasionally, where he cannot dodge, Harry interrupts his chain to subtly defect a spell, to vanish one of Dawlish's conjurations, or throw out a shield.

Multi-coloured rays beam into the night sky, hexes throw dirt into the air from where they hit the ground, all at incredible speed, and then, suddenly, Dawlish is restricting himself to defensive spells only. He issues a gout of sparks that in training call for an end of the bout. The wind snatches them away, but the message is clear.

Ceasing his attack, Harry keeps his wand trained on Dawlish. John carefully holsters his, and so Harry does the same.

"Potter," he acknowledges levelly. Harry wonders if anything really phases this man. A moment ago they were struggling for their lives, and now he's accepting him as if there was nothing wrong. "Sorry, had to be sure it was really you. Seen you fight before, couldn't mistake your style, nothing like theirs. Didn't want to leave myself open to being attacked if I just approached you. Are you with the backup? The department got my message?"

The wind howls, threatening to pitch both of them off the rain slicked cliffs. Dawlish is soaked through, his auror overcoat is dirty and torn, though the navy suit underneath is clean, his grey hair cropped short. His demeanour is the same as ever. Straight backed, leaning into the wind, coat billowing behind him. When the wind broke itself upon Hermione it was impressive because it was effortless, when it breaks on Dawlish it's impressive because of how much effort it takes him not to bend.

"No," Harry says, concerned, "Not that I'm aware of. Didn't know you were even out this way. I'm on … vacation."

Dawlish turns to look out to sea, but only slightly, this clearly wasn't what he was hoping to hear. To most people, they wouldn't be able to glean anything from his carefully blank countenance. Harry had worked with him enough to know that Dawlish was concerned. His hand has not relaxed and is clearly still ready to retrieve his wand if Harry moves wrong.

In turn, this worries Harry. Technically, Dawlish outranks him as seasoned Senior Auror, and he is just as good at his job as Harry. What Dawlish lacked in imagination he made up for with single minded determinism. In a way, the two of them were well matched, except that where Harry is a deep well of anger, still water but easily drawn to the surface, Dawlish is a frozen lake or an ossified mass. No less angry, Harry thinks, just better repressed.

Dawlish is practically a modern day Javert. He enforces the law, as it is written. He holds no favour for anyone, not even the people in power in the ministry, but he idolises the institutions and mechanisms of the law. A subtle difference, but important – Dawlish has no love for Fudge personally, but if Fudge passes a law then Dawlish executes it. This is the big area they don't quite see eye-to-eye, because Dawlish will enforce a bad law where Harry would rather look the other way if he could.

"Have you been out here since last week?" Harry asks, thinking about the guest book.

"In a manner of speaking." He piercing blue eyes are no less intense, as he turns to ask, "Why are you here?"

The rain lashes down, strong enough that it's threatening to overwhelm the charms on his glasses. The water drips down his sodden forehead and into his eyes, making it hard to see Dawlish properly.

"Meeting an old school friend."

"Here?" Dawlish's tone manages to be both level and sceptical. The, to put it mildly, inclement weather does make the story seem far-fetched. Harry begins to lose a little of his grip on that ever-present anger, he recognises the kind of questions as being the ones he would ask a suspect. Well, let Dawlish question a hostile suspect then.

"Yes, Dawlish, here. Not that it's going very well. Specifically, what I was doing was trying to triangulate the anti-apparition ward until I got your signal. What the hell are you doing here? Hiding on the ass end of this island? Is the ward anything to do with you?"

"Hiding? Yes. The ward? No," he says placidly, and the rage grows inside Harry knowing that Dawlish is getting the better of him, "backup should have arrived by now. Failing that, when I failed to check in, they should have sent someone to look for me days ago. I had assumed that was you when I saw you. Had hoped you were bringing the heavy mob, locking down the island. The ward didn't go up until a few hours ago."

"Well, as much as I'd like to claim to be the cavalry, I'm not. If you're in danger why didn't you leave before the ward went up?"

Dawlish merely raises an eyebrow slightly, "I'm not so old that I can't handle myself, and I didn't want to leave in case there were developments. I sent messages, which I thought would be sufficient, but clearly they weren't enough."

Harry sighs deeply, "Look, can I help? I'm not on active, but you did put out the 'Officer in Trouble'." Harry was not exactly … known for his esprit de corps, but that wasn't entirely his fault. It was hard to experience esprit when it wasn't reciprocated by de corps. It wasn't going to stop his coming to the aid of a colleague though, especially since he sort of liked Dawlish, in his strange, standoffish kind of way, despite their philosophical disagreements over the law.

Dawlish considers him, and then says, "Maybe. I'm supposed to be looking for Dr. Hugo Moraeu. Heard of him?"

His brow furrows, "Yes … an Unspeakable, right? Some sort of dementor expert, I think. The Warden doesn't like him visiting Azkaban much. I've heard he's made complaints, something about his experiments agitating the dementors."

Dawlish nods, "He went missing a few months ago. We've been keeping it out of the papers. One day he stopped coming into work. Without a trace, it seemed. It was only by chance I picked up on this lead."

More considering, and this time he's inscrutable even to Harry. He must pass at least part of the test because Dawlish continues to explain, though Harry suspects he's not getting the full picture.

"I mentioned him to Barty Crouch in passing," Harry nodded in understanding, he was the cabinet minister for the Department of International Magical Cooperation, "who said he hadn't seen him in a long time. Then, he invited me out to his island. For this party."

"Right …" Harry said slowly.

"I never get invited to parties, Potter. I think he knows something but couldn't tell me at the Ministry. I decided to come out here early, do a little investigating."

"And?"

"Well, I'm not living out here for nothing," he says, calmly. A flash of lightning illuminates them both. "If you go looking for Moreau, make sure you watch your back Potter."

Fully turning to leave, he says "And if you find him, don't assume he's friendly. They think he took something from the Department of Mysteries before he disappeared."

To Harry's great astonishment he steps directly off the side of the cliff, just one, two steps out over nothing and disappears over the edge. Harry dashes to the cliff edge, wrestling against the wind to keep from toppling over, and looks down. The sea is crashing onto the rocks below, spraying up huge plumes of salt water. It's so strong he can taste the salt in the air.

There's no sign of Dawlish. No body tumbling in the air, no body being thrown about on the waves.

Harry sighs, it's not like John to be a show off, and he's the last man Harry would expect to throw himself off a cliff otherwise. Presumably Dawlish knows some clever spell and has spirited himself away. Leaving by obscure means prevents Harry from tracking or following him, which is just healthy paranoia.

It does leave him with far more questions than answers, though, and a lot of moving parts to work with.

Going double time, Harry hurries back to the church. Despite the terrible weather, it is only early autumn and there are only so many hours of darkness. Hermione will presumably have to sequester herself away from the dawn when it arrives. He also wouldn't mind some sleep himself - it has been a very long day, glad for the power nap he took earlier. Without it he would probably be really feeling it.

As he approaches the church a flash of lightning illuminates the building, and two figures inside are silhouetted against the light. He crouches low, silently bringing up as many stealthy charms as he can remember. Silencing, disillusionment, notice-me-not, everything. Quickly he makes his way up to the building.

Thankfully, whatever glass was in the windows is long gone, so he can stay outside and ideally out of sight. The rain still pounds down and the winds still gale, but fortunately they are not making any attempt to hide themselves.

"I told you; I don't want to see you again." Hermione, sounding angry and accusatory.

"And I told you, you would eventually regret that." The other voice is familiar too, but he can't quite place it. A woman's voice, but too distorted through the sound of the storm to pin it down. He thinks the accent is foreign, possibly Italian, or French. It throws him off, because it's not like any Italian or French accent he's ever heard before, but he can't think of anything more fitting.

"Though I highly doubt it in general, I certainly don't regret it yet."

"No?" she sneers, "Of course not, I forgot. Hermione Granger doesn't need my help anymore, does she? She's ready to make her own mistakes." The venom is palpable, her tone is nothing but condescension.

"What is that supposed to mean, Leandra?" The words are clipped, Harry knows she is trying to reign herself in. Who is Leandra, why does she know Hermione, and why is she here?

"You know exactly what it means. We didn't – you didn't put all that effort in to make such a basic mistake now. I know why you're here, and I know you won't be able to cope alone. You might have managed cooped up like a hermit since we parted, but out here? Look at you, I can see the tremor in you already. Is it worth it?"

"I can cope just fine, thank you," the ice-cold rain is warmer than her voice, "and be honest – you don't care about the effort I spend. The sacrifices I make. Your little experiment has failed. You don't even care about me; you just want to keep controlling me. And I. Have. Had. Enough."

There is a pause, before the other woman says, "You might have failed, Hermione, but the experiment will continue with a more promising subject. I will forgive your brash, youthful anger. In time, when you break down, you will come back to me. And I will forgive you then too."

"There was never anything with you to come back to."

"Careful Hermione. I am merciful, but only so far. And you have one glaring weakness that you don't want me to exploit," Leandra speaks languidly, it's clear she believes she is 'winning' this exchange.

"If you do, I will tear down anything and everything you have built. I will burn anything that you have ever touched, I will -"

"That sounds like a threat, and you know we do not abide by threats to your elders. I am patient Hermione. Throw your convictions away on a dalliance if you must, but remember, they are but fragile mayflies next to us. When everyone you know and cherish is but dust, I will still remain. And you will come back to me."

Hermione is silent.

"Fine, go on then. Make your mistakes, and when you do fall into depravity don't go thinking you can acquire yourself alternate company for eternity. You do not have permission, neither from me nor from the Camarilla. And I will never give you permission. You remember what befell Fairfax when she crossed that line, don't you?"

Hermione is silent still.

"You're fond of literature, so think on this 'Once is a misfortune, but twice … twice will look like carelessness'. We would need to consider if there is something … deviant about Fairfax's bloodline. And if there is, we will have to expunge it. Root and branch."

"Get out." She says dangerously, and then shouts, "GET OUT!"

"Fine. But I will not be going far."

Harry, still bent low, moves around the building, hoping to catch a glimpse of her as she leaves.

A tall, blonde woman, with a thin face leaves the church, and Harry instantly recognises her. This is Hermione's 'acquaintance' from Vienna. He flattens himself against the wall, intent on not catching her attention. She is bad news, and now he has a name to the face.

She's dressed in gear for riding. Modern breeches (made of stretchy, more water-resistant fabrics), long riding boots, a high-necked white shirt, and a woollen show jacket, which pulled in tightly at the waist.

Her clothing is instantly soaked in the downpour, there are no charms on her to protect her from the elements, but just like Hermione she seems completely unconcerned. Unbothered.

She hesitates slightly and taking absolutely no chances Harry begins to draw his wand.

He is right to, because in seconds she covers the distance between them. She moves with a particular terrifying speed and grace that he has been subject to once before. Well, twice, if you count Hermione too.

A shield flares to life in front of him, but he will never know if he raised it in time, because Leandra has already been stopped.

Hermione is there, where moments ago she was not. Leandra's raised arm is caught tightly in Hermione's hand, preventing it from continuing its downswing. He can't see her face, and he forces himself not to look at the shape of her athletic body, her muscles defined as she strains to keep Leandra back, her back taught and her legs planted one in front of the other to keep her centre of gravity low.

"I said go away, bitch." She growls, the two of them locked together.

The other woman grins, she exerts herself, Harry can see her pupils dilate and his eyes are drawn to her teeth. Her two top incisors become markedly more fang-like, and Hermione's arm trembles, and is minutely forced lower. "Are you sure this is contest you want to have? Even if you have the reserves for it, I am a great deal older than you."

"I said-"

"I know what you said, go away. Etcetera, etcetera." Leandra fixes Harry with her dark blue eyes and scowls, apparently able to spot him even through his defensive charms, "It's not polite to spy on people, boy. If you carry on down this road you will cause her much pain. You would be doing her a favour if you kept your distance. I only give one warning, there are no others."

Hermione interrupts, "This doesn't seem like much of a warning."

If it hadn't been clear from the wand, this would confirm to him that Leandra hadn't told her everything about their last tussle, and from her careful words apparently wasn't keen on telling her. She had tried to warn him off before, the first warning.

Leandra relaxes, straightens her shirt, and her eyes return to their normal size, her teeth less noticeable. "You are lucky then, that unlike you I prefer not to hurt my Hermione. Tearing you apart in front of her would cause her distress I am keen to avoid."

She turns and walks away casually, an exaggerated swagger to her, one hand running through her wet hair, tossing it behind her as she goes.

They both watch her leave in silence, making sure that she is gone before they retreat inside.

Hermione stands in front of where the altar would be, her back to Harry, taking several deep breaths. He knows she doesn't actually need to breathe the air, but there must be some sort of autonomic link for her still, between deep breathing and calming strong emotions. He feels a little shame for a moment for ever thinking there wasn't. Just because she's not a living person anymore doesn't make her inhuman.

"How much of that did you hear?" She asks with a sigh.

He rests his back against a dry spot on the thick stone wall, and steels himself to ask the kind of questions he needs answer to. The kind of questions with answers that hurt. "A fair bit. I didn't really understand much of it, to be honest. What's her deal?"

"Leandra is my … sponsor. Traditionally a vampire has a sire, but that's not possible in my case."

"I'm lacking the context to understand any of that," he admits.

She bites out a small laugh, "Yes, that's intentional on their part. A lot of what even magical people believe about vampires is wrong, done purposefully to keep you in the dark. Even the eldest vampires have a little bit of fear in them, I think, of what would happen if people banded together, intent on destroying them."

She turns around, hands on her hips, "Your sire is the person that … turns you. The Camarilla, a sort of vampire council, prefer to call it 'embrace' but I don't care for that. You see, in order to make a vampire you need the permission of your sire and the regions Camarilla. It's part population control, because if we all went around doing it pretty soon there would be no human people left, just monsters reproducing exponentially … and it's part politics. See, the more vampires you sire, the more vampires owe you allegiance, the greater your standing in 'society'."

He waits patiently for her to continue. Again, he feels a little guilt – this is an Auror tactic. Produce a pause, a silence, that the suspect feels the need to fill.

"Fairfax didn't have permission to turn me. And of all the rules the Camarilla enforce, that's the big one. After I … left Hogwarts they caught up with me less than two days later. They had Fairfax and executed her in front of me. Leandra volunteered to be my sponsor, in place of Fairfax. Teach me the rules, that sort of thing."

"I see…" he said, "so that's what she was getting at, telling you she'd never give you permission?"

Hermione quickly looks away from him, the barest hint of a blush on her face, "Yes. She was also making it clear that if I ever did turn someone, they wouldn't just stop at killing me. She would make sure that … whoever I turned would be killed too. No sponsors allowed for my chosen."

Hermione raises her arms up to hug herself, "We had a falling out a few years ago. I had thought … well, it doesn't matter what I thought. Long story short, I disappointed her, and in doing so I realised that she doesn't care about me, like a friend or even a mentor should. She just wants to own me. To control me."

Her jaw is tense, and he can see the beginning of tears in her eyes, and he is consumed with impotent hatred for Leandra. To take her on, from experience, would be very unwise, but he is still driven with a desire to prevent her from ever being able to hurt Hermione again. To prevent her from manipulating, threatening, or controlling her ever again.

But he can't do any of those things. Not right now.

Instead, he takes a step towards her, opening his arms slightly in invitation. He is still afraid of her, yes, but Harry Potter never could let Hermione Granger suffer alone. Not if he could help it.

Her eyes widen in fear, shaking her head, as she takes a corresponding step backwards. It hurts worse, he thinks, than when she attacked him all those years ago. There's nothing quite like the sting of rejection, and he has been so uncontrollably in love with her for so long.

"I can't," she whispers, "I …" She chokes back a sob. "I might not have as much control as I implied earlier. I don't know what might set it off anymore."

He frowns, "What do you mean?"

With tears falling down her face she looks up at the ceiling, which once was beautiful, and says, "The Beast. I used to be able to control it, keep it on a leash. But … as time has gone on its influence is getting stronger and stronger. Most of the time it's just small things. It makes me slam a door in anger, or it makes me flirty when I don't mean to be. Small things, for now. The problem is the longer it whispers in my ear, the more I want to agree with it."

Wiping the tears from her face, she continues, "And it's not just that. At first, I could keep it locked down without problem. But now I feel it pushing against my control. All. The. Time. If I let it slip for a second, it will seize control. You saw Fairfax, same as me … that's what a Frenzy looks like."

It wasn't just Fairfax he saw Frenzy that night.

"And if it gets lose … it's just an animal. An animal that's trying to turn me into an animal too."

He lets out a breath, "Forgive me, but Leandra doesn't seem like an animal, and I suspect she's considerably older than you are. Why doesn't it affect her?"

Laughing bitterly, she says, "Leandra di Mazi is a 400-year-old Florentine vampire. She doesn't have to fight it because she…"

He waits, wishing he could go to her. Dry the tears on her face, and the one's on his he refuses to acknowledge, collect her up in his arms and tell her it will be alright. It's still a selfish thought because he knows that it won't be. And because he wants to do it for his comfort just as much as hers.

"She eats what she pleases. Her Beast doesn't fight with her because it gets what it wants. Unlike mine …"

She kicks at the floor, sending dust scattering away, "I've become a trite stereotype. The 'vampire who won't drink from people'," she bounces on her feet, pacing angrily, "I haven't drunk from a human … well. In a very long time."

He blinks, and laughs. It tastes odd in his mouth, the laughter, but he means it genuinely. "I should have guessed, really." How like her, how like her to never do anything the easy or simple way. How like her to have convictions of steel, something to believe in. How like her to put those ideals before herself.

His doubts are erased, this is Hermione Granger. A tortured version of her, but still fundamentally her.

She looks at him sharply, silently asking why.

"Because you're still Hermione Granger under there," he says gently, "I stand by what I said, it would have been easier if you were a monster … but it's better that you're not. The woman I –"

He stumbles, swallows, not wanting to cause either of them more pain than needed, "The woman I knew, the woman who tried to emancipate Hogwarts' house elves, was never going to go around eating people. And I'm glad she's not gone."

She wrings her hands, "It's not that simple, Harry. You think I'm the only vampire with morals? We get so much of our power from blood, and I'm not … not getting the right kind, understand? And the Beast doesn't understand, doesn't care, all it knows is that it's getting fed the equivalent of cat food that's mostly ash when there are delicious steaks walking around."

"The hunger is always there, even when I'm past full, when I'm bloated on a substitute, the Beast wants something else! I've been living in a flat, never seeing anyone, never going out, for three years Harry, because that hunger just keeps getting stronger and stronger," she is shouting at him now, a little of the desperation and fear she must be trying to hard to keep down is showing in her eyes, "and if you come too close I … I could hurt you!"

"Hurt you again," she whispers "Leandra was right, in part. This is a mistake."

"Leandra is trying to manipulate you."

"Yes. But she's not wrong about everything. I have failed. We – she, thought that maybe if you caught it early enough, that a vampire that has only ever really known animal blood, might be able to keep its sanity. That instead of appeasing the Beast, feeding it, you could keep it small by denying it everything it wanted. That the more you deny it the earthly pleasures it demands and the more you embrace your humanity instead, the weaker its hold on you would be. It's her experiment, and though it worked for a time … I failed to produce good results."

"But you've … um," he pauses, not sure how to go on.

"Yes, I fed from you." She says it with blistering eye contact, and he feels like there's nothing else that matters in the world for just a moment. He hates that he feels this way. He hates that it hurts to love her. He hates how he … feels about the bite.

"That first time." There is a hunger in her eyes, and it excites and frightens him at the same time. She tears her sight away from him, which must have been an act of incredible willpower if she feels even half of what he does, and he lets out a shaky breath, "and it was the last time. But if she's right, if there is a way to control it by denying it, then even once is too much. I'm destined to fight it until it breaks me."

"I'm sorry," he says, meaning a lot of things. Meaning that he's sorry he couldn't prevent her turning. Meaning that he's sorry he let her go when he should have given her mercy. Meaning that he's sorry this has happened to her, and to him, at all.

She shrugs. "I got over it," she lies with a sad smile. "I try to 'embrace my humanity' as much as I can."

Still wishing there was less space between them, he asks "What does that mean, exactly?"

"Things that make me feel like a person, and not like an animal. Listening to or playing music is the best one, really. Reading books, looking at art. The opera I can handle, but the ballet was too much. In a pinch, drinking hot, sweet tea."

"I thought vampires couldn't eat or drink normal food?"

She laughs, and wrinkles her face up, "We can't. I throw it all up about a quarter hour later. But that's usually long enough to get away from whatever's tempting the Beast. Long enough to re-establish control."

She sighs, humour subsiding, "Dawn is coming."

He looks out of the window. It still seems very dark to him. "How can you tell? With all these storm clouds?"

"We always know."

"Are you…"

"I'll be fine, Harry. At least for a while. Why don't you meet me back here tomorrow night? We can pool our data and get a fix on the ward."

"Or, you could give me your data now, and I could look at it before I turn in?"

She shakes her head, "You must be mad, Harry," a small smile graces her face, "You're not doing any investigating without me."

"Oh?" It's pathetic, he thinks, how quickly his spirits lift.

"Yeah. My letter might have been a trap, but it was still right. You're going to need me."

I've always needed you. He thinks silently. I've always needed you because I love you.

Instead, he forces a little fake laugh, "Always glad for your help."

The sandy grit crunches underfoot, presumably from the limestone bricks and the slow erosion of years, he turns he leaves, intending to take one last look at her.

She is already gone.

The skies have lightened slightly by the time he returns to Greer. It's still grey, and dark, but light enough to see by. He is exhausted, and hungry, but it's too early to catch breakfast so instead he goes to bed with a rumbling in his stomach. What must it be like, he thinks, to go to bed hungry every night? A small ray of thankfulness breaks through his self-pity, that at least he doesn't count that amongst his problems.

The dream is always the same. Sometimes it starts earlier that night. Sometimes in media res, half-way through the action. Sometimes it starts as he sits beside her, waiting.

Sometimes, the worst times, it starts at the beginning. Starting under the mistletoe is not much better. (He is lying to himself, because even though those times break him, they are nothing compared to starting with her murder).

He often wonders if he dreams it all, start to finish, but it's just most of the time his tiny little damaged mind can't hold it all at once when he wakes.

Either way, his every dream is always the same. Tonight, it picks up where it left off on the boat, what seems like a hundred, no, a thousand years ago.

He is always conflicted about this part of the dream. And he hates that it makes him feel that way.

His heart rate is instantly racing, pulse through the roof, as the shadow descends on him. He tries to dodge, to move, to do anything, but she always hits her target.

Hermione plows into him, and they go reeling, tumbling. She is graceful, in perfect control, and even though he flips and rolls with the force she expertly turns him toward the ground just before the impact.

Bruised and battered already, the breath leaves his body in one violent motion. His fingers scrabble against her, desperate to get purchase. She has landed atop of him, her legs straddling him, and he instinctively tries to throw her off. She's impossibly strong, but she still weights the same as a regular human.

He is too slow, too injured, too tired. Her left-hand shoots down, pinning him down by his throat. All thoughts of throwing her off are subsumed by the instinctive desire to wrestle with her hand, to pry her off his airway, her hand constricting. She could crush him in an instant, leave him ruined and dying but instead she applies just the right amount of pressure to keep him busy panicking he can't breathe, but not enough to kill outright.

Her cruel eyes don't look like anything he has ever seen on her before. The expression is inconsistent with her beautiful face, absurd even.

Clawing at her hands, he is powerless to stop her seizing his left arm in her right. She roughly lifts it into the air, and he feels something pull in the muscles of his arm. The pain is intense, something might have dislocated, but still secondary behind the vice grip on his throat.

She tilts her head to one side, an ancient predator moments before striking. She twists his arm and he tries to howl in pain but he can't even get air down, how could he possible force it out?

Wrist exposed, her head darts forward, her sharp fangs bite deeply into his flesh.

Instead of the pain he had expected, he suddenly feels light. Everything is spinning, and everything is going to be okay.

He has stopped clawing at her hand, even before she releases the pressure.

Looking up, the heavens look back. A hundred thousand stars or more look down upon him indifferently, blinking oblivious to his newfound calm. They twinkle, and he is mesmerised.

He blinks, slowly, and looks at her.

Her eyes are closed, her mouth gently working at his wrist. She stops briefly, lets out a small sigh, before diving back in. Her other hand is splayed out on his chest, supporting her weight. Through his befuddled state he can only see her, the stars forgotten. Dim orbs in comparison, completely eclipsed by her. She is perfect, and though there is something wrong with her eyes … he can't remember what.

She sighs again, but this time it is almost more of a groan. Without thinking, his free, uninjured, arm rises to hold her. He touches her back, fingers tenderly running lines up her spine. In response, her hand moves to touch his lips, just gently. Running a thumb along them, and then her hand moves into his hair.

A familiar warmth spreads through him, even though the night is cold.

His wrist burns where her lips touch, the skin on fire. Faintly, he knows that arm should be a locus of pain but he can't feel it. All he can feel is her soft lips on his skin.

Just the faintest, barest suggestion of teeth.

Then, groaning, she rolls her hips against him. He gasps and holds her tighter with his one good arm. She doesn't need to stop to breathe, but he watches her chest rise and fall, as if her body is demanding more air through exertion. He aches for her touch, to feel her fingertips trace shapes on his bare skin, to feel her lips pressed against his.

They lock eyes again, and whatever fierce, evil thing was in control has passed. Instead, he sees the familiar light of desire in her eyes. Those eyes are all Hermione now. He has seen her this way before, knows it intimately, and like every time his stomach flips, and he presses his hips back into hers.

Possessed, he abandons her back and grabs his shirt, ripping and tearing the buttons free. Exposing his chest down to his stomach, but more importantly, his neck. He snakes his fingers into her hair, holding her by the back of her head, and gently pulls her away from his wrist, knowing he could never have had the strength to do so if she did not want to let him.

He guides her in, turning and arching his neck, inviting her, and she greedily latches onto him. Her back curves, rising and falling in time with her hips, in time with her drawing from his neck. She moans into his neck, her lips glued to his skin, and he gasps in response as a shiver ripples through him.

His vision begins to cloud, the dizziness intensifying strong enough that a little nausea breaks through the fugue. His arms, even the good one, go limp.

Dimly, he recognises that she is killing him.

That at the end he practically invited her to.

That in this moment he doesn't care if she does.

Abruptly, she sits up. A thin trickle of red blood spills from her lip.

The desire in her eyes is gone, instead there is fear, blind terror. An intense self-loathing. She throws her head back and screams, sobbing, apologies tumbling from her mouth like sand rushing through an hourglass. Her hands pat him down desperately, but a vampire bite isn't a normal wound. There is no bleeding, she has barely wasted a drop. The damage is done.

She frantically searches for his wand, but it is gone, left behind at the castle in his flight, and hers was snapped hours ago. He looks up at her, still serene, as she sobs and sobs.

He would reach out to comfort her, even now it hurts him to see the anguish on her face. But he hasn't the strength, and so she continues to panic, muttering her apologies, desperately trying to think of something to fix it.

Then, she suddenly looks directly east, and looks torn. Her internal battle goes on for several minutes, her pupils dilating and relaxing back and forth. Although his grasp of time is shaky, he thinks she sits there with him for quite a while, before her warring emotions resolve themselves.

Shakily, she kisses his forehead, leaving a smear of drying blood on his pale skin. Though his vision is closing in, he is aware enough to see her wretch at the sight of it.

She mumbles more apologies as his hearing wanes. Her lips form the shape of words, words he knows and cherishes, one final unintended cruelty.

He comes in and out of consciousness as day breaks, and Hermione has fled, the sunlight glaring in his eyes. The first time he awakes he tries to scream, but his throat has closed on him, and he can barely wheeze. Something in his left arm is not right, but he is too exhausted, too dehydrated, too exsanguinated to understand what. He tries to whet his lips, but he can't produce any saliva, and then he fades back to nothing.

This cycle repeats several times before help finds him.

He awakes with a start, in his small hotel bed. As always, his hands go to his wrist and his neck, touching the spots where her teeth pierced his flesh. There are no marks, he knows, but he can always feel where they were.

Something of those bites lingers, even a decade on.

He sits up, throwing off the blankets in a rage. He takes several deep breaths, counts backwards from ten, does his occlumency exercises.

Does anything but wallow in self-loathing and self-pity. Anything but focus on that bite, and the way it made him feel.

How she breaks him down into nothing and made him feel grateful for it.

How willing he was to offer himself to her.

He charms himself clean, dresses in fresh clothes (almost exactly the same as yesterdays), and leaves in search of food. He is past ravenous now, into the serene valley beyond. That strange place where he knows he needs, and wants, to eat but can't find the enthusiasm for any particular option.

The storm continues outside. He doubts if it has even let up for a moment. The ward and the weather must be tied together. His brow worries thinking about the use of magic on a scale so visible. If the ministry hasn't taken note yet, then they almost certainly will very soon. This is a serious breach of international law.

He runs into Alastair, who is cleaning behind the desk, "Good afternoon, Mr. Potter! We missed you at breakfast this morning, though with all the commotion I'm hardly surprised."

"Commotion? What commotion?"

Surprise flashes across his face, "Why, you haven't heard? Dear me, terrible business. They found a body this morning, on the northern beach."

It takes him a moment to comprehend, his lips suddenly dry, "Do they know who it is?"

"Officially they haven't said. Rumour going around is not local, though. A mystery as to how she got there. The storm must have washed her ashore and left her when the tide went out."

Alastair isn't even finished speaking before Harry is charging out the door.

A/N: Thanks for reading!