A Requiem in B Negative

Chapter 1

Fic Summary: They said she killed eleven students and an Auror, the night she turned. Harry knows that isn't true. He was there. Aside from him, and the murder of his hopes and dreams, she didn't hurt a single student. The Auror though? No comment.

A/N: AU after third year, though some elements and characters may remain. I don't know vampire media terrible well (which is at least half the point – trying something difficult), so apologies for all the tropes I am undoubtedly walking straight into! Credit where it is due - the vampires in this fic are loosely inspired by the World of Darkness / Vampire the Masquerade vampires (though this isn't a crossover) in that they reflect my accidentally misunderstood, purposefully misunderstood or wilfully contrary version thereof.

Suggested listening – 'Liszt – Totentanz'. If classical isn't usually your thing, maybe give it a shot anyway, it'll set the scene.

A hundred thousand stars looked down upon him indifferently, blinking oblivious to his frantic heart.

Sharp branches scratched his face, pushing blindly through the dense, dead trees. The grey and rotting trunks were in abundance in this part of the forest, he had run past the verdant tree line, and into this lifeless copse, in a blind panic. The perils of the Forbidden Forest were the furthest thing from his mind compared to the danger that was behind him.

His breathing was laboured, twigs cracked underfoot, he slipped and stumbled in the dry soil, skidding in the rush of dirt under foot. Scrambling to his feet, he launched back into a sprint. Thorns tugged at his clothing, snagging and tearing as he wrenched himself free. His breath came out in a hot plume, by morning there would be a frost on the ground. Whether he remained to see it was another thing.

He couldn't afford the time to think, so he picked his directions by instinct, trying to avoid the thickest vegetation, picking a downhill direction (easier to run) over an uphill …

His knew, rationally, that this was pointless. But that part of him which understood seemed locked away, and so he did this every time, powerless to repeat his every mistake, and every time she tracked him, hunted him.

She was out there, cloaked in the night, keeping pace without so much as breaking a sweat. Even if he had managed to keep hold of his wand it would have been no use to him. He simply didn't know a spell he was sure could stop her.

He ran, and ran, and ran, dreading and yearning for the moment that he knew was about to come. The first time, it had been swift, but these days the agony of waiting was more painful than the squeezing in his chest, the burning in his legs, the ache in his wounds …

Just when he allowed himself, as he did every time, to imagine that this time it wouldn't happen, that perhaps her interest had been diverted elsewhere (or to elsewho, a traitorous thought, mixed with both relief and jealousy), that the deadly predator was gone … that somehow he, unlike the others, would make it … she leapt, silent and powerful.

The only warning was a dark patch of the cloudless night sky, where some shape was nevertheless spreading and growing larger, occluding those heavenly but apathetic stars, unerringly homing in on him. Although he tried to weave, to dodge, she was far too fast for him. Even mid-flight she was more agile, more mobile than he could ever aspire to be. Whole constellations were swallowed up by her, the lights fading as quickly as his hope of escape.

Impact. Pain.

"Nearly there, laddie," said a solid, gruff voice.

Harry awoke with a start, his shin smarting. The old man at the wheel looked at him in barely concealed contempt, "You were fair thrashing around boy, was getting annoying" he growled, in his thick Scottish accent. Harry eyed his substantial deck boots. You did not have to be a trained Auror to put two and two together.

His every dream was always the same, his sub-conscious like a skipping vinyl record. Thankfully, this time his waking mind only remembered experiencing a part of it. The terror of the chase was bad, yes, but he would take it every time compared to the rest… And, though he would never admit it to him, he was thankful he had been kicked awake before the denouement.

He absently rubbed at his wrist, and then unconsciously at his neck, listening to the little 'phut phut phut' of the motor. The boat rocked, tipping forward and back cresting the waves of the North Atlantic. The weather was … fine. Which is to say that it was cold, there was a light mist, and it was raining, but not so badly that the grizzled fisherman felt the need to retreat into his great coat. It had been like this since they had set off early this morning from Portree, after a long (by Harry's standards) hire car drive from Kincraig, which was the closest place with a public floo to his ultimate destination. It had taken a great deal of effort to convince the man to take him the last leg of the journey, effectively paying him for an entire days missed catch (and presumably a lot more, considering the cheque he'd written) in advance.

No regular ferries went to Speur's Folly.

The ancient water was deep and dark here. Harry tried to peer into its depths but could barely see past the frothing surf in the wake of little fishing boat. She was old, rusty, and likely unfit for sailing. Much like her gnarled captain, he thought, who had been drinking from a hip flask at an alarming rate. They had been silent more or less the entire way, until after an hour or so Harry had fallen asleep. 'Nearly there laddie' was almost double the amount of words he'd said prior to that.

Speur's Folly was fast approaching on the horizon now, and Harry stood to get a better look. He put his hands on the edge and leaned out to see, exhaling white vapour in the cold as he did. She was a small Hebridean island, no more than five hundred people lived there. He could just about make out the buildings of the principal (and only) town, Greer, nestled in the dark, rocky cliffs. A natural, steep sided cut away in the shoreline provided the town with cover from the elements and access to deep water for the jetty. The random white sand beaches interspersed between rocky outcroppings on the other side of the island were too shallow for boats, especially at low tide, when the beach could go on for miles. The exposed flat land that made up of the rest of the island (while adequate for crofters grazing sheep) was beset by the elements year-round.

Fingers tapping nervously on the hull, he fancied he could see some kind of manor house overlooking the sea further along the cliff line, separated from the town, and perhaps the tower of an old church, in the gothic style.

The Folly loomed larger and larger in the thin, parting, swirling mist, until it towered above them. The town was built on five levels, a steep switch back street went from the small jetty at sea level right to the top of the cliffs, and presumably out to the rest of the island. It didn't look wide enough, to Harry, for a car to pass along it. It must, he thought, have been built along with the rest of the town, probably Victorian, and built from roughhewn local stone. The buildings were probably thatched once upon a time but now had modern slate roofs.

"You never said why you needed to be here in such a hurry, and out of tourist season too" the man remarked, with a sly curiosity.

"No, I didn't," Harry replied brusquely, thinking of the letter.

They were silent again.

"Fine, suit yourself. There'll be a supply boat you can catch back in a few weeks, they don't come so regular now the post is delivered by air, unless you can convince an islander to ferry you back" not knowing that Harry was a wizard, and therefore able to apparate. He could come and go as he pleased as soon as he was familiar enough with the island to will himself there, through whatever void you passed through when apparating.

He had considered arriving by broom but decided not to risk the night flying he'd have to do to avoid being seen. He didn't care to miss the island in bad weather and fly right out to sea. There was also something to be said for an understated entrance. He was here with a purpose and didn't care to spook her if he could help it. He had learnt a lesson in Vienna.

They pulled up alongside the jetty, the engine still turning over, and as the fisherman threw his rope over the mooring he said "Min' yourself, there's always tension between the islanders and the tourists."

"How so?" he asked, straining to keep a bitter edge out of his voice. The same old constant struggle.

He shrugged, "Always is, places like this. You turn up, gawkin', and then leavin', not takin' your garbage with you, never having to tough it out for longer than a week," he grinned, and contrary to expectation his teeth were set perfectly, gleaming white, "and you turnin' up out of season, when the islanders expect to have the place to themselves …"

Harry disembarked and threw the rope back, the fisherman not even making landfall for a second. Without so much as a farewell the motor kicked back into life and boat eased back out into the mists.

The jetty was deserted, the islanders' boats were all likely at sea, pulling in their catch. Unlike the man he had hired to take him here, who probably fished commercially, the islanders would likely eat the fish they caught themselves. He stamped his boots and rubbed his arms, trying to take the edge off the cold.

He took a moment to look up at the dreary, weather-beaten town. The buildings were quaint, but also low to the ground, sturdy and stocky. They looked like there wasn't a storm on Earth that could blow them down. The windows were all small, too small to climb out of for sure, and there were no phone lines. There was certainly no internet or mobile phone coverage here.

The sea was crashing into the break of the jetty, occasionally a wave would lap up onto the cobbled street, depositing some foul-smelling seaweed. Or at least he thought it was seaweed. Harry did not have much experience with the sea, and generally distrusted it. Pretty to look at from the safety of the shore, but not a place he cared to swim in. Nothing like the Lake at Hogwarts. At least he could count on the Hogwarts giant squid being docile, no telling what baleful leviathans lurked out here.

Careful not to slip on the damp cobbles, he began the climb up to the town proper. He knew there were several guest houses here, the island had a rousing tourist trade during the good weather months and at the solstices, but as it was the off season he had not booked ahead. He'd barely had time to check the island had hotels at all before he had left in the wee hours of the morning. He had barely the presence of mind to owl in to the Auror office. He had un-used holiday stacked up to the heavens, so if they weren't happy at the short notice they could suck it, he thought.

He passed the kinds of things he expected to see, the Town Hall, several fishmongers, a general store, a butcher, a school, community centre, doctor's office, a post office, and a couple of pubs. He had vaguely heard there was supposed to be a distillery somewhere on the island too. Something about the water here, apparently, made the whisky especially desirable.

Surprisingly, several of the bed and breakfast guest houses had signs out the front saying 'No Vacancies'. He had expected 'Closed for the Season', or just to find them shut with no lights on and the doors barred, but not 'No Vacancies'.

He had to climb halfway up the town before he found a grim looking place that wasn't full. The 'Greer Town Guest House' according to the sign promised him a 'Pleasant stay in picturesque Greer' but from the look of the place he doubted that was in their power to provide. He'd settle for hot water and clean sheets.

Figuring it wouldn't hurt he walked the rest of the length of the switch back road. Unfortunately, it seemed that the Greer Town Guest House was the only place in town with rooms to spare. Returning, he looked out to sea. The little boat that had brought him here was already gone, swallowed by the fine mist.

Entering through the small stone doorway, he found himself in a small reception. It was nominally lit with outdated 80s wall lights, but the real light and warmth was coming from an open-hearth fireplace burning wood. It would have been nice, except the chimney wasn't doing a great job, and the wood smoke made his eyes water. The heat, on the other hand, was very much welcome.

Seeing that it was unattended, he carefully deposited his tie-down canvas rucksack, peeled off his gloves and learned over the desk. Turning the guest book around he read down the list of names. The name he really wanted to see wasn't there, though he admitted it was a long shot. Even if she was here, he very much doubted she would use her real name.

His eyebrows did raise when he saw 'John Dawlish' listed among the guests. It appeared he had checked in a week ago, but his name had since been crossed out and a note written next to it 'Defaulted – not welcome back'.

One of the doors began to open and he quickly put the guest book back as it was. He leant casually against the desk and waited.

An older man, slightly bowed in stature, shuffled in and took up his position behind the desk. His hair was thinning on top and clasped his hands together, rubbing them as he talked.

"Good morning, sir," he said slickly, and despite the beautiful lilting accent of the islanders he somehow sounded oily and ingracious, "welcome to Greer House. I'm Alastair Cameron, how can I help you?"

"I'm looking to take a room. Three days to start, maybe extend it depending?"

"Of course," he simpered, "that will be no problem. Name?"

"Harry Potter," he waited to see if there was a flicker of recognition. Nothing. The old man simply wrote the name down in the guest book, in his spindly, loopy hand.

"Will Sir be wanting breakfast?"

"Yes," he says tersely, not knowing if he would be around when it was served but he thought that saying no may seem odd. He rather expected that he would be using the bed during the day, not the night, and would be keeping odd times. It was dangerous to go about it that way, but she'd go to ground during the day. He'd have to be exceptionally lucky to stumble across her then.

"Excellent. It's served seven 'til nine. Lunch and dinner are available next door in the Cart and Lamb pub, if you've a mind. If I may ask, Sir is here for the function at Dunbroch House?" He tilted his head to the side, not unlike a bird or a dog, but also… not. It was disquieting.

"What function? Some party?"

"Yes, some big thing up at the Dunbroch manor in a day or two. Apparently, some kind of extravagant housewarming, even though he's owned it for years now. It's why we're all so well booked out. You're lucky there's room. Lucky, lucky, lucky," he clucked.

A few seconds passed as the old man studied him.

"If not the party, then … the ruins? The distillery? Or the old observatory? Can't be the weather station, surely. The university just sent someone. She looked all of about twelve. Barely out of school, she seemed."

Harry knew about the ruins, some ancient standing circle. The tourists came to dance around it twice a year, and were the islands main (read, only) real attraction. The distillery didn't run tours, unlike many of the others in this part of the world. The observatory and weather station were news to him.

Resisting the urge to tell him to sod off and take his questions with him, Harry realised he would need to tell him something. He could afford to be a little short to the strange fisherman, as he couldn't draw attention to him now he was on his way back to the mainland … but Alastair here was nosy. Probably a gossip too. He kicked himself for giving his real name. Too many mistakes like that and this would turn into a dead end, like every time. If she discovered he was here, it seemed unlikely that she would seek him out – he would instead expect her to quickly and silently move on, like she had before.

Unless this time was different, unless her purpose here kept her…

"It's the church, actually," he said, thinking on his feet, "I work for an architecture magazine. Doing a piece on the churches of the Hebridean Isles."

"Oh?" he rubbed his chin, "Can't help you there. Place was abandoned years back now. Too costly to keep in repairs, I think. They run a church group out of the community centre now. Perhaps the vicar could help?"

Harry smiled and nodded, before turning the conversation to a more profitable angle. "What's the old observatory?"

The man shook his head, "Just some fools hobby. Some Victorian gentleman gets it into his head that Speur's Folly can be his island retreat but can't do without his telescope. So, he has an observatory built. Then, less than a year later he dies with the observatory still unfinished, and his family don't care to come back and the whole thing just goes and rusts."

"It's a part of the Dunbroch estate then?" The house and the party are his real area of interest. His quarry must have some reason for being here, and this is the best lead he has so far.

He sucks the air in through his teeth, "Yes, though the current owner doesn't seem interested in it. Or anything else on the island for that matter."

"Oh? Not very friendly then?"

He taps the pen against the guest book, "Quiet, mostly. Never met him, no one sees him, he's never come into town as far as I know. For all I know, he's never even set foot on the island. Keeps a retainer up at the house, he's the only one we've ever seen and even then, it's rarely. Mr. Brown, he calls himself. Doesn't care to chat about his employer. Says he values his privacy."

There follows more talk of practicalities, where the iron is, where the tea and coffee making supplies are, and ultimately the price. It is, Harry feels, extortionate. He agrees anyway, knowing he is low on options, and this wouldn't be the first time he's dropped an impractical cheque on this quest.

Alastair offers to take his meagre bags, but Harry declines. He takes they key, which is on a little chain with a wooden tag on it. 'The Greer Guest House' is burned onto the wood in loopy script.

The corridor leading to his room is thin, his broad shoulders nearly scape against the stonework. The room itself is predictably disappointing. Small window, cheap travel kettle, and ironing board that may have been new in the 60s. One small chair and a single bed. The bed is made neatly, with brown sheets. He recognises the blanket as being the kind that's made from a wool that prickles and irritates his skin.

Dumping the rucksack, he pulls the letter from his coat pocket. It is simple, addressed to him in a hand he does not recognise (and, though he had no reason to expect it should, it does not match Alastair's writing in the guest book).

The body of the letter only consists of two words and the name of the island.

She's here.

He sits down, his wand out, laying down some protective charms. He won't need most of them until sunset, but mystery letter writers should only be trusted as far as necessary. He wouldn't be much of an Auror if he didn't follow up on a lead, but he'd be stupid to not take precautions. Not that he was here officially, of course.

Finding out Dawlish had been on the island not long ago was a surprise. Harry was familiar with him, having worked with Senior Auror Dawlish on occasion, but hadn't known he'd be sent out this way. Harry had found him to be a competent, if unimaginative, Auror. Perhaps a little too fond of following orders and procedure for Harry's tastes but, overall, not a bad guy. Not the kind of man to 'default' on his bill.

This was concerning because technically she was still a wanted criminal here. It had never occurred to him to wonder who else the letter writer might have contacted with her location. The good news was that the Ministry was unlikely to send a single Auror to deal with one magic wielding vampire. The bad news was that, if John had left in a hurry, he may have left and gone to get backup.

That is, if she had not prevented him from leaving.

He allowed himself to doze for an hour or two, to make up for lost sleep. He would need to be sharp. Eventually, the saccharine voices of children roused him from his half slumber. Mercifully he had not been deep enough under to dream. He paused to listen to their rhyme.

"Sweet's the laverock's note and lang,

Lilting wildly up the glen;

But aye to me he sings ae sang,

Will ye no come back again?"

They were outside, playing with chalk on the cobbled road. He felt a chill, for no discernible reason. Children play with chalk the world over, but still, the way their voices that drifted in and out of harmony as they skipped was oddly unsettling. Perhaps it was conjunction of their singing, the dull roar of the sea, and the whip of the wind. Perhaps it was that they were playing with chalk in the rain, but then again, living here you probably had to learn to do everything in the rain.

Concerning the weather, he looked out to sea and judged the mists to be coming in. They were thicker now, somehow resisting the strong winds which were now blowing enough that the occasional gust was making worrying howling noises through the eaves. The sea itself churned. Any worse and it wouldn't be safe to set out to sea by boat.

Pulling on his outerwear again, he retrieves a bottle from his bag. He downs the tart little potion, only one of many he keeps in there. Its affect was subtle, but it supressed body odour. A quick charm and him and his clothes smell of nothing at all. Even freshly washed, his scent could give him away. A nice soap was as bad as not washing. Theoretically, his heartbeat could give him away too, but if he was close enough for that to matter then he was too close anyway. Plus, if she could hear his heat beat in this storm, then none of his preparations really mattered. He would be out of his league regardless.

Leaving the hotel, Alastair was still in the reception room, adding more logs to the fire. "Off to see the Church already, Sir?" he asked.

"Yes, thought I'd get the lay of the land," he is irrationally irritated with Alastair, who aside from being a strange little man hasn't really done anything wrong. But then irrational anger has been Harry's party trick for a long time now.

"Well, be careful Sir. Island gets mighty dangerous after dark, especially near the ruins. There're great holes in the rock there, go straight down into the sea," he pauses, "wouldn't want you to have an accident, after all."

Murmuring thanks for the warning, he exited onto the street. He must have slept for longer than he had anticipated, because the sun was lower in the sky. He hadn't noticed earlier because of the great storm clouds that were coalescing overhead. It looked like they were in for quite the storm. Already, the rain was heavier, and the wind pushed and pulled at him, threatening to pull him off his feet.

The playing children stopped to watch him as he ascended the road.

The road at the top of the cliff petered out into a dirt track, one path leading towards the church, observatory, and the manor. The other headed inland, presumably towards the ruins. Cresting the top of the cliff, he was instantly buffeted by the strong winds. He would need to be especially careful near the cliff edge. If the rocks themselves didn't finish him after the fall, then the waves pounding into the rocks below would surely break him. If by some miracle he survived that, then the sapping cold of the sea would not be so lenient.

Darkness was falling across the island, hastened by the rapidly thickening cloud cover. He checked his wand, secured to his left wrist. He checked his back up, secured to his calf. He thought it was unlikely she would trust in the storm, that she would wait until nightfall proper but, as they say, only the brave became Aurors and only the careful get to stay that way. Constant vigilance.

Walking steadily, leaning into the wind, he started towards the church. First thing, secure his cover story, then work from there. The landscape was bare, the flat top of the island sloping down from the top of the cliff to the beach side of the island. It was nothing but random farmsteads, an endless sea of tough, hardy grass and the occasional rock, for as far as he could see.

He kept a sharp eye out for any of the dead falls Alastair had mentioned. As sure as a fall from the cliff would kill him, it would be the same falling into a watery sinkhole. Occasionally, he thought he saw a faint spray shooting into the air, reflecting the last dim rays of the sun, proving that if the rough sea was connected to the bottom of these holes it was raging strong enough to throw water up onto the land.

Squinting, he thought he could see a figure in the far distance. Male, as far as he could tell. A flash of lightning illuminated the island briefly, and the peal of thunder was not far behind. It must have struck pretty close. By the time his eyes had recovered from the flash, the figure was gone.

The church tower was an easy landmark, as was the manor house which was brightly lit. The town must have a generator somewhere, he thought. He was no expert, but it hardly seemed economical to lay a power cable on the bottom of the ocean.

As he got closer, he wished he was able to cast a night vision charm. Being able to see in the dark would be a massive help, but he didn't want to risk being blinded by the lightning flash. If one of those hit while he had the charm on he would, firstly, be in a lot of pain, but most importantly need time to recover his vision. A minute spent weeping, trying to purge the white spots from his eyes, would be all she would need to take him out if she was so inclined.

He had been right in his assessment of the church – it was early gothic, but the church tower had clearly been added at a later date. Built on a fairly modest scale, it must have represented either the combined will of the island for decades, or the result of some rich family trying to curry favour with the church. Probably the rich family, as most churches on the islands were more practically built – long and low, designed to survive the weather better whereas this said 'vanity project'.

It was beautiful, in that strange kind of way old buildings could be. It was built from limestone, in the classic way, and finished with ashlar dressings. These had mostly crumbled or worn away in the face of the relentless weather. The tower had belfry windows, the wooden slats that covered them were broken and splintered, and it was topped with little parapets and crocketed pinnacles. There was probably a bell up there, he thought.

A particularly mean farced gargoyle looked down on him, the rainwater sluicing through its mouth. It's scowling face rather gave the impression that it was throwing up the rainwater.

All over the building were signs of wear and decay. Stains, where the roof and guttering clearly weren't up to the task, were evident. The graveyard was better attended, with the headstones mostly cleaned and clear, though the erosion and the darkness made it difficult to read anything from them.

He peeked inside. The practical islanders had clearly moved the furnishings back into town when they abandoned the building, for there were no pews or lecterns or decorations. Only soil and dirt, blown in by the wind. The only thing of any real substance in there was a dilapidated old church organ.

He had never really cared that much for churches.

The wind gave a particularly fierce howl and he staggered. He thought briefly about sheltering here and waiting for the storm to blow over but looking at the walls he could see water streaming down them, through holes in the roof. He also didn't know how long storms lasted out here. Could they go for days? Another blast of wind, and plaster and dust rained from the ceiling.

Ultimately, he hadn't come here to muck about. He silently cast a charm to keep the worst of the rain off him and resolved to carry on towards the manor. He wanted to get a look at it from a distance before he considered his approach tomorrow. Disillusionment would be prudent, both to make it harder for her and so he could watch the house unobserved. Now that he was out of sight of the townspeople, he was free to layer up on more protections and did so liberally.

In the past, he knew she had been visiting opera houses. To art galleries. To universities and exhibitions. If she wasn't here for this 'party' then he could only assume it was the ruins that had drawn her out.

Considering, he changed his plan. He would scope out the ruins first instead. He had never known her to be comfortable at a party.

Outside the rain was getting worse, and the black clouds now completely dominated the sky. What little daylight was left couldn't break through, and Harry was struck by how impenetrably dark it was getting. And how fast the light had surrendered. With no light pollution for miles, the sky should be awash with stars, but the dark clouds covered even these. People who lived their entire lives in the cities or suburbs didn't have a frame of reference from true darkness, not really. It wasn't their fault, in the city you're never too far from the light, but the darkness of the island was strikingly absolute.

Lightning flashed again, and he was torn. Risk the vision charm, and risk blinding himself, or cast some torch light, which would give his position away as sure as anything.

In the end, he decided to risk the vision charm. She would be in her element now, so he couldn't afford to light himself up like a Christmas tree. And, if he fell into the sea he was almost certainly dead.

His decision made, his vision went grey and the world came back into sight. Indistinct shapes became clear. It made navigation easy, and he hurried out of the church and toward the direction of the ruins. The faster he got done out here and back to town, the quicker he could dispel the charm, and the quicker he could avoid potential retinal damage.

The hairs raised on the back of his neck, and he turns back to the crumbling building. His eye is drawn to the tower, but even with the night vision he can't see inside it properly. He studies it but when he can see no movement, and no indication that it was anything other than his overactive imagination, he turns back.

The landscape is depressingly homogenous. More than that, it's worryingly open. There are no trees, nothing bigger than a bush can probably stand against the storms here. There are some rock formations, but they are few and far between. It would be tough to make it to one and hard to hide from a determined purser there.

Skirting around some scary looking gaps in the island, where he could feel the spray of the sea rise out, the salt in the air assaulting him worse than normal, he made his way to the stone circles. He thought about half an hour by foot. Several times he had to shield his gaze from the lightning but managed to avoid the worst of it.

The stone circle was impressive, much larger than he had been anticipating. More impressive than any stone circle he had ever heard about before. The stones were stacked, set out in multiple concentric arches with the inner ring so close together it was difficult to see through them, but there were also massive upright stone slabs, which seemed to be covered in carvings or runes. Not for the first time, he cursed his elective choices at school, because it was all just so much random carving to him.

Each stone was carved from the same dark, jagged local rock that made up most of the island. It clearly predated the settlement here, which was only 600 years old at most. These rocks had been piled up here thousands of years ago. Before the pyramid's had been built. They might have predated Stonehenge, even, for all Harry knew. For a second, he stood in awe that something a human hand had wrought could still be standing over 5000 years later.

It does not last, and his rage and his latent self-loathing creep back in. He crushes them down, as he has always done. Can't be hurt if you don't let yourself feel.

In the centre, there were two great flat slabs and a tall stone edifice. He shivered; it was easy to imagine some horrible, early rite of human sacrifice could have taken place on those silent stones. Whatever secrets they held, whatever horrors they had seen, they had kept silent about for millennia.

The tall one was strange, still made from that local stone, but it looked … new. It lacked the weather-beaten patina, the wind and rain smoothed surface of the others. It was like an archway that had only been partially completed. A section was missing right at the top, where a keystone would go.

Also intriguing, disappointing and presumably illegal, someone had been vandalising some of the large upright stones. Some of the glyphs and runes had been scratched out and replaced with new ones.

Yes, mysterious runic standing circle, of unknown purpose and origin? This was peak Hermione Granger shit, he thought, not some stuffy party. She was a researcher, a learner, a problem solver.

Then his confidence waned. His Hermione had been all those things. Would the woman she was now value those things? Could she even, really, be described that way anymore?

Only one way to find out. He considered the area, and while he wanted to go and stand in the lee of one of the great stones to hide from the weather, that was amateur hour stuff. The first place anyone would look. Instead, he doubled down on his charms, drew his coat around him and waited. He tried to slow his heart and hold his breathing as much as he could.

He kept vigil for several hours, with nothing better to do, until his waterproofing charm was overwhelmed and his clothes were soaked by the ever worsening storm. The winds were erratic and violent, far worse than the Quidditch match that had claimed his Nimbus. In fact, he didn't think he could fly in this weather at all.

Admitting defeat, he returned to Greer, in search of dinner. He would prefer to make that dinner and a pint. Or several pints. But between Hermione and the letter writer one pint was an elegant sufficiency. If he was honest with himself, even one pint was probably a mistake. Because it was never just one pint.

He tried to avoid drinking nowadays. Back to the hotel, and some distracting exercises, was probably the right plan, but knowing something is a mistake doesn't always stop you making it.

Soon, the sea was in view again, and by the look of it Poseidon was not happy. Wife leaving, car towed, back taxes due unhappy. He could see the great waves that were crashing into the island, and only the natural protection of the cliffs was stopping the lower part of town from being deluged. The man-made water break that consisted of the jetty would be nothing in the face of these waves.

Descending into the town, he stopped outside the hotel and put his hand on the wand strapped to his wrist. Checking the charms he set up in the room didn't require motions or incantations, so it was easy to do surreptitiously.

In truth, he did so out of good habit. He didn't not expect anything to be tripped, and yet…

Someone was in his room. Someone was in there right now.

Immediately, his pulse raced. He struggled to clamp down on the anxiety, hope, fear and a million other conflicting feelings that coursed through him. There were two prime candidates for his interloper: the pen-pal and Hermione.

There was no reason to assume Dawlish was still around, and no cause for him to make a social call. Besides, Harry can't think of a man less likely to make social calls than Dawlish. Perhaps Snape.

Whether his correspondent or her, either way he was about to get some answers.

Or killed. That was always an option too.

Letting himself into the hotel he was aware of an underlying silence. The rain pounded against the roof, the wind shrieked through the town, and the fireplace popped and crackled, but beyond that … nothing. Alastair wasn't here, and he could hear no noises from any of the other rooms.

He gripped his wand tightly, silently applying charms to muffle of the noise of his feet and the doors opening and closing, he moved carefully into the corridor outside his room. The charms suggested the intruder was still there, they had apparently not moved.

So, they were waiting for him.

Reviewing the situation and the tools at his disposal … it looked bad. If it was the letter writer, they were a complete unknown. They could be friend, foe, or something in between and he would need to put himself in danger to discover which. Assuming they were a witch or wizard, Harry felt confident that he could take them or at least escape them.

If it was her then it looked even worse. One wrong move and she could be on him faster than he could react. She would have ungodly speed, and up close, she would have strength enough to literally rend him in two. He had once seen a vampire tear a person clean in two with their bare hands, reduced to a pair of sad heaps in a cloud of so much pink mist.

Against her, his best advantage was to stay at range and there was precious little of that in here. No room to manoeuvre either. His best bet would be to apparate away at the first sign of trouble. Doing his due diligence, because he was not the same boy who would rush headlong into things without thinking at all anymore, he reached out with his senses and slammed into an Anti-Apparition field. He smiled slightly, just in one corner of his mouth, thinking that at least in one respect she was the same as she ever had been. Too damn clever by half.

That basically only leaves him with one "good" choice, if it came down to it. Fiendfyre in this small space was almost guaranteed mutually assured destruction.

He might have an advantage in magic, but though they had expelled her and snapped her wand a long time ago he wouldn't underestimate her. He was a trained Auror, and with no false modesty or undeserved ego was one of the best, but if she bore any resemblance to the woman he knew then a gesture as meagre as the snapping of a wand wasn't going to stop her learning, not by long shot. Chances are she would have acquired a new one long ago.

Palms sweating, his clothes still drenched, he raised his wand in a defensive position and desperately tried to swallow the lump in his throat.

He closed his eyes for a second, long enough to try acknowledging the silent battle that raged inside him. He wanted it to be her, because then one way or another he would know and maybe, somehow earn a little closure. On the other hand, he desperately wished it was anyone else. For as long as she remained a mystery, he still had hope. He was not so melodramatic as to admit that hope was all he really had left, but that didn't necessarily make it any less true.

A wave of the wand, and the door opened.

A woman sat in the cheap wooden chair.

Twelve fucking years, and there she sat in his hotel room. Unchanged. She looked eighteen still, and his heart wrenched. He had grown older, and while he wasn't over the hill yet, wasn't quite getting grey, the difference between them was stark. He was an adult now while she looked like a teenager still. They had still been kids in so many ways.

Years, he had searched for her. Now she had come to him.

"Hello Harry," she says, and it is like she never left. Her voice is exactly as he remembers.

"Why don't you come in, sit down, shut the door?" Her honeyed words drip into his ear, insidious. Something similar did for Hamlet's father and so he slams his occlumency up and steels himself against her suggestions. Harry is nothing, if not tenacious. It is difficult, not quite like the Imperious curse he can shrug off with ease, and he has to put considerable effort into ignoring her. He wouldn't be surprised if a bead of sweat had formed on his temple, though you would be hard pressed to tell it apart from the rain. Normally, he is exceptionally talented at defending his mind – he is pretty much made from willpower after all. Spun from it. He wonders if it's so difficult to turn aside her suggestion because a part of him wants to do as she says. Or if she's just that powerful.

"Don't," he says, his body tense. In defiance of his obvious anxiety, she sits calmly in the darkness of his room.

The pressure on his mind recedes, "Sorry," she says, "Force of habit. Really though, don't you think you should come in? Waving that wand around isn't going to do the Statute of Secrecy any good."

"With you? In this enclosed space? That doesn't seem wise."

She uncrosses her legs and sits forward slightly, bringing her face into the square of light cast from the corridor. His heart aches anew at her sad smile. He takes in her hair, those brown eyes shining with an inner light, the delicate curve of her face … she is, as he remembers, perfect. A part of him wonders for a second if she is hitting him with her glamour again, but he knows he always felt this way.

Whetting her lips slightly with her tongue she says "Worried, Harry? Would you prefer it if I was restrained?" Her hands playfully grasp the arms of the chair, as if straining against some imagined cords.

Unbidden the memory of her silk Gryffindor tie, carefully but tightly wrapped around her slender wrist and pulled taught between her and the bedpost, flashes in his mind. He remembers that his tie held her other wrist.

Thickly, harshly, his heart racing, he replies "Don't. Just… don't."

An unreadable expression passes across her face (which in some ways is more horrifying to him than her casual attempt to infiltrate his mind – he always used to know what she was feeling and could often guess what she was thinking) before she slowly says "No … you're right. Sorry, I'm usually at lot better at ignoring it's demands. You're confusing it, you see. It's not sure what to do with you. Or what order to do it in."

He frowns, uncomprehending, and she makes a sour face while she explains, "There's a reason we call it the Beast. It only knows how to do four things. Flee, fight, feed or … well. You get the idea."

He does.

She's dressed in dungarees, with one strap hanging from one shoulder, and a wide knit jumper that is stretched around the neck. It looks well worn, but in a cosy, loved kind of way. Not in his scrappy, poorly looked after kind of way. His tan Auror overcoat feels very stuffy, like it ages him fifty years, in comparison.

"What would it take for you to be comfortable to enough to come in?" She extracts a wand by the tip from the large pocket on the front of her dungarees, "does this help?"

She tosses the wand on the floor. He doesn't recognise it. Unsurprising, since the last time he saw her vine carved wand it was snapped in two at an Aurors feet.

"I seem to remember a stake through the heart immobilised you pretty well. That might make me happy enough to come in." Contrary to popular culture, a stake through the heart would only paralyse a vampire (though, if their stake-er had any sense that was the same as killing one – fire or decapitation being the preferred method, because otherwise the stake-ee was likely to be a little cross if they manage to get free).

"Harry," she purrs, "You should really let me buy you a drink before you offer to stake a girl."

The silence is leaden.

"Sorry," she says, suddenly bashful, "this isn't really going the way I imagined it. Look, Harry, if I wanted to hurt you this isn't the way I'd go about it."

She pauses for second, "Physically, anyway."

"You're not what I was expecting."

"Oh? Why? Did you think I would be dribbling blood down my chin?" she retorts caustically.

He is quiet. This has not gone how he thought either.

"Honestly? Kind of. I was prepared to find a monster. I was prepared to find a raving creature, like Fairfax was that night, or I was prepared to find some cool, self-assured woman who probably dresses in a corset and a cloak and would as sooner dispose of me as talk to me."

Then, with surprising self-loathing "And instead, you find Hermione Granger reduced to plying her glamour to get by and getting flustered by her ex."

A bit of him dies to hear her describe him that way. It's stupid. No, more than that, it's obsessive and deluded of him to have hoped for any different. It's been twelve years. Just because he hadn't, couldn't, move on doesn't mean she wouldn't have. He hardens his heart, surprising him that somehow there was still some softness in him left to go.

He feels every second of those twelve years now, feeling more pathetic and stupid than ever because he can't let go.

"Instead, I find none of those things. It would have been easier if you had been a monster, because now I don't know what to make of you," her mannerisms were exactly how he remembered, but there was still no way to know if this was an act. He half expected she might leap from her chair at any moment. If he had found a monster, he could have destroyed her, rectified his previous lapse in judgement, and finally put her to rest. Or at least tried, and even if he died in the attempt then at least that would have been an end to things too.

"Why are you here, Harry?" she finally asks, her tone flat. She deflates into the chair, a disarmingly human gesture. His fear begins to abate, which is probably not a good thing. If fear keeps him sharp, then if she is going to strike this is the time for it.

"Isn't it obvious?" He is genuinely impressed with himself, that he's keeping his composure as much as he is. He just always has so much anger bottled up inside him, and now she isn't the slavering monster (or, not always, he reminds himself) he was expecting he has run out of targets, save for himself. And Umbridge and Fudge, but that goes without saying.

There are a lot of things he wants from her, and most of them impossible, but now he is here, in front of her, he doesn't know how to go about asking the questions he needs to.

"Then it should be plain that this is a trap," she puts her hands together in her lap, one hand massaging the fingers of the other. In a rush, it comes back to him, her little anxious gesture. He saw it a million times sat in front of the Gryffindor fire. Some textbook in her lap. The lump in his throat expands as he thinks of the times he took her hand in his and did the same. Gently, one finger at a time, then her palm.

"Of course," he manages to growl through it. There is no going back.

"Then why did you walk straight into it? As usual?" Not disappointed as such, not angry with him. A hint of amusement, but mostly the same old exasperation. She usually saved her real ire for Ron.

"Isn't that obvious too?"

She ignores that, and instead says "If we're both in agreement that this is a trap, then the sensible thing to do would be to walk away."

"And let you slip away? Not a chance," not while things were still … unresolved. The major problem now was he had no idea how to resolve them. It really would have been easier if she had been a monster. Harry knows how to fight, how to struggle for his life, but he doesn't know how to deal with this. Surely, he can't just turn and walk away? Without this hunt, what would he do with the rest of his life?

Go into work? Day after day? Go back to the bottle?

"Listen, we can have that conversation anywhere in the world. It doesn't have to be here, on an island that is almost certainly going to try to kill at least one of us."

He nods slowly, having learnt long ago that it's impossible to pick apart her logic. It doesn't hurt that he genuinely agrees with her – he would put his hand in a trap, even wiggle it about a bit, but he wasn't going to just leave it there for no good purpose. "Alright, fine. Where do you want to go?"

"Anywhere, anywhere but here," she carefully and slowly stands up, trying not to startle him, "So, lower your anti-apparition field and we can just … go. You can side-along me if that makes you feel any more comfortable. Just make sure you pick somewhere after sunset, please."

His eyebrow raises, "My field? I thought that was yours?"

They regard each other in silence for a moment.

"Of course. We did say we knew it was a trap … so, that leaves the question, which of us is the target …"

He finishes her thought for her "… and which of us was the bait?"

A/N: Apologies to anyone from the Hebrides – I'm sure my depiction is nothing like your lovely islands and in my, admittedly limited experience, everyone is unfailingly nice, and not weird recluses, but that didn't match the tone I was trying to strike.