The Harsh Light of Day

Chapter One: Rising Tide

Nowhere to run, nowhere to hide,
No relief from the rising tide.

And the river's rising, rain keeps pouring down,
And the river's rising, take me to higher ground.

All too little, much too late,
Courting disaster and tempting fate,
Going against all natural laws,
Putting effect before the cause.

Ginny Weasley wiped rainwater from her eyes and jiggled the huge door knocker impatiently. "Come on, you bloody machine," she muttered, running her wandtip up and down the blank brass plaque that hung on the heavy stone door. She was not in a mood to placidly stand around waiting for a stupid security mechanism to let her in.

"Wand scan accepted," said a tinny mechanical voice. "Voice scan, accepted. Running retinal scan."

A bright green line emanating from a slot in the plaque moved slowly over her face. Ginny resisted the urge to blink and shield herself from the painfully brilliant light. Instead she tapped her wand restlessly against the door.

"Retinal scan not accepted," said the voice. The light vanished and there was an audible click, as though the vocal communications had been shut down. Which they probably had.

"No!" Ginny cried, banging on the door with her fist. "Come back! Let me in! I'm Ginny Weasley, dammit!" She then told the door a number of other things, most of them rude and pertaining to the door's ancestors, offspring, and general state of existence.

Well, she'd just have to go in through the front door, then, and risk being seen by a spy- or worse, her brother. Ginny shivered at the thought of what her sibling would say if he saw his younger sister go in through the front door. She knew him; Percy would flatly refuse to accept the excuse of a security failure. She really should call tech support, but dammit, this was the third time in a row she'd failed the retinal scan, and she was sick and tired of waiting around for the experts to fix the bug. Besides, it was raining. She'd just have to go through the front door and take her chances.

Shrugging the hood of her cloak up over her head, she skirted the building carefully, avoiding the occasional robed figure on the sidewalk. It was a huge building, and it took her almost five minutes of steady walking to get to the front doors. She pushed the front door open, glancing at the familiar inscription.

Enter stranger, but take heed
Of what awaits the sin of greed
For those who take, but do not earn
Must pay most dearly in their turn
So if you seek beneath our floors
A treasure that was never yours
Thief, you have been warned, beware
Of finding more than treasure there.

Glad to be out of the rain, she carelessly let the doors slam shut, causing the singularly small and wrinkled goblin behind the counter to jump about a foot. Ginny grinned slightly.

"Yes, may I help you?" asked the goblin reproachfully.

"Griphook, lighten up." Ginny threw back the overshadowing hood of her cloak. "It's me."

"Miss Weasley!" The goblin's craggy face broke into a smile. "Always a pleasure to see you."

"I really agree," said a cool, collected voice from behind her. Ginny knew that voice; she turned slowly, willing the owner of the voice to go away as quickly as possible.

Draco Malfoy stood behind her, immaculate in black Muggle clothing. Ginny hated the sight of him, hated how he always looked calm and purposeful and unwavering. And that smirk. She had hated that smirk when she was in school; she hated it now.

"Malfoy," she said, almost spitting the word. "What are you doing here- no, wait, let me guess, you heard I was coming and you just couldn't wait to trade insults with me again, because nothing makes you feel quite as superior as that look on my face."

"Closer than you might think," returned Draco softly, the smirk still playing on his pale, even features. "But I meant what I said. It's a pleasure to see you- if only because there are so few who can compete with me when it comes to cutting edge remarks."

"Oh, right," said Ginny, glaring at him. "What can I say- you give me more practice than you do anyone else."

Draco returned her glare. "What can I say- I love a challenge. However, you're turning out to be less of one than I thought."

"Look, Malfoy," said Ginny tiredly. "If you want to criticize me, fine. Just do it at a distance, okay? I have a job to do, and you are keeping me from doing it. Either get what you came here for or leave."

"I was on my way out, actually. Just thought I'd be friendly, Miss Weasley." Draco swept her a mocking bow and strode out of the bank, his black silk shirt billowing.

"I violently dislike him," Ginny told Griphook conversationally.

"He's not very nice, it's true," Griphook admitted, "but he's the only reason we still have a few havens left."

"I know," Ginny sighed. This was correct; when he had come into his inheritance six years ago, Draco Malfoy had put a goodly amount of money into a spy service that monitored Lord Voldemort and helped to keep the locations of top-secret Ministry buildings just that: a secret. Ginny worked in that spy network, which consisted mostly of Aurors and other Ministry officials. Ginny herself was an Unspeakable, and proud of the position. "But it doesn't mean I have to like him, does it?" she added sardonically.

Griphook smiled again, revealing all his pointed teeth. "So, Miss Weasley, you never did tell me- what brings you here at such a late hour, and through the front door too?"

"I failed to pass the retinal scan," said Ginny. "Again. The Gods do not deem me worthy, apparently."

"No matter. I know it's you. What did you come here for?" inquired Griphook, looking piqued.

Ginny looked furtively around, making sure there was no one else in the building. "I came to get the you-know-whats in vault 234," she said, pulling out a sheaf of parchment. "I've got a letter here from the Minister of Magic, he wants them transferred to a high-security Ministry building."

The elderly goblin sucked in a great lungful of air in surprise, wheezing as he did so. "You don't mean-" he said, sounding alarmed "-they're not... not to be put to use, are they?"

Ginny shrugged. "I don't know, but I have my orders. He wants 'em. Which means old Fudge is either paranoid they'll be stolen, or they're going to be used."

"But- but- the power requirements would be staggering," protested Griphook weakly. He looked over the letter.

"I know," said Ginny grimly.

Griphook shook his head. "Well, come on then, we'd better go get them. But be careful, they're in maximum security, and it'll be a wild ride getting down there."

***

Harry Potter sat in his cell, pressed against the far wall, staring hungrily at the faint beam of moonlight that filtered down through the heavy, dusty air. The pale silver light played over the rough black stone of the floor in a dance-like pattern. He watched it carefully, trying to memorize the device it carved in the air; a figure-eight. The symbol for eternity. Which was about as long as he thought he'd been locked up in his prison.

He was tired, so very tired, tired of life, tired of thought, tired of the stale bread and water they gave him, tired of weakness, tired of everything. Weary as he never knew he could be weary, despite the fact he did nothing all day. Sometimes it felt as though he would simply fly away, float out of his skull and not come back. His only anchor to the world was Bast.

Bast was a small cat who had come to him one day. By his reckoning it hadn't been that long ago, but time passed differently for him than it did for other people. But she had sat outside his window nearly all day, thin and wan, licking her short grey fur, and when he had finally seen her face, he had been startled; her eyes were blue: a clear, sparkling, bright blue. They reminded him of another set of blue eyes he had seen once. They were so very familiar, yet he could not place them. But looking at the cat had called up memories from another world; recollections half-forgotten of his former life, or perhaps of another life entirely, he didn't know. So he had called the animal Bast, after the Egyptian goddess of cats.

She had been so thin, so starved, he had managed to find a crack in the magical wards that guarded the ground-floor window and shoved some of his bread out of it for her. He then slopped a little water on the ground after it. She had eaten the dry bread and licked the water out of the sand, and ever since then, she had stayed.

Bast was an exceptionally smart cat. A day or two after Harry had first given her a bit of his water, she had disappeared for a few hours and then returned, carrying a piece of curved wood she had found somewhere. She had placed it below the window exactly where Harry poured the water, and ever since then it had served as a sort of improvised bowl for her.

But not even Bast could Harry why he was still alive. Or perhaps she could, and simply did not deign to enlighten him. If she knew, though, Harry desperately wished she would tell him.

This was the question that plagued him the most often: Why am I still alive? By all rights he should be dead. He could remember the day, clearly, when he had gone in search of Lord Voldemort, and found him as well. But it had been an ambush. There had been no magical duel, no faults of stupid arrogance on the Dark Lord's part. Harry had Stunned three Death Eaters, but after that, they had captured him easily enough, and put him in a sort of magical stasis. Then they had brought him here. He had no idea where he was, but he thought he recognized the endless sand dunes from old geography lessons; Africa somewhere, most likely Egypt.

Today Bast had been gone since dawn. Harry missed her, and wished desperately for some companionship. But after he had waited for several hours, he grew sleepy. Curling up in the tiny patch of moonlight, he settled down for a nap.

***

It was indeed a wild ride getting down to vault 234. So wild, in fact, that Ginny thought she was going to be sick. They hurtled over a depthless chasm, crossed a deep trench filled with fire by means of a narrow bridge, and even skimmed the surface of an underground river. Ginny trailed her hand in the cold, stone-smelling water, which was a mistake- the current was so strong it nearly flung her out of the small cart she and Griphook were riding in. She saved herself- barely- from a watery grave by grabbing onto the side of the cart and holding on.

"Watch out for that!" yelled Griphook over the clacking of steel wheels on a steel track.

The problem with goblins, Ginny thought sadistically, is that they're just chock full of helpful tidbits of advice, but it's their timing that leaves something to be desired.

All thoughts were cleared from her head, however, when they rounded a turn and Ginny glimpsed one of the most magnificent sights she had ever seen.

"Wow," she breathed, awestruck.

It was a fully grown Norwegian Ridgeback. It was in the classic defensive posture, wings spread, its long, snakelike neck curved in a huge "s", its golden eyes glaring down at them from a height of at least twenty feet. The scales that covered it looked as though they were carved from obsidian; the ridges along its back were like miniature hillsides.

The dragon snorted, puffed a cloud of smoke, and roared. The noise was like a thousand airplanes all taking off at once, and the roar provided an opportunity for the beast to display its massive double-row of teeth, all polished silver, gleaming in the torchlight.

Griphook clamped his hands over his ears and looked slightly alarmed. The dragon leaned forward, its breath washing over them like a foul wave; it smelled of rotting meat and burning bones. Ginny coughed and gagged, covering her mouth and nose with her sleeve in a vain attempt to filter out the stench.

"Draco dormiens," bellowed Griphook at the top of his lungs, and the dragon's roar was abruptly cut off. There was a deafening silence for a moment, then the beast's eyelids drooped, and it fell over with a crash that shook the floor, snoring ponderously.

"If anyone but a Gringotts goblin tried that," said Griphook smugly, "it'd only tick him off."

Ginny, meanwhile, had climbed out of the cart and was examining the dragon from a distance. "It's... amazing," she said, astonished. "Norwegian Ridgebacks are really rare, Charlie told me- where on Earth did you get it, Griphook?"

"Not it, him, and I got him some while ago," replied the goblin, his paunch wobbling as he attempted to haul himself over the side of the cart. Each word was punctuated with a grunt. "Hagrid had him at Hogwarts, he was supposed to go to a colony in Romania, but since he was already used to humans, we brought him here and trained him." Griphook finally succeeded in pulling himself out of the vehicle, overbalanced, and landed on the stone floor with a thump. "His name's Norbert," he added breathlessly, struggling to his pointed feet and dusting himself off. He and Ginny carefully skirted Norbert on their way to the door behind him. Griphook stroked the heavily barred door with a finger and it simply melted away.

Ginny stepped inside carefully- the vault was lead-lined and very large, but it was completely empty, except for three round, smallish, individually wrapped packages about six inches in diameter, carefully covered with brown paper and tied with red string.

Hastily she picked them up, stowed them away in a secret pocket of her cloak, and returned to the platform outside. Griphook was waiting for her, keeping an eye on Norbert, who appeared to be gradually waking up. They both got back in the cart, Griphook told her to hang on, and they took off, Ginny looking slightly ill, but the ride back was made easier by the comforting weight of the packages in her pocket.

***

Hermione Granger, head reporter for The Daily Prophet, sat at the mahogany desk of office, her head in her hands. She could feel one massive headache coming on, and her attempts to write an article weren't helping. It was all too much, the past day's events, and the apprehension about the inevitable interview.

Yesterday morning her aide, Adrienne Laine, had been found dead in her office. Hermione had been the first to find the body. She still remembered the scene, it played in her mind again and again, not matter how hard she tried to block it from her mind. Blood staining the marble office floor, running out over the Oriental rug like some precious dye. Blood pooling underneath her body, blood splattering the woman's clothing. Blood on everything, still trickling very, very slowly, almost imperceptibly, from a raggedly circular, gaping hole in the woman's chest. And the body, so cold and white and lifeless, just an empty shell, the terrified look on her face frozen in place, the blank grey eyes like windows into empty rooms. Hermione had screamed when she first saw it, then fallen to her knees beside her dead secretary, and was promptly sick.

But the Aurors had cleaned the mess up quickly. They had taken the body, cleaned off the blood, appropriated everything that might have been evidence. And very soon her office was spotless again, as immaculate as if the whole thing had never happened. And Hermione had taken the rest of the day and most of the next one off. But she had come in the next evening, thinking it would be better to try and get some work done rather than sit at home for the rest of the night, brooding and crying.

How very wrong she had been.

Now she stared blankly at the quill in her hand as she had done all day, waiting for the words to come to her as they usually did. Several hot tears trickled their way slowly down her cheek to drip off the end of her nose. They splashed onto her desk, dotting the paper before her.

There was a soft knock on her door. Hermione straightened up hurriedly, roughly brushed the tears from her eyes, and smoothed her pastel blue robes. "Come in," she called.

The door opened and a woman walked into the room. She was dressed in Muggle clothing, her long blue-black hair thrown into a braid. The woman's slapdash knotting was nothing like Hermione's own smooth, silken plait. Hermione recognized her as a Ministry employee; their offices were adjacent to the Prophet's. The woman was the vampire hunter the Ministry had recently hired, she recalled, but she couldn't remember her name.

"Hello," the woman said, offering a timid smile. "I'm sorry if I disturbed anything too... depressing."

Hermione tried to smile back, and found she couldn't. "It's all right. Did you want something... um...-" she paused for a moment, lost, then snatched the woman's name from the back of her mind, "-Sable?"

"Not really," shrugged Sable. "I was just on my way home- I've worked late, the past couple nights- and stopped to see if you needed anything."

"Oh," Hermione said. "No, I don't. But thank you."

Sable removed a wooden stake from her jacket absently and twirled it in her fingers easily. "Are you sure?" She moved closer to the desk, presumably so she could see Hermione better in the dim light. Sable had a worried look on her face. "Don't you want to be heading home? Everyone else is gone. You look kind of tired."

"I know," replied Hermione calmly. "I will. I just wanted to try and get some work done."

A knock sounded on the office door. Sable looked over her shoulder at the noise, then shrugged. "Okay. Just owl me if you need anything."

"Thanks," said Hermione gratefully. Sable pulled the door open and left. Moments later, an official-looking man in somber black robes came into the room. He flashed an Auror badge at her and she nodded weakly. Here it came. The dreaded interview.

"Miss Granger," said the man, politely waiting for her to wave at a chair before he sat down, "I'm Wesley Price. I need to ask you a few questions..."

***

As Ginny opened the door of her London flat, the first thing she heard was the sound of breaking glass, then a loud and skillful round of swearing. She smiled slightly; her roommate- or rather, housemate- was renowned for her amazing repertoire of obscenities.

"Claire," she called, removing the packages from her pocket, setting them on the buffet in the entrance hall, and hanging up her cloak, "I'm home."

"Good," said Claire, appearing in the doorway. Her long, silky ginger hair (not nearly as bright a shade as Ginny's, but much straighter) was in disarray and her eyes were blurred with sleep, as though she had just woken up after a very long nap. "You can help me clean this mess up."

Ginny sighed. "What did you break this time?" Please don't let it be anything important, she prayed silently.

"Just a mug," said Claire, looking slightly apprehensive. "Of course, it just happens to be that mug that your mum gave you Christmas past."

Far from making her angry, this news actually seemed to cheer Ginny up. "Really?" she asked. "Good- the colors were revolting anyway. Mum knows I hate pink."

Claire smiled back at Ginny. "It's good to have you back. By the way, Cameron owled you." She raised an eyebrow.

Ginny flushed. Cameron was the Head of the Technologies Department at the Ministry of Magic, and he had always had an enormous crush on Ginny, and didn't care who knew it. He was from Beauxbatons, so she had never known him at Hogwarts, but she did know it was Cameron who was almost single-handedly responsible for the fusion of magic and Muggle technology; without this melding, it would be almost impossible to operate. Eight years ago, when the Dark Lord Voldemort had risen to power for the second time, he had converted or slaughtered nearly a fifth of the magical community, but then Cameron had developed this new kind of engineering, and it could be used as both defensively and aggressively. It was the one advantage the wizarding world still held over the Dark Lord; he had no such technology.

"What does Cameron want this time?" asked Ginny, praying he wouldn't be asking her out again. She'd already come up with excuses twice this month.

"Not sure," said Claire, going back into the kitchen and beginning to pick up the shards of the broken mug. Ginny followed and knelt down beside her. "I only skimmed the letter, didn't want to intrude, but it said something about Harry Potter."

Ginny dropped the piece of ceramic she was holding; it fell to the ground with a soft clinking noise.

"What?" she croaked, her mouth suddenly very dry.

She had had an infatuation with Harry Potter until her fourth year at Hogwarts, then- briefly- dating him, and even after that, they had remained close friends. But at her sixth year at Hogwarts, Harry had graduated, and three days after the graduation, had disappeared. The only clue to his whereabouts was a note he had left, saying he had gotten wind of a plot of Voldemort's, and that the Dark Lord was going to try to kill Harry's closest friends- Hermione Granger, Ron Weasley, and Ginny herself. Harry had left to confront Voldemort himself, saying there was no other way to stop him and that perhaps he could defeat him again.

As far as anyone knew, it hadn't worked. Hermione, Ron and Ginny were still alive, but so was Voldemort, and Harry was missing, presumed dead. Ginny still felt horribly guilty- in all of five years, she had never once stopped blaming herself for Harry's disappearance. But she also tenaciously clung to the faint hope that Harry might still be alive, that the Dark Lord might need him for something- after all, they had never seen Harry's body, and if Voldemort had killed him, he would have certainly flaunted the fact he had killed the great Harry Potter, who had been their one remaining hope.

"Ginny?" asked Claire, concerned. "You all right?"

Ginny shook off her reverie. "Fine," she lied, but there was a twisting in her gut that undermined the bravery of the words. "Did he say if he'd found out where Harry is?" she inquired casually, but her stomach knotted as she said it.

Claire looked up, her brilliant green eyes worried. "I don't know, I didn't look. But Ginny, you're going to have to get over this. The chances of Harry still being alive are slim at best, and the chances of actually finding him are astronomical. You....." She paused for a moment, groping for the right words.

Ginny kept her gaze firmly on the floor, knowing if she saw the pity in her friends eyes she might well burst into tears. It was several moments before she got herself under control, and several more before she realized something was wrong. Claire should have said something by now. She looked up.

Claire was huddled in a sorry, miserable ball on the kitchen floor five feet away, half-lying, half-sitting; the only thing supporting her was the cabinet behind her back. Her emerald eyes were glazed, lacking their normal luster, and she gazed at the wall as if she looked at something far off. Even as Ginny watched, she screamed softly, and clapped her left hand to her neck. The other hand tensed with pain, tendons standing out in stark articulation, fingers tightening around the shard of mug until it bit deeply into her palm. Blood flowed down her palm, bright red against her paper-white flesh, and spattered the neat, clean hardwood floor of the kitchen with spots of crimson.

"Claire!" Ginny shook her gently, knowing she would snap out of it in a moment. The visions were vivid while they lasted, but they never lasted long. Still, it was happening more and more frequently, as the threat to the wizarding community grew greater, and it distressed Ginny to see her friend in such agony, especially when there was nothing she could do to ease it.

Claire blinked once, slowly, the sharp pain in her hand helping to bring her to; it helped if there was something very real and demanding she could concentrate on. She coughed a few times, and her blurred vision came back into focus.

Ginny was on her knees beside her. She reached out and put a hand on Ginny's shoulder. Ginny peered at her with worried brown eyes. "Claire, what is it?" Her voice grated on Claire's ears harshly after the sweet and piercing music that often accompanied her visions.

"Girl," Claire said briefly, trying to regain her breath. "An alley.... London. Just outside of the Leaky Cauldron, I think..... I saw the sign. The girl, though.... there's a vampire after her....."

Ginny swore loudly, and reached for her wizarding cellphone (which revolved on such minute frequencies it took special magical receivers to pick up the signal; it kept the Muggles from tapping into conversations).

"No time," breathed Claire faintly. "It's happening now- I could feel her pain. You have to go."

She cursed again, and reached for her wand, but then she paused. "But... you... you're weak...."

Claire gripped her friends shoulder with such force that her nails dug into Ginny's shoulder. She winced. "Go," said Claire urgently. "Don't worry about me, I'll be fine."

Ginny nodded hesitantly, stood up, and Disapparated.

***

The alley was dark when Ginny reached it, the only illumination faint yellow light from the curtained windows of the Leaky Cauldron. All was quiet; no movement disturbed the inky shadows farther down the narrow road.

"Lumos," Ginny muttered to her wand, and its tip lit with a bright white glow. She progressed carefully on down the corridor, suddenly struck by how obscenely foolish it was to go hunting a vampire with only a wand. Vampires were immune to most kinds of magic, and could only be killed by fire, beheading or a wooden stake to the heart, but the dangerous thing was, for some reason, wand-conjured magic didn't work. You had to do with a good old-fashioned lighter, or a match. And she had neither.

There was a sudden, sharp noise and Ginny pressed herself against the wall, trying to blend with the shadows, and crept forward a little farther. There it was again, a clanging of metal which didn't gel with the normal nighttime sounds of a city. She turned a corner-

And there was the vampire, advancing on a woman only a few years older than Ginny herself. The woman looked Greek, with a fall of long black hair (even in the dim light, obviously dyed), hazel eyes, a pointed face and brown skin. The vampire looked like a normal man with blonde hair and blue eyes. Were it not for the fact he had just shoved a three-hundred pound steel barrel filled with trash aside with no more trouble than swatting a fruit fly, he would totally indistinguishable from a normal human.

The vampire roared, a low, guttural sound like a lion growling. Then he changed.

When a vampire is about to feed, or is particularly exited or angry, its features twist, becoming something primal and feral, a thing out of nightmares and legend. The vampire's face changed now; his brow morphed to become bony and wrinkled, jutting outward; the whites of his eyes yellow, the pupils expanding to swallow the iris; fangs sprouted from his gums.

The woman backed against the wall, cornered, a look of fixed terror on her face, but her eyes, riveted on the vampire, sparkled with anger, fear and something else.

"Over here," yelled Ginny, feeling terrifically stupid, but determined to distract the vampire. He whirled on her, saw the wand in her hand, and laughed. Then he began to advance on her, assured she had no weapons worth speaking of.

Ginny swore. Now she'd gone and done it. The vampire had decided she was easier prey than the Greek woman. She sneaked a glance over at the alley; it was clear. She decided to run for it, and bolted.

She hadn't gotten two steps before the vampire tackled her. Her head hit the pavement with terrific force and multicolored stars exploded behind her eyes as her vision swam before her for a moment. She was dimly aware of the vampire pinning her to the ground and leaning over her. Ginny shut her eyes, and struggled uselessly, utter panic overcoming her, writhing in his grasp as she realized she was really and truly done for. The vampire grinned down at her, savoring the moment of victory. He was so close Ginny could smell his putrid breath. Not that he really needs to breathe, a small, detached part of her mind observed. He's probably just doing it out of habit.

"Hey, big guy." The Greek woman was standing behind the vampire, something grasped firmly in her hand. "Didn't your mother ever teach you not to play with your food?"

The vampire blinked and looked up. He had barely time to register the stake that the woman buried in its back before he exploded in a cloud of dust and ashes that smelled faintly of wet wood and spice.

Ginny cracked one eye open cautiously. The Greek woman was looking unreasonably angry as she made her appeal to the heavens. "That's it? That's all I get? One lame-assed vamp with no appreciation for my painstakingly well thought-out puns? I don't think the forces of Darkness are even trying!"

Ginny laughed, tried to turn it into a cough, ended up swallowing the wrong way, got a lungful of ashes and then really did cough. The Greek woman looked down at her appraisingly, but there was a twinkle in her eye.

"Not very smart," she commented neutrally, "trying to take on a vampire with just a wand."

Ginny took an immediate liking to the woman and her down-to-earth, no-nonsense manner. "Ah, well," she said, managing a one-shouldered shrug. "I....." There was a long pause, while Ginny lay there like a complete idiot, her mouth slightly open, waiting for her brain to supply a comeback. Several moments passed.

"You know," said Ginny, looking faintly surprised, "having almost been a late-night snack for some bloodthirsty undead minion seems to have inhibited my ability to quip."

The corners of the woman's mouth twitched, and she reached down a hand to help Ginny up. Ginny groaned as she was pulled forcibly to her feet. As the woman release her death-grip, Ginny staggered against the nearest wall, her head tilted back. She could even see a few faint stars through the narrow gap between roofs, twinkling, undisturbed by the night's events, above the smog and pollution of London.

"You all right?" asked the woman, scrutinizing Ginny with tawny-golden eyes. Ginny attempted a faint smile.

"Other than losing all ability for sarcasm, I think I'm pretty undamaged." Ginny winced; this was not strictly true. Her head was beginning to ache where the vampire had banged it against the concrete in his attempt to catch her; she suspected she'd have a lovely purple bruise there tomorrow, but she didn't seem to be concussed.

"But what greater damage could have been done?" the woman asked, smiling.

The pain in Ginny's head made her sharp. "Oh, I don't know- how about me dying?"

The Greek raised her eyebrows. "Boy, you weren't kidding. Okay, just stop. At this point, you're abusing sarcasm. Here, let's go into the pub. I'll buy you a drink. You look like you need it."

She led the way back down the alley, Ginny stumbling after her gratefully, still not quite steady on her legs.

As they entered the Leaky Cauldron, Tom the bartender looked up. The pub was teeming with noisy patrons, but he heard the tinkle of the bell on the door anyway. "Ah, Miss Weasley," he said, smiling at her. "The usual?"

"No thanks, Tom," said Ginny. Her head pounded with the effort of speaking as though someone had taken a hammer to her skull. "Just a glass of water."

"And two of Ogden's best," added the woman. "Make 'em small." Tom nodded and reached for the rack of glasses behind him.

The woman steered Ginny over to a small side table in the crowded dining room. Ginny sat down immediately, one hand on her head. The woman sat down across from her. "A Weasley, hunh?" she asked, smiling. "You probably went to Hogwarts with my younger sister, Blaise."

Ginny blinked at the woman sitting across from her. "Yeah, I'm a Weasley- Ginny Isadora Weasley, actually. And yes, I know Blaise, she was a year above me. Are you a Zabini?"

The woman grinned thoughtfully. "Ginny Isadora Weasley. Pretty name. I'm Sable. Sable Alcina Zabini."

Ginny wasn't sure whether to laugh or stare. "Sable Alcina," she repeated, suppressing her desire to snicker.

Sable Alcina Zabini grinned. "Yeah, I know. I changed my name. Sable is from a Muggle comic book, Alcina means strong-minded in Greek."

"What's your original name?" asked Ginny, curious.

"Bianca Kyra. I liked at first, then I realized it meant 'white lady'. I nearly had myself legally emancipated myself from my parents over that one."

Ginny snorted as Tom came with their drinks. He set both whiskeys down in front of Sable, placed a tall glass of ice water in front of Ginny, and scurried back to his counter to deal with other customers. Ginny gulped from her glass gratefully. When she set it down, Sable passed her a whiskey.

"Drink this," she ordered. "It'll clear your head."

Ginny looked at it doubtfully. "I don't know, I'm not much for alcohol." And she usually wasn't, but then again, she'd just almost been bitten by a vampire, and she usually wasn't much for that either. The night seemed to be full of firsts, why not add another one to it?

Sable nodded. "Me neither, usually. But this will help, honestly." She held up her glass in a toast. "Here's to your first near-death experience, Miss Weasley. May it also be your final one."

Ginny, who had lifted her own cup, laughed and colored slightly. "Please, just Ginny."

And yet, as she raised the whiskey to her lips, Ginny couldn't help but think that the vampire wasn't really her first near-death experience. Nor, she suspected, was it to be her last. In her line of work, that was too much to hope for.

***

Harry awoke in the middle of the night. This was not unusual; because he exerted no energy, he didn't need as much rest as a normal person would. But what had disturbed his slumber was not the fact he wasn't sleepy anymore, but a faint scratching noise at the window.

He had to stand on tiptoe to see out the window, but it was well worth it. Bast was back, her soft grey fur reflecting the silver moonlight like water. He reached a finger through the bars and stroked her head lightly. Bast pressed herself against his hand, purring loudly. Gently he scratched behind her ears. She mewed and pulled away, rolling over onto her back batting the air playfully with her paws like a kitten. Harry frowned at her. He had never seen her this excited.

"What is it, girl?" he asked in a low voice. For answer, Bast flipped upright and trotted around the corner of the building. She was gone for several minutes, but Harry waited patiently. It wasn't as though he had much else to do.

As she rounded the corner again, Harry's heart began to bang painfully against his ribs. She was gripping something in her teeth, something that looked like a long thin stick. As she drew closer, he squinted at it and his breath came short. Without his glasses it was hard to tell, but it looked like- Harry hardly dared to hope as she reached the window and dropped the thing at his fingertips.

It was a wand.

Harry stared at the slender piece of wood that would be his salvation, then reached out and touched it. It was cold and lifeless, but it was a wand nonetheless. He worked it carefully through the guarding spells, then moved away from the window and gave it a flick. Warmth spread up his fingers and a slow rivulet of silver sparks poured out of the tip.

Harry smiled. It was exactly what he needed. Now he had a chance at escaping from his gaol. There had to be wards up to detect the use of magic, but he had been at the top of his Auror class back at Hogwarts and he thought he remembered how to take them down without setting them off. Then he would take the wards off the window; he was damned if he was just going to let Bast die out there in the desert while he escaped.

***

"Bleeegh," said Ginny. She felt this was, really, the only appropriate word for the situation. As she drained her glass, the firewhiskey burned her mouth and throat and made her empty stomach feel queasy. Yet it did help to clear her head, and the iron band around her temples eased slightly.

"That is some nasty stuff," Sable declared, thumping her glass on the tabletop for emphasis.

Ginny nodded her agreement, blinking in the light of the room, which suddenly seemed too bright and crowded. She looked at Sable again, and suddenly noticed two scarlet spots of blood on her neck. "What's that?" Ginny asked, leaning forward to get a better view. It appeared to be two small puncture wounds, just above her collarbone.

"It's nothing. I've had a dozen others like it." Sable blotted at it with a sleeve and covered the marks with her hand. "The nasty bugger took a chunk out of me before you distracted him."

"Ouch," said Ginny sympathetically. Then another question sprang to mind. "What do you mean, you've had a dozen others like it? What exactly are you, anyway?"

Sable scowled as if she did not like the question. "I'm a.... thief, you might say. Thief, assassin, mercenary, I've been called a thousand things by a hundred different people. I'm a Muggle- or should I say, a Squib- and I've spent most of my life training."

"Training in what?" Ginny's head began to swim. The alcohol was having more effect on her than she was willing to admit.

"Everything," said Sable briefly. "Martial arts, gymnastics, weapons, lock-picking, technology... you name it and I probably know a bit about it. Right now the Ministry has hired me to track down and kill as many of these vampires as I can. They're an epidemic, a regular plague."

Ginny nodded, which only served to make her feel as though she were slogging through mud. She knew about the vampires; there'd been more and more of them lately, discreetly preying on wizards and Muggles alike. The first time Voldemort rose, the vampires had fled in terror before him, before a power darker than their own. But now they joined him, increased his numbers and swelled his ranks. She knew several people who had been bitten... her own brother had had a run-in with a female vampire once, and barely escaped with the majority of his plasma.....

Ginny's thoughts suddenly seemed to be get fuzzier, as though she were trying to listen to a badly tuned radio, and slowly she became aware of a faint pounding at the back of her skull. She put her head in her hands; the alcohol seemed to be giving her a low-grade headache.

"You all right?" asked Sable, frowning at her.

"I think the Firewhiskey's getting to me," said Ginny, who had to think about each word before she said it.

Sable grinned, and Ginny was mildly frightened to see more than a little of her brothers Fred and George in those teeth. "You know the cure for that, right?"

"No," gritted Ginny. Her good mood was rapidly deteriorating.

"We get totally sloshed, of course," Sable told her, as though this were completely obvious. "Another round please, bartender."

Tom delivered their drinks with raised eyebrows; he had rarely seen Ginny drink anything alcoholic, let alone such strong stuff. However, when the Firewhiskey got to their table, Ginny threw it back without another thought, hoping it would alleviate her headache. It did. Briefly. So then, of course, she had to order another.... and another..... and another......

***

Ginny stood outside her London flat, desperately trying to figure out how to work the doorbell. She had stood there for about fifteen minutes already, attempting to fit the key in the lock, but had eventually given it up as a bad job. No matter how she fiddled with it, the little notches in the small metal thing just didn't seem to fit in the hole.

After a moment of hard thinking, she pushed the little button next to the door inward. Nothing happened. So she pushed again. Still nothing. She hit the button, frustrated. The door did not open, so she pounded on it some more.

"Good God," said a voice, and Ginny looked up to see the blurred outline of her friend, blinking down at her with amusement. "What's all that noise? Why didn't you just use your key?"

"Couldn't get it to fit," said Ginny briefly, and stumbled over the threshold.

Claire closed and locked the door behind her, then led Ginny into the kitchen. Despite the lateness of the hour, there was a steaming pot of tea on the table and a platter of biscuits. Claire took two mugs out of the cupboard and poured Ginny a cup of tea. "Here," she said, placing it before her friend and housemate, "drink this. You look like you need it."

Ginny sipped at her tea gingerly. It was scalding hot and very strong.

"What happened?" Claire queried, looking at her curiously. "Did you find the girl?"

Ginny thought, hard. It was difficult to remember what had occurred earlier that evening. "Almost got killed," she said slowly, her speech slightly slurred, "made a new friend....."

"And got a wee bit sozzled, apparently," Claire reprimanded, but there was laughter in her voice.

Ginny had the presence of mind to be offended. "I am not drunk." Even as she said this, the world seemed to tilt slightly, and she had to grab the table to keep from falling off her chair.

"Right," Claire said. "Then by no means are you about to break out into an imitation of Snape doing "I May Be a Tiny Chimney Sweep But I've Got An Enormous Broom." "

Ginny smiled sleepily. "I'm not drunk... well, not incapacitatingly so. I could walk a straight line. If I had, say, about three hours."

Claire chuckled. "Poor baby. Here, I've got a potion for that somewhere." She pointed her wand at the medicine cabinet. "Accio Sobrius Potion!"

The cupboard door banged open and a black glass bottle flew across the room and slapped into her hand. Carefully she dolloped some out into Ginny's tea, where it dissolved instantly.

Ginny looked down at her mug with distaste. She had no idea what the stuff was- Claire was an expert at Potions, and used all sorts of obscure remedies Ginny had never heard of- but, knowing Claire, she wagered it'd taste awful.

She cautiously raised the cup to her lips and took a sip of the scalding liquid. The potion seemed to make no difference, but the tea was strong enough to lay a horse out flat, so it was no wonder she couldn't taste anything.

Ginny finished her tea and sat back. Her mental state had improved considerably, and the chair no long felt like it was trying to buck her off.

"So what happened?" asked Claire anxiously. "Did you find the girl?"

Ginny sighed. "Yes, I did," she said. Claire's expression lightened; she had obviously been worried. That was the problem with Seers, they often had no idea where the victims were. They had been lucky this time; Claire had recognized the place. All too often, the Ministry's Aurors were too late to save the poor saps.

"So what happened?" Claire leaned forward across the table. Her eyes were serious as Ginny recounted the night's events, or as well as she could remember them.

"It's getting worse," she said when she finished. "That was the third vampire I've seen this month. And this woman, Sable, she might think she can, but she can't stop them all by herself. She can't be everywhere at once."

"You're right," said Claire pensively, thoughtfully toying with her teacup. "I think you should tell Percy we need to do something."

Ginny blanched. The prospect of telling her overbearing brother anything was not a pleasant one. Percy didn't like anything he didn't think up himself; it was a real possibility that he might take this as a personal insult. But it would probably be for the best, overall. "But that can wait until tomorrow," Ginny said firmly, "and I'll see Cameron while I'm there. And give those packages to the Minister. I'm going to bed."

Claire waved her away. "Have a good rest. I'm going to stay up and see if I can find anything out from that ring I found."

Ginny yawned. In addition to being a very accurate Seer, Claire was also psychometric, a rare gift among wizards. Psychometry, the ability to sense the past, present or sometimes future from touching an object, was much more common among Muggles than among magical folk. Psychometry could be useful sometimes, but it was very limited; one could only sense things that were directly related to that article.

"Well, have fun, then."

***

Claire relaxed, settling back into her chair and laying her palms flat on the table. The wood was cool and smooth under her hands, her fingers rested lightly on the varnished surface.

Directly in front of her was a heavy silver ring she had found a few weeks ago while on vacation hiking in the hills of Wales. She lifted it off the table carefully. It was a large piece of jewelry, obviously made for a man, and the front was set with several small round bits of faceted onyx. Each tiny stone was carefully carved and, as she turned it in the light, she realized several of the faces of each stone were overlaid with emerald, giving them an appearance not unlike that of a fish's scales. They glittered minutely, like tiny grey-green stars.

After a moment she noticed another odd thing; around each jewel was an engraving. Lifting it closer, she saw that the engravings was a miniature representation of a hawk with a snake in its claws. The hawk seemed to be in flight; its wings were raised, but even as it captured the snake, the serpent twisted around, poised to bite the bird and dose it with its deadly venom. Each gem carefully crafted so it was where the eye of each animal would be.

With raised eyebrows, Claire set the ring back down on the table. She had never seen that particular crest before, and it was obviously a signet ring. It was time to find out exactly where it had come from.

She dimmed the lights with a flick of her wand and rested two fingertips lightly on top of the ring. She had done this every night for the past week, and still the ring refused to yield its secrets. Tonight, though.... she knew it would be different.

She stared at the steam still faintly rising from the teapot and slipped into a state of blank awareness, something akin to vacancy.

The steam was pale whitish grey, and it curled and danced on its way to the ceiling, slowly rising up and up until she saw shapes in the vapor; a hawk and a serpent..... For a moment she almost saw the colors of the bird's red tail feathers, its fierce golden eyes. The snake's green-grey scales almost glittered, its white fangs shining as it opened its mouth to sink its teeth into the hawk. But even as she watched, the hawk's rending orange-yellow beak descended on the reptile......

Green hills stretched before her, an endless, undulating landscape of unbroken green that rolled away beyond the edge of mortal sight. She stood on the side of a mountain, a sheer grey cliff on her left, and the sky was iron, covered with clouds that reflected a gunmetal sheen, lightening at the horizon into pale silver. The last vestiges of morning mist clung tenaciously to the hollows in the valleys below her.

On her right, and a little way above her, was a building. It was far too large to be called a manor estate, and it had the towers, crenellations and battlements that denoted a castle, yet it was too small to really be called a castle. It was carved out of what seemed to be one continuous, monotonous slab of grey, unadorned rock. The tiles on the roof of the highest of the towers were gleaming black, even in the dim light. Even as she watched, a breeze swept up from the lower slopes and whistled past the structure. The flag snapped out, displaying the device there. She saw with misgiving it was the same as the one on the ring. Below the coat of arms was a line of flowing script: Durus manus victrix.

The harsh hand victorious.

Claire frowned. She wasn't familiar with that particular motto either. She inspected the castle, hoping to find a clue as to where in the Seven Hades she was, but the only thing the building provided was huge, rambling quantities of blank stone.

Even as she looked back out over the bluff and down into the valley, she became aware of a dim cacophony of voices. It sounded like a woman, pleading. She looked upward; there, on the wall, were four figures, all in black robes. The wind billowed the material outward like sinister black wings.

As she watched, a decision seemed to be reached. The tallest of the figures clapped his hands, and the sound carried down to her faintly. More black specks appeared on the wall above her, and they surrounded the others, blocking them from view. After a moment, they vanished, presumably descending one of the many staircases which must have lined the wall on the inside.

Claire waited patiently. She knew from past journeys that she couldn't influence the past around her, so there was no point in trying to enter the castle to see what was transpiring.

Her passivity was soon rewarded. The great gate swung open, pushed from the inside, and a solemn line of people, all clothed in black, came out, led by a tall man in a black hooded cloak. None of them took any notice of her; she wasn't there, after all, merely a spectator to the day's events. After a moment's walking, they crested a hill and were lost to sight. Claire followed behind them.

She gauged they had walked for nearly half an hour before the procession stopped abruptly. They had reached the top of the mountain, and stood on a grassy knoll. A belt of trees, their bare branches stark against the fall sky, stood some way off to the west.

The neat line of people then stretched and began to take the shape of a circle. In the middle were the four figures she had first seen on the wall. Three of them were bound with magical cords, their hands roughly secured behind their backs. The fourth, taller than all the rest and the only one wearing a cloak, stood a little apart. Claire could not see his face; he wore a mask, carved from obsidian; but the features engraved on the mask were catlike, the eye holes slits and the mouth a hard, cruel line.

"You have come to witness my displeasure," said the man behind the mask, and his voice was horrible, like bright steel and pain lancing through her nerves, "with this family. Loyal servants to me, they would claim, but when I Called them they did not come, though they felt my Mark burning in summons."

The circle shifted out of either apprehension or anger; Claire could not tell.

"They thought themselves too proud," the voice continued, "to join with me again, though they had once called me Master, and bowed before my every wish. Now you will see what happens to those who are disloyal to me, who displease me, who do not wish to be troubled by me again. For that is the way God created the bitter world, and mankind. I ask you, are we not humans, slaves to our own desires? Will we not eat, if we are hungry? And will we not drink, when we are thirsty? And will we not take what we are offered? And will we not seek to take back what is ours, if what is offered is taken away? And when we are wounded, will we not seek revenge? There is a balance to all things, and so it is not only my wish, but also my right, to wreak vengeance upon this family. But I am merciful. I shall allow the boy to live, that he may join with me, and atone for his parent's sins."

The masked man held up a wand in his slender fingers, and only then did she notice that his hands were gloved, encased in black satin as though anything rougher than silk next to his skin would be painful. He pointed it at the nearest figure, a tall, pale man she had never seen before.

"Crucio," he hissed, and the man began to scream. It was a high, keening shriek; the sound of white-hot, consuming pain, bitterly dominating everything it touched. Claire had never heard a sound more horrible, more frightening, and it wrenched at her as though it were going to tear her apart. She clamped her hands over her ears, but she could still hear it, shrill and stark, filling her mind with blank grey terror. She felt her grip on the world around her begin to loosen, and even as she clutched at the memory, it slipped beyond her grasp, spiraling into nothingness.

With a lurch, the countryside vanished, and she was flying, rushing through inky blackness that was occasionally dotted with stars. Then there was a slamming noise as she reentered her body, then total darkness.

***

"Miss Granger, what was your relationship with the deceased?" the Auror queried, his scarlet Quick Quotes Quill scribbling automatically on the parchment in front of him. He leaned across the table, scrutinizing Hermione carefully as she answered. She didn't like the way he spoke- he was very pompous and seemed to regard the whole affair very professionally, with no sign of any emotion whatsoever.

"She was my secretary," Hermione replied cautiously, choosing her words with care.

"I see," said Mr. Price, and glared at his quill, which began to write faster. "Did you have any other relationship? Did you know her well, were you- friends?" The man said the word as though he was tasting its flavor and finding it displeasing.

"Sort of," Hermione said. She could definitely feel one monster of a headache coming on. "We- well, we were never closer than the position required, but we did go out to lunch a few times. We talked purely about business, though."

"I see," the Auror repeated, which he obviously didn't. "Did you two ever fight? Were you at all dissatisfied with the job she was doing?"

Hermione paused for a moment. She hadn't really been too happy about her aide's disorganized methods, but to say so now seemed like dishonoring the dead. "No."

The Auror raised an eyebrow. "Do you know if anyone else was in the building when you arrived in the morning?"

"No," said Hermione. "I don't think so. I came in early- I had an article to finish- and found her there. She was- she was already cold." Much to her shame, her voice rose and broke. She stopped speaking for a moment, trying to compose herself. "I think she had been killed the night before."

Mr. Price looked up. "That's very astute, Miss Granger. The police agree with you. Well, that's all the questions I have for you. Unless you have anything else to add, I'll be heading home, and I suggest you do the same." Mr. Price cast her a worried look as he went out the door. "Have a pleasant evening."

Hermione nodded and waved. She didn't trust herself to speak. As he left, she put her head down on the desk and began to breathe deeply. It helped her regain control of the tears that were trying to fight their way out of her tightly closed eyes. After a moment, she stood up, scrubbed roughly at her face with her sleeve, cleaned off her desk, and left the room, locking the door magically behind her. With an odd sense of foreboding, she stepped out into the hall. Her stomach churned in a peculiar fashion as she made her way towards the front doors, but something prompted her to take the longer, more public route to the exit, instead of cutting through the staff breakroom like she usually did.

She turned the last corner and stopped in her tracks. A queer sense of numbness fell over her, and, for the second time in a week, Hermione screamed.

***

The first thing Claire saw upon opening her bleary eyes was the ceiling. At some point during her journey she had fallen off her chair and onto the tile floor. She lay there for a moment, gathering the strength to lift her head. When she did, the first thing she saw was the ring, glittering innocently on the table. With a gasp, she skittered away from it on her elbows until she fetched up against the far wall.

The jewels in the ring winked at her like so many malevolent eyes as she sat, huddled against the cabinets, recalling the atrocity she had seen. Her wand was on the table, not far from the ring. Gathering her courage, she stood up, approached the table and snatched her wand away. Even from several feet's distance, she could feel the cold radiating off the ring, a tiny voice in the back of her head, enticing her: Come back. Come back, and see what happened.

Claire left the piece of jewelry where it was, turned her back on the voice and left the room. She knew she would never be able to touch the ring again; if she did, it would invariably send her back to the fall day on the ridge. The memories locked in it were strong, so potent that they could never be fully erased, and as long as she kept the ring, they would call out to her. Indeed, the sights, sounds, even feelings, were so strong she suspected it had been on the finger of the blonde man when he died, and he had worn it for most of his life.

She prepared for bed, absentmindedly brushing her teeth and changing her clothes, but it was a long time before she could sleep.