The Man With No Shadow

Chapter Seven: The Face of the Enemy

***

Harry trod lightly through the damp mist hugging the back streets of London. The rubber soles of his shoes made no more noise than the feet of a cat. Unfortunately, his partner more closely resembled a Blast-Ended Skrewt, in stealth no less than in appearance. As if to underscore this analogy, Harry heard a dustbin lid clatter resoundingly to the sidewalk with an echo like a cracked brass bell with a muted clapper.

"Sorry," Clotworthy muttered as he replaced the lid his elbow had dislodged. Harry merely grunted. He'd dared voice no objection at being paired with the old veteran. It was a common enough pairing, placing a rookie with a more experienced field operative from whom the former might be able to glean a few pearls of wisdom. Unfortunately, Clotworthy's agile brain found a poor mate in his stocky, thick-limbed body. A skilled detective with an eye for clues second to none in MLE, he was better suited for analyzing crime scenes already discovered than seeking them out by means of stealth.

There were only a few Muggles on the streets. This was not an upscale neighborhood, and only the bravest (or most foolhardy) souls walked the streets after dark, even without the threat of a vampire lurking in the shadows. Harry wondered absently which of those two categories he and Clotworthy fell into. Equal parts of both, he decided -- especially given the circumstances that had called them forth. The vampire had proven clever enough to avoid the more reputable areas of London. In surroundings such as these, their quarry could more easily find a suitable victim, indulge in his grisly feast, and vanish before being spotted by Muggle eyes.

Wizard eyes, however, were another matter. And, giving due where it was warranted, Harry saw that Clotworthy's gimlet eyes missed no smallest corner of the far side of the street (Harry's focus being the side upon which they walked) as they moved through the shadows huddling between the widely-spaced street lights. So intent was the old MLE wizard upon his task, however, that any objects closer than three feet were as invisible to him as if they were draped in Harry's Invisibility Cloak.

At this thought, Harry patted the bulge tucked under his Muggle overcoat, reassured by its comforting presence. If either he or his partner spotted anything bearing closer scrutiny, Harry would dive under his Cloak and circle about while Clotworthy advanced from the forward position. Harry would thus be fortuitously placed to intercept anyone -- or anything -- attempting to flee from the MLE wizard's approach. (And if that something proved to be their undead foe, it would then be a simple matter to summon Remus to snap their carefully prepared trap shut.) This was standard methodology, though the advance operative was usually masked by a Disillusionment Charm (Invisibility Cloaks being scarce items). Harry had even suggested that he wear his Cloak during the patrol itself, but Kingsley pointed out the flaw in this reasoning.

"You and your partner are bait, Harry. What good is bait that can't be seen?"

It was an irrefutable argument, but Harry liked it no more for that.

Each team had been chosen for its appearance as well as the skills to deal with their quarry. As the newest -- and therefore youngest -- Aurors in the department, Tonks and Harry were the logical choices for the assignment. Contrary to popular myth, vampires did not limit their victims to women. While female targets did prove easier to terrify on the whole, making them easier to subdue in turn, an old man and a young boy were just as likely targets. Harry was slightly irked that he could still pass as a "young boy", but still being months shy of his 22nd birthday left him with shaky ground on which to base a contrary position. In truth, his youth had proved an asset on more than one occasion during his brief tenure. A number of opponents who had dismissed Harry as a threat due solely to his physical appearance were now occupying cells in Azkaban, where they would have plenty of time to re-evaluate their thinking in regard to age prejudice.

Despite the lateness of the hour, and the fact that he had not slept for most of a day and a night, Harry felt alert, his senses sharp. The interval comprising the daylight hours between their strategy session and the implementing of the mission had not been one of idleness. He and his companions had spent the day engaged in mock confrontations in the Training Room until an hour before sunset, whereupon they had eaten a light meal, changed into Muggle clothing and Apparated to the safe houses nearest their assigned target areas. They had rehearsed possible scenarios and means of response for hours on end, drawing on Moody's notes as to how best they might prevail. Ultimately, Kingsley had pronounced both Harry and Tonks ready for whatever they might encounter tonight. But Harry wondered how much of that could be accounted as mere pep talk to boost their confidence. Against Dark wizards, Harry knew what to expect, and he had distinguished himself any number of times against formidable adversaries. But tonight's mission was outside the boundaries of standard Auror routine, a fact which Kingsley knew as well as anyone.

"Older, more experienced agents would be useless as bait," Kingsley said with the reason of his own experience. "They'd be spotted easily for what they are, and our quarry would avoid them in favor of more likely prey. We need to draw him out and into our trap, and do our best not to fall into his trap. Remember, the Ministry cemetery is full of Aurors who made the mistake of underestimating a clever foe. Our best hope is to discover where the bastard goes to ground. Remus can then lead a picked team of seasoned agents to sort him out for good, with minimal risk."

Time seemed to have slowed to a Flobberworm's pace as Harry set one foot in front of the other in an easy, measured cadence, effecting a casual aspect that was as false as the Muggle clothing he and his companion wore. In fact, he and his partner were both tightly-wound springs waiting to explode into action. Their loose-hanging overcoats revealed no sign of the pouches riding on their hips, nor of the wands whose handles thrust unobtrusively from their belts. As his eyes swept his surroundings with deceptive idleness, Harry wondered absently how long they had until sunup. The monotony made every minute seem like an hour. As if reading the young Auror's mind, Clotworthy slipped a great paw into an inside pocket of his coat and withdrew it with the smoothness of long practice.

"Three a.m.," he grunted at the old, tarnished pocket watch cradled in his left palm. "The witchin' hour. Eyes peeled, lad."

"I thought midnight was the witching hour," Harry said as his partner snapped the watch closed and returned it whence it had come, the tiny sound seeming unnaturally loud in the uncanny stillness. Harry's own hand rose reflexively to his neck, encountering the reassuring bulge of the silver amulet against his ribs. It reminded him of another pendant from a seeming lifetime ago. The thought bit deep, and he pushed it away.

"That'd be yer Muggle upbringin'," Clotworthy said easily in response to Harry's comment. "If Muggles knew only half of what they think they know about the supernatural world, our lot would be in it up to our ruddy necks an' no mistakin'. There's times when a little ignorance is a good thing."

Harry was about to respond in turn when he felt a burning sensation in his pocket. Clotworthy immediately came to life, his beady black eyes missing nothing. To the wizard's honed senses, the subtle change in Harry's expression was tantamount to igniting a tray of flash powder in a dark room.

"A signal?" the old wizard said eagerly as Harry reached into his pocket and pulled out the coin given him by Kingsley.

"Two miles from here," Harry said quickly. "Team two."

"Team two?" Clotworthy grunted, his bulldog face tensing. "That's be -- "

Harry Disapparated in the wink of an eye. Clotworthy reached into his right pocket and drew forth his own coin. Changing hands, he pulled out his wand and was about to touch the coin. Harry had Apparated straight to the trouble spot because of the spell linking his coin to that of the singaller. Though he knew the general location of Team two, Clotworthy could not follow until he activated his own coin's link by hand with his wand. Blind Apparation might find him blocks from the target area. Only by linking his coin with that of a fellow operative could he be certain of arriving spot-on. But before he could touch the tip of his wand to his coin, his beady eyes instinctively swept his surroundings and spied the last thing he wanted to see: two Muggles, a man and a woman, the latter of whom was pointing her finger at the space beside Clotworthy where Harry had stood, her eyes wide with disbelief and mounting panic.

"Bloody hell," he swore. "Why aren't they home in bed like decent folks, instead o' walkin' the streets like flippin' ghouls?"

He tapped the coin with his wand, but with a different purpose than he'd originally intended. Instead of following Harry to the trouble scene, he must instead signal the Ministry to send an Obliviator to deal with the two witnesses to Harry's decidedly un-Muggle-like disappearance. And he would have to remain within sight of the Muggles so that the Obliviator could home in on his signal. Much as he wanted to join battle with the enemy, he knew where his duty lay, and he'd been with MLE too long to deviate from procedure now.

Harry was on his own.

*

Harry Apparated at the mouth of a narrow alley into whose recesses the lights of the main thoroughfare did not reach. As he stood alone in the silence, his breathing slow and regular as he reached out with his senses with practiced calm, he realized immediately that something was amiss. Where was Remus? The first signal should have gone to him, allowing him to take point and lead his team into the danger zone while Harry played his assigned role of back-up. This did not bode well. But there was nothing to be gained by standing about. He took a cautious step forward, and his change in position caused a glint of lamplight to strike a dull reflection from a small object at his feet. He knelt smoothly to pick it up, his eyes never leaving the mouth of the alley.

As expected, he was holding a signal coin identical to the one in his pocket. This, at least, was according to procedure. The witch or wizard who issued the summons would leave the coin behind ere charging ahead, lest the one summoned be thrust into the jaws of the same danger.

But if that was standard procedure for an ordinary mission, it was not in line with present strategy. The signaller should have waited until Remus and the other Auror (in this case, Harry) appeared before engaging the enemy. Trained MLE operatives would not have rushed blindly into danger in defiance of specific orders. And Remus' experience with the Order of the Phoenix would not permit him to deviate from the plan of attack. Why, then, was Harry the only one in evidence?

Wary as a cat, Harry drew his wand in a smooth, unhurried motion and moved toward the mouth of the alley. He peered into the darkness for a moment, then whispered, "Lumos!" A narrow beam of light sprang from the tip of his wand, and this he played across his path, his wand held low, as he moved stealthily forward.

He considered for a moment whipping out his Invisibility Cloak and diving under it, but he dismissed this notion as quickly as it had come. For one thing, it would encumber his wand arm at a time when a split-second might spell the difference between life and death. And he realized that his supernatural foe was possessed of senses far beyond the mortal variety, before which invisibility would be as nothing. Cloak-and-circle strategy would not serve here.

As he stepped into the mouth of the alley, Harry reached out with his own senses, which, if only of the mortal variety, were yet honed to razor-keenness by rigorous training and practical application. The sounds of the night were magnified unnaturally by the almost other-worldly quiet, and Harry's ears picked them out one by one and sorted them with practiced skill. A discarded newspaper rustled in the breeze that tugged diffidently at the hem of Harry's coat; a rat scuttled somewhere to his left, its tiny claws rattling on the hard-packed ground; a night-bird trilled restlessly from its perch on an overhead wire --

Suddenly Harry froze as if struck by a Petrificus Curse. A soft, chilling sound was echoing mutely from the crumbling brick walls. It was a sound such as Harry had never heard, yet he knew it for what it was. Better for his sanity had he not identified it, for it was such a sound as had no place in a sane world.

With that terrible song reverberating in his brain, Harry whispered, "Nox," extinguishing the light of his wand. Closing his eyes, he touched the tip of his wand to the bridge of his nose and said, "Oculus Nocturnus!" When he opened his eyes again, a weird, uncanny light seemed to be permeating the narrow alley. In was, in fact, the light of the stars hovering above the narrow cleft of the alley, their brightness increased a thousandfold. His eyes had been transformed into night vision lenses, serving the twin function of increasing the scope of his vision, and freeing his wand for whatever awaited him in the depths of that foul alley.

He could now see that the alley made a bend to the left. He crept forward, his steps silent as the fog swirling about his ankles, and sprang full into the opening, his wand before him. The sight that met his eyes struck him like a physical blow so that he nearly cried out in horror.

Three figures were cast into relief, their outlines blurred both by the creeping fog and the green haze accompanying the spell suffusing Harry's eyes. The nearest, an MLE witch whom Harry knew by sight if not by name, sagged against the wall to his left, either unconscious or dead. A second figure lay sprawled at an angle, his limbs askew. His shirt had been rent to the waist, exposing his chest and neck. His head was turned to one side, and his horror-struck face looked at Harry with wide, unseeing eyes. It was Geoffrey Suggins!

Tearing his gaze from those blankly staring eyes, Harry felt a chill play along his spine as he beheld a shadowy form bent low over the recumbant wizard. Its back was to him, its face all but hidden behind a pair of narrow, vulture-like shoulders draped in a cape black as the night. Harry saw the creature's head move in a slow, ghastly rhythm as it pressed its inhuman lips to Geoffrey's exposed neck, which motion was synonymous with the unholy sound that had drawn Harry hither -- a grisly, horrible, soul-chilling sound -- the unmistakable sound of blood being sucked.

Harry could have been excused if blind terror had seized him in that moment, tearing his reason from him like a wrapper from a Chocolate Frog. Instead, his Auror training jerked him back from that precipice and imbued his mind and body with the temper of chilled steel.

Harry knew he had only moments to choose a course of action. He remembered the admonitions of Kingsley, Remus and Hermione. He must not trust to magic, but must look instead to himself. He sorted through the hours of practice encounters in the Training Room, searching for something that would serve him now. He looked down into the wide, terror-glazed eyes of Geoffrey, which seemed to scream at him, "Help me! For the love of God, help me!" Setting his jaw firmly, Harry reached for his pouch with his left hand even as his right raised his wand --

In a silent explosion of terrible fury, the creature leaped up and fell full upon Harry, bearing him to the ground with the force of a hurricane. Clawed fingers fastened on his throat in a grip of steel, strangling the spell on his lips as they sought to crush the very life from his body. Reacting without thought, Harry sprang back in a desperate effort to escape his foe's crushing grip. Twisting and writhing, he rebounded from the alley wall, striking his head sharply so that lights burst in his brain. As his resistance faltered, his foe pressed the advantage on the moment. With a savage wrench, Harry felt himself being jerked into the air as if he were a rag doll and dashed to the ground with a bone-jarring impact that drove the breath from his lungs.

A crushing weight fell upon him as his foe pounced with the speed and ferocity of a panther. A claw-like hand tore open his shirt and wrenched the silver pendant from his neck. He was now helpless to resist the power of those terrible hypnotic eyes. Harry's right hand twitched reflexively in an effort to bring his wand to bear, but his fingers closed on empty air. Unable to move, nor summon the will even to turn his head, he suddenly found himself staring into a pair of black, inhuman eyes, darker than the soul of night. There was a fiendish triumph in those eyes that burned Harry to the depths of his soul. A slender object appeared before him tauntingly. His wand. The fiend savored his triumph with inhuman relish, silent, mocking laughter shining in those dark pools ere the gaunt, raven-like head bent low over his victim's unresisting form. Harry felt cold, sepulchral breath on the flesh of his exposed neck.

And in the moment that those terrible eyes broke contact, Harry acted with all the swiftness of his Quidditch-honed reflexes.

"LUMOS!"

As the incantation left Harry's lips, a beam of light burst from his wand-tip, striking the fiend's face like the slash of a saber. A scream like the cry of a damned soul reverberated from the alley walls as his demonic head jerked back whip-like. In a single eye-blurring motion, Harry snatched his wand from his enemy's grasp, flung himself to one side and sprang to his knees. Giving the other no time to recover, Harry drew a sharp breath and thrust his wand before him.

"IMPEDIMENTA!"

The spell smote the other like a clenched fist, hurling him against the wall with a force that would have reduced a human body to a shapeless pulp. The fiend staggered, stunned by the impact of the blow, and a mocking smile curled Harry's lip.

"ACCIO PENDANT!" Harry cried, pointing his wand in the direction where he knew it lay. The talisman leaped into his hand, and he balled his fist around it as his opponent turned once more to face him, his midnight eyes blazing with unexpressable hatred.

Harry sprang to his feet now, watching his foe warily. If he struck now, the other's inhuman speed and agility might enable him to dodge the spell. Recalling his training exercises, Harry stood poised, waiting for his enemy to make the first move. Nor was he long in the waiting. The dark fiend exploded into motion like a bolt of black lightning --

"REDUCTO!"

So swift was the attack that the creature's claws were nearly at Harry's throat when the spell struck home. But being in mid-strike, the fiend could not twist out of the way, and the Curse smote him in the midsection like a battering ram. Had that spell gone amiss, it would have punched a hole in the alley wall large enough for a centaur to gallop through. A human body would have been rent into bloody shards that would scarcely have made a meal for Hagrid's great boarhound, Fang. But the body it had struck was far from human. Stunned and disoriented, the dark figure staggered back, his obsidian eyes unfocused, his lank hair falling about his narrow, predatory shoulders.

Giving no respite, Harry jerked his wand commandingly at the walls on either side. The bricks reached out, forming giant hands that closed around the black-caped figure in a stony, unyielding grip.

It was Harry's first mistake of the night, and his last. As he looked on with stunned helplessness, his enemy's body dissolved into a cloud of smoky mist that flowed through the stony fingers, which rasped against each other impotently with a sound like millstones grinding poisoned wheat in the devil's granary. The dark cloud rose in a sort of slow mockery, rising up beyond the edge of the roof framing the alley's narrow flanks. It hung for a moment, in aspect not unlike a huge, spectral bat, obscuring the stars directly overhead. Then it was gone, leaving Harry to stare upward in impotent frustration.

His Auror training asserting itself, Harry recovered on the instant. Time enough for recriminations later. He raced to the end of the alley and bent over the motionless form of Geoffrey. Blood was spurting fearfully from the wounds in the wizard's neck, implying that a main artery had been breached. Even in the unnatural light of the oculus spell, Harry could see that the wizard was white as a ghost, excepting the horrific splashes of crimson painting his neck and shoulder. Uncertain whether a blood-coagulating spell would work quickly enough on so deep a wound, he jerked out his pocket handkerchief and pressed it against Geoffrey's neck. There were times when Muggle methods worked as well as magic, if not better.

As he concentrated on staunching the flow of life from Geoffrey's body, Harry scarcely heard the staccato of faint pops at the mouth of the alley announcing the Apparation of an undetermined number of wizards. So intent was he on his task that he did not even look up when he heard his own name being called out.

"Harry?" came the cautious voice of Remus. "Are you in there?"

"Hurry!" Harry called out at last, his nerves humming with the onset of panic. "I need help! It's Geoffrey!"

Remus Lupin bounded around the corner, followed closely by Clotworthy. Both had lighted their wands, and Clotworthy's bulldog face was a mask of ill-suppressed anxiety.

"Where's me mate?" the old MLE wizard demanded. He played the beam of light from his wand toward Harry, who cried out as the light hit his sensitized eyes, which he promptly squeezed shut.

"What happened, Harry?" Remus said as Clotworthy elbowed past him and sank to his knees with a sob, his hammy fingers catching up his partner's cold, limp hand and wringing it in an almost fatherly manner.

"I got a signal," Harry said distantly, his eyes still shut tight against the beam of light from Remus' wand. "There was no one here. I had to go in alone. But bugger that. Geoffrey needs help, and fast."

Remus leaned in close, then looked up at Harry.

"You're doing the right thing, Harry. Keep applying pressure. We can't move him until the bleeding is controlled."

"Where were you?" Harry asked. "Why didn't you arrive ahead of me?"

"I didn't know there was trouble until Clotworthy signalled for an Obliviator," Remus said. He was now ministering to the MLE witch, probing for signs of life with his wand. The collar of her blouse had been torn away, but the stretch of neck revealed was devoid of mark or wound. Nodding to himself, he sent a mild Invigorating Spell through her, and she moaned softly as he proceeded to examine her for injuries. "I should have received a signal the same time you did," he said. "I don't understand."

"Maybe it all happened too quickly," Harry said, shaking his head. "She might have been trying to signal you when she was attacked, and the spell got skewed and signalled me instead. I seriously doubt that Geoffrey had time to do anything."

"But if you suspected that something was off kilter," Remus asked quietly, "why didn't you signal the Ministry before you went in?"

This soft remonstrance cut Harry to the heart. "I don't know," he said faintly.

Following a tense silence, Remus turned back to the witch and grunted softly.

"Her amulet is gone."

"What?" Harry said vacantly.

"Her amulet is gone. Does Geoffrey still have his?"

"I didn't notice," Harry replied, grimacing at his handkerchief, which was now soaked with Geoffrey's blood. But, praise Merlin, the flow seemed to be abating at last. In another minute he should be able to apply a proper Coagulating Charm.

"That's quite odd, don't you think?" Remus said.

"What?" Harry said, not attending Remus' words.

"Mr. Suggins and his partner here gave every appearance of being ordinary Muggles," Remus said. "Yet their attacker wasted no time in despoiling them of their amulets. How could he have known they were wearing them unless he knew who and what they were from the first?"

Having no answer, Harry remained silent as he continued to work over Geoffrey.

"In addition," Remus said, "I personally enchanted everyone's coins so that I would be the first person signalled. The spell would have to be reconfigured specifically to signal either you or Tonks. If the attack happened so quickly that there was time to send only one signal, how is it, then, that you were signalled and I was not?"

Again, Harry had no answer, and neither, it seemed, did Remus.

Remus rose, leaving the witch stretched out on the alley floor, her head resting on a makeshift pillow composed of Remus' cloak. He knelt opposite Clotworthy, who was shaking silently with grief as he continued to wring his partner's hand.

"How is she?" Harry asked, still not lifting his head, as Remus' wand was still lighted.

"Not a mark on her," Remus said. "I'd say she was simply placed under mental control and commanded to sleep. That would be easy enough to accomplish once her pendant was removed. A vampire weakened by hunger would limit himself to a simple command that wouldn't require much force of will. I imagine the same thing happened to Geoffrey. Apart from the obvious wounds, I don't see any marks on him -- unlike you."

Harry supposed that he bore a few odd bruises and scratches from his scuffle with his opponent. He was glad that he could not open his eyes to look into Remus' face. He was certain that he would behold only reproach in the elder wizard's eyes for what was obviously a botched mission.

"He must have been ravenous," Remus observed distantly. "He chose the larger prey, no doubt needing to indulge to a greater degree. A vampire will sometimes take his victim with him and drain him over a period of time. The myth of the weaker prey being at greater risk is just that. It's fortunate for Geoffrey that you arrived when you did."

"Can you hold this for me?" Harry asked, indicating the bloody handkerchief. When Remus had substituted his hand for Harry's, the latter stood away from the light and removed the Night Vision Charm from his eyes. Turning back, he said, "Okay -- take it away." Remus withdrew the handkerchief. A few droplets of blood appeared on Geoffrey's neck, gleaming redly in the wandlight. Harry touched his wand-tip to the nearest puncture and said, "Coagulus!" He repeated the spell on the other mark. No more blood seeped from the wound, and Harry sighed with relief.

"Give it to me straight, lad," Clotworthy said now. "How is he?"

Feeling Geoffrey's neck, Harry said, "His pulse is thready. He's lost a lot of blood. If it wasn't for good old Muggle know-how, we'd have lost him."

"If I remember rightly from my days teaching Defense Against the Dark Arts," Remus said, "vampire saliva impedes coagulation. You may have saved his life with your quick action, Harry."

Harry saw tears of gratitude flowing freely from Clotworthy's eyes, running like rivers along the lines seaming his weathered face. Turning toward Remus, Harry said, "As it is, he needs a blood replacement potion, and immediately. We need to make up a stretcher and get him to St. Mungo's straightaway."

"Here," came a gentle voice from behind Clotworthy's bulk.

All eyes turned to see Hermione, who was pointing her wand at a hovering stretcher that she had obviously just conjured. Harry and Remus each took one of Geoffrey's arms while Clotworthy grasped his legs, and they eased him onto the stretcher while Hermione looked on with the beginnings of tears in her eyes. Turning away, she conjured another stretcher for the witch, who was placed thereon by Harry and Remus. Negating his Lumos spell, Remus directed his wand at the stretchers as both Harry and Hermione ignited their wands. With a nod at Harry, he flicked his wand, and both he and the stretchers vanished with a soft pop. Clotworthy looked mournfully at the empty place where Geoffrey's stretcher had been, as if he wished to have gone along to ensure that his friend and partner received the care he was due. But duty prevailed, and he turned stolidly toward Harry and Hermione, his cheeks shining wetly in the wandlight.

"I modified the witnesses' memories," Hermione said as the three walked toward the mouth of the alley. Now that the crisis was past, they would follow procedure and walk to the nearest safe house before Apparating to the Ministry to make out their reports. "They were coming from a party, and they'd had a bit to drink. They probably would have forgotten all about it by morning."

Harry did not reply. His eyes were shadowed, and he avoided looking at either of his companions. He was staring at the blood on his hands.

"Did yer reckon him out?" Clotworthy asked anxiously. "The bloke what done it?"

Harry shook his head slowly. "I didn't recognize him. But it doesn't matter, does it? How many vampires can there be in London?"

"This'd be a new one," Clotworthy said as he wiped his eyes with the heel of his mallet-like hand. "MLE has a registry of known vampires, along with werewolves an' zombies an' ghouls an' such. We know where they're buried, an' ain't none of 'em gone missing. So we suck it up an' start from square one." He barked a short, grim laugh at his joke. "Shame yer didn't reckon him out, though. Might'a helped us track him down. Like the old sayin' goes, 'Better the devil ye know.'" He shrugged his broad shoulders stoically. "We'll nail the bugger next time. An' if Geoffrey don't make it through, I'll drive the stake in with me own hands an' dance on the bloody bastard's face, you mark me if I don't!" He slapped the pouch underneath his coat with a resounding thump. Harry responded with a nod and an inarticulate grunt.

"Still and all," Hermione said as she regarded Harry with shrewd eyes, "it is a shame you didn't get a good look at him. But I suppose it was too dark to see properly."

"Yeah," Harry said. "But like Clotworthy said, we'll get him next time."

Hermione nodded slowly, and Harry had the distinct impression that she was not buying his story as readily as Clotworthy seemed to have. Hermione had known Harry too long for him to fool her easily. He was sure she must have seen him wince at the light from Remus' wand and suspected that he was seeing by virtue of a Night Vision Charm. Summoning his best stoic mask, he said, "Let's get back and make out our reports while the details are still fresh."

Hermione nodded again, saying nothing, but continuing to look at him in a manner that disturbed him more profoundly than had the cold, black eyes of his undead enemy.

*

Harry slid Hermione's chair back from the table in gentlemenly fashion, extending his hand as he did so. Hermione rose smoothly, tossing her hair back from her shoulders with a casual elegance that made Harry's heartrate double. His eyes caressed her shoulders and neck with near vampiric savor (which task he would have preferred his hands to perform, followed by his lips).

Don't push, he thought as Hermione's brilliant smile turned his knees weak. Let her make the first move.

She did -- though it proved to be other than Harry had hoped. When Hermione had not-so-subtly declared that she did not have to work the following day, Harry's imagination had run away with him like a stampede of blood-crazed thestrals. With Hermione's hand pressed into his, he'd envisioned her leading him to his bedroom for the long-delayed night of passion that had haunted his fancy for more than five years now. Instead, she led him to the couch, seating herself as she released Harry's hand and crossing her legs seductively. The slitted skirt of her evening dress had the effect of making her legs seem long and sultry well out of proportion with her diminutive height, and if her plunging neckline were any deeper, he was sure it would have showed off her knickers. What it did reveal was enough to make his blood boil in his veins like potion in a white-hot cauldron. If his eyes bugged out any farther, anyone who did not know him might easily have mistaken him for a member of the Lovegood family.

"That," Hermione purred contentedly as Harry seated himself next to her with as much decorum as he could manage, "was an excellent meal. I don't think even the Golden Unicorn could have served a Beef Wellington as good as that," she praised, naming the most exclusive wizard restaurant in London. With a raised eyebrow and a wry grin, she teased, "I didn't know they delivered."

"I'll have you know I worked all day on that dinner," Harry said with an aristocratic toss of his head. Relaxing into a smile, he confessed, "I nearly went round the bend at least a dozen times when I thought I'd mucked up one phase or another, but it all turned out well in the end."

"You have a gift for understatement," Hermione smiled warmly. "It was magnificent." With a small giggle, she said, "I don't recall you being that fond of spinach when it turned up on the dinner table at Hogwarts."

"I fancy a lot of things now that I didn't when I was eleven," Harry smiled, his eyes remaining fixed on Hermione's only with the greatest of efforts.

A bottle of chardonnay sat on the table before them, and Harry produced two crystal goblets from thin air and filled them.

"What shall we drink to?" Hermione said thoughtfully.

Harry pondered a moment before extending his glass.

"To love," he said softly.

Blushing to match the wine in her glass, Hermione echoed, "To love."

By the time the bottle before them was more empty than full, Harry had resigned himself that Hermione's remark concerning their lack of time restraint was limited to verbal play only. Not that that was unsatisfying of itself. They had a lot of catching up to do after their three-year separation, and they took turns as narrator and audience as the night flew on swift wings toward the too-quickly-arriving morning.

Obeying an unspoken accord, neither broached the subject of work. There was little in the way of cheer to be mined there. Despite the best efforts of the Healers at St. Mungo's, Geoffrey had died of his wounds the following day. He'd lost too much blood upon arrival, and some supernatural agent in his attacker's saliva had prevented the wound from healing properly, not unlike the magical wound Arthur Weasley had received at the Ministry during Harry's fifth year at Hogwarts.

Having died as a result of a vampire bite, Geoffrey would now rise himself as a vampire at sunset, and the Ministry had acted swiftly in accordance with procedure. He was spirited away clandestinely and placed in a sealed coffin which was then sunk into the Thames. (Vampires could not rise if running water flowed above them.) While they could have destroyed him at need, that need was not yet. He would be restored whole upon the destruction of him whose bite had transformed him. Thus did the urgency of Operation: Shadow (which was the standard classification for search-and-destroy missions involving vampires) increase tenfold. But, lacking the manpower needed to intensify their pursuit, Auror and MLE divisions could do no more than chafe at the bit and bide their time until the vampire's feeding cycle came around again. Thus did Harry and Hermione find themselves now, wasting no time nor worry on events beyond their control. Hour upon hour they talked, embracing the waning night with hearts as pure as their adversary's was black.

The first rays of dawn found the pair sleeping, Harry with his shoulder on the arm of the couch as Hermione's head lay in his lap. Hermione slept soundly in the arms of Bacchus, but Harry managed only brief naps. He awakened any number of times, his senses alert for danger. Each time he relaxed as he felt Hermione's weight and warmth against him. He would lay a hand upon her head, touch her shoulder and arm hestitantly, as if reassuring himself that she was really there and not a phantom of his imagination, and drift off again. His last waking thoughts were always of Hermione. Of how much he loved her. Of how he had ached to hold her every minute of their three-year separation. And, unavoidably, he could not forestall The Dream. He'd suffered it any number of times since her departure, but it was in the last year that it had come to plague him mercilessly. He grimaced in his sleep, his body tensing, jerking, shivering.

*

"Let her go, Voldemort!" Harry shouted. "Your fight is with me!"

"So it is," Voldemort agreed as he regarded Harry coldly with his slitted red eyes. "And she is part of you. When I hurt her, the pain is yours. And when I kill her, it is you who will die. If your body live on for a thousand years beyond this night, yet you will be dead for every heartbeat of that millenium. And that knowledge will bring me joy beyond measure."

Harry shook with helpless rage. Voldemort sat before him on a rude throne, compiled from the tombstones of the graveyard wherein he and his adversary were poised to end their 17-year conflict once and for all time. They were alone, Harry, Voldemort -- and Hermione. She was not aware of this, nor of her own plight, for which Harry was grateful. But she was in no less peril for that.

Employing his peripheral vision, Harry could see his friends and allies on the outer edges of the cemetery. Their faces were anxious, worried, frustrated. Well they might be. The cemetery in Little Hangleton was surrounded by a barrier of a might to shrug off the power of a Muggle atomic bomb. Erected by Dark magicks unsuspected by the most learned sorcerers, and powered by blood sacrifices of unspeakable description, it was proof against even the mightiest spells of Albus Dumbledore, arguably the greatest wizard of the age. Dumbledore, Mad-Eye Moody, Kingsley Shacklebolt, Remus Lupin, all looked on in mute horror, powerless to help Harry against Voldemort.

Harry stood before Voldemort, his mind striving desperately for a course of action, and finding none. His eyes shifted back and forth between his enemy and the woman who was his life. Ever and again his eyes fell on the ornate silver pendant hanging at a drunken angle from Hermione's neck, and Harry would curse himself anew.

He had purchased it in Hogsmeade the weekend following N.E.W.T.'s and presented it to Hermione on the eve of graduation. He had no way of knowing that the merchant in question was a Death Eater in Voldemort's service, nor that the pendant had been Cursed in a manner that would become apparent all too swiftly. Harry had watched in horror as Hermione screamed the moment he placed the pendant around her neck, vanishing before his eyes a moment later even as the echo of her screams reverberated from his Head Boy chamber. Immediately there came a voice, serpentine and icy, commanding Harry to leave the Hogwarts grounds on pain of never seeing Hermione again. This he had done without question, leaving under cover of his Invisibility Cloak. A black mist had crept over him the moment he stepped across the invisible line marking the boundary of the school grounds, blocking out the light of the stars. When it departed, Harry was no longer in Hogsmeade. He was here, in the cemetery on the outskirts of Little Hangleton.

He found Voldemort sitting benignly on his mocking throne of limestone and granite. The Dark Lord ignored the wand Harry pointed at him.

"Before you Curse me, Harry -- watch!"

To Harry's amazement, Voldemort produced a pendant from the neck of his robes. A swift glance revealed it to be identical to that worn by Hermione. Voldemort touched the tip of his wand to the pendant and purred, "Crucio!"

A scream of pain rang out. Harry whirled, and he saw Hermione behind him and to his left. She was hanging from an iron ring set in a mausoleum facade, suspended by manacles linking her wrists. Her body was jerking savagely, as if in the grip of the Curse just escaped from Voldemort's lips. But he had not touched her!

"The pendants the Mudblood and I wear are brothers in magic, Harry," Voldemort said. "Even as the wands you and I wield. Whatever Curse you hurl at me, though it brush no more than the hem of my robes, will be imparted to her by reason of our pendants. So...attack me, Harry...if you dare."

Harry wheeled, his only thought to run to Hermione and tear the pendant from her neck. Voldemort laughed again.

"The pendant she wears cannot be removed so long as mine remains upon my person. Do so and she will die. But -- you are more than welcome to remove mine -- if you can."

"How do I know you're not lying?" Harry demanded. But deep down, he knew it was no lie. Hermione had sunk back into unconsciousness, and Harry turned back to face Voldemort.

Harry's wand was in his hand. He fingered it instinctively, and Voldemort laughed.

"Curse me, Harry. Strike me down! You know you want to. You know you want to make me suffer in payment for all the suffering I have heaped upon you!" He laughed again, a sound to chill the blood in Harry's veins.

Harry trembled with frustration. He could, of course, use a more passive spell in lieu of a dangerous one. A Stunning Spell, a Body-Bind -- something harmless to Hermione that would yet subdue his foe. But Voldemort's smugness was testimony that he was no doubt surrounded by a personal shield that would easily deflect any lesser spell. A stronger spell could penetrate that barrier, Harry was certain; a personal shield was limited in scope by its very nature, no matter its conjurer's prowess. Harry had mastered many dark and potent magicks in Defense Against the Dark Arts in his pre-Auror training, any one of which would doubtless serve him now. But any spell powerful enough to breach Voldemort's defenses would echo through the magical ether and find Hermione's pendant. And if Voldemort's inhuman body might yet withstand such a spell, Hermione's frail form could not. It was a risk he dared not take.

Effecting a bored attitude a Roman emperor would have coveted, Voldemort said with casual amusement, "The Mudblood's pendant is not bonded to her flesh, merely to her soul. You have but to walk over and remove it and I will be powerless to threaten her. Oh, but I forgot. You cannot remove her pendant until you have first removed mine.

"Or perhaps I am lying when I say that the pendant cannot be removed. As you have no doubt learned, I cannot always be trusted to speak the truth. There is a simple way to find out. Go and remove the pendant from her neck. I will not stop you." And saying this, Voldemort lowered his wand.

Harry very nearly believed this latest taunt. It was typical of the Dark Lord to hold out hope like a carrot on a stick, savoring the moment when he could jerk it away with savage glee. How many steps would Harry take toward Hermione before he would feel the bite of a Curse between his shoulders? He could imagine his fingers just close enough to touch Hermione's pendant as the Cruciatus surged through him, sending him into paroxysms of pain, leaving him writhing at Hermione's feet, helpless, while Voldemort's laughter rang in his tortured ears.

All things considered, he was more inclined to believe the earlier promise that Hermione's pendant could not be removed until Voldemort was deprived of his.

"I would advise you to choose a course of action quickly, Harry," Voldemort said in an inhuman purr. "If you stand, or run, or fight, it will matter not at all. Either way, I will kill you."

Harry knew these were the truest words ever to fall from Voldemort's serpentine tongue. One way or another, he must act.

Someone help me, Harry screamed silently in the depths of his soul. Please, someone show me the way.

Voldemort laughed softly, enjoying Harry's indecision as a demented child might savor the helpless flutterings of a butterfly trapped in a glass jar. But suddenly the Dark Lord's laughter broke. His red eyes shifted, his spare figure rose up on his rude throne like a snake uncoiling. Clearly he had seen something, or heard, or sensed. Harry had detected nothing. Was this a trick, a ruse to tempt him, Harry, to act?

Then Harry heard it. A low growl, savage, feral. He spun about, and he nearly cried out.

A gigantic black dog was hunched at the perimeter of the cemetery. It loped forward like a stalking wolf, its eyes blazing. A grim? Harry thought disbelievingly. Were there really such things? Ron had claimed that his Uncle Bilius had seen a true Grim, and died shortly thereafter. If this were a Grim, whose death did its presence portend -- Harry's and Hermione's, or Voldemort's? Given the circumstances, there seemed little doubt. Harry steeled himself, determined to die defying his foe rather than humbled before him.

Voldemort's slitted eyes were riveted on the dog as it approached. Startled at first, the Dark Lord smiled now.

"Very good, Potter. Very good. McGonagall taught you well. I daresay even that fool Dumbledore could not have conjured so convincing a Grim. He was a good Transfiguration teacher in his day -- even if he was also a weak fool." Appraising the Grim, he said, "Yes, very convincing. Pity it hasn't the true properties of the genuine article." Pointing his wand, Voldemort said lazily, "Reducto!"

A bolt of energy that could have punched a hole in a stone wall struck the black dog full in the chest -- but instead of piercing the beast and spilling its insides on the withered grass, the spell went through it as if it were made of smoke and exploded a tombstone directly behind it. Voldemort's eyes expanded not a moment behind Harry's. Then the Dark Lord's smile returned.

"No transfiguration, then, but illusion! I should have praised Flitwick and not McGonagall. Your magic is impressive, Harry. You might have made a fine Auror. You might even be worthy to have served me. Alas, I think you will not live long enough to prove my prediction either way."

Voldemort's wand spoke again. A black cloud enveloped the giant dog. Harry recognized the spell from Advanced Charms, one designed to smother and absorb illusions. The cloud began to dissipate almost immediately -- and a sharp exhalation passed Voldemort's fleshless lips. The dog had not been swallowed up, nor affected in any way. On it came -- and Harry now saw that it was making straight for Voldemort.

Indecision flickered in Voldemort's crimson eyes. Seeing this, Harry found himself calmed somehow, his own decisiveness sharpened. He tensed, waiting for an opening he might exploit.

"No," Voldemort muttered. "No. Back, you hell-spawn. Back!"

With a thundering growl, the dog leaped. Though its body had been as mist to Voldemort's attacking spell, its jaws were solid now as they clamped hard on the Dark Lord's throat. Voldemort screamed, hurling back and off his makeshift throne. There was a muffled explosion, and the dog was hurled through the air as if it were stuffed with cotton wool. It landed on its feet like a ghost, unfazed, its eyes glowing with a hellish intelligence that was more fearsome than its demonic appearance. It turned to stare at Harry. It's eyes pierced his. There was something familiar about those eyes. But -- it couldn't be!

"Sirius?" Harry gasped. The great dog nodded once, and as it did so, something dangling from its jaws glinted dully in the moonlight. Voldemort saw this as well. His hand went to his throat in search of his pendant, and found only bare, snake-like flesh. He wheeled, his wand before him, uncertain whether to point it at the dog or at Harry. He chose the second path, and in the moment when his eyes met Harry's, the dog leaped.

Harry exploded into action. In three bounds he was before Hermione. He tore the pendant from her neck and cast it into the darkness. The shackles binding her wrists had no doubt been magically locked. Dispensing with subtlety, Harry blasted the chain linking the manacles. Hermione slid down the stone wall, and Harry caught her with his left arm. He spun about, pressing his back to the cool stone. He touched his wand to Hermione's bosom and said, "Ennervate!"

Hermione awoke sluggishly. She became aware of the strong arm supporting her.

"H-Harry? Wh-where are we?"

"I'll explain later," Harry said quickly. "Can you stand?"

For answer, Hermione set her feet. She found they would support her, and Harry felt her weight relax against his arm. She was about to look up at Harry when her eyes were drawn to the scene before her.

"What's...what's happening?" She blinked, not believing the scene unfolding before her. Voldemort was circling a gigantic black dog, hurling Curses at it that shattered tombstones and splintered trees, but had no effect on the form of his stalker. Harry wondered why the dog was not attacking outright, as it had before. The answer soon became plain. The dog's body was becoming translucent. Harry could see through it as if it were composed of smoky fog. Even as he watched, the dog faded. But before it vanished forever, it cast a soul-piercing look at Harry that touched Hermione as well.

"Harry? Is that -- Sirius?"

But before Harry could answer, the place where the dog had stood was empty. Slowly, more like a beast than a man, Voldemort turned his face toward Harry. His inhuman eyes blazed with hatred. Harry's arm tightened once more around Hermione, not for support, but for reassurance.

"Ready?" he said, his green eyes regarding her peripherally as they locked on Voldemort.

Hermione reached instinctively for her wand, and Harry was as surprised as she when her hand emerged with the instrument. In his supreme arrogance, Voldemort had not bothered to deprive her of it. Together, they would make him pay for his hubris.

"Ready," she said resolutely.

*

Harry woke with a start, sweat beading his face. The dream ended as it always did, before the actual duel that had ended Voldemort's mockery of life for all time. But there was a difference this time. Before, he was left with a hollow ache inside, one that the rising sun could not wholly fill...an emptiness inside him that could be filled by only one person. But this time, unlike the others, Hermione was not just a ghost of a memory. She was here, her body warm against his. He reached out and caressed her hair, which was tangled and unkempt -- and, to Harry, more beautiful than the gleaming mane of the proudest centaur in the Forbidden Forest.

"I nearly lost you that night," Harry breathed. "I did lose you, after a fashion, when you went to France. But I won't lose you again."

He bent and kissed her hair. Hermione stirred briefly but did not wake. Harry lay back on the couch and closed his eyes again. And in his last waking moments, a face filled his mind's eye. But, unlike so many times past, it was not the face of the Dark Lord that hovered before him. Nor was it Hermione's face, nor that of Sirius, whether human or canine. It was the face that had bent over him in the alley two nights ago. The face of the dark creature whose fangs had sought the flesh of his neck to draw the blood therefrom. A face with eyes black as midnight...a long, thin face, with sallow skin and a predatory hooked nose, its features twisted into a grimace of deepest hatred and loathing.

"Snape," Harry hissed as sleep overtook him at last.