The Man With No Shadow

Chapter Nine: House of Blood

***

Harry did not see Hermione all the next day. He knew from the assignment board that she was scheduled to work the same shift as he. Excepting emergency situations, senior Ministry employees seldom deigned to work Sundays. Harry and Tonks alternated the weekend shift for Auror Division; since Harry had just come off a three-day holiday, Tonks was enjoying a well-deserved lie-in today. Hermione would necessarily serve in a like capacity for MLE, whose staff was further depleted by the absence of Geoffrey Suggins. But as his own shift neared its end, Harry had seen no trace of Hermione, either on the floor housing their respective divisions, or anywhere else within the underground confines of the Ministry.

It was reasonable to suppose that she was avoiding him, which was probably for the best, given the nature of their parting last night. Indeed, it would not surprise him if she had skived off the entire day. It was bad enough that she had promised to keep Harry's secret, in effect betraying her friends and associates, but having to look into their eyes while blithely deceiving them might well be too much to ask of her. Not that he doubted her word for a moment; painful though it would be for her, Harry entertained no slightest notion that Hermione would reneg on her promise. Her oath, once given, was inviolate.

But after today, that deception would become moot. Today was the third day following the attack on Geoffrey Suggins. Tonight at sunset, Snape would emerge from his lair to prowl the streets of London in search of blood to sate his inhuman need. But ere the sun sank behind the Emerald Isle, Harry would see his enemy destroyed, their accounts squared at last with ultimate finality.

This was the ideal day to strike. But though the sun still hung well above the Western horizon, that did not mean there was no danger attendant to invading his enemy's sanctuary. Harry knew that, Muggle fancy notwithstanding, a vampire was not wholly insensate in the hours between dawn and dusk. One misstep might be his last. Nor would his enemy likely be found in a coffin, wherein he might easily be trapped by a cunning opponent. No, a closed room would more than suffice to keep the light of day at bay. The warren of rooms in Sirius' house were all shuttered and sealed; in one of them, he was certain, he would find his prey at rest, awaiting the night.

At rest -- but not unaware. Aroused, he would rise from his couch or bed and give account of himself. But his inhuman strength would be at its lowest ebb at the end of his fast, not to mention his supernatural force of mind. The advantage would be Harry's. Before tomorrow's sun rose over the English Channel, Severus Snape would be no more. Harry -- and Sirius -- would be avenged.

Harry left the offices at five o'clock, his pace unhurried, his face relaxed. His day's paperwork was done and forwarded to the appropriate division heads, freeing him to leave unquestioned. He stepped from the lift and glided into the lobby. His eyes drifted about with apparent casualness, his head nodding acknowledgingly at the odd witch or wizard coming up to begin the evening shift. He took in the walls, with their fireplaces disgorging personnel who traveled by Floo; the ceiling with its carved friezes depicting notable events in magical history (any of which, Harry reflected idly, could have been rendered boring beyond imagining in Professor Binns' History of Magic class at Hogwarts); the doors leading to secret places concealing mysteries known but to few, and voiced by fewer still --

Harry halted, his chest aching as he remembered again the Department of Mysteries...the veiled archway...Sirius...

He shook his head, cursing under his breath.

"For you, Sirius," he mouthed, his eyes fixed vacantly on the stone wizard standing majestically in the fountain before him, a stream of water spilling from the tip of his wand. "For you."

Resuming his easy stride, Harry allowed his eyes to fall away from the statue and onto the floor -- and he gasped as though an icy needle had just pricked the base of his spine. Surrounded as he was by the light of dancing torches set in high sconces ringing the chamber, he realized with a chill of dread that -- he had no shadow!

Unsummoned, Hermione's words echoed in his head: You'll be worse than Snape. A soulless thing.

A man without a shadow.

Harry cursed again, this time loudly enough to be heard by a passing witch, who looked at him curiously. He smiled nervously, his hand swinging with forced ease at his side. He took care to draw no attention to his midsection. The loose folds of his robes betrayed no outline of the pouch he carried, bearing the tools by which he would end Snape's foul existence tonight. They likewise obscured the bulge of his Invisibility Cloak. He would need that subterfuge when he ventured out onto the streets of Muggle London; the less attention drawn to his target, the better for all concerned. It would avail him nothing once he was inside the house, of course. A vampire had many senses by which to detect a foe; Snape's sudden (and nearly disastrous) response in the alley was demonstration that Harry could not depend on simple cleverness to escape detection. He wondered -- could a vampire's inhuman eyes see through Invisibility Cloaks, like Alastor Moody's magical eye could? He couldn't remember. Maybe he'd skived off that particular DADA class that day. He shrugged. It hadn't prevented him from scoring an O on his N.E.W.T. exams, with honors.

Harry reached the marked area of the lobby where lay the metaphorical window in the anti-Apparation wards surrounding the Ministry. He stood for a moment, his eyes falling onto his left arm. Just below the band of his wristwatch, invisible to any save the closest observer, was a thin strand of chestnut hair. The merest trace of a smile flickered across his otherwise placid lips.

In a contemplative moment that morning, Harry had opened his photo album and looked at the many pictures of himself and Hermione. They had shared any number of adventures in their Hogwarts days, culminating in their triumphant stand against Voldemort nearly four years ago. He wished with all his heart that she would be accompanying him that evening. Struck by a sudden inspiration, he had removed the Sticking Charm from the strand of hair he had plucked from her head on her return visit to his flat. Employing a delicate wandless Manipulation Spell, he tied the strand around his wrist in imitation of Ginny's Christmas bracelet. Its reassuring presence, she ever declared, gave her the comforting feeling that Neville was with her wherever she went. In like manner, Harry hoped to feel Hermione's presence when he essayed his dark errand in the hour before sunset. Thus, he told himself, it would almost be like Hermione were accompanying him on his mission of justice.

And that, he decided on the moment, was what it would become in fact. Though he would not abandon his plan to deal with Snape in his own way, his mission would not now be one of vengeance, as he had forepurposed, but one of simple justice. He would do his duty and nothing more. He'd hoped to be able to tell Hermione of his decision sometime during the workday. Failing that, he hoped now that he would get the chance to tell her the following morning. Would she listen? In the face of his contrition -- however tardy -- would she forgive him his stubborn adamance in the MLE Situation Room?

Harry pondered these questions one last time ere he stepped into the center of the Apparation zone, thrusting them at last into the dungeons of his mind and slamming the door. There was no room for such errant thoughts now. He would need his fullest concentration and dedication of purpose to prevail against his undead enemy.

With a forced smile and a final wave at a wizard emerging from one of the fireplaces, Harry Disapparated.

He emerged from the safe house clothed in his Invisibility Cloak. If any passing Muggles possessed ears keen enough to hear the soft pad of his rubber soles on the pavement, it was of no moment to them. Harry only hoped he would be as stealthy indoors; the Black family manse was an ancient edifice, wherein creaking floorboards might signal his arrival even to a foe sunk in unholy sleep.

Harry stood now before a row of dingy houses. The few Muggles on the streets were all looking away from him. He smiled. He'd popped out at lunch earlier and placed a timed, short-term Muggle-Repelling Charm on the area where he now stood. Satisfied that he was not being observed (even though he was invisible, Auror training was ingrained in him), he peered at a narrow strip separating the dwellings marked 11 and 13. Intensifying his concentration, he summoned four words to the forefront of his mind and engraved them thereon: "Number 12 Grimmauld Place."

The former headquarters of the Order of the Phoenix -- the house where his godfather had grown up before running away to live with Harry's father and grandparents -- appeared like a large, dirty bubble of Drooble's Best Blowing Gum blown from the lips of a Titan. When it was inflated to its full size, Harry hurried up the steps and opened the door with a hasty wave of his concealed wand, grimacing slightly at the din made by the many bolts and locks as they disengaged themselves. As soon as he was inside, the outer facade of the house dwindled swiftly until it was gone. When the Muggle-Repelling Charm wore off in another minute, there would be nothing to imply that anything but empty air lay between numbers 11 and 13.

Harry shivered slightly as he doffed his Cloak and hung it on a nearby coat tree. He looked around at the familiar surroundings, which were both like and unlike he remembered. The gas lamps lining the walls bore no flames. The walls themselves were bare; discolored rectangles of wallpaper showed where had hung the family portraits representing countless generations of the Most Ancient and Noble House of Black. Harry was not sorry that the insanely screaming portrait of Sirius' mother was long gone. Gone as well were the mounted heads of the long line of house-elves who had served the Black family since the days of King Arthur and Merlin the Wise. Wherever they were now, Harry knew that Kreacher's head was numbered among them, as the house-elf had devoutly desired. Perhaps the sour-faced elf was happy now. Either way, it was not Harry's look-out. He had far more crucial details to sort out. Now that he was in Snape's lair (of this he harbored no doubt), where did he look? He must find his quarry without delay, lest the setting sun find him facing his enemy fully awake and, to employ the Quidditch vernacular, on his home pitch.

He cast a reassuring glance at his left wrist. The tiny filament that was Hermione's hair seemed like a banner bestowed upon a knight by his lady fair ere he rode off upon a holy crusade. At the very least, perhaps it would bring him luck, not unlike the scarf Hermione had given Tonks on the eve of their first sally onto the streets of London in search of their then-unknown prey.

Though he harbored a suspicion that his foe were above him, Harry decided that a methodical search was better than a random one. He would work his way up, floor by floor, omitting no possible sanctuary by reason of hasty judgment.

He tried the basement kitchen first. Having no windows, it was as likely a venue as any other. It was dustier than he remembered, the cobwebs reflecting the light from his wand like tattered lace curtains. Beyond that, it was deserted.

Harry searched the ground floor swiftly, found nothing, and mounted the stairs, his eyes ever on the glowing dial of his wristwatch.

Impulse, or inspiration, struck him of a sudden, and, abandoning his original strategy, he bypassed the floors housing the bedrooms. Even in so doing, he cast sharp glances left and right, noting the rust and webbing on the hinges, knobs and frames of the doors. None appeared to have been opened since the Order of the Phoenix abandoned the house following the destruction of Voldemort (and, perforce, the disbanding of the Order). With renewed sureness of purpose, Harry raced up the stairs until he came to the highest point of the house. The eaves of the roof angled so that Harry must needs walk a straight line toward the door leading to the attic. A half-step to either side would result in his head striking the roof with a sound that would surely rouse even one sunk in undead repose.

He paused before the door, listening intently. Muffled street noises filtered through the cracks in the boarded-up shutters. Sifting through this background symphony, he heard nothing. He looked closely at the door now, and he grunted triumphantly. Cobwebs festooned the peak of the ceiling, huddled in the corners before and behind Harry. But the doorway was swept free of them -- as if by the swirling black cloak of a wizard-turned-vampire.

Harry extinguished his wand and slipped it into its pocket. He dipped into his robes and found the pouch hiding thereunder. Carefully, not wishing to prick his thumb lest the scent of blood alert his foe, Harry drew forth the sharpened ash stake. As his left hand closed on the hewn wood, his right fell upon the doorknob. The tarnished metal was cool to his touch. It turned easily, noiselessly. He pushed the door open slowly. One hinge creaked faintly, a low moan, as of despair. Harry slipped inside the low chamber and cast his eyes about. The windows were shuttered, the skylight made fast. A sort of gray twilight clothed the room, rendering outlines fuzzy and indistinct. Harry swept the room with his penetrating gaze -- and he froze.

In spite of everything, Harry had nevertheless entertained the Muggle notion of finding the room dominated by a coffin of polished ebony, surrounded, perhaps, by black candles and somber, funereal drapery. He spared the barest moment to envision Kingsley's amusement at the persistence of Harry's Muggle preconceptions, ingrained over half a lifetime suffered in the confines of Privet Drive.

A figure lay motionless on an ancient bed, the tattered hangings of which hung like so many ragged spider webs. As he crept closer, Harry saw a long, spare frame clothed in robes black as night. The long, pale oval that was the vampire's face was still as marble. Harry's breath hissed. Even in the gloom, he could not doubt the evidence of his eyes as they marked the long, hooked nose, the high cheek bones, the framing tangle of greasy black hair.

Harry glided forward until he was standing not an inch from the edge of the bed. He had circled so as to stand on the right, the better to free his own right hand for the telling blow. He dared not risk the hammer glancing from the ornate headboard and missing its mark. He must strike swift and true, knowing that he might have no second chance.

For the barest moment, his resolution faltered. The hatred he felt as he looked down on Snape's cruel face was like a cancer eating at his soul. The thought of exacting the full measure of his vengeance, so long overdue, was like sweet honey on his tongue. But a single glance at the hair tied around his wrist jerked him back from the precipice. Hermione was right. There was no profit in becoming a monster in the name of slaying one. He would do his duty as an Auror -- and more, as the godson of Sirius Black. He remembered his own words to Sirius and Remus in the Shrieking Shack, when the two Marauders were on the verge of avenging their friends' deaths by killing Peter Pettigrew. Looking down on the cringing, trembling figure of Wormtail, Harry had said, "I don't reckon my dad would've wanted them to become killers -- just for you." Harry took those words to heart as he stood over his enemy now. Though Snape deserved torments before which Dolores Umbridge would quail like a schoolgirl, Harry would leave that for a higher power to sort out. Simple death be his foe's earthly portion; nothing more, nothing less.

But that death would come by Harry's hand and none other. He owed that, at least, to the memory of his godfather. With that resolution firm in his mind, he placed the point of the stake against Snape's heart --

With the speed of a striking cobra, Snape's arm shot up and fastened vice-like around Harry's throat! Black, inhuman eyes burned into Harry's. The scene held for moments that might have been hours. His breath trapped in his lungs, Harry bared his teeth in a grimace of defiance as his neck muscles knotted against Snape's strangling grip. Unlike the encounter in the alley, Harry was prepared this time. His amulet was set firmly against his chest, and the power of his will was a stone wall which the fiend's mesmer could not breach. Harry snapped his wrist sharply, his hammer springing full-sized into his hand. He brought it down in a sweeping arc, but Snape twisted under him, releasing Harry's throat as he rolled. The stake plunged into the mattress at an oblique angle, and the hammer, missing its mark, smote Snape on the side of his neck. A scream echoed through the attic. Harry grinned wolfishly through his panting lips, enjoying the look of surprise on Snape's sallow face. Not content to wield a simple hammer of steel, he had Transfigured the implement into pure silver!

By Ministry decree, transmutation of common metals into silver and gold was expressly forbidden. Such promulgation would devastate the wizarding economy, rendering Galleons and Sickles as worthless as the pebbles littering the cobbled pave of Diagon Alley. Only official Ministry agents were permitted to master and employ such spells, to be used exclusively against the forces of Darkness. Old Professor Tofty had himself taught Harry the Transmutation Charm in his last year of Auror training, employing a rare and forbidden spell book hidden in the deepest bowels of the Ministry. The spell would fade in time, not unlike the magic permeating Leprechaun gold. But it would last more than long enough for Harry's purpose.

Snape sprang to his feet on the other side of the bed, his hand clutching his neck convulsively. Harry knew that Snape's flesh must be burning as a normal man's would had it been touched by a white-hot brand. Snape's eyes burned into his, and Harry barked a short, hard laugh. Not blinded by bloodlust now, his foe recognized him fully, his eyes penetrating the gloom like those of a cat. Good, Harry thought as he clutched the stake in his left hand with unrestrained eagerness. If my conscience will allow me to do nothing more than kill you, you'll damn well know who is killing you, by Merlin!

His heart beating with excitement more than fear, Harry snapped his wrist. The hammer vanished. He plunged his hand into the pouch under his arm. It emerged holding what appeared at first to be naught but a small twig. Grinning savagely, Harry snapped, "Engorgio!"

Transformed by wandless magic, the twig in Harry's hand exploded to full size. Snape shrank back, and Harry grinned again.

"Hawthorn," he whispered.

Brandishing the hawthorn branch, Harry backed Snape into the corner away from the door. No escape for you, Harry thought.

The clean power in the hawthorn pressed Snape like an invisible hand. He backed up until his shoulders touched the wall. He hissed, baring fangs painted a wet, lurid crimson.

Harry started as if the stake in his hand had pricked his own heart. Blood? But Snape had not attacked anyone since the night he'd assaulted Geoffrey Suggins! The map in the MLE Situation Room revealed only the five previous attacks. How -- ?

In a sudden flash of motion, Snape whipped his billowing black cloak before him with the swiftness of a striking adder. Its folds caught the ragged edges of the branch in Harry's hand and tore it away. Harry had no time to curse himself for his blunder, for Snape was on him like a whirlwind. Harry twisted his body without conscious thought, in such fashion as he had dodged Bludgers hundreds of times in Quidditch. Snape flew past him, and Harry snatched a handful of Snape's greasy hair and jerked ferociously. Snape's head whipped back with a force that would have snapped the spine of a normal human. Harry jerked sideways, his fingers slipping in Snape's greasy tresses. Snape slammed against the wall, rebounded and fell sprawling at Harry's feet. In a whirlwind of motion to match that of his enemy, Harry fell upon Snape, driving his knee into the man's abdomen so that his fetid breath wheezed out of his dead lungs. Harry's right arm swung in a sweeping arc, the silver hammer leaping into his hand in the same moment that he sank the point of the stake between Snape's ribs. The hammer slammed home with the force of a thunderbolt. Snape screamed like the damned soul he was as the stake pierced his heart, driving so deep that its point scraped the inside of his spine. The scream reverberated from the rafters for what seemed like a full minute before the figure under Harry shuddered spasmodically and fell still.

Backing away, Harry stood on his knees and panted. Sweat plastered his hair to his forehead, dripped down to sting his eyes. He removed his glasses, wiped his eyes on his sleeve. He blinked in the darkness, his burning gaze never leaving the face of his inhuman adversary. He stood still as a statue, his chest rising and falling with increasing ease as he looked down at the motionless form at his knees. He gripped the silver hammer convulsively, poised to strike on the moment if his foe were shamming (though how that would be possible with ten inches of ashwood piercing his black heart, Harry could not reason). But as Harry's own heart hammered off the passing seconds into minutes, the pale, hook-nosed face remained still as death. Final death, at last.

His breathing normal once more, Harry rose on unsteady legs. He felt the weight of the hammer in his grasp, his fingers cramping from the tightness of his grip. He relaxed his hand, flicking his wrist dismissively. The hammer's weight vanished.

Harry felt dizzy. His stomach leaped and churned as if he had swallowed a bowlful of frog spawn. He knew he must rest before anything else. His legs trembled slightly under him, and his thoughts were clouded. He could no more Apparate in such a state as fly without his Firebolt. He did not even trust himself to walk the short distance to the safe house, where he might rest safely for a bit before going home for a much-needed sleep. He would need a clear head in the morning, when he would have to make his report to Kingsley -- and, ultimately, confront Hermione. At the moment, he was not certain whose reproval he most dreaded. Officially, he could expect to be reprimanded at the very least. He had known that going in, chalking it up as the minimum toll he could expect for his actions. Suspension was a definite possibility, especially if Madam Bones had anything to say on the matter. She did not take lightly to her authority being flouted, and she might technically overrule Kingsley in this instance, her office having been in charge of the overall operation.

There was yet another possibility not to be dismissed. He could be sacked.

That, of course, would be the province of the Minister of Magic. Would Arthur take such an extreme position? More to the point, would the duties of his office leave him any other option? An example might have to be made, rendered all the more poignant if only to demonstrate that Harry's label as the de facto savior of the wizarding world would earn him no special license to transgress Ministry procedure. Harry could almost see Snape's dead lips twisting into a triumphant smile at the prospect.

But Harry could not focus his thoughts on such things now. What was done was done, and the ferryman would have to be paid; all that remained was to determine the coin. Shaking his head, he staggered out the door and down the stairs. He paused on the landing, his head light. The corridor was starting to spin around him. Rest, he thought sluggishly. Just a little kip.

He stumbled toward the first door at the foot of the stairs and felt his hand close on a glass doorknob. Inside would be a clean bed on which he could rest. Dusty and befouled it might be, but cleaner by far than the one on which Snape had slept the sleep of the undead. He staggered into the dusky room, spied the rectangular bulk that was the bed. He fell upon it without ceremony -- only to discover that the bed was already occupied...

With a strangled cry, Harry sprang up. His dizziness was swept away by horror. When he leaned in to see who lay upon the bed, his horror exploded a thousandfold.

"HERMIONE!"

Suppressing his rising panic was like trying to hold back the flooding of the Thames with a picket fence, but by a supreme effort of will he managed to keep his wits, if only by a margin of a razor's edge. Harry slithered across the bed until he could take Hermione's face in his hands. He nearly cried out. Her skin was cold as porcelain! Then he saw them, unmistakable even in the gray twilight -- two dark puncture marks on her slender throat.

"No," Harry sobbed, "please, no. Hermione, don't be dead!"

Tears spilled down his cheeks and dampened Hermione's face as Harry pressed himself against her. Slowly, his reason began to assert itself. Snape was dead! He had driven the stake into Snape's black heart with his own hands, heard his terrible death scream, seen him lying motionless at his slayer's feet. And if Snape was dead, then Hermione could not be! She must not be!

"Hermione, wake up." He slapped her face lightly, caught up her wrist and chafed it. "Please, Hermione, wake up."

Harry nearly fainted when Hermione's dark eyelashes fluttered like tiny fairy wings.

"Hermione!" Harry breathed, his lips pressed against her cold cheek. "Hermione!"

"Harry," Hermione whispered, so softly that a leaf falling to the ground might have obscured the sound of her voice.

"Hermione, why?" Harry said desperately. "What in Merlin's bloody name are you doing here?"

"Stop you..." Hermione breathed faintly, desperately. "Couldn't...tell...stop...you..."

"You did stop me, Hermione," Harry said. "I didn't do what I intended. You were right. It would have put me down with him, in the pit. In the end, I did my job. I took the stake from my kit and drove it through his heart. It's over, love. It's over."

"No," Hermione said in as close to a frenzy as her frail voice could manage. "Not...you...don't..."

Hermione's feeble breath faded. Harry cupped her face in his hands and leaned so close that he could see the chips of mahogany in her dark eyes that so captivated him that he could stare into them for hours on end.

"What is it?" he begged her. "What are you trying to tell me?"

With his whole being focused on the woman who was his life, Harry did not hear the soft swishing sound behind him until it was too late. Even as he turned, pain shot through the back of his head. Lights exploded before his eyes. They were swallowed a moment later by blackness, and he knew no more.