I Need a Hero

Author's note: As always, all the characters from the Harry Potter universe belong to the brilliant JK Rowling and I don't profit from them in any tangible way. However, I should mention another author, as well. While this is in no way a cross-over fic, I acknowledge with gratitude the influence of Laurell K. Hamilton.

Transylvania

I am on my way to the Transylvanian Transportation Office, because people are dying and I have to go home. My boss, Sylvia Trask, does not like it when people die. Well, I should say, she doesn't like it when live people die. It's all right when the dead ones do. Which makes sense, obviously, since that's our job.

She also doesn't like it when I call her Boss, so I do it sometimes just to annoy her. She used to speak "very sternly" to me when I did it, but I could tell her heart wasn't in it, so I kept doing it. I also occasionally call her Chief, Fearless Leader, and O Captain, My Captain. Once I called her Skippy, which would have cracked me up, but we were under pretty serious attack at the time. It caused her to look at me, just for a second, rather than keep her eyes on her duel, and she ended up with what she likes to call "a nice little cut" on her arm, but which I call "nearly getting her arm sliced off." It's a matter of perspective, I guess. That was the only time I ever saw her screw up. After that I stuck to Boss and Chief and the rest.

Sylvia isn't particularly bothered by pain or blood, certainly not her own, but she does not like it when people die. We're here, she says, to keep the live people live and the dead people dead. She once threatened me that if I died on her at any point during my training or in the discharge of my duties, she'd personally raise my arse from the dead and kick it to Kingdom Come. I believed her. She's a very powerful necromancer; she could do it. And she doesn't ever give idle threats. She's legendary for it.

Though there are things and people I miss at home, I'd prefer to stay with Sylvia. I feel like I still have so much to learn, and frankly, I'll miss her. She was my boss, but it's hard to describe the bond that formed between us during those years of my apprenticeship. She was my teacher, my mentor, my older sister. I wasn't sure about this job when they first tapped me for it, but once I began working with Sylvia, I knew she was everything I wanted to be. It's hard for me to remember sometimes that she's only four years older than I am. I'm the same age now as she was when she took me on as a student four years ago.

Sylvia thinks I'm ready. She says I know more now than she did when she began to teach me. She says that's because I had a better teacher than she did. Sylvia doesn't waste time with false modesty—could you tell? So, even though I would prefer to stay with her, I'm going back to England, ready or not. I'm anxious, but excited. The thought of working with Kingsley again keeps me going; besides Sylvia, he's the best Auror I've ever known, and I've always looked up to him.

I grip the spongy strap of my backpack nervously. I grip it with my left hand, of course, because I obviously need to be able to reach my weapons at all times, and I'm faster with my right hand. I'm pretty damn fast with my left hand, too, but why not have every advantage possible? I've always been a fast draw, good reflexes, good instincts. It comes from my Weasley blood. We're all fast that way, though I bet that none of my brothers is quite as good as I am now. Still, any one of them could have been a dueling champion if they'd been serious about it. Even stuffy, desk-bound Percy has good competitive instincts. He just channels them into his work at the Ministry.

And of course, my good reflexes owe a lot to my four years on the Quidditch team as both Seeker and Chaser. There's nothing like Quidditch to hone that assertive streak in a girl.

But if I am honest—and I always try to be—I have to admit that while Quidditch and good genes played their part, I owe my skills chiefly to Harry Potter. First there was the DA, my fourth year at Hogwarts. God, he was relentless that year. I think he had a very personal investment in that club—the better we did, the worse it was for Umbridge. After I found out what she did to him with that quill, you couldn't have kept me away from DA, and I practiced like my life, or maybe Harry's, depended on it. There was no DA the next year, because we actually had a real Defense teacher (and whatever else you think about Snape, he was a good Defense teacher), but Neville, Luna, and I practiced on our own. We had our own little DA, and we got pretty good, because I was head-over-heels in love with Harry, and I thought that I could protect him if I was good enough.

Right. Anyway, I couldn't let the bloke get the best of me, could I?

Where the hell is that transportation office? I heft my backpack up a bit and look up and down the dark, musty halls of the Transylvanian Ministry of Magic. I've been here before, but it was in the middle of the night and there was a bit of crisis at the time, so I wasn't exactly leaving a bread crumb trail. This stupid backpack is getting heavy, but while I've Flooed the rest of my stuff ahead to the Burrow, I'm not going anywhere without my backpack. And I refuse to switch arms. I'm strong, I can handle it.

Finally I find the office, way back in a corner of a dungeon. A rotting door stands under a carved wooden sign so old I swear it must be written in Middle Transylvanian. I actually read Middle Transylvanian (along with Old and Modern), so you can believe me when I tell you that. I push open the grimy door with my shoulder, one hand on my backpack, one hand resting on my wand. This Ministry of Magic is in an old, converted castle—hell, it might even have belonged to Vlad the freaking Impaler himself—and I learned the hard way not to go tromping through blind doorways in old castles. Remind me to show you the scars.

The door creaks loudly as I step away from it, then it slams shut with an echoing bang behind me. The torch on the wall flickers, and in its shadow I see someone sitting at the desk. I nearly start laughing, because I swear to Merlin it's a hunchback. You may find that I've developed a strange sense of humor in the past few years. Anyway, there's this short, bald hunchback at the desk, tapping his long fingernails on the papers in front of him, and gazing up at me through bulging bug eyes. You gotta love the Transylvanians; what they lack in modern conveniences, they sure make up for in atmosphere.

I step up to the desk and speak to the bloke in English. "I would like a Portkey to England, please." See how polite I can be?

Quasimodo gives me this wheezy laugh. "Ah, well, miss, you must understand, international travel requires a minimum waiting period…"

I stare at him, but he's pretty oblivious, because he keeps droning on.

"…and proper authorization from the destination country's appropriate office…"

Since I'm doing my best to be polite, I don't roll my eyes, but I'm thinking to hell with protocol, I should have just charmed the Portkey for my own damn self. The bureaucratic crap goes on, and I am sorely tempted to pull a knife on this ugly bloke. Not to hurt him, just to scare him a bit, give him a good story to tell his grandkids, assuming this poor bastard ever manages to get himself laid.

But as I mentioned, I am being polite today. So while he's shoving forms across the desk… "Now if you could just sign these in triplicate, we can process your application…"

I reach into my back pocket for my identification.

"Pardon me," I say, still being courteous. Instead of pulling out my knife, I pull out the most precious pink suede wallet you ever saw. I try to cover the bloodstains with my fingers—for some reason people have a hard time reconciling cuteness with blood. It's stupid, but it often works to my advantage. "I need a Portkey to England…now."

I flip open the wallet and show him my identification. Not the plain old Auror ID, or my license to Apparate, either one of which would have been sufficient. Oh, no. I show him the big guns, the International Confederation of Wizards ID.

He pulls it toward him and squints at it in the dim torchlight, but it's obvious when he realizes what he's just seen. His already pasty face goes even whiter as his eyes skim over my name and classification.

GM Weasley

International Confederation of Wizards

Law Enforcement: Vampire Division

Licenses: A, DC, H, NH, PH, V

Security Classification: A

And there's my cute little photo, all red hair and freckles, twinkling and smiling and looking for all the world like I've just popped over to babysit your kids or get help on my Charms homework.

Igor's eyes go all buggy again and he chokes and sputters and jumps out of his chair, knocking it over behind him. A cloud of dust rises from the floor and he chokes some more and rubs his eyes. He's trying to say, "Sorry, miss, so sorry." At least, I think that's what he's trying to say, but he stumbles through another door just behind his desk so I don't have a chance to ask him to repeat himself. I decide, because I am feeling gracious, that I will accept his apology.

I sit down in one of the two grimy chairs in this dank, dark dungeon office. I don't expect I'll have very long to wait; how often does this office get people with A-level classification? I can hear the hunchback's voice speaking very fast, very anxiously, behind the door. Someone else is back there and they are conversing in rapid Transylvanian, which, you might not know, is still a locally spoken dialect of Hungarian, even among Muggles. I hear Hunchy say the words "Weasley," and "Classification A," and I hear the other voice speak again. He doesn't sound happy.

I rest my head on the back of the chair and smirk a bit. I don't know if they're all a-flutter because of my name or because of my classification, but either way, it has its uses. Harry taught me long ago that even if your reputation is exaggerated, it's one more weapon in your armory. He told us stories of Dumbledore, and Harry himself, taking down Death Eaters without ever casting a spell because the Death Eaters were so scared of the idea of them.

In Transylvania, I have that kind of reputation. I don't know if this particular bloke has ever heard of me, but it's very possible. In England, I'm just one more Weasley kid--not a bad thing to be--but that isn't the case in Transylvania, Romania, Hungary, Albania, many parts of Central America, the Islands, and the States. And a few other places…I won't go into the list right now. I owe part of that to Sylvia, whose name carries as much cachet in certain circles as Harry's does in others. But I don't owe it entirely to her. She trained me well, but I've earned my own reputation.

Someone peeks out of the inner office and I give a merry wave. I sigh with satisfaction as the door quickly swings shut. I really love being class A. I'm twenty-three years old and have the same international security clearance as Scrimgeour and every other Minister of Magic worldwide. It has several perks, but the one that concerns me right now is the one that says that if you're class A, you go where you want, when you want, how you want, top priority, no questions asked. Even Percy and Dad only have a class C. Ron, Hermione, and Bill are C in peacetime and B in war, like now. Harry, even though he's an Auror like Ron and Hermione, carries a class A clearance like me. And that's just because he's Harry. Who's going to tell the Chosen One he can't go to Timbuktu if he wants to?

But I can only sit here and contemplate the joys of classification for so long. I'm having a hard time remembering why I even agreed to come here and take a stupid Portkey when I could have just Apparated home. Oh, yeah—something to do with cultivating a friendly relationship with the Transylvanian Ministry. I can see why that's important, but the longer I wait, the more I'm starting to lose those friendly feelings. I'm just about to give up on the creepy hunchback when the inner door opens again.

A very tall, very thin, and very pale man opens the door. I stand. Well, that's two questions answered—why this office looks like it's never seen a ray of sunlight, and why the boss didn't want to help me. Both are because the office supervisor is a vampire. Vampires tend not to like me much. It hurts my feelings; they don't even get to know me. Right. My hand moves ever so subtly from my wand to my sleeve, under which a knife is sheathed.

There's silence between us, but I don't offer him any aggression. I slump my shoulders, cast my eyes to the floor, and cross my arms in such a way that I look like I'm protecting myself, but I can still get a weapon if I need one.

The vampire speaks, finally. "May I see your identification, Miss Weasley?"

I nod and pull back my robes a bit to reach into my back pocket once more. The movement exposes my shoulder holster and the gun, and his silvery eyes flick to them but his face shows no expression. I'm guessing he has no idea what they are. I'm not surprised. If he was a wizard before he died, he wouldn't have any idea what they were, would he?

He stares at my ID without blinking. He's so still; I'm always amazed at how still they can be. It's like if they're not moving, they're dead. Of course, that's true. They're dead even when they are moving. He hands the wallet back to me carefully, apparently as anxious as I not to show any aggression—now that he knows I'm for real. Sylvia would be proud; I encountered a vampire and neither of us ended up getting killed.

"I'll bring your Portkey out and charm it for you, Miss Weasley," he tells me, giving me a stately bow as he disappears behind the door again. Smart man—creature—whatever. The line always seems a bit blurry. He has it all over the hunchback in the brains department; he even knew that I would want to watch him charm the Portkey so I could be sure where I was going. Constant vigilance, as they say.

I wait another few minutes, but this time I do not sit down. Finally the vampire comes out with a book and charms it for me. I grasp my backpack, pull my wand (you don't want to land unarmed, you're very vulnerable to attack right then), and touch the book. One familiar tug later, I am headed home.

I don't go right home, of course. I have to go to the Ministry of Magic and meet with Kingsley this afternoon. But as I spin through space, I feel a longing for the Burrow, for Mum and Dad. I haven't seen them since Christmas, and now, thinking about it, I miss them.

But business comes first, especially business where time is important. I arrive at the Atrium; between the spinning and the weight of my backpack, I stumble a little, but stay on my feet, wand out. I look around. There is a new guard at the security desk, and she has seen me arrive. I wonder whether I should bother going through the visitors' gate, but that security witch is watching me, and I don't want to cause any problems by trying to get past her.

I turn in my Portkey at the window and head toward the check-in gate. I can do this, though I have had enough of petty bureaucrats for one day. Still, if I can be polite to a Transylvanian Ministry vampire, surely it shouldn't be so hard to be polite to an English Ministry witch, right?

The guard is still watching me out of one eye, even as she checks visitors' wands and searches them casually. She's good; her movements are quick and efficient, she pays attention to the person in front of her and she never stops scanning the area. She's really much better than old Eric ever was.

I fall in line and soon it's my turn. "Wand," the guard says curtly. The name on her uniform reads, "Midgen." It sounds familiar to me, but I don't think I know her. I hand her my wand and shift slightly to keep a weapon within my reach. What can I say, it's an instinct. I'm probably being paranoid, but as Sylvia says, better paranoid and alive than sensible and dead. Midgen places my wand on the scale.

"What happened to Eric?" I ask. See, I can be friendly.

But Midgen only stares at me.

"You know, Eric Munsch?" I say. "The bloke who used to be here at this gate?"

She stares at me another beat then shakes her head. "Yeah, I know Eric," she says, and her voice is full of something—sadness? anger? "He was one of them that got killed in the last attack."

I haven't heard anything about any attacks on the Ministry, and I frown as Midgen takes my wand from the scale. She reaches for the slip of parchment emitting from the slot beneath. "Ash and unicorn hair, ten inches, been in use twelve years?"

"Right," I say. I hold out my hand for the wand, but she doesn't hand it back. Instead she nods at the backpack resting against my leg.

"I got to check that," she says.

I sigh. I was really hoping to avoid this. I should have told Kingsley to meet me down here. I scowl at that; even if you're prepared for anything, you still expect things to be easier on your home turf. Even the Transylvanians hadn't insisted on searching the bag. Of course, the Transylvanians are terrified of me, so that helps. And I have to remind myself, this isn't Transylvania any more.

"I'm sorry," I say, trying for just the right mixture of honest regret and firmness. "I would prefer you didn't."

"Sorry, miss," Midgen says firmly, "but that's the rules. All visitors got to be searched. Set that pack up here." She gestures to her countertop. She is still holding my wand.

For a minute I consider doing it. After all, very few magical people would know what they were looking at if they looked in there. But I have my vampire kit in there, along with my extra guns and bullet clips. I have the safety on all the guns, of course, but I can't take the chance that she'll accidentally shoot someone.

I try for polite and patient one more time, thinking that the hunchback was a lot easier to deal with than this no-nonsense witch. I admire how well she does her job, but I wish she didn't feel the need to do it on me.

"I'm not really a visitor," I say reasonably. I can be reasonable. I don't always go to weapons first. "I'm an Auror, look—" I reach back to get my wallet out of my pocket, but I guess Midgen thinks I'm going for a wand. That's fairly stupid, because she's actually holding my wand, but I guess everyone's instincts kick in right then. Midgen goes to pull her own wand, but before she can get it out of the holster, I'm holding a knife on her. Not to her throat, but to her wrist, blocking her hand from finishing its movement. If she tries, she'll be cut, and I don't even have to move.

I see the terror blossom in her eyes, but she doesn't look away. Points for Midgen. I have to admit it's a wicked looking blade. Hey, perception matters. We are utterly still, but we are both completely aware of our surroundings. I am very glad that there are so few people around; this is how panics get started, and I'm not sure Kingsley would appreciate my starting a riot my first day back.

"Calm down, Midgen," I say carefully. "Calm down. I'm not going to hurt you. You have my wand, remember?"

Her eyes dart down to it, and her expression changes. She's kicking herself for overreacting. Good, maybe we can get out of this without anyone being hurt.

"You can hang on to my wand, but I don't want you going for yours, all right?"

Midgen nods.

"I'm going to reach into my back pocket and get my identification, all right?"

Midgen nods again, her jaw clenched. I shift a fraction, then I see Midgen's eyes dart over my shoulder. All fear in them drains away. My free hand moves fast, coming to rest on my Firestar, the smaller of my two guns, but it stills as I hear the deep voice from behind me. It isn't Kingsley's, that's for sure. It's the only voice that ever sent tingles up and down my spine, as it's doing now.

"It's all right, Eloise," he says quietly. "She's with me."

Midgen, the woman who had been about to curse me into next week, turns pink. "She wouldn't submit to a search, sir."

That dark voice laughs ruefully and says, "I don't doubt it. Ginny, you can take your knife away from our security guard's arm now."

I relax and step back. He doesn't know how close he came to being shot, the idiot. What kind of Auror sneaks up on a vampire slayer? I haven't spoken yet, but I take my left hand off the Firestar, then I slide my blade back into the wrist sheath. I take a moment to adjust my robes so that neither of my guns shows. At Midgen's nod I retrieve my wand from her desk and slide it into its black leather holster at my hip. It only takes a few seconds, but I can feel that green gaze behind me. It makes the back of my neck prickle. It makes the longing for home well up in me again.

Finally, unable to put it off any longer, I turn my back on Midgen, and come face to face with Harry Potter.

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