A/N: Welcome to a new creative endeavour of mine! Against the Dying Light is a story I've wanted to write ever since I took over this account, but I lacked the motivation to do so. It wasn't a priority: but as school-break rolled around and my level of education begun to brush the depths of seriousness I decided that I could use my free time to try and improve my style of writing and my capabilities through a fictional story. And consequently, I found the motivation.

Before I even start, I wouldn't even have made this chapter readable without the diligent efforts of my BETA readers: Cordelia Rose and EternallyBellaCullen. Trust me when I say that without them this wouldn't have been remotely readable. Check them out if you have time, because I'm extremely grateful to them.

Please rate/review if you enjoy the story, as it's a great motivation to write more.

The bar was a quaint little place, on the corner of a neighbourhood that was known for its fair share of brutal violence. There were no signs or fancy decorations-it was simply a building made out of plain bricks, with a simple wooden door and basic windows. It didn't catch anyone's eye-in a town abundant with tasteless graffiti and cheap prostitutes, a plain building with no signs whatsoever was overlooked by any passer-by. Most of the buildings in the neighbourhood prompted disgust and distaste-this building prompted nothing whatsoever.

However, the inside was quite the opposite. The benches were made of handcrafted wood, reminiscent of olden times that still wafted a pleasant pine smell to Kevin's nose. In fact, the bar would have perhaps been an orgasm for the nose had it not been for the strong stench of tobacco drifting through the bar. The chairs were extremely rigid, fitting in with the olden theme. The bar was extravagantly furnished, with symbols and carvings giving the plain, ashen wood intricate detail and breathing life into what would simply have otherwise been a dull surrounding.

The symbols were unidentifiable-most of them seemed almost malevolent in nature, with pentagrams and stars and other various shapes with seemingly no meaning whatsoever filling the walls. However, instead of creating a sense of hostility they brought forth a crest of positive emotions, in particular a very prominent calming sensation, as though the symbols were benevolent in nature. The wood was tinged slightly red in these areas, probably to ensure a sense of impact away from the beautiful walls.

The whole surrounding was as if something had been taken from high society in the 17th Century: a tribute to olden times. It stunk of aristocracy, and the smells in the bar immediately stimulated a quaint sense of inferiority. That, despite being located in perhaps the most unpleasant of places, you were not worthy to set foot in such a fine establishment.

Kevin Hitchcock had no idea how he had wound up in this particular establishment. He had simply been roaming around the neighbourhood in a sombre stupor, with his head hung low. His body language indicated that he was a man that had been battered and bruised by the world, but instead of emerging stronger he had gradually regressed into a shadow of his former self.

He supposed it was natural though. His life had been bright in childhood: being brought up in a poor neighbourhood made him understand the importance of hard work, and he had strived to make a name for himself. He finished school with respectable marks and found himself a job as a salesman, making enough money to fuel his dream of one day moving from the slum he currently resided in.

Unfortunately, the harsh reality of the world was that no matter how hard you work, those with prominent talent will always achieve higher than you.

Struggling to persuade customers to buy residential homes, his job had quickly been taken by a young and upcoming, charismatic salesman, who could make people buy their own shit with a simple smile.

Unemployment had left Kevin without a leg to stand on, and the void in his life quickly grew larger. His girlfriend, no longer freeloading off a stable income, had left him a mere hour after he had told her the news. She had told him "only men with money attract girls in this neighbourhood". Kevin had felt like the only good thing that had remained in his life had been torn away from his fleeting grasp,

The void in his heart suddenly grew ravenous for warmth and care, and Kevin had prayed for help, to provide him with a glimmer of hope in the dark abyss that had become his life, swallowing up everything good and leaving a reality that was more a nightmare. But no hope came-and in the end it was alcohol that kept Kevin content enough not to take a knife to his throat and, in one decisive action, end his miserable life.

So he had become another part of the crowd, a drunk, unemployed young man without prospects in his life, living in a town dominated by crime, abuse, drugs and alcohol. Born a lowlife, and would most likely die a lowlife.

He had enough money for a glass of strong scotch, with a taste so powerful it could make him drown his sorrows in a simple gulp. Strong alcohol was far more effective in achieving this goal. Still, he licked his lips as he looked at the other assortment of drinks that the bar provided, and commanded his taste buds to create a sense of how they would taste.

The glass bottles lining the wall were stylishly ordered by size, fitting inside the crystal cabinets perfectly. There was seemingly nothing out of place: each bottle was filled to the brim, the light shining off of the glass creating an irresistible quality about the alcohol that was being displayed. It shimmered in the light, causing a primal thirst for the drink in the deepest depths of the brain. Perhaps that was why he was drinking again; he thought he knew why he was pissing money down the drain: the bar, on a subconscious level, had hypnotised him into one more drink.

But he didn't regret it, as the drink allowed him to see things clearer than ever before, with a maddening simplicity that he wondered why he never saw while he was sober. He had to find something to live for. His life had become a mundane game of Monopoly, and he was on the verge of bankruptcy. He briefly wondered if he would receive a Monopoly board from his parents for Christmas. Probably not, considering throughout his life all his mother and father had ever given him on Christmas were lies and alcohol.

He sat at the counter opposite the cabinets, slowly musing over the hopelessness of his situation while slowly tapping on his vintage glass. The glass was thick, and created a dull clinking noise with every tap. It was the only noise in the bar-there was no music, and the other inhabitants seemed eerily quiet. They seemed to make no noise whatsoever: no laughter, no talking and not even the sound of shallowing breathing. It was dead silent.

There were four in total: the bartender cleaning empty glasses and polishing them to a gleam; a young couple sitting together, seemingly eyeing Kevin off; and a man sitting in the far end of the room, with a cigarette in his hand.

Kevin examined the bartender first. He seemed a Goliath of a man, with thick muscles that rippled at even the slightest of movements. The man appeared to be in his forties, with wrinkles that were slightly prominent on his forehead. These were made more pronounced by the fact that the man had no facial hair whatsoever: completely bald. He was dressed in a plain, black suit, with a white undershirt and a black tie. There was nothing overly eye-catching about his appearance, apart from the bulging muscles. He polished the glasses on the bench to a sparkling gleam, with dull, glossy eyes and a stern glare that occasionally roamed the insides of the bar, looking for any potential troublemakers.

The young couple, in their early twenties, sat close to each other. Both seemed to have long legs and had broad shoulders: they both had the appearance of athletes. The young man had his brown hair combed stylishly, while the woman's cascaded down her shoulders, with shimmering blonde highlights giving prominence to her chestnut brown hair.

Strangely, they both wore clothing that suited the era of the bar, but not the world. The man was dressed in a long overcoat, with a stylish dark brown suit that was adorned with buttons and frills. The woman wore a beautiful white dress, hugging her shapely body, whilst leaving room for her shapely legs to be move, which also followed her partner's pattern of many frills and buttons. The snow-white colours of her dress matched her pale skin appropriately.

In fact, both of them had freakishly pale skin.

Yet what unnerved Kevin were the eyes of the couple: dull and devoid of life like the bartenders, with a glimmer of something that he couldn't identify. Those eyes were trained firmly on the back of Kevin's head, and he could almost feel their gazes boring into the deepest and most private crevices of his skull. It was as if a crushing pressure had been put on his brain, and it unsettled him to a great extent. He did his best to ignore the sensation and turned to the final resident of the bar.

The final man sat alone, in a nonchalant manner, with a cigarette in his hand. Every twenty seconds or so he would take a long drag, put the cigarette on the table and seemingly sit in silent contemplation, until it was time to take another drag.

Yet that was all he could tell about the stranger: a plain black cloak covered him, and it was only from the size and width of the body that he could guess the stranger was male. There were no eyes to examine; no face to recognise: the man simply sat with a cigarette, puffing away until the cigarette had outlived its purpose. In this scenario, the stranger would promptly light another one and the cycle would begin once more. Kevin wondered if the stranger was scared of lung cancer, because at the rate he was going it wouldn't be long.

The woman growled loudly, the noise a rumble in her throat, causing Kevin to turn his head. It had been the first real sound in the bar since his entrance twenty minutes ago. "I'm so hungry," she moaned in a deep voice, positively dripping of seduction. "Can we please eat him?"

The man licked his lips thoughtfully, and suddenly Kevin felt the pressure in his brain develop into a throbbing headache. "I suppose it would do no harm. People like him aren't really noticed for their contributions to society, so nobody would notice if he disappeared."

No words formed in a Kevin's mouth, and his throat felt parched. He needed a drink of water badly but couldn't find his voice nor the courage to ask for one in such a strange situation.

"I'd prefer it if you didn't eat my customers," the bartender spoke, in a deep gravelly voice. His muscles flexed, but he otherwise made no move to scold the couple.

"Come on Finnick." The woman addressed the bartender, with desperation clearly palpable in her voice. "You know how things are for vampires now: we either have to consume animal blood, or face being exterminated by those fuckers in the Ministry. They treat us like animals, and don't realise that we crave human blood like they crave food. I haven't tasted fresh human blood in what feels like a lifetime."

The man piped up: "Nobody has to know, and if we're quiet the Ministry won't even launch an investigation. People go missing in this neighbourhood due to mortal quarrels all the time."

"What have you two been smoking?" Kevin asked incredulously, ignoring the beads of sweat that were gradually dripping down his forehead. "Bartender, are you going to allow these two cocaine addicts to make ridiculous threats against my life?"

The bartender laughed. "Livestock do not get an opinion on whether they are butchered or not. Why should you be any different?"

Kevin could not speak. The alcohol had inhibited his senses, but nevertheless he found himself slowly requiring the benches to support his weight as his legs failed him. He gazed weakly at the bartender, who had suddenly acquired the same glint in his eyes.

Hunger.

"Are you with us Finnick?" the man asked again, standing up from his chair. He began slowly walking towards Kevin, with a predatory smile on his face. His steps were quiet but decisive: a hunter striding towards its wounded prey, not rushing into situations but savouring the moment before the kill.

On a subconscious level, Kevin's mind had been screaming at him to run. Survival instincts long dormant in his brain had been activated, and the urge to escape and flee was more prominent than ever. But the alcohol was like liquid iron in his veins, weighing him down. He couldn't listen to such messages that his brain was sending him, nor could he completely understand the gravity of the situation. He was paralysed not by fear, as some prey are when facing a predator, but from the alcohol that he had drunk to escape his problems. His saviour was his downfall.

The woman followed the man with quick, agitated strides, obviously not amused with the elongated hunting ritual. "This is your safe haven after all, and you've given us shelter and food against the dogs. It would be...impolite if you didn't feed before us after such a famine."

Finnick grunted. "You are being unwise. I want to devour this man whole, no questions asked, but if we were found out, imagine the ramifications. I have provided safety to our kind when so many have simply shut down their doors. The act of one meal may put my endeavours all in jeopardy. And for what? For a simple meal that we will one day be granted anyway?"

"I see your point," the man said while laughing. "But the dogs do not know of this place. Do you think they would have allowed it to go unregulated and unchecked? Only our kin know of your protections."

"It is easy for kin to misspeak a few words."

"I promise you, they would rather rip out their own tongues than betray their brothers and sisters to wizards."

The last word was stressed, and while he tried valiantly to hide the sheer disgust and loathing from years of oppression within the tone, it was all too clear for every resident sitting in the room. The couple stood with desperation on their faces, while the bartender stood with raised eyebrows. Kevin cowered in the corner, trying frantically to move his body but failing. The alcohol mixed with fear had immobilised him, and the idea that he was actually about to be eaten made his blood become cold and thick* weighing his body down with imaginary unbreakable chains. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed that the stranger was still repeating his cycle of smoking.

The woman finally lost all pretences of patience, stamping her high heels on the floor with enough strength to make the solid concrete floor crack and shatter. "Have you come to a decision?"

"Yes I have," Finnick said decisively, his eyes meeting Kevin's cowering ones. "It is my view on the matter that this fast imposed upon us by our 'superiors' should be kept in the matters of peace, and that to avoid further violence and bloodshed against our species, we have to pretend to adhere to their rules."

The woman growled in anger, but Finnick cut her off before she could speak: "However, there is no chance that the Ministry knows about this man. He is a mortal, and has no ties to magic in any way. He is alone, and judging by the state of his clothing, probably homeless. It would be no great loss to society if we drained him dry of his blood and relieved our famine slightly."

"That's the biggest load of bullshit I've ever heard, but if that's a yes then I'm satisfied," the man said, standing over Kevin's body while licking his lips.

All of a sudden, Kevin started listening to the survival instincts screaming inside his head, and in one fluid motion he bounded from the floor and attempted to run for the doorway. With supernatural speed, Finnick had already moved to block the doorway and smashed into Kevin's nose with a heavy fist. Kevin suddenly viewed the world in pure white as his skull smashed against the bench, staining the polished wood red and rocking Kevin's brain in the process. His body went numb, but he could faintly feel the trickle of his blood streaming down his face.

The bartender grinned, as did the couple: "I think it's about time we eat, no?"

The woman moaned in pleasure at the sight of the blood, running a delicate finger over the stream. She immediately put it into her mouth, and let put another moan as the tangible taste of human blood filled her senses with delight and sent her taste buds crazy. The copper taste invigorated her, and while she was formerly an aristocrat with high tastes, the lack of blood for long periods of time meant that any blood would have satisfied her cravings. Her fangs elongated as she needed more, and deeply desired to tear out the man's jugular and feast as the blood would pour from his mutilated corpse and into her open mouth.

Before the massacre had begun, the stranger finally stood up. He did it gradually, but even the tiniest of movements were detected by the vampire's keen senses. He snuffed his cigarette slowly, with a seemingly casual indifference to the bloodbath that was about to unfold right before his eyes, and met the bartender's curious glance, before announcing his presence by standing up. He was still covered by the cloak, but the leather combat boots and dark, tight-fitting jeans were on display.

The bartender, momentarily distracted from his potential meal, raised his eyebrow at the stranger: "Are you more fresh meat for us to eat?"

The couple, muttering curses at their feast being interrupted before it had even begun, faced the man. The stranger let a moment of silence pass, and then in slow, decisive motions raised his arms and lowered his hood.

His face was strong, with the jawline of a warrior and numerous deep scars covering his face. Stubble decorated the lower half of his face, giving him a more menacing and adult appearance. He seemed to be in his late twenties, with an untamed mop of hair sitting atop his head that was the colour of the darkest nights.

But it was the deep emerald green eyes, the same sickening colour of the killing curse, that identified him clearly and struck fear into their hearts.

"Fuck," the male vampire said with wide eyes. "It's the Reaper."

Harry Potter, under the persona of the Reaper, examined the vampires carefully: the American Ministry of Magic had recently gathered intelligence that a vampire stronghold had been found at the particular location of the bar he was in, that was constantly harbouring wanted vampire criminals and feeding them with the lowly muggle inhabitants of the neighbourhood. Naturally, when the Ministry wanted something to get done quickly and effectively they would call him in. It was typical of the hypocrites: they wanted things done but never wanted to get their hands dirty.

"So you've heard of me," Harry said coldly. "Then you know of my reputation. You three are under arrest for attempting to murder a muggle and plotting against the Ministry of Magic."

"There's three of us and one of you," the woman snarled, smelling the vile smell of nicotine on his breath. "You're mistaken if you think you can beat us."

"Perhaps," Harry said, without emotion. "If you're willing to test that theory. But I promise you, your* blood will be spilled today."

Finnick frowned at the lack of emotion on Harry's impassive face. "You can avoid any bloodshed today Reaper. Just leave us be, and I promise we won't even eat the man, and this can all be forgotten."

The woman growled at the suggestion of losing her buffet, but slowly nodded. The Reaper's reputation was well known: he was the coldblooded murderer of the supernatural, the Minister's personal weapon against those who transgressed him. The killer who butchered those who opposed him and his task without a single thought of remorse and a maddening grin on his scarred face. Nobody had lived from an assault by the Reaper. It was an apt name.

Harry's eyes bore into Finnick: "You lie. How many innocent victims have been butchered here? How many families have been deprived of their warmth and joy because of your fangs? If I let this continue, no doubt the outcome will be the same."

The female vampire charged at him suddenly, with unnatural speed and aggression. Harry to roll backwards to dodge her attack. She tried again, but he blocked her thrust with his elbow and smashed into her side with his own, sending her sprawling. She immediately twisted her body and got back up, her dull eyes starting to glow an intense ruby red.

Harry turned, watching the bartender and man morph into a fighting stance. They both bared their fangs: grotesque abominations of tooth enamel that dripped with saliva and blood, from newly split gums. The fangs weren't pretty, but they were large and powerful enough that if the vampires could get up close and personal, one bite would spell painful death from almost immediate blood loss.

Harry shrugged, a look of indifference on his face: "Let's get this over with. I have to be back in half an hour."

The female charged again, this time accompanied by the male. Harry dodged their assaults swiftly, trying to determine a pattern to their actions. There seemed to be none: young vampires relied solely on their enhanced strength and speed to attack rather than strategy. Older vampires, who were much more dangerous, combined the two to produce a lethal combination that had spilled blood over millennia.

Finnick charged at him, muscles practically quivering as he gathered momentum. Harry dodged the woman's swipe and grabbed her arm, flipping her directly onto him and used her as a shield. Finnick crashed into them, and while the brute of the charge was blocked, Harry could feel his spine rattle with the impact. The shattered bones of the woman were all too audible.

The man smashed into Harry's exposed side, causing him to grunt in pain and turn into an oncoming fist. It smashed into Harry's nose, the sheer strength of the blow carrying him backwards into the wall. He grunted at the impact that left the wall shattered, and Harry could feel the drops of blood that were steadily dripping from a cut above his eye. Another scar to add to the collection.

Finnick came in close, his fist crashing into the wall as Harry ducked the blow, and then countered with a kick to the ribs that felt like kicking steel. Finnick backhanded Harry, and immediately went for the throat. Harry dodged to the side, avoiding the fangs narrowly but he couldn't avoid the man. Finnick's shoulder crashed into Harry's ribs, causing him to collapse onto the cold floor. Harry could taste the blood in his mouth.

All three vampires were facing him now, the woman looking extremely worse for wear. However, they now exuded an aura of confidence: the sensation that surged through the veins of any creature after accomplishing something that hadn't been accomplished previously. They had practically defeated the Reaper, and Harry hid the grin that was threatening to form. This confidence would be their downfall.

Step 1: Lure your enemy into overconfidence.

"Not so tough now, are you?" the man leered, wiping blood off his cheek. The woman said nothing, choosing instead to glare at Harry with pure, undisputed hatred and loathing. Finnick looked nonplussed.

"I didn't expect you to show up Reaper, but I'm disappointed," Finnick said with a wry smile. "I expected more from a legendary warrior: the blood of Gods. Any simple muggle could put up a better fight then you."

He strode towards Harry, and grabbed Harry's head in his hands: "I told you that you could avoid bloodshed."

Harry nodded. "Yes, you did."

Step 2: Eliminate the largest threat.

Before Finnick could squeeze, red symbols seared by blood and magic into Harry's skin began to glow a deep shade of crimson. They ran up his face, causing his emerald eyes to glow brighter. A vicious smirk had suddenly formed, and the vulnerability previously shown had suddenly been eradicated from existence as though it had been a mere whisper.

Quicker than the eye could move, Harry slashed with his hand. A flash of fine red mist sprang up from seemingly nowhere, as Finnick's head parted from his body. Feeling the cold steel in his hand, Harry kicked Finnick's head to the side and looked at the two vampires. The twin blades he held in his hand had butchered many of their kind: Devil's Kiss, he preferred to call it. It had an charm to it that aptly suited it.

The blades were forged from iron, and imbued with demonic energies. It had been a chaotic spell to perform, with many rituals and many sacrifices of dubious nature required. But with the magic imbued, coupled with the runes etched into his body, it had become extremely easy to dispose of any adversaries.

"Good evening," Harry rasped. "My name is the Reaper. And today, I will be your executioner".

Step 3: Taunt your enemies into rash movements.

The male charged again, fangs bared. A swift gesture saw him decapitated in the same manner as the bartender. To Harry, it seemed pathetically easy.

The woman, giving up all pretences of strength, cried out and cowered next to the body of her lover. Harry slowly strode towards her, casually tapping the blade against his side. His did it noncommittally, as if he had just used it for cooking a meal instead of murdering her brethren. Perhaps it was that easy for him, the man who had been said to conquer armies and burn their corpses singlehandedly.

She looked into the depths of his eyes, and saw no pity. No contempt. No disgust. No mercy. She looked deep into the eyes of her murderer, and saw nothing.

"You need not worry," he said casually. "You will be joining him soon."

Step 4: Remove all remaining liabilities.

The vampire shut her eyes and braced herself, before the cold steel plunged into her neck. She suddenly felt the very fires of hell burn deep inside of her, and screamed a primal scream. It was a raging inferno, spreading outwards from her neck, leaving only seeping agony and pain. She could feel her soul being dragged from her body by a malevolent presence, being clawed into a raging inferno that consumed everything in its path without relent or remorse. The sickening smell of sulphur and brimstone filled her senses, and visions of the Reaper filled her eyes. Then it was over, as the red eyes of the vampire slowly glossed over.

Harry sighed. Contrary to popular belief, he did not enjoy murdering other creatures. In fact, he despised it: and that was the reason that he continued to commit the most heinous of crimes; because Harry wouldn't do it. And he wanted to be as far away from Harry as possible. He had become what Harry had loathed: a bloodthirsty murderer. Who was he to deny such a fact?

But after the unspeakable deed was done, there was only pity. The Ministry had stripped these vampires of nutrients, in an attempt to 'domesticate' vampires into society. The consumption of human blood, both muggle and magical, had become outlawed and instead non-magical animal blood had been provided.

The vampire population had been divided: half wanted to adhere to the rules in an attempt to broker peace, whereas the other half had proclaimed blood war on the Ministry. The number of vampire related deaths-both muggle and magical- had risen by a large amount, and Harry was constantly being called in to deal with circumstances that had gotten out of hand. Basically, when the Ministry wanted a bloodbath they would send the Reaper.

He would never even considered doing such terrible acts in England. Even when faced against Voldemort, he had sincerely believed that killing should be only a last resort. His friends Hermione and Ron, as well as the influences of the great Albus Dumbledore had moulded his beliefs and his ideals to mirror that of a symbol for the light. Killing should be avoided: peace was the best avenue.

But the world wasn't black and white anymore. Things weren't simple anymore. Dumbledore's views had been misguided and misaligned. For the views of doing something solely for the purpose of "light" and "dark" was simply a guise shrouded in other factors.

He had left it all behind in England: his beliefs, his ideals and his life. And in America, he had found nothing but grey. Nothing made sense anymore: brutal murders could be justified in the name of good, ulterior motives seeped through the false pretences of "good" and "evil", and he was being forced to butcher vampires that were being denied of what they needed to survive. He was pioneering genocide.

Was it their fault blood was their food? If a man or woman was turned, not by choice but by force, was it the right thing to do to brutally murder them for seeking nourishment? What was he, the man who had killed children and women because it had been ordered by the "light"? There was no more Harry Potter: he had died when he fled England, and his new persona had become something twisted and misguided. He was running from the person he used to be. Running faster than ever before.

Nothing was plain and simple anymore. He had wanted peace, but he had simply gotten more confusion in its stead. He had run from his responsibilities, only to be given responsibilities for the most cruel and vile actions and decisions made. The world had become a dark place to live in, even if they proclaimed that it was an era of prosperity for the Wizards and Witches. While the other magical races suffered.

Harry gazed at his knives idly. How many atrocities had he committed with these blades? He had become stripped of every ideal and every belief he used to swear by. In what was seen as the "light" thing to do, he reasoned he had butchered as many creatures and wizards as Voldemort. Because he did it under the guise of the good, did that not make him a monster? With every kill, piece-by-piece, the blade had stolen his soul. He was now the Reaper both in name and in skin.

In the end, he supposed that one day his own blood would be spilled. And that was the day he could finally be true to himself and stop running.

Kevin's groan led Harry out of his thoughts. His eyes met Kevin's, causing Kevin to whimper and curl up, his salty tears pooling in a puddle and mixing with his blood.

Harry moved behind the bar, casually lighting another cigarette: "Don't worry, I'm not going to hurt you. I'll even buy you a drink. I don't think the bartender will say otherwise."

Kevin looked up with sore and puffy eyes, but didn't move his body. It was a massive shock to him: he had almost been eaten by things out of a horror story, and had almost lost his life. But this man, the man in the corner, had helped him. Kevin slowly moved his shoulders, sitting up slowly but never taking his eyes off the corpses of the vampires.

"You killed them", Kevin said, his voice barely a whisper.

"I did. Are you not grateful?"

"I am, I promise. It's just...you killed them."

"You said that before," Harry said unimpressed, pouring an expensive aged brandy into a single glass. "Have a drink. It'll make you feel better."

Kevin gazed at the cup, and with quivering hands grabbed the cool glass. His mind was still processing what happened, going at a million miles per hour and causing a splitting headache that seemed to roar at even the softest of sounds. He took a sip of the brandy, not even tasting the flavour.

"How did you do it?"

Harry raised an eyebrow: "Pardon me?"

"How did you fucking do it?" Kevin asked, his voice trembling. "They were going to kill me...holy shit, they were going to kill me."

"I decapitated them. It's the most effective way to deal with Vampires, as their healing properties are extremely strong. Don't want them biting me when I thought I had killed them."

Kevin nodded idly, taking another tasteless sip of his alcohol: "And you do this often?"

"Lately," Harry nodded. "Unfortunately, there's been a bit of an uprising. The Minister expects me to get my hands dirty and murder people in cold blood while he sits on his desk and preaches peace."

"Minister?"

Harry sighed, examining Kevin closely. Obliviate would be best used in this circumstance, to keep the International Statue of Wizarding Secrecy intact. He hated using the spell, but he would do it. Harry had learned to suppress his feelings a long time ago.

He supposed he could also kill the man, but he had received no orders to do so specifically and wanted to avoid further bloodshed. It was the most logical path to take, and the Ministry could easily handle any damage control with time to spare.

Harry slowly took out his wand: "Obliviate."

Kevin collapsed, his glass breaking on the cold floor. His head lolled backwards into unconsciousness. Harry looked curiously at the unconscious body. He wondered what was going through that man's mind; probably nothing. He didn't look all that bright.

He wanted to help the man, he really did. But there were other priorities to deal with, and if he didn't finish this job quickly he doubted the Minister would be pleased. While he didn't care about the Minister, it had been a slow week and his bank account had been running low. A reduced salary on this particular job would really piss Harry off.

Harry exited the bar, making a note that he would have to call the Ministry for a clean-up job. No doubt that Minister would be pleased-Dominic Lazar was a man who enjoyed sending a message, and this would resonate throughout the vampire community.

Not so much the deaths, for in the grand scale of things they were considered insignificant. Rather the fact that a stronghold location had been discovered and successfully raided by the Ministry without the Vampires having any prior knowledge of the attack. Which would beg the question: was there a mole amongst the Vampire ranks?

It was a good tactical advantage to have. Harry idly wondered when he started to think that taking someone's life had become insignificant.

He stared at the sky, deep as midnight with a spattering of stars. It was a beautiful sight, and with it came the sense of hope that somewhere in the vast world there was perhaps a place that wasn't fucked up. A place where the inhabitants lived in peace, in prosperity and in happiness. It was a fool's dream-but it was a dream nonetheless.

Harry Potter, under the guise of the Reaper, took one last lengthy drag of his cigarette before he let the butt fall to the ground. He tore his gaze from the midnight sky, and began walking back through the dirty streets, filled with cheap buildings covered in graffiti, and cheap prostitutes roaming the street in an attempt to establish themselves financially.

And as he did so, he had one last thought. He wondered, for the first time in years since he had run away from his life, if he could call himself Harry Potter anymore?