Tags: Told in 500-1000 word drabbles. Fem!Harry. AU for the Lost Boys and Potterverse. Fem!Harry/Multi. Fem!Harry/David/Paul/Dwayne/Marko (Yes, all of them). Vampire Lore. Vampire Mythology. Old Druidic Magic. Time Travel. Blood. Gore. Drug use. Strong M. Smut later on. Slow Moving. Set just after the Potter books. Before The Lost Boys Movie. More tags to be added later.

CHAPTER ONE:

So Help Her.

Harriet Potter's P.O.V

Ron Weasley had been missing for four weeks now. One, two, three, four. Harriet could count them on one hand, as most people above the age of five could. His Auror mission, in collaboration with The Magical Congress of the United States of America, or MACUSA for short, should've been over by the tail end of the seventh day.

She needed two hands for that one, and the statistics didn't sit right with her.

The number seven never really did, in truth.

Harriet Potter's own assignment, one that had led her on a merry werewolf hunt across Bodmin Moor, landing with a disciplinary hearing scheduled in two months for 'use of excessive force', had been finished, completed with a pretty bow and all, by her third day out of office.

A better number, to be sure.

Even if she would end up seated in front of the Wizengamot explaining why the Bombarda had been necessary, and, if those fuckers really wanted to pick bones, she would like to see them off their fat arse and out in the-

Off track, but not off point.

Harriet Potter was pissed.

Pissed for many glorious reasons, as she was nearly always lately.

Nearly always.

Wasn't that the sad story of her life?

Nearly there, but never quite.

Nearly human, but just a tad too much Horcrux.

Nearly witch, but a smidgen too muggle.

Nearly alive, but kept fucking dying.

The hearing, however, didn't concern Harry.

Neither did it worry Harry that Ron's mission, one she knew very little specifics on, was his first field mission, sent out fresh from training, green, and newly seventeen.

As she was.

She knew Ron, after all they had been through together, could handle himself-

Well…

He could handle himself when it came down to it.

There was an important distinction to be made there.

A distinction that both eased her worry, and made it reasonable to be worried in the first place.

Moreover, Ron was, well, Ron. No doubt the bright glitz of America had caught his gaze. Maybe he sniffed out some long legs to chase, or he was on a break after a mission gone right, caught up in silk sheets, or drowning in the bottom of a glass of firewhisky.

Give him time to swig the hair of the dog, quite unlike the actual dog hair Harry had to pluck from her own clothes after her personal assignment when the Bombarda she had sent sailing had accidentally popped the bloody werewolf, or de-tangle himself from whatever blond he had found, and he would come skulking back complaining of a headache.

But none the worse.

Every freckle intact.

Every single one or, Merlin, she would-

Ron Weasley was fine.

Drunk, most likely, but fine.

Nonetheless, that theory had collapsed like the gardens of Babylon after a fortnight had passed.

A fortnight without a single note, letter, or, bloody hell, Harry would take a howler.

Nothing.

Not a peep.

Ron Weasley was forgetful, yes, but nebulous?

No.

If he had not wrote, floo called, or sent his Patronus by now, at the minimum, requesting more time on the assignment to bind up any loose ends, then something had happened, or someone, to stop him from doing so.

Two weeks bled to three, and Harriet found herself stalking the Auror Department of the MoM. Due to the… Delicate, should she call it, nature of an Auror's job, the Head Aurors weren't so willing to break the four-week time period given to all field agents while on duty, in the off chance they blew their own operatives undercover story.

Harriet Potter's hands, as an Auror, were tied.

Harriet Potter's hands, as a friend, wanted to wrap around someone's neck and twist until-

By the dawning of the first day, of course a bloody Monday, of the fourth week since Ron had gone missing, Harriet was already laying in wait outside her director's office.

She jumped him as he came strolling in with a black coffee.

Twenty minutes later, with his pristine oxford shirt now soiled with coffee from his startle at her lurching out the shadow, and after, perhaps brashly, she was a Gryffindor after all, but with enough Slytherin in her to make the threat subtle so he couldn't pull her on a behavioral misdemeanor, Harry had talked Fredrick Ludwig into giving over Ron's case file.

She had a name.

Well, a city.

But a city was a start.

Four weeks ago, Ron Weasley was tasked with looking into the missing muggles stacking up in a place called Santa Carla.

Four weeks ago, Ron went.

Ron didn't come back.

She wouldn't make the same mistake.

And she sure as hell was going to get her friend back, or so help her, bodies would be dropping.

She just didn't know at the time hers would be amongst those numbers.

Yet, when did Harriet Potter ever stay dead?

Thoughts?