Running Scared

Hermione Potter snuffled quietly in her sleep and curled closer to her husband. Still asleep, he stretched an arm automatically across her shoulders. His floppy, black hair straggled across his forehead, and fluttered a little when he exhaled. A black cat purred quietly at the end of the bed. Any onlooker would be forced to admit that, yes; that was the picture of perfect domestic bliss.

Suddenly, a banging of shutters awoke them both, and he reached blearily for his glasses. "Do you want to go or shall I?" he muttered.

"I will..." She began to heave herself out of bed.

He grabbed her wrist and pulled her back. "Actually, Herm, I´ll go if that´s okay. I don´t like you answering the door at night."

"Oh, for God´s sake, Harry..." she replied grumpily. "It won´t be... You-Know-Who... and even if it is, he won´t stop at killing you."

Harry shot her a slightly hurt look and pulled on some boxers. "It could be some random tramp who´d knife you," he said lamely.

"I´d be okay, you know," Her tone softened slightly.

He nodded. "I know. But... you´re too precious for me to lose you. I don´t want to take the risk."

The banging started again, and he sighed, standing up. "I´ll be back in a bit."

She smiled at him. "Good."

Hermione watched him, trying not to be obvious, as he stretched and pulled a t-shirt over his head. The banging intensified, and with a short curse, he rushed downstairs to open the front door. She lay down again and tried unsuccessfully to go back to sleep.

She never could, when someone banged on their door, demanding to be let in. Hermione felt sorry for the poor creatures, and, being completely honest, they usually felt sorry for themselves as well. They were usually thin, clad in dark colours so as not to be seen in the nighttime. Sometimes they were sick. Hermione hated them the most - she couldn´t bear to have to take care of them, to have to mop them up. Once there had been a young boy, about seventeen, he´d had some sort of flu, and he´d had open sores all over him. She shuddered, remembering it. Never before or after that night had she been covered in such a wide variety of someone else´s bodily fluids.

Such nighttime interruptions were normal life for the young Potter couple. They took in strays, people who were on the run from Voldemort and his supporters. Night was the most common time for them to arrive. For a start, it was more traditional than daytime. Also, if they were weak, tired, and they couldn´t Apparate, then it was safer in the dark. The Potters´ House was safe, safe from Voldemort and his cronies. It had a variety of charms on it, many similar to those on Hogwarts Castle. Dumbledore had helped them to put them on the House. Everyone on the side of the light agreed that their help was going towards a good cause.

No one could Apparate or Disapparate inside the grounds of their House. To the outsider it looked like an old shack, but to anyone who knew where they were going, magical people, who had good intentions, then they could see it for what it was: a perfectly normal semi-detached house.

Anyone who was scared could hide out with the Potters, anyone whose friends had been killed, or family members killed. Hermione had a Muggle degree in psychology, and she helped those whose losses had been great to overcome their pasts and to walk into the future with a clean slate. Harry reinvented the people; he changed their faces, their names. He made them new identities, and invented a parallel life to the one they had really led. If they wanted him to, he could make them forget whatever they wanted to. People left the House refreshed, happy, minus the memories of seeing their families and friends being killed, and being unable to stop it. But, more importantly, they left it safe.

Hermione shuddered a little with cold, and rolled over, pressing herself into the still-warm hollow where Harry had been sleeping. She was always cold at night when Harry wasn´t next to her. She pulled the covers over her nose and smelt his pillow. It was useless. Other women complained of their lovers´ snores keeping them awake. Hermione couldn´t sleep without it.

Finally, Harry stumbled through the bedroom door, rubbing his hands together, trying to warm them up a little. "Brrr," he commented, throwing himself down heavily next to her.

"Who was it?" she asked.

"A witch. She was working for the Resistance, you know, to overcome Voldemort´s reign, and he found her. She was in a terrible state." Harry sighed, and shook his head. "Voldemort killed her husband and two daughters."

Hermione winced. "My God. Poor woman. Where did you put her?"

"In the room just down the corridor, the blue one."

"That´s good, it´s a nice room. Did you give her soap, and a towel-"

"Not only," Harry interrupted with a wry smile, "did I do that, but I also showed her how the shower works."

Hermione smiled. "Thanks." She reached out a cold hand, and stroked his cheek. "You´re a good boy really."

"Aren´t I just?"

She leant over and quickly kissed him. "Take that as a yes." Snuggling closer to him, she closed her eyes. With the sound of his deep breathing beside her, she fell asleep within seconds.

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Draco Malfoy rushed into the freezing cold, dark room, panting a little. He slowed a little as he noticed the circle of Death Eaters surrounding the large, silver throne in the centre of the room. It seemed to release light all by itself, and a silvery glow froze the air around the chair.

There was one empty space in the Circle: his. His was right in front of the Lord, right in front of the Master. He took it, walking slowly, trying not to wheeze. "I am here, Master." His voice was low, but calmly controlled. He was impressed with himself. "What is your bidding?"

"Sit."

The voice was high, and hissed a little on the `S´ sounds. It was cold, much colder than the air in the cold, stone room, much colder than the light emitting from the throne.

The young men all sat as one, all eyes fixed on the slender, tall figure in the chair. It rose, and without realising, they leant back, far away from the creature´s deformed face.

"I have a task for you. Snape!"

A younger version of Draco´s ex-Potions teacher stood. He couldn´t be more than sixteen: a Hogwarts dropout. He was nephew to Severus himself, and as Voldemort loved to point out, if Severus was still a Death Eater, he couldn´t have been more proud of him. Jebediah Snape was in fact sixteen and had killed a grand total of one hundred and twelve men, seven for every year of his life, one for every fifty-two days. Once, he had made a magical bomb and exploded it in a shopping centre packed full of Muggles. He was eleven. Thirty-four people died that day and another hundred may as well have.

That was the beginning of the end for the Ministry of Magic as Cornelius Fudge knew it. Jebediah was a mathematical and tactical genius, and had been the mastermind behind the takeover of the magical government. Still no one knew the details of the takeover; they were between the Master and Jebediah. Many had given their lives in order for Voldemort to die; still more had died for the opposite cause. Wormtail was killed when Voldemort had demanded the lifeblood of the person who loved him the most, for a spell that would grant him leadership of whatever country he chose. Wormtail gave up his life in an instant, cutting severely through the stupid, desperate hopes of Sirius and Remus that the remaining Marauders could get back together. They both knew it was hopeless, but neither could withhold their dreams. They turned to each other for comfort, and fell in love. The force of their emotions for each other radiated through the magic world, and they died in each others´ arms when Voldemort killed them.

"Crabbe!" The Master´s icy voice cut through Draco´s thoughts. "You will join Snape and you will do whatever he tells you to. You too, Goyle."

Fit for nothing but donkey work, Draco thought, smirking.

"And for last, I have the most important job. It has been on my agenda for years, but now, finally, I can accomplish it. The Potters." The Master´s face twisted in a horrible grin. "They will die."

"They´re not already dead?" Draco gasped, not being able to stop himself.

The Master turned cool eyes upon him, allowing Draco the liberty of a small, amused smile. "No, Malfoy, they are not dead. But I do not know their whereabouts. I know what they do, who they pretend to be, but I do not know their location. That is what Snape is going to look into for me. I am confident that he will accomplish this task easily."

Snape bowed, thanking the Master, and turned to sneer confidently at the rest.

"But I need someone who knows the Potters intimately to infiltrate them once Snape has accomplished this task. Who here," suddenly the Master´s voice rang out, "was at school with the Potters?"

Crabbe, Goyle, Parkinson, Finch, Bell, and a few others raised their hands, and Draco felt beads of sweat break out under his armpits, and raised his also.

"Who wants revenge on the Potters?" The Master´s eyes suddenly lit up with a glare that was like fire.

Draco stood.

"Well, well. Malfoy." A long, icy fingertip reached out to stroke his cheek, and Draco tried not to recoil. "You hate the Potters, just like I taught you to..."

Draco felt his lips twist and his cheeks flush. He swallowed the lump in his throat painfully, feeling his resolve harden once more.

"I do. I hate them, Master."

"Are you willing to infiltrate them and betray them to your Lord and Master?"

Draco nodded. "I am, my lord. I have never been so certain of anything before in my life."

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