Faster, Mudblood! Kill! Kill!

Faster, Mudblood! Kill! Kill!

Chapter Four: Extorris Draco

Alone at a long table in the Leaky Cauldron, Severus Snape stirred a dollop of heavy cream into his tea, mesmerized by the white threads that swirled outwards, dissolving until the beverage was a uniform beige tone. As he stirred, his newly marked wrist caught his eye, causing him to grimace. He rubbed it against his coarse robes with unnecessary vigor, wishing his actions were enough to erase the mark. But they weren't, of course. There it was, plain as day: the Ministry's Official Coat of Arms, imprinted into his very flesh and leering back at him like a cancer. He knew this particular type of implant charm wouldn't last more than a few weeks, but the sight of it turned his stomach.

It served as a not-so-subtle reminder that he no longer had the ability to direct the course of his own life. He felt owned.

And not for the first time. For most of his life, Snape had been owned--in one manner or another. In addition to being bound by birth to the magical world itself, like every other wizard and witch, Snape had willingly signed himself on to both Lord Voldemort and then, later, to Albus Dumbledore. Both of those previous assignments had been besot with great downsides, the cons almost always outweighing the pros, but at least he'd entered into both of them of his own volition, fully aware that he was limiting his personal freedom in exchange for both power and protection--or so he had thought at the time. But this assignment with the Ministry had been conjured up entirely against his will, and worse yet, as a job it seemed designed with common numbskulls in mind. Severus had never in his life felt less challenged.

All those years under Dumbledore's thumb, but Snape now had to admit that, in his own way, the old wizard had always tried to inspire him to stretch himself and test the hidden limits of his abilities. Aware that Snape had an embarrassing, almost Gryffindor-like desire to make a great wizard of himself, Dumbledore had assigned him small projects over the years--nothing of great amusement, though Dumbledore had been the one to prompt Snape into discovering the Wolfsbane potion. Snape had been quite proud of that little discovery, though his proverbial bubble had been burst when he learned that the Wolfsbane potion he created had been directly handed over to that howling derelict, Remus Lupin.

But Fudge--Fudge was either completely oblivious to Snape's expertise in the field of potions and related magics, or he was quite aware and simply didn't give two knuts. Worse yet, it was possible he was out to intentionally torture Snape by sending him on inane missions in which he was required to stake out Draco Malfoy, his former and most foolish student. Hardly a challenge there.

And why, exactly, was Draco being released from Azkaban to begin with? Pureblood or no, only an idiot would believe that the Muggle world was in any way worse that a Dementor-infested prison, so how exactly was Muggle London supposed to function as just and proper punishment? If Lucius Malfoy were still alive, such special (yet bizarre) treatment would have made a degree of sense; as it were, Snape suspected involvement by the next likeliest party--the DeSilver family. As powerful in Franceas the Malfoys had been in England, Snape thought them fully capable of blackmailing the Ministry into releasing Draco via some mock 'incarceration' program. Rumour had it that Baron Florian DeSilver had forked a heavy dowry over to Lucius in exchange for his daughter's hand-delivered marriage proposal. Having gambled heavily for a piece of the Malfoy pie--a pie that was even more rich and tempting now that Lucius was dead, and Draco left as the logical heir--the DeSilver Baron wasn't going to give Draco up without one hell of a knock-down brawl.

"Milk, please?" A female voice to Snape's left inquired, and without looking he slid the cream pitcher to his side, simultaneously checking his pocket watch. It was 7:48, meaning that in about ten minutes, Draco would be portkeyed somewhere into the heart of Charing Cross Road.

"Sugar?" The woman came again. A touch exasperated, Snape passed the woman a dish of lump sugar, pivoting to face her at the same time. Met with her crooked smile, Snape blinked, slightly un-nerved. The witch was quite a bit younger than the pub's regular clientele; additionally, women--or people, for that matter--did not typically smile at Snape.

Plus, there was something naggingly familiar about a witch of this type. Studying her discretely, Snape saw that she was outfitted in a rather curious set of white robes that cut off at mid-calf--a style new with the youth, no doubt. Her auburn hair was pulled back into a tidy ponytail, her appearance fresh but rather plain and uncomplicated. To Snape she seemed like a witch all set for her first big Ministry interview, a scroll or two of credentials tucked into her belt as she entered Diagon Alley for the very first time on her own--sans parents and friends--overly pleased and impressed with herself as well, no doubt.

"Thank you, Professor," she said, dropping a cube of sugar into her teacup and giving it a brisk stir. Snape watched her disinterestedly, and then her words finally hit him.

She had called him Professor.

"Pardon me?" he asked, forcing himself not to sputter.

"I said thank you." She tilted her head, her expression bemused.

"No, I meant...did you call me 'professor'?"

"Why? Are you one?" There it was again, that maddening, barely-there grin. What could this young witch--not much older than a Hogwarts' student--be playing at?

"No, I'm not," he said, his tone chilly. "I merely wondered what would have led you to think that I was one."

"Oh...Various things. The ink on your fingers; those quill-shavings stuck to the sleeve of your robes." She shrugged as she spoke, a gesture that suggested she wasn't really interested in hearing his protests.

He quickly brushed the shavings from his sleeve. "I have many important owl correspondents," he said, trying not to wince at the unconvincing tone of his own voice.

She continued on as if he hadn't spoken. "Your robes are horribly out-dated, but have been professionally laundered over the years, suggesting you are accustomed to the luxuries of house-elf servitude. But if you were a wealthy man, you'd own much finer robes, wouldn't you? This leads me to believe that you have most recently lived where house-elf services are provided free of charge--in a large school, for example. Also, your cloak smells faintly of spoilt pumpkin juice. Only at schools of witchcraft and wizardry is pumpkin juice the beverage of choice, what with all those vitamins and such. Adults would rather shrivel up from dehydration than touch a mug of slimy gourd rot, wouldn't they?" She concluded this by taking a long swig of her tea, seeming quite satisfied with her assessment.

Snape knitted a single eyebrow. He knew this girl...or had known her some time ago, hadn't he? There was something in that smug tone that jarred something in the deep recesses of his memory; in any case, it was certain that the girl knew him. "Very well," he said, sighing slightly. "So you know that I am a professor. Perhaps you are even a former student of mine. No matter how you know of me, I ask that you leave me be. I'd prefer to be left alone this morning."

She smiled calmly, reaching out to pat his sleeve as if he were a toddler. "Impressive restraint, Professor. I really expected something along the lines of Sod off you silly, silly cow. You haven't softened in your old age, have you?"

Snape both heard and felt a faint buzzing begin just behind his forehead; his fury had finally been provoked. Her hand was still touching the sleeve of his robes, and he wrapped his long fingers around her wrist, squeezing tightly. "I did not give you permission to touch me," he said, then quickly swatted her hand away, as if she were a pet poodle who had misbehaved.

She flinched and massaged her wrist, hurt glazing her eyes for a moment until she seemed to shake it off, an uneasy smile breaking across her face. Snape was almost sorry that he'd responded so harshly. Almost. And then he saw it.

She had the Ministry Coat of Arms emblazoned on her wrist.

"What's this?" he asked, striking out to clasp her wrist once more. "An implant? Why in blazes do you have this? Who sent you?" His voice rose until the few diners in the pub turned in their seats to look on with interest. "Are you with Fudge?" he demanded, shaking her until she cried out again. "Are you?"

"Let go...." she whimpered, tears shining in her eyes.

"Answer me!" He wrenched her hand up at an angle, knowing that he must be hurting her terribly, but finding himself unable to really care. He might have been forced into pledging loyalty to Fudge, but he'd promised nothing to his little Ministry cronies.

"I said let go!" Now the anger in her voice matched his own, and in one swift move she brought the pointed heel of her shoe down on his foot, hard enough so that he dropped her wrist at once, letting out a heavy grunt. Pain blossomed in his toes and radiated up his calf--damnable females and their fashionable, pointy-heeled footwear!

But she wasn't finished, it seemed, and even as he bent over to tend to his mangled foot, she lashed out and slapped him. The ugly sound of her open palm connecting with his face seemed to ring throughout the pub corridors, and Snape felt his cheeks heat up--not in pain (for there was little), but in shame; he'd never been much for spectacle, after all.

"That was for never praising my work even once during my seven years at Hogwarts," she said, her voice astonishingly even. "And for letting Malfoy bugger up my teeth, as well."

Teeth?

Forgetting his pain, Snape looked up at her; her mouth was set into a grim line now, and he felt oddly reminded of Minerva McGonagall. And there's only one female of this age whom you've ever compared to Minerva--Potter's insufferable Muggle cohort, Hermione Granger. He glimpsed her face again; yes, this was certainly Miss Granger--different in appearance, perhaps, but her stern, no-nonsense expression betrayed her. Dimly, Snape searched out the rest of the dining room, somehow certain that Potter or Weasley would be lurking about in the corner, watching the entire scene play out before them--having a good laugh at old Professor Snape's expense, perhaps. But of course they weren't there. No, she appeared to be alone. But why?

"I see these past years have done nothing to change your haughty attitude, Miss Granger," he said, his tone deep and cold as he straightened up in his chair. "Why you are here is a mystery to me, but as I have work to do, I invite you to run along now." He made the same shooing motion with his hand that he typically reserved for his first year students, fully aware it would only infuriate her further.

But she merely sighed, her face sagging with fatigue. "Honestly, I'm nearly tired of hating you, Professor. That slap went a long way in getting pent-up anger out of my system, but it doesn't mean I like our situation any more than you do."

He stared at her, utterly confused. "Our situation?"

She silently displayed her wrist, the faintly red Coat of Arms marring the otherwise pale skin. From afar, it might be mistaken for a simple burn mark.

"What are you trying to tell me? That you are a slave to the Ministry as well?" He paused, collecting his thoughts for a moment. "No, I seem to recall Minerva having news of you a few years back--big important job within the Ministry in the Department of Magical Developments, wasn't it? Yes, I remember now...it was the big crossover between Magical Developments and the Office of Muggle Artifacts. You developed the original plan for networking cauldrons, didn't you?"

She only nodded, seeming weary.

"Ah yes--an illustrious inventor and a disillusioned former professor. Tell me then, Miss Granger, what sort of situation could you and I possibly share?"

Instead of answering him, she studied her wristwatch, her brow furrowed as if she were struggling over a particularly difficult Arithmancy question. Snape nearly slapped his own forehead in exasperation. What on Merlin's earth was this dotty witch up to?

"Miss Granger, if you are quite finished checking the time,I'd like to ask you again what it is that--"

"Dummy up!" she said, suddenly pitching forward until they were sitting nearly eye to eye. Dully, he registered that the warm breath the puffed from her lips smelled faintly of sugar and milk. "I realise you adore the sound of your own voice, Professor, but now is not the time--pun not intended." She then lifted her wrist again, this time tapping her watch as if it were something significant. "They've just sent Draco into exile," she explained, and he was at once filled with a dim, strange horror.

Why did he have the distinct feeling that the world--his world--had now changed irreversibly?

***

First there was darkness, and then. . . . more darkness. Draco tried to move and realized he was face down in something slick and squashy and horrible smelling. He lifted his head slightly and grimaced as something--some kind of lukewarm liquid--oozed its way down his forehead. He breathed through his mouth for a few seconds, and once it seemed that the portkey-vertigo had waned he tested his limbs to make sure they were fully mobile, then thrust himself back and landed sideways against what could only be a brick wall, barking his elbow a good one in the process. His eyes bolted open at once, but he promptly screwed them shut again, letting out a muted cry in the process. Had the sun always been this bright? Or did it only seem so because he'd been living underground for so many weeks? Shading a hand low over his brow, he slowly opened his eyes once more, taking in his surroundings through squinted lids. He was in a narrow alley of some sort, and it seemed he had landed in. . .a rubbish heap.Great. Just corking.

He tried to brush coffee grindings from his natty trousers, but really only succeeded in smearing a grimy substance like engine oil all over himself. By the time he had picked himself up from the rubbish and had retrieved both his shoes, he realised that the horrific stench wasn't coming from the garbage alone--it was coming from him. The rotten smell of food and grease and rot had somehow permeated his clothing and was now wafting off him in huge, odious waves. Feeling nearly sick, he pulled his shirt away from his body and flapped it once or twice, trying to air it out a bit. If only.. . he rummaged through his pockets quickly, but found them empty, of course.

No wand.

He'd been stripped of his wand, just as Granger had warned. He hadn't held a wand in almost two months--and the last one he had held had been his father's, just as it had rolled away from his dying grasp--but now he wanted a wand again, and desperately at that. A simple spell would easily rid his clothing of both stench and stains. . .but without a wand, what could he do?

Dazed, Draco sat down in the gravel and pulled on the strange Muggle shoes Brewster had given him, managing to double-tie the over-long laces so that he wouldn't trip over them. Then he got up on unsteady feet and began to walk to the other end of the alley. Just beyond a corner butcher shop he could glimpse people--common Muggle people--walking back and forth at random intervals. Hiding himself safely behind a stout drainpipe, he began to watch them intently: some were by themselves, it seemed, carrying sacks of groceries or speaking aloud into small, palm-held talkie-devices that reminded him of his old wireless. Others strolled by as couples, hand in hand, occasionally with one or two bratty ankle-biters in tow. Many of the Muggles--especially those who moved in pairs--seemed smiling and happy; not unlike the people Draco had seen on Somae's television.

Muggles. There were just....so many of them!

He'd seen Muggles before, of course, but was now, for the first time, inclined to actually pay close attention to them. Why did they all speak so loudly? And why did they all seem to be wearing blue? Blue trousers, in particular, seemed to be a popular clothing item for both men and women. Perhaps because of this Draco found it difficult to tell the women and men apart at all; in addition to being dressed similarly, he saw men with tresses that swept past their shoulders, and women with hair chopped off just below their ears. There seemed no consistent way of telling one person apart from the next.

With each Muggle that walked by, Draco's panic mounted. Was it his imagination, or were most of the Muggles...well....avoiding eye contact with him? It seemed that each person he searched out was squirming beneath his gaze; women, in particular, clutched at their satchels and hurried on by, their eyes held skyward. Could the Muggles somehow sense that Draco wasn't one of their kind? He was certainly beginning to get that impression.

There was one Muggle, though, who was watching Draco from a few metres away; it was a pale, bald man--bald despite a smooth, young face--who nodded and moved towards Draco, flashing him a tight little smile.

"Need anything, love?" the man asked, his voice high and decidedly female.

That's when Draco realised that the bald man was female. A young woman who, beneath her jacket, was clad in an outfit that rivaled that of the Weird Sisters' notorious leather and chain-mail; worse yet, her face seemed stapled together with odd, metallic studs--one in her nose and one in her lip. Without comprehending what he was doing, Draco began to back away from her.

His expression of horror must have shown, because she frowned at once. "Fine then. I'll try the next corner up," she muttered, shuffling away.

Despite her frightful appearance, Draco was immediately a bit sorry to see her go. The one Muggle who had seemed interested in talking to him, and he'd reacted as if she had a raging case of leprosy. Still, those metal studs had been awful. Draco wondered what sort of accident had befallen her, to leave her riddled with metal like that.

Before he could ponder the issue further, he was knocked to the side by a man in a business-type suit. Draco stumbled slightly, but the man didn't even look up; he just barreled past self-importantly, a newspaper tucked under his arm. Draco straightened up and glared at the man's retreating back.

Filth. Muggle Filth.

But the thought came in his father's voice, rather than his own. Draco had always understood his father's hatred of Muggles--how could he not, being Lucius Malfoy's only son? And to Lucius Malfoy, a Muggle was only a step above the most soul-less and empty Dementor. To not possess magic, son, is a deformity of the worst nature. Yes, Draco was nursed on these words as a young lad in short pants, and not even Dumbledore or Mudblood superstars like Granger had much swayed his opinion.

But then he'd gone out and seen the world, so to speak. He saw beautiful, Muggle-built cities and streets, and found that after a time, he actually felt a bit sorry for the hated Muggles that walked them. Deformed? He wasn't sure of that. But blind? Utterly silly? Most definitely. Mostly, he just wished he didn't have to mingle with them.

And then there was Somae and her charming, "Let Them Eat Cake" attitude towards the Muggle community. She too saw them as creatures more worthy of pity than hatred. She marveled over their fine shops and famous works of art, declaring them a sensitive and creative species...not one deserving any sort of special protection, of course, but certainly not threatening or offensive enough to consider stomping out entirely. Then again, the DeSilver family was rumoured to have made much of their fortune not off their famous patent on Wizard currency, but rather off selling dangerous hexes to Muggle militants on the black-market. So of course she would be in favour of keeping Muggles around--they were her family's most prominent source of income, it seemed.

And speaking of Somae...

What in blazes had she been doing in Azkaban? As soon as she stepped from the shadows, Draco knew that she was there to oversee his grand exit from the prison. But why? Why? All he could remember was her murmured apology, and that vivid blush of guilt on her cheeks. What could she possibly have to do with all of this?

"Hello? Are you hearing me at all....Hello?"

Draco swiveled around at once, hopeful, but it was just another suited Muggle--a man speaking into a little talk-box that he'd pressed against his ear. Stupid talk-box...what on earth was the point of those things, anyway? Draco guessed it was a way in which Muggle's communicated with one another...but how peculiar it must be to talk to someone without also seeing them. Talk-boxes, indeed.

Yet Draco couldn't help but remember that when in Francehe had glimpsed talk-boxes on the street corners--little booths with pay talk-boxes that anyone could wander up to and use. Might there be something like that around here? Trying to appear casual, despite the fact that he was rank and grubby, Draco joined the Muggles on the street and began to stroll down the walk, shifting his eyes from right to left.

Ah! There it was. A pay talk-box right next to what looked like a newspaper vendor. Feeling a tingle of new hope brew inside his chest, Draco hurried over and inspected it. His hope drained away almost at once when he realised he had no idea what he was supposed to do next. The talk-box consisted of a removable mouthpiece that was attached (via a strange cord) to a squat apparatus that was covered with numbered buttons. Draco studied each button carefully, hoping for some kind of instruction, but he could make no sense of what he saw before him.

And who would I talk to, anyway...? Somae? Mother?

Certainly not Somae. Not yet, anyway. But his mother...his mother would be at Malfoy Manor, probably under magical sedation. To say she'd been depressed for the past few months would be a giant understatement, but still, she'd be more able to help Draco than anyone else he could think of. She wasn't likely to venture into Muggle London on her own, but she could certainly send some of the servants out to fetch him.

Right. Okay. So how to use the talkie-thing to contact Mother?

Deciding there must be some logical rhyme or reason to the numbers on the box, Draco put the mouthpiece to his ear and studied the buttons once more. After a few seconds, he realized with a jolt that there weren't just numbers on the buttons....there were letters, too. Letters! That must be it. He began to dial:

N-A-R-C-I-S-S-A-M-A-L....

The mouthpiece bleated rudely in his ear, eliciting a high-pitched sound. He pawed at the box, frustrated, grumbling profanities under his breath. Then he remembered: Money! It was a pay talk-box, so that must mean he would have to insert a Muggle coin into it in order to make the talk-box function properly. Right then. So how to get himself a Muggle coin?

"Pardon me," he said to a passing woman, hoping that he was flashing his most winning smile. The woman herself was no prize--a frumpy sort dressed in a too-tight pair of those blue trousers that seemed so popular amongst Muggles. Still, she would be easy to charm, he was sure. "Could I please borrow a coin for the talk-box?" He continued to smile, cheeks aching.

"The what?" The woman paused in her steps, looking at him in alarm.

"Um, you know," Draco said, uncomfortable. "A coin for that..." He made a casual gesture towards the talk-box, hoping the woman would get the gist.

The woman's eyes narrowed suspiciously. "Sure...you say you'll call home now, but I've seen how you street kids operate--there was a show on the telly about it just last week. You spend all the money you get on drugs and liquor, eh? Well, I won't be party to that!" And with this she made a move to flounce away, tossing her hair haughtily.

"No, wait..." Desperate, Draco reached out and clung to her satchel, trying to stop her retreat.

"Stop that!" The woman squealed, her face reddening. There was fear in her voice now, though Draco couldn't imagine why. He didn't want to hurt this woman--he didn't even have a wand on him, for shit's sake.

"Please, I just..."

"Stop! Thief! Thief trying to snatch my purse! Help!"

The woman began to shout and fail her arms, swatting at Draco's hand until he let go of her satchel. A number of passersby paused in their tracks, giving Draco extremely unpleasant looks.

"Hey...you there!" The newspaper vendor had stepped out from behind his counter and was approaching Draco, rolling up his sleeves as he did so. Draco couldn't help but notice that the vendor had very knotty, strong-looking arms, as well as a ring the size of a quail's egg on his right pinky-finger. Ouch. A ring like that could leave a permanent mark.

"You best haul arse out of here, boy....before I think to call for the constable," the vendor said, hawking an enormous glob of spit onto the ground and missing Draco's shoe by only a few centimeters.

Haul arse. Yes. Draco would do just that.

He began to run.

***

"Calm down," Hermione said, lowering her hand and, at the same time, sliding her wand into the tall shaft of her boot.

Snape glared at her. "What do you mean...calm down? I'm perfectly calm, you silly girl."

She studied him silently: ashy rings around his sleep-deprived eyes, hair as greasy as she'd ever seen it, and, despite all claims of calmness, his throat was bobbing up and down as if he were trying very hard to swallow something the size of...oh, say a bowling ball.

"Goodness me....you're really not good at this anymore, you know."

"Not good at what, exactly?" This said with a double-dose of the death stare.

"This cloak and dagger drama," she said, waving her arm around at the whole of the pub. "Not good at hiding out...not good at waiting. And not good at taking orders, especially."

Finally, he swallowed. He took a deep breath, and as he did so she involuntarily pulled a few centimeters away, certain he was going to give her a good scolding.

But all he said was, "So you've noticed," his voice croaking audibly on the last word. But his scowl deepened at the same time, and he straightened up in his chair as if trying to gather up the last vestiges of his pride.

"Not that I blame you," she added, carefully. "Take orders from Fudge? I imagine I'd rather attend beauty school, myself."

He only stared at her, an odd mixture of emotion churning behind his dark eyes. "Tell me, Miss Granger...why are we discussing my predicament when Draco Malfoy is, as you've only just pointed out, stumbling around London, right outside our door?"

She fought the urge to pout. "Bugger...you're not quite the tyrant I remember, Snape. But yet...you must be," she said, giving him a curious look. "An owl's spots don't change, do they?"

"Never heard of molting then, have you?" he said, lazily raising an eyebrow.

Hermione blinked. That wasn't an attempted joke, was it? Where was sour, dour Snape? The Snape she'd witnessed spewing profanities at the Minister of Magic only an hour or so earlier? This other Snape was resigned and weary, if not exactly good-natured. This was Snape-lite. Snape: the low-fat, semi-good-for-the-heart version.

"Right then," she said, hastily changing the subject. "Malfoy.Yes, Malfoy. Well, we can't rightly go out looking for him, can we? Are there any places around here he might venture to?"

Snape looked bored. "He might very well try to venture here, Miss Granger. He knows the Leaky Cauldron is on Charing Cross Road, and he'll try to find it if he can."

Hermione frowned. "But he can't find it, can he? I mean, the Exile charm they implanted in him means he'll only see what Muggles see, right?"

"Right."

Hermione was beginning to suspect she'd seen more enthusiastic flobberworms in her day. "But if you think he'll be wandering around the area, perhaps we should sit by the window and keep watch for him, yes?" she suggested, her voice a shade too bright and earnest even to her own ears.

Another mumble. "Fine."

Hermione made the first move, standing up and wrapping her white trench coat around her tightly; she wore a regular Muggle dress beneath it, knowing full well that she'd more than likely end up following Malfoy out into the London streets. She left the remains of her breakfast behind and moved towards a small table near the window, aware the Snape was begrudgingly following all the way.

"Would you please stop acting as if you're attending your own funeral?" she said finally, watching him fall into the chair beside her, letting out a heavy sigh that sounded more like a grunt.

"Miss Granger, my funeral was on the day of Draco Malfoy's sentencing. Since then I have simply bided my time, waiting for whatever insidious joke life has planned out for me next." He gave her a penetrating look, as if gauging her reaction to the severity of his own words, and then allowed his eyes to drift away once more.

"Alright, alright...so Draco ruined your life. But from what I can gather, you weren't exactly enjoying it in the first place." She searched him out, but he continued to gaze out the window and into the street, keeping an eye out for Draco, presumably. "What I mean is, you've never struck me as a teacher who lived for his job. Pardon my saying so--"

"I didn't live for my teaching job, Miss Granger. I loathed teaching. But at least the rest of my life was my own," he spat. "Bad enough that I had to be a good little lad in front of the students and staff...but at least I had plenty of time that belonged to me alone. At least there wasn't all this mindless waiting...this insidious, mind-numbing..."

"I get the point!" she said, raising her hands in protest. "But isn't Fudge to blame, more than Draco? And don't you feel at least a smidge of pity for your former Slytherin? He's wandering out on the Muggle streets with no money or magic or proper identification, all because the Ministry can't keep the Dementors from high-tailing it out of Azkaban..."

"Dementors?" Snape quipped, his expression faintly amused. "Do you really think Draco's exile is all on account of a few Dementors?"

She paused a beat. "Isn't it? I mean...You-Know-Who's behind this too, I'm sure..."

Snape let loose a dry, low chuckle. "If you're looking for the real motivator behind Draco's release, you'd best focus on Draco's lovely bride-to-be and her father, the Baron."

"Somae DeSilver?" Hermione frowned. "But how could she possibly be involved in all of this? She's just a prissy, spoiled princess. . ." She trailed off, wondering if Snape himself even remembered Somae as one of the Beaubaxtons' students who had visited Hogwarts during the Tri-wizard Tournament. She gathered that Ron and Harry had been too busy eye-balling Fleur Delacour to notice the dark-haired, rather plain French girl who stood at Fleur's left on the day of Beaubaxton's arrival--how Somae later materialized as a great beauty was a mystery to Hermione, but she'd put her money on Shamanistic facial shaping, the wizarding world's answer to plastic surgery. Once Fleur had been chosen as a Tri-Wizard champion, Somae had disappeared from Hogwart's--not interested in remaining to cheer her fellow classmate on, presumably. "And Baron DeSilver? Why would he be so interested in Draco? He's got money and power of his own without the help of the Malfoy name..." she trailed off, not voicing the question that lingered on the tip of her tongue.

Tell me, Professor Snape...is Baron DeSilver one of your old playmates? Is he even, perhaps, high up in the echelon of Death Eaters? It would make sense, certainly...even if the DeSilvers are publicly seen as nothing more than noble Gringotts' bankers with a few mouldering skeletons in the family closet..

Seeing as how they both done their share of work for the Order of the Phoenix, Snape had to know that Hermione was well aware of his past with the Death Eaters, but somehow, she felt it best not to bring such ancient history up--especially when the man seemed sorely in need of antidepressant therapy. Instead, she bit her tongue. "Maybe Draco's exile is about all of them, somehow--the Ministry, the Dementors, the Dark Lord, the DeSilvers..."

"Oh yes," Snape snorted, tugged at a greasy length of his hair. "It's a world-wide conspiracy of grand proportions. All for one idiotic, juvenile, blond..."

"Hey," Hermione interrupted, poking him in the shoulder with the tip of her wand. "I don't suppose you see our little lost blond wandering around out there, do you?"

Snape squinted at the street. "Not at all."

Hermione studied the Muggles walking by just outside the window, not a one of them bothering to glance in at the Leaky Cauldron as they passed. "What keeps them from looking in?" She wondered out loud. "Does the magic surrounding Diagon Alley make the pub invisible, or...?"

Snape curled his mouth disdainfully, as if she were a first year who had just asked an impossibly stupid question. "Not invisible, just insignificant. What the Muggles see is the last shop on earth they'd ever dream of waltzing into."

"How so?"

He sighed audibly and re-adjusted himself in his chair before answering. "Well, if your friend Ron Weasley were a Muggle and walked by the pub, he'd probably see a extremely scholastic sort of book store. And you..." he paused, regarding her for a moment, "...would probably see a sorely overstocked Quidditch supply shop."

She fought the urge to grin. "Yes, I get the analogy. So what would Draco see, assuming he's now affected by the surrounding magic in the same way that Muggles are?"

"I think I'd rather not know," said Snape, using his fists to rub at his eyes.

"Well..." Hermione said slowly, straightening up at once. "You could ask him yourself..."

"What?" Snape dropped his hands at once, looking at her blearily.

Hermione raised her hand deftly. "There's our boy now," she said, pointing at Draco Malfoy, who was pushing his way through the crowd like a man trapped in a dream...or a nightmare. He looked a disaster, covered from head to toe in muck and grime, and his aristocratic brow was pink and sweaty, as if he'd been running. He was walking towards the Leaky Cauldron as if he both saw and didn't see the place; he looked through the window, his gray eyes meeting Hermione's, but there was nothing more than a curious emptiness reflected there. He didn't see her. He shifted from one foot to the other, rubbed his chin quizzically, then finally seemed to give up, backing away into the pedestrian traffic once more.

"Don't you think we ought to..." Hermione began, turning to look at Snape.

But she stopped at once, seeing that Snape was on the verge of some apoplectic fit; a large vein was jumping in his neck, and his usually-sallow skin had reddened dramatically. "Get him...!" he choked out, clawing at her sleeve. Hermione's mouth fell open, agast, and she was nearly knocked over as Snape bounced to his feet and lunged for the front door of the pub, his robes streaming out behind him.

"No! Hermione yelped, clambering out of her chair. "Stop...don'tgo out there!"

Too late...Snape was already out on the street, shouting "GET BACK HERE, YOU!" and to the Muggles probably looked like a very deranged man in a long, black nightdress.

"Snape!" Hermine shouted, taking off after him. But he kept going, knocking parcels out of arms and nearly spilling over a baby pram. Women screamed and men protested, and Hermione hadn't the slightest idea where Draco had gotten off to. Snape continued to shout and came within an inch of barreling straight into morning traffic, but finally...finally Hermione caught up and snatched at the back of his billowing robes, hauling up at them fast and hard, like she would with the reins of a runaway horse.

"Uncle Snape!" she said loudly, attempting to placate the gathering crowd with a nervous smile. "Oh, we'd best get you back to the doctor, Uncle! You know how you get when you haven't had your medication!"

Snape turned around at once, shooting her a look that made her want to drop straight down through the asphalt. "Unhand me, Miss Granger," he snarled, trying to pull away.

"Come along, Uncle," she said, glaring at him. "Come back to the car now, will you?" Step by tiny step, Hermione walked back towards the Leaky Cauldron, yanking Snape along like a dog on a leash. She suspected the only reason he complied was because he'd finally noticed all the unpleasant and threatening looks he was receiving. Once back inside the sanctuary of the Leaky Cauldron she dropped the hem of his robes at once, planting both hands firmly on her hips.

"What were you thinking out there? Are you absolutely starkers or something? You can't just run out into a crowd of Muggles dressed like that...and did you really think Malfoy would stop to chat to a screaming lunatic?"

Snape looked faintly admonished. "I am his former Head of House," he grumbled. "I think he'd be happy to see me."

"Dream bloody on! He knows he messed up by revealing your D.E. years to the public. Just as I'm sure he also knows you want to kill him for it--or so one would think from your little outburst just now. Honestly!"

Snape looked out of things to say; the fury had finally drained out of his face, and with it came that damnable, utterly under-whelmed expression.

"What now?" he finally said, turning his palms upright in surrender.

She looked him over: Severus Snape, her former least favorite professor, and now a washed up, has-been of a Potions Master. She wondered if she could trust him. Dumbledore always had, but she had really never understood why.

"Come with me," she said, hoping she wasn't making a colossal mistake. "It's time for plan B."

***

Draco Malfoy wanted to cry. And to cry was a thing he didn't often want to do. In fact, he couldn't even remember the last time he had truly cried. When his Father had scarcely escaped prison time--again--back in the summer of his fifth year? Not likely, as he'd been far too relieved. At his own recent trial? No--his mother had wept enough tears for both of them. At the moment he realised his father was dead, sprawled out elegantly on the Manor's parquet floor? No--not then, either. He'd been too busy teetering on the uneven cusp that exists between shock and utter horror, his lungs paralyzed against anything that remotely resembled sobbing, weighing like two blocks of wood in his chest.

Wait....scratch that. He could remember the last moment he'd cried--quiet and alone, on the very night that Harry Potter's name had emerged from the Goblet of Fire, a flutter of paper rising from ash. A Champion.All his life, Draco had been told that Harry Potter wasn't heroic--just lucky. No better than you, son. Not a pureblooded Malfoy. Not even a Slytherin. Just lucky. Just tucked like a coin inside fate's cosy pocket.

But Draco had only been fourteen, and the Goblet, that treasured object imbued with the oldest of magics, declared what he had always dreaded to be true.

Harry Potter, Champion.

Draco had cried then as he wanted to now--great, gasping sobs; snot streaming down his face in uneven runners; the hollow cavern of his chest gone tender and quivering. But that had been in the dead of night, and he had been hidden in a stall in the boy's toilet, the tip of his wand sending out a faint, blue pin-point of light. And now Draco was in the middle of Muggle London, alone in the blazing daylight. And he had been fourteen then; he was nearly twenty-one now.

It seemed he'd been wandering through the Muggle streets for weeks instead of just hours. Yes, wandering and still no closer to finding home. Had such a place--home?--even existed? In the nights before the Dementors came, he would lay alone in the dark of his cell, able to close his eyes and perfectly map out the details of his old room behind his eyes. Over there by the door: an antique, Louis XIV armoire with gold filigree tooling. Beneath his bare shoulders: green sheets spun from Chinese silk, his initials monogrammed on the top hem. He could almost hear the ticking of the grandfather clock that stood stately in the corner. Home had been vivid and close enough to breathe in--the memories of it powerful enough to warm the barest and coldest of rooms.

But now there was nothing recognizable: brick building after brick building, a sequence with no end or beginning. At one point he'd seen a stretch of street that felt familiar deep down, somewhere in the marrow of his bones--perhaps in that part of him that was still magic, somewhere. One shop, in particular, had drawn him near. Had he been here before? The shop was closed for the day, and a simple sign in the front window read "T & R's Vacuum Repair". Draco had backed away slowly; he didn't know what a vacuum was--it didn't sound like anything good. And it was at this point that he heard a man shouting, "You there, Stop!" Not eager to deal with another over-muscled, angry newspaper vendor, Draco had run.

He was getting good at that.

Now it was many hours later, and Draco was thirsty and exhausted and cold, beyond caring that he was filthy. Having moved very little in recent months, his muscles were brittle and deteriorated, aching even as he took slow, careful steps. But he couldn't just collapse on a street corner and wait for someone to take him in. Neither could he join the other men who wandered the streets; he saw them as they conspired in the alcoves between buildings, passing a paper-bagged bottle between them, calling out "spare a bit of change?" to those better dressed and far better groomed.

And so Draco found himself in another rubbish-filled back alley, his sore legs stretched out before him as he leaned against the chilly bricks of an anonymous building. He closed his eyes, on the verge of giving in to the mercy of sleep. To sleep would certainly be less risky than crying--and kinder, too, he imagined.

"Well then, don't you look like yesterday's lunch?"

At the sound of the voice, Draco looked up at once, not certain he wasn't dreaming. Before him stood the most exotic woman he had ever seen, all sloe-eyes and deep, coffee-coloured skin. She might have been beautiful under her glitter and lipstick, but all Draco could see was her dress splashed with poppies as she loomed over him like a stately amazon. He stared and she smiled; perhaps the first genuine smile he'd seen all day.

"What?"

"He speaks!" The woman let out a low, pleasant laugh. "We don't open for another hour, love...but if you want an autograph, I'd be willing to oblige."

"Autograph?" Draco felt his mouth working, but very little sound seemed to come out.

"Shit...you're not on a trip, are you? Listen....as far as the Uncle Bills know we're all clean around here--but if junkies start hanging from the chandelier, they'll know something's off. See what I mean?"

"No," Draco said, finally coherent. "I don't see at all, actually."

The woman's eyes narrowed a little. "You're not a Londoner," she said. "You sound quite a bit like a well-bred schoolboy, in fact."

"I am a well-bred schoolboy," Draco said, suddenly feeling quite good--the best he'd felt in weeks, in fact. "Or was, anyway...." He examined his soiled clothing for a moment. " Idon't usually look this...unkempt. I've had a terrible day, you see."

"Looks like," the woman said, nodding. "You look quite a bit like a bundle of rags lying there, in fact."

"I know," Draco said, his tone betraying his misery.

"Anyway, Sir Rags, I'm due at work...." She gestured at a nearby door, and craning his neck, Draco could read small, untidy letters that said The Pink Bishop. "I don't suppose you need help or anything, do you?"

"Actually..." Draco tried very hard not to bounce upright and cling to her knees out of gratitude. "I'm trying to contact my mother. I don't suppose I could..." He paused here, uncertain of how to voice his request.

She raised an eyebrow, looking at him expectantly. "...use our telephone?" she finished, smiling archly.

"Yes!" Draco bleated, clambering to his feet. Telephone.Not talk-box, stupid. Telephone!

"Sure thing, peaches. It's not long distance, is it?"

Peaches?

"No, not too long of a distance, I don't think."

The woman let out another rolling, low-honeyed laugh. "You're an odd one. Righty then. Just let me ask the boss." She propped open the back door to the Pink Bishop, balancing a particularly large, tiger-striped satchel on her hip as she did so. "Hey, Big H!" she shouted, and her voice boomed, surprisingly loud. "Got a blond bloke out here who wants to use the phone....you mind if I let him in?"

Draco heard a muffled voice come from somewhere inside the building. "Hell, Varda...not another stray, is it?"

"Come on, H...." she called, giving Draco a wink. "I think he might be cute, once we clean him up a bit!"

"Fine..." Draco heard footsteps as the voice came closer. "But if it's long distance, I'm taking it out of your tips this time. I mean it."

The door suddenly swung wide, and the figure that swept through both propped open then door and attended to Varda's animal print satchel in one smooth motion, then turned toward the alley, his mouth parted a bit, as if he already had a greeting on the tip of his tongue.

Draco's gaze was caught by the man's black cowboy hat-- taking in the brim that curled up on both sides like two waves crashing in on themselves. Then he looked at the face beneath the brim, shadowy and pale, a thin lick of black hair brushing over his forehead...and the two green eyes--so green that they leaped out, quick as vipers.

Draco felt his gut clentch. He knew those green eyes--deep and brilliant, like a swirl of Chinese malachite. The green eyes of Harry Potter...

Fucking champion.