Faster, Mudblood! Kill! Kill!

Faster, Mudblood! Kill! Kill!

Chapter 6: Familiar Places, Faces

Funnily enough, Harry Potter's day had started off on a completely ordinary--even routine--note. He'd woken up around noon (last night, Sunday, had been amateur night, and as usual he had stayed late after closing to finish the previous week's books), had his shower and headed out to the Patisserie Valerie, a café not far from his two-room flat. There he read the papers, indulged in strong coffee and picked his way through a couple of fresh croissants. He always read the papers religiously, dimly aware all the while that he really had no interest whatsoever in politics or current events. No, for him reading the papers was a bit like making rounds. He kept an eye open for coverage on any mysterious disappearances, any criminals claiming to not remember whatever illegal acts they had committed, and any dead bodies that had turned up without a mark on them, as if the victim had suddenly taken mind to simply....cease living. All the hallmarks of unforgivable curses, in other words.

He tried to tell himself that he didn't care; that he was in no position to get involved, anyway. But even though he knew better, his careful combing of the papers continued, and had been going on ever since his twentieth birthday.

Only twenty. He felt ages older.

He wasn't sure what the trigger had been, what had sent him to the papers searching out telltale acts of magic, but he supposed it had something to do with the classic Vespa Spirit motorscooter Varda had given him as a birthday present. Harry didn't care for automobiles, preferring to walk or take the underground, but Varda was continually irritated by his inability to arrive anywhere on time, and had given him the scooter in hopes that he might actually use it to travel from place to place. Minutes and hours were conveniences for some, but not for Harry, who rarely kept track of the days of the week, let alone the time of the day. Harry thought he would have preferred a motorcycle to a piddly, rubber-band engined scooter, but the Vespa had a certain freewheeling charm that he found irresistible, and when he took it out for his first spin he had delighted at the dizzying sensation of wind against his face and hair. For the first time in nearly three years, a quick, pained thought shot through his mind:

I wish I had my Firebolt.

His reaction to the foreign thought had been mostly calm and adult, even though there was a distant, thirteen-year old's voice crying out in the recesses of his subconscious: My Firebolt! How could I have forgotten my Firebolt? How?! Harry managed to stifle the child-like voice and dismounted the Vespa, staring down at it quizzically; its chunky, colourful lines were nothing when compared to the sleek, aerodynamic body of a broomstick. He had owned a Firebolt once, that much he was sure of. Where was it now?

He had shrugged the question away. Better not to wonder about such things.

And so the Firebolt hadn't crossed his mind again, though from that day on there were occasional smells and sights that caused him to give pause, to prowl through his memory in search of something specific--something he couldn't quite put his finger on. It was like waking up from a fascinating dream and struggling to remember the nonsensical details that refused to surface: the smell of fire that conjured up a bird with red plumage; the sight of a black dog that sent his hopes soaring; even a rat, a ridiculous rat, rummaging through the back alley rubbish, pummeled at his heart with painful flip-flops. In these moments it seemed the world surrounding him was harsh and wrong, and there were whispers...whispers in his mind of something important he'd left behind. But he wouldn't let himself delve any further. He shut his wandering thoughts off, easy as stopping a leaky tap.

It had worked for a time, too; he somehow ignored his own careful study of the newspapers and conducted his life as usual. He still preferred walking to the Vespa, and Varda herself had taken to borrowing it for her own transportation; he often wondered if that had been her intent all along, to buy him a gift that she knew she was bound to get use out of. Not to say that Varda was selfish, but as a person she was...well, so larger-than-life that it was impossible, even for her--especially for her, maybe--to separate thoughts of herself from any thoughts regarding others. And there was nothing shameful in that, not really.

That's why he wasn't really surprised when, after giving up on the croissants and newspapers, he'd exited the café to find the Vespa gone--nothing but a slick oil patch marring the spot where he usually parked it. He briefly wondered if would really hurt Varda to take two extra minutes to jog in the café and actually ask permission to borrow the Vespa, but managed to shake his annoyance off. He was planning to walk today, anyway.

And so he walked, the last vestiges of autumn leaves crunching cheerfully under his shoes. It was mid-October; soon the sleet and freezing rain would come and the leaves would turn soggy, clogging the gutters and windowsills like a plague. Some unconscious part of him realised that his daily walks were reserved to a narrow triangle of streets between SoHo, Covent Garden, and Leicester Square, with the occasional jaunt down to Piccadilly Circus or Regent Park. His feet never led him north-east of Greek Street, in the direction of that one area he preferred to keep as a hazy memory: Charing Cross Road. Certainly there had been times when he had longed to slip up that road again, just to see if anything had changed, or hadn't changed....but no. Memories were like windows: open one on a windy day and soon the others would burst free of their shutters, letting in the cold, the blinding, wintry sunlight. These same memories were becoming harder and harder to escape these days, too; they crept in like a persistent draught at first--something Harry could easily ignore up until a few weeks ago. Up until that early October night when the gates had been thrust open wide.

Harry had been walking from the Pink Bishop to his flat on Wardour Street, it was late at night (quite early in the morning, actually) and there was just enough moon to make the entire sky smoky with pearled light. The bite of autumn was in the air, and Harry tugged a knit stocking cap down over his ears; he was in the habit of wearing some form of headgear almost every day, not just because it tamed his uncontrollable, thick hair, but because it also covered his legendary scar. The scar had faded a bit in years past, as if echoing his own fading memories and magic, but would still make him immediately recognisable to any Wizard or Witch, of course, and even Muggles tended to ask him where he'd gotten such a wicked conk on the head. He usually blamed it on a motor accident, but he hated how mentioning the scar seemed to be the very thing that brought it to life; it would tingle at the edges, as if suddenly roused from a drowsy sleep. Covering it was the only way to forget it, really.

Harry savoured the anonymity of strolling down Old Compton Street at nearly four in the morning; there had been only light foot-traffic about, and once he rounded Wardour Street he found himself completely alone--until he met with the next block, anyway. It was there where he became distinctly aware of another, one of lighter step than himself, one who made no sound at all, actually, but who was nevertheless there just the same. Harry could feel the other following him, trailing by ten or so metres, their breath silent and unhurried. Harry slowed his pace to a stop, then pivoted about, not terribly concerned. His eyes scanned the misty street, aided only by dim moonlight, and the spindly trees that separated pavement from shops suddenly seemed like a forest into which any criminal or thug could disappear and observe from a distance.

Anyone else might have been frightened or concerned by now, but Harry felt nothing more than mild curiosity, underpinned by the tiniest worry that the person watching him might in fact be someone he hadn't laid eyes on in years. Someone from Surrey, or someone from...

"Hello?" Harry called, his voice even and strong as he continued to scan the street for any signs of movement. "Who's there?"

He was met only with silence, but the person--whoever he or she was--was still there, waiting...watching.

"You're clearly following me for a reason," Harry said, his tone slightly exasperated. "Tell me what you want or let me on my way, if you don't mind."

There was a rustle. No...not a rustle, because there was actually no sound at all. But Harry could see something, faint grey and whisper-thin, lurking just under a shop awning. It moved slightly, hedging before finally floating into full view.

"So it really is you, Harry Potter." The 'something' spoke, its voice rich and baritone, and as it drifted closer, it began to take on familiar shape: A man with aristocratic features...perfect posture....almost entirely see-though, but clearly possessing solid representation of form.

"Sir Nicholas?" Harry gasped; his lungs felt quite suddenly inadequate for breathing in the cold, damp air. "Nearly Headless Nick?"

"At your service," Nick said, giving him a jaunty bow that might have struck Harry as hilarious, under different circumstances.

"But...what are you doing here? In the middle of SoHo?" Harry reached up and tugged at his knit cap, unconsciously caressing his scar through the thick material. "Shouldn't you be at...at the castle?"

"So, Hogwarts has not completely left your mind then, has it?" Nick said, giving him a rather sad smile.

"Hogwarts? Left my mind? Well no, no of course not." Harry marvelled at the words that sprung from his own mouth. He hadn't said the name of his old school since the very day he had made the decision to leave it. That day at King's Cross, surrounded by close friends, a trunk full of spell books, his owl companion--surrounded by the only things that had mattered to him in this world. And he had fled from it, fled from Hogwarts, his school, his home....

"Are you sure of that, then?" Nick asked, quirking a ghostly eyebrow. "I followed you twice before down this street, you know, and you never once noticed my presence."

Harry's mouth fell open slightly. "When was that?" he asked, not quite believing.

"Last night and the night before last." Nick gave him a pained, sympathetic look as he spoke, and Harry felt a slight jolt run through his body at this; he realised, dimly, that all of his muscles were drawn up tight, as if he were seconds away from running at top speed.

"Well, it's a bit hard to notice a ghost in the shadows then, isn't it?" Harry said, determined not to let his voice betray the uneasiness he was feeling.

"Yes, but I was trailing you at only a metre's distance." Nick smiled crookedly, offering a shrug as if it were an apology. "Could have reached out and snatched the hem of your coat, if you want to know the truth."

Harry opened his mouth to speak, but it felt as if the words were trying to rise through a layer of gravel; they caught at the back of his throat and transformed his normally calm voice into a rusty, misused instrument. "Why?" he croaked. "Why were you following me?"

Nick shrugged. "Had a bit of news for you."

"News? For me?" For a moment he was so struck with puzzlement that he forgot to feel scared. "Is it from Dumbledore? Or Professor Lupin?"

Holy shit. When had he last said those names out loud? When was the last time he had even thought them silently to himself?

Nick studied what must have been a fast-growing expression of incredulity on Harry's face. "Ah," he said, giving him a slight nod. "Left some of yourself behind then, did you?"

"What?" Harry almost took a step back before catching himself. Instead, he stuffed both hands in his coat pockets, burrowing them in deep up to the wrists. He was all here, wasn't he? Yes...he thought he was all here--for the first time in quite a while, perhaps. His friends and co-workers--Billy and Radney, certainly Varda--had long ago realised that he spent much of his waking hours floating in a bubble, half-conscious of the goings-on around him, his feet on the ground but his head off in Never-Never Land. H. is never quite all there, Varda had once joked. The comment had amounted to teasing at the time, as most of his friends fancied him a dreamy, introspective sort--a tall (well, average), dark mystery man who spoke in intense monosyllables with a blazing cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth, like someone who belonged in subtitled French noir. And he never had the heart to let them in on the truth...he really wasn't all there. Not at all.

But now he was; he didn't know how he knew this to be fact, but he did. He could feel it in the boyish joy that was travelling from the centre of his chest to the determined splay of his feet--joy at seeing Nearly Headless Nick, the Gryffindor Ghost, a reminder of all those good things he'd once had: friends, a home, a broomstick, a name. And with that same thought came overwhelming terror. A name. He had introduced himself to how many people in the last three years? How many? Hello, Harry Potter here, he'd said...and the person he was greeting would just smile, perhaps lightly shake his hand, and then move along in the way people do when engaged in such mundane, everyday civilities. There had been no gasps; no goggling eyes raking over his forehead for a glimpse of the scar. For the last three years, being Harry Potter had been more or less like being any other random, insignificant person. But now: his name...his dreadful, inescapable name...the only name he'd ever had. He didn't know that he wanted it back.

"It happens sometimes...or so they say," Nick said, shrugging lightly. "Never thought it'd be the case with our Harry Potter, though."

Harry felt a brief flare of anger run through his body, his sinuses aching as he drew in a deep breath. Our Harry Potter? The burden of being the Wizarding World's international treasure was fast returning to him, bodily and otherwise. "Sometimes what happens?" he asked, an edge creeping into his voice.

"Children raised with Muggles have never had the easiest of times adjusting to our world. I imagine it's a bit of a dream come true at first--to learn that all of your desires and wishes can be conjured with the mere flick of a wand. It's those sort of fancies that fill the Muggle cinemas, is it not?"

Sometimes...though the cinemas also feature drive-by shootings, animal torture, violence against women and minorities, and plenty of gratuitous titty shots...Harry thought wryly, though he said nothing and only shrugged.

Nick mirrored his shrug and continued. "So, imagine the shock that these children must feel when they discover that wand-waving doesn't solve everything..." Here he paused and laughed in an off-hand sort of way, his translucent body shimmying slightly as he did so. "Though you don't have to imagine any such thing, I'm sure. You've lived it, after all. You know what it's like to discover that your fantasy-land is wrought with one or two very harsh realities. Realities that force you to choose sides and take part--quite different from the Muggle world where reality plays out at a safe distance, on the telly or in the papers, and where choosing sides is the task of politicians and bureaucrats alone."

Harry had willed himself not to snicker out loud. "If you don't mind my saying so, that's quite a limited view of the Muggle world that you've got there," he said, smiling crookedly. There are choices to be made here as well, my ectoplasmic old friend. And they're just as unpleasant and even more immediate, like...do I spend this tenner on a hit or two of ecstasy, or buy myself a decent meal for once? Do I suck this dodgey fucker's cock so he'll let me kip in his shitty motel room for the night, or do I sleep in the park with the rest of the bums? Run away or throw a punch? Wash Uncle Vernon's auto or tell him to sod off? It's all about choosing the lesser of two evils--but at least there is still some bloody illusion of choice involved.

Nick stared at him for a moment, taking in his expression. "Of course, my view on the matter is limited," he offered. "But living at the castle, I've seen generation after generation of Muggle-born and half-blood students struggle to find their place in our world. Some of them manage to find their way, but there have been others who have floundered, and others still who have fled completely."

Harry swallowed thickly. So...he was one of those who had fled. So what? It had been the right thing to do....the only thing, really. "What about Hermione?" he blurted out, unexpectedly. "She was a Muggle-born and no one could touch her skills...not a single pureblood ever matched her innate talent. She may have been Muggle-born, but she was destined for Witchcraft."

"Ah, yes...Miss Granger," Nick said, carefully nodding his off-balanced head. "She has faced her own set of problems in recent years."

"She has?" Harry asked, and the surprise in his voice was apparent even to his own ears. Don't ask...don't ask why...don't ask what she's been up to. Don't ask what her problems were. Just don't ask.

"Talented as she may be, Miss Granger's Muggle-birth will always brand her as lowly in the eyes of some. To these same individuals--and I am sure you know whom I refer to--she will always be, in every way, a filthy little Mudblood."

A little spasm bucked through Harry's body, and he fought the urge to protest the ghost's words. Nick was speaking facetiously--that much was clear from the casual way he was dusting invisible lint from his coattails--but the old habit of sticking up for his friend was difficult to suppress. He couldn't help but be surprised at the way it had kicked into life inside of him; when had he last felt concern towards Hermione? When had he last even wondered how she was doing? Or how Ron was doing, for that matter? It had been...years.

God, I suck.

He felt needling tears spring into his eyes--whether they were for himself or his friends, he didn't know...a fact which only served to make him feel shittier. He felt helpless, and it was a rare feeling for him, a feeling that he hated. And yet another part of him--that pubescent, awkward teenager's voice in his head, that voice that he associated with everything related to his past--was bleating But I didn't mean to! I didn't mean to forget...

Goddamn that voice! No wonder he'd gotten so good at ignoring it...ever since it had reared its greasy little head on the day he mounted that zippy Vespa scooter, whinging about that Firebolt like a toddler who'd lost his teddy-bear.

"News..." Harry gasped, wiping at his eyes furiously. "You said you had news for me. What is it, then?"

"Oh, right. Nearly forgot, I did." Nick snapped his fingers in a silent gesture. "You know..." he began, his expression going....well, mistier was the only way to describe it. "I always liked you immensely, Harry. We ghosts are mostly a source of amusement for the students--giving them a fright on Halloween and suchlike--but you were always genuinely interested in the goings-on of the Spirit world. I never did thank you for attending my Deathday party...or for trying to get me accepted into the Headless Hunt. But I did so very much appreciate your efforts..."

Harry's cheeks went warm. Deathday party? He had no idea what Nick was talking about. The words created a hollow ring in the depths of his chest, as if they were weighted with significance, but did no fully compute. An event from his past that still lurked beneath the surface, perhaps. Many other events, in fact, were well-buried...all he had now were names and places, the simple basics.

"...and as such, I would like to return the favour, my boy," Nick continued, grinning broadly. "I came here with news...and a warning," he said, his grin fading at once. "We ghosts limit our involvement in the living world...many of us barely follow current events as it is, and even those of us who offer our services to the living are limited in the bodily sense. We could never help fight in a war, for example."

"Of course," Harry said, nodding dully. He wondered where this was going.

"But we ghosts can serve purpose in a spiritual sense. We know our own kind--the dead, that is--as well as you know your own. When you defeated Voldemort as a wee infant, Dumbledore came to me, asked me if Voldemort was indeed dead. Dumbledore is an old, old friend...and though it is considered somewhat taboo to do so, at the time I felt I owed him the truth. I told him that Voldemort was still alive. I would have felt it if he had gone, you see. All of us would have felt it." Nick paused, and perhaps would have caught his breath, if he had any to catch. "What I'm trying to say here, my boy, is that there's been a disruption--a deep fissure, of the most obscene and despicable sort--in the world or Ghosts and Spirits. And though it doesn't affect you now, it will."

"Affect me?" Harry asked, slightly unimpressed. "How? Has Voldemort finally been killed? Is his ghost planning to haunt me...or, is this like a wacky Dickensian thing? Are you my own personal Jacob Marley, come to warn me of my past, present, and future?"

Nick frowned. "I had hoped you would take this more seriously."

"Sorry," Harry offered, a bit contrite. "But your warning is a bit vague, you realise. Could you give me more specifics at all? A date or time of day...something I could jot down on the calendar?

Nick shook his head. "What is happening now has never happened before--not in any written history. It is a violation against both the living and the dead--a deep, profound violation...such that I cannot put it into accurate words, I'm afraid. I can only warn that you be on your toes, boy. Danger is afoot--no pun intended."

"Okay. Well, thanks. I mean...I'll be on guard."

"Good..." Nick said, giving him a succinct bow. "And Harry...?"

"Yes?"

"Here's hoping that the past will no longer elude you." Nick clasped his hands together and seemed to fade out a bit, the presence of his voice dimming by minute degrees.

Harry started, his knees nearly buckling. He wondered just how long the Gryffindor ghost had been following him around SoHo. Long enough to know that his current life bore absolutely no resemblance to his former, certainly. Or perhaps his private thoughts and musings were more transparent than he had previously thought; as transparent as Nick himself, even. "What do you know about the past?" He waved, calling out to the ghost's thinning form. And then, unable to stop himself, added: "I know I've forgotten...but I can't remember why I've forgotten."

But the ephemeral body of the headless man continued to diffuse itself, unspooling like garden-variety London fog until the only discernable part of Nick that was left was his mouth--his smiling, wide-toothed mouth--not unlike the lingering grin of Alice's Cheshire cat. "It's easy to leave part of ourselves behind," the mouth said, chuckling slightly. "See?" Then it blinked away, gone.

Harry had expected Nick's words--his warning--to stay with him for weeks, sending him down alleys with tight nerves, his eyes jumping at harmless shadows. But after a good night's sleep, Harry woke and almost wondered if he hadn't imagined the whole thing. Three years ago, he'd experimented with a plethora of illegal substances during a thirteen month off-and-on stint of street living, and he supposed that seeing Nick could have been some kind of elaborate, extremely vivid flashback. As a child in Surrey, he'd been forced to sit through all the drug-scare films at school, the ones that featured teenagers leaping from windows as they imagined themselves eaten alive by the faint body hair that covered their arms. That sort of rubbish was a hell of a lot weirder than seeing ghosts, so he supposed anything was possible.

But he knew it was no hallucination a few weeks later, on that day that Varda borrowed his Vespa without asking, ended up crashing it into a post-box and getting a ticket for reckless driving, and then showed up for work forty-five minutes late, with one tattered, unshaven Draco Malfoy in tow.

A ghost from the past, indeed.

***

He's going to kill me. Hermione thought, slowly rubbing at her tired eyes. No. First he will kill Snape. And then he will kill me. Kill me two or three times, just for good measure. She dropped her hands into her lap and let out a heavy sigh. The moist, re-circulated air of the train was hard on the lungs after an afternoon of joy-riding (or joyless-riding, in this case), and Hermione knew she could not stall any longer. She had to go home, to the flat above Crookshanks' that she and Ron shared. And she had to bring Snape with her.

Unfortunately, Ron would be there, wrapping up his day's work. He would have left the Burrow by late morning, and would be expecting Hermione by suppertime. He would not, however, be expecting his former Potions Master. Hermione knew how Ron operated; he would see her inclusion of Snape as a betrayal, plain and simple. The world was a very black and white place for Ron: approve/disapprove; right/wrong; friend/foe...a place more punctuated by slashes than question marks. And that was Ron's Achilles' heel, really; he was loyal to an end, but never looked before he leapt, never asked questions before forming conclusions. He could also be a beast to reason with, but Hermione had the advantage of having spent a good portion of her childhood with him. If she could warn him of this big, nasty Snape-surprise ahead of time, she stood a slim chance of surviving the fallout.

Hermione shook her wrist lightly, just enough to free her wrist-watch from the cuff of her jacket. She tried to glance covertly around the train car, which was, unfortunately, stuffed to the gills with suburban commuters who had just clocked out and were now standing back to back and shoulder to shoulder, their eyes glazed over with fatigue. Oh well. Surely Londonwas full of enough eccentrics that one young woman speaking into her wrist-watch wouldn't stand out that much. She positioned her lips close to the watch and cleared her throat.

"Andy? Can you hear me?"

At once, a nearby, towering business man craned his neck downward, watching her with a curious expression.

Oh, hell.

Well, that cleared things up; it looked as if the covert approach was only going to attract unwanted attention. Mildly panicked, she looked for a private corner to sidle into, but there were none; every bit of space in the train was taken up with grumpy passengers. Snape himself was crammed between two very young secretarial types, looking uncomfortable; "uncomfortable" was actually a good term for describing the way he'd looked all day, but since he'd been surprisingly cooperative--if a bit distant--Hermione hadn't let it needle her.

And speaking of cooperative...

"Snape," Hermione said, trying to politely squeeze nearer to him, which in turn pushed the secretaries further away from the train doors, earning her more than a few unpleasant grumbles.

Snape gave her that now-familiar, dull, inquiring stare. "What is it?"

Rising to her tiptoes, Hermione leaned in to whisper in his ear, ignoring the expression of alarm that broke out across his uneven features as she did so. "I need to take care of something," she said, choking down the urge to sneeze as his hair brushed past her nose and lips. "Just nod and pretend as if I'm explaining something terribly fascinating to you."

"Is this really necessary?" He asked, a hint of nervousness underlying his sour tone.

"Yes! Now, hold still...." She placed her hand on his shoulder and leaned in again, this time speaking more to her wrist than into his ear. "Andy?"

She read the watch-face intently, dimly aware that Snape had no choice but to look down at her, his warm, oddly-peppered breath heating her own cheeks and forehead. Part of her wanted to squirm at the thought of Snape breathing all over her, but there wasn't much she could do about it now--this had been her brilliant idea, after all.

H e r m i o n e?

"Andy, I need you to give Ron a message for me. Tell him that I'll be home soon, and that I will have...company with me. An...uh...old acquaintance. Tell him to be prepared, okay?"

I w i l l t e l l h i m . . .

"Thank you. I have to go now. See you soon, Andy," she whispered, then finally pulled away from Snape, surprised to find that she was hot and perspiring. Whether it was from nerves or the stuffy train car, she wasn't sure.

"What was that?" Snape demanded, his voice loud and demanding enough to draw more than a few stares.

"Er...what was what?" Hermione asked, trying to sound bright and innocent. If Snape gave Andy away to a car full of Muggles, there would be fiery hell to pay. She swallowed a lump the size of a ping-pong ball and forced a smile.

"What was..." he trailed off, his eyes quickly flickering back and forth to account for the strangers that surrounded them. He pursed his lips shut and gave her a penetrating, thoroughly exasperated stare. But just beneath that, she could see a very fine, almost child-like curiosity brewing; his lip twitched once, and he lowered his gaze down the length of her body, letting it come to rest on the right hand that she was tapping anxiously against her thigh. If he had been a normal man, she might have blushed at the hungry, lustful expression on his face, but since it was directed solely at the powerful, magical implement encircling her wrist, she could only fight to suppress a sudden case of silent laughter.

So this was what it took to draw Snape out of his spiritual coma, was it? For any other man it might have been the World Cup, or a shiny new broomstick, but for Snape it was magical gadgetry. It was no wonder, then, that as soon as they got off the train at their stop, Snape demanded to examine Andy at once.

"Let me see that," he said, lunging for her wrist as soon as they were in the relative safety of the half-deserted streets.

"Hands off!" Hermione just managed to dodge him, pulling the sleeve of her jacket over the watch in a protective gesture. "I'll have you know that is a one-of-a-kind item you are attempting to get your filthy mitts on. It's one of only two in existence."

"Yes, clearly it's one-of-a-kind. Otherwise I'd have absolutely no interest in it."

"Well, you'll just have to wait to see it. It's dark here, for one, and for two, anyone could happen by..." Hermione trailed off as she searched out the dark streets, realising that the sun had just gone down within the last hour. So... Malfoy's first daylight hours as an exiled wizard were over, and neither she nor Snape had any clue where he'd gotten off to. She vaguely wondered where he would sleep the night out, then decided that someone like Malfoy would either be dead by now, or tucked safely inside the home of some nice, rich Muggles that he'd managed to swindle with his aristocratic grin and halfway-acceptable vocabulary.

"Wait?" Snape protested, widening his stride so that Hermione had to skip-hop a few times to keep up with him. "Wait for what, exactly?" He then suddenly came to a dead stop and did a double-take, as if finally noticing where he was. "Where in blazes are we, anyway?"

"This is my neighbourhood," Hermione offered, waving her arm in the general direction of the run-down warehouses, empty shops, and crumbling sidewalks. She sucked in a deep breath of the autumn air, oddly enjoying, as always, the rotty-wood and coppery smells of her homely, forlorn street.

"You live here?" Snape asked, looking mildly appalled.

"Yes." Hermione wasn't particularly surprised that Snape disapproved; being a Slytherin and former Death Eater, he was most likely pureblood and had probably long enjoyed the finer things in life. Hogwarts Castle was hardly a hovel, after all, and his room at the Leaky Cauldron had been one of the finest that the establishment had to offer. Looks like it's your turn to finally go slumming, Snape, she thought, unable to stop from smiling.

When they finally arrived at Crookshanks' Snape's expression was best described as 'thoroughly underwhelmed'. He sniffed around the arid, dusty front room, picked up a year-old magazine with tented fingers and let it drop back on the desk with a dull slap, all the while looking around as if he'd just found himself locked inside a chimpanzee exhibit at the Zoo. Thinking fast, Hermione pointed him toward the stairs that led up to the flat; she didn't want him to move through the curtains and see the real nerve centre of Crookshanks just yet. She might have invited him here, but that didn't mean she had to invite him into everything. Not right away, at least.

When Snape finally entered the flat--coming up at her heels quickly, as if to escape the office below--Hermione found herself suddenly buffeted by a wave of nostalgia so swift and potent that it nearly gave her a headache. She was struck with the image of herself entering Hogwarts Castle for the first time, only eleven years old, all bushy-hair and buck teeth, her eyes as wide as a House-Elf's as she took in the surroundings that she had already pored over in Hogwarts, a History. Everything had fascinated her--the enchanted ceilings, the walking suits of armour, the feast that appeared out of nowhere--but everything had also scared her a bit, too, though she fought hard to remain cool on the surface; these sort of wonders were old hat to the Wizarding-born students and she had wanted them to like her. Accept her.

She had never had an easy time fitting in at her school back home, where her bookishness was seen as aggravating, and her eagerness judged as arse-kissing. Once, when she was nine, she had been so lonely that she had taken to conversing with her stuffed animals; when her oldest teddy-bear, Ratchet, had animated to life and started talking back to her, she knew at once that what others said about her was true--she was indeed not at all normal. There had been other indicators as well; the fact that she could sometimes turn the pages of a book without touching them, or that during a test, the nub of her pencil would never seem to run dull.

Did Snape now feel as she did then? Like a stranger, an outcast, as he ascended into the Muggle world--a world he didn't even particularly want to become acquainted with? She and Ron used magic all the time, but their flat bore all the unsavoury and tell-tale characteristics of Muggle-living. There was a television and VCR resting on a rickety tea-table, dog-eared movie and sports magazines piled on random shelves, stacks of empty beer bottles and an ashtray full of the cigars that Ron had taken to smoking during Football matches.

Hoping to gauge Snape's response, Hermione quickly searched out his face; his mouth was grimly pursed, and he was looking disdainfully around the living room, his eyes finally coming to a rest on the blonde 'Rhoda Rhodes' wig that she had hooked over a pink desk-lamp. Hermione was in the habit of hanging her various wigs on different lamps around the flat--the shades were roughly head-sized, and hanging them up, as opposed to stuffing them in a bureau, kept the hair smooth and tangle-free. She wasn't sure she could explain this to Snape, however, without seeming like a bit of a nutter. He looked at the wig, then at Hermione, then back at the wig again, as if just now remembering that she had never been a natural red-head.

"What's that..." Snape began, nosing the air. "...smell?"

"Oh!" Hermione blanched; she could hear Ron banging around in the kitchen, and from the smell of it he was whipping up a pot of his famous corn chowder, heavy on the onions. Warning Snape to stay put, she collected herself and inched down the hallway, pausing in the doorway of the kitchen before fully entering. Ron was cooking all right, his face red and sweaty as he chopped away at a large onion bulb, humming along with Perry Como on the radio, while over at the stove his wand was poised mid-air, stirring a pot full of cream and broth. Instead of his usual jeans and jumper, he was dressed in trousers and a pinstriped shirt, a matching bow tie squeezing his broad neck, and his rusty hair was slicked back away from his face to reveal his funny, jug-handled ears. The kitchen and dining area had been thoroughly cleaned and spruced up, the table set and garnished with flowers.

Perry Como? A bow tie? Flowers? Uhhh...

Hermione was suddenly faced with the cold realisation that Ron must have horribly misunderstood Andy's message. He would never dress up for Snape. He would never cook for Snape. In such circumstances, Hermione predicted that slapping down a frozen dinner and pointing at the microwave would be as polite a gesture as she could expect. Not that she had planned to deck the halls for Snape, either; simple take-out would have done just fine. And she would have made him pay her back in Sickles, too.

"Ron?" Hermione slid into the kitchen, her hands twisting together nervously. "Erm, what are you doing?"

"Hi!" Ron swivelled around, grinning. "The chowder will be ready in twenty. Hope you're feeling peckish, seeing as I've made loads here."

"Okay. Thanks for cooking. You really didn't have to go to all this trouble."

"Not a problem," Ron said, dumping onions into the bubbling pot. "I just hope the chowder is okay....corn doesn't get lodged in dentures, does it?"

"Dentures?" Did Snape wear dentures? Hermione doubted it; dentures were usually made to look white and perfect, after all.

"Well, yes...last time she came to visit she had trouble with the roast beef, so I made soup this time. Minimal chewing and all."

"Soup!" Hermione rubbed her forehead wearily. "Ron...you think I've brought my grandmother over to dinner again? Is that why you're all dressed up and playing this...this silly coffin-dodger music?"

"Well of course!" Ron turned so fast that broth splashed from his spoon, dotting the clean expanse of his pressed shirt. "Andy said you were bringing someone old over...who else could that be?"

"Old? I didn't say I was bringing an old person over, Ron! I said I was bringing over an old acquaintance."

"Oh? Did you?" Ron laughed a little, then automatically reached up to tear free the bow tie. "I was mucking about with Fred and George when Andy gave me the message," he said, as if that explained everything. And it did, in a way. Fred and George had strange and mysterious powers of influence when it came to affecting Ron's daily beer-intake. "So who's the company then, if it's not your Gram?"

"An old acquaintance, remember?"

"Right. Is it Dumbledore, then? He's older than old."

Ron bent over to sample the soup as he spoke, and Hermione was inspired to lodge her foot up his arse as he did so. "Not old old, Ron," she said, not bothering to hide her exasperation. "Old as in from the past."

"Hey! Dumbledore's from the past," he protested, looking hurt. Hermione glared and said nothing, watching with grim satisfaction as his wounded expression was fast replaced by dull horror. "Oh Christ. It isn't Malfoy, is it? If you brought that nasty ferret back to our flat I'm going to fucking--"

"It's Snape."

Ron's mouth bounced shut; his face, which had previously been an angry, hot shade of vermilion, looked as if it had been swiftly doused with a pail of whitewash. Words seemed beyond him for a moment as he slowly lowered his spoon to the counter top and turned the fire down on the stove. "Professor Snape? You....you mean he's out in the living room. Right now?"

"Yes. Judging our décor with a critical eye, no doubt."

"But...Hermione, how could you? He's going to...."

"To what?" Hermione snapped, her patience thinning. Ron's inability to decipher Andy's warning had momentarily placed the position of power in her court, and she thought if she could just stay mad enough, it might prevent Ron from acting out in his usual, tempestuous way.

"....to be mean to us," Ron finished, his voice wilting a little.

"Oh, grow up, Ron! He's been at Fudge's beck and call for the last few months, and has hated every minute of it. He's completely alone and, quite frankly, seems more than a touch depressed. Would it kill us to let him in on a piece of the action?"

Ron blinked. "I can't believe I'm hearing this from you."

Neither can I...Hermione's mind reeled. "Look," she said, smoothly diverting her approach. "Ever since your Father's retirement and Percy's...silent treatment, Andy has been our only permanent link back to the Ministry. But with Snape involved, and Fudge using him as errand-boy, we're back in the game. It's only for a short while...I promise."

It could have been her imagination, but Hermione thought he brightened a tiny bit. "You mean we can...use him?" He asked, sounding a bit more enthusiastic than she had anticipated. She had absolutely no idea if Snape would be of any use to them regarding the Ministry...but she supposed a little bend and stretch of the truth wouldn't hurt, just this once.

Wise up, Granger. Your whole life is a pack of irreparably bent truths.

Dinner was predictably awkward. Ron was so overly hospitable that Snape, who had previously looked prepared to unleash the snark-within, was reduced to wavering confusion. He poked at his bowl of corn chowder suspiciously, as if certain that Ron had laced it with cyanide, but eagerly outstretched his glass when Hermione had the good sense to uncork a bottle of red wine.

"So, Professor Snape...I hear you've been working for the Minister of Magic," Ron said, too busy slugging down wine to notice Hermione's desperate shushing gestures.

Snape stared over the rim of his glass, sneering faintly. "It appears your attention span has improved since you were at school, Mister Weasley. If memory serves, hearing was never one of your strengths."

"Can I get either of you more wine? How about cognac? Or brandy?" Hermione twittered nervously, glancing at Ron's red, pinched expression; he was clearly making a valiant attempt to restrain himself. Snape, on the other hand, appeared to be relaxing a bit now that he'd finally gotten the upper hand in verbal sparring. He leaned back, posture still careful, and swished the wine around the bottom of his glass, swallowing deeply and blotting his lips neatly against the back of his wrist.

"And who do you work for, Mister Weasley? Are you an employee of Miss Granger's?" Here, he spooned up a bit of corn chowder and sniffed at it before drizzling it back into the bowl. "Her graceless cook, perhaps?"

Ron's chin trembled slightly from the force of his gritted teeth. He glanced once at Hermione--in quick apology, perhaps--before exploding. "OF ALL THE BLOODY FUCKING NERVE!" He slammed his fist down on the table, causing the silverware and china to tinkle musically.

"Ron, don't!" Hermione clutched at his arm before he could pound the table a second time. He pulled away, but the desperate look on her face must have been enough to cool his jets--for the time being, at least.

"I'll have you know I make a killer corn chowder," he said, glaring. "And Hermione loves it when I cook."

"Oh, honestly." Hermione covered her face with her hands. "Enough of the alpha male rubbish! We will now return to ordinary, civilised conversation. I insist."

"Very well." Snape pushed away from the table slightly, crossing his legs in a deliberately cool fashion. Hermione wrinkled her brow at this; Snape was back to old form, it seemed. Funnily enough, she was more relieved than annoyed. She would have been driven to something desperate if that detached, half-interested sarcasm had gone on much longer. "But Mister Weasley still hasn't answered my question," Snape continued, shrugging lightly.

Ron smirked. "We're in like shit, Snape. You think the Order had connections? Well our operation has roots so deep not even your massive beak could sniff them out. We are the first line of intelligence when it comes to magical disturbance in the Muggle world, and we got our ears pressed into every fucking nook and cranny..."

Hermione sighed loudly, interrupting. "Hyperbole wine. Did I mistakenly serve the hyperbole wine? Cool it, Ron." Snape, to his credit, looked both annoyed and vaguely amused, softened, perhaps, by the many glasses of alcohol he had downed. "We don't know what it is we do, to be honest," Hermione explained. "We do investigate certain happenings from time to time--usually on Dumbledore's request--but mostly, we look for Harry."

"Potter?" Snape looked slightly uncomfortable. "In a city like this? Sounds a bit like searching for a knut in a pitch-black well. Why not wait for him to wander home on his own?"

"On his own?" Ron sputtered. "He needs our help, obviously. If he could come home on his own he certainly would have done so by now, you silly tit."

Hermione closed her eyes, trying to ignore their faint stinging. I'm not so sure about that, Ron. In a memory far away she could hear the swishing sound of her winter coat, its azure wool damp and smelly as she dragged it through the snow behind her, wandering through the courtyard of Hogwart's castle, half-asleep, half-dreaming. She rubbed her eyes once, then forced them open again.

Snape's expression, directed at Ron, was almost one of pity. "And what makes you think you could help him?"

Ron looked stricken, as if he hadn't fully expected this question. "Because...we have connections. We have Andy."

Snape bolted upright in his chair. "Andy!" He exclaimed, his face flushed by excitement rather than wine. "I heard you say that name before..." he pointed at Hermione. "...on the train, when you were fiddling with that watch."

Hermione's hand flew to her wrist, where she covered the watch protectively. "So what?"

"So...I want to know what that tricket is. You told me I could examine it, and I'd like to do so now, if you please." Snape's tone was stern, yet tentatively so. She wasn't his student anymore, after all."

"Ha! The watch is nothing," Ron scoffed. "Wait till you see the real thing..."

"Ron," Hermione groaned. So much for not letting Snape in on the full operation.

Five minutes later they were downstairs, Hermione lingering back as Ron presented Snape with the wonders of Andy, sounding quite like a salesman as he did so. "The twins and I designed the cauldron itself, and Hermione developed the spells that created Andy's consciousness. Now, notice how the shape of the cauldron resembles a--"

"Would it kill you to allow me some breathing room," Snape snarled. "I've been quite apt at using magical instruments since before you were born, you realise."

"Sure." Ron backed away, coming to a pause at Hermione's side. "Told you we were in like shit," he murmured softly, a triumphant little smile playing on his face. If Snape heard him, he gave no sign. He was too busy examining Andy, pressing his palms against the sides of the cauldron, dipping down to sniff its contents, and testing the liquid's texture and body between his fingertips. Hermione thought she heard him mutter "remarkable" at one point, though he might have actually said "adorable". Or "dorkable". But was "dorkable" even a word? It occurred to her that she might have had too much wine with dinner.

"I see your time with the Ministry was not wasted, Miss Granger," Snape finally announced, his features struggling with what looked like both admiration and profound disgust. "And just what other gadgets have you cooked up in this room?" He stepped away from Andy and clasped his hands behind his back, slowly walking the length of the area, stopping at one point to examine the maps and bulletin boards that had been tacked up to a rear wall.

"What are these?"

"Maps of London, mostly," Hermione said, moving closer. "Take a look."

Snape did so, leaning in close to one of the street maps, his eyes nearly squinted shut. "Your old classmate Longbottom appears to still be living with his Grandmother, if this map is to be believed."

"It's quite accurate," Hermione said, allowing a small note of pride to enter her voice. "The map identifies all witches and wizards by their respective wands, so unless a person leaves his or her wand behind--which is unlikely--the map is most exact."

"Ah, yes. Wand frequency. Used by Aurors for many years, I believe. Though how did you know to use it?"

Hermione shrugged. "It seemed the most obvious execution," she said vaguely. In truth, Sirius had given her the idea. During their Christmas stay at Grimmauld Place she asked him how he had happened to stay relatively sane despite nearly three years of hiding out; he had refused to divulge the details at first, clearly uncomfortable about explaining the survival techniques of an escaped convict . He had only offered her a single hint, asking her to consider how he had managed to evade the Ministry for so many years, despite their far-reaching armies of Aurors. The answer had come to her in the middle of the night, just before sleep: Because they took his wand. They couldn't find him without his original wand.

"And look, here we are," Snape said, pointing. "Hermione, Ronald, and Severus." He smirked a little, apparently amused at the thought of them showing up together on a map.

"Actually, I brought you back here because of these, Snape." Hermione said. "We lost track of Malfoy today, but we can find him again using the maps."

"How's that? Malfoy has no wand. It's still back at Azkaban."

"True," Hermione said, smiling. "But he does have magic on him--the implant charm that has sent him into exile. We know that charm, and with it we should be able to find him."

"It seems you have a semi-plausible plan, then." Snape regarded her with mild interest, his eyes lukewarm for once, rather than cold, and a faint thrill ran through her body; she felt as if she had finally answered a question correctly in Potions class, all these years after the fact. Better late than never.

Hermione let out a deep breath. "We might as well do the spell now," she said, pawing her wand out.

"Do we have to?" Ron groaned. "I really don't fancy the possibility of Malfoy on my wall, available for viewing all twenty-four hours of the day."

"It's not quite so perverted as that, Ron," Hermione deadpanned, and Snape let out a small noise, something that sounded dangerously close to a laugh. "Now quiet. I need to concentrate."

Both Ron and Snape backed up slightly, as if to give her breathing room, and she stepped closer to the map: Central London. Malfoy couldn't have gone any further than that. She outstretched her wand and began to murmur the incantation, the same one she had used on herself, very early that same morning.

"Manifesto Extorris Draco...Manifesto Extorris Draco..."

Her eyes scanned the map; there were hundreds of wizards and witches in Central London, all of them tiny dots, impossible to read on a map that covered this much territory. She would have to zoom in on Malfoy to pinpoint his exact location. "Demonstrare Draco Malfoy" she muttered. When nothing happened, she frowned. The map should have changed perspective, focusing in on Malfoy only, but nothing had happened. "Demonstrare Draco Malfoy," she repeated, a little more forceful this time.

"He's not there?" Ron asked, sounding a touch relieved.

"But he must be," Hermione said, her frown deepening.

"Hmm. I thought something like this might happen." Snape approached the map again, his own wand now in hand.

"You thought what would happen?"

"Well, it was a valiant attempt, Miss Granger....but you forgot one important thing." He reached out and tapped her wand with his own. "While it is possible to use your own wand frequency to seek out previously cast spells and charms, you are limited in that you can only track spells cast by this wand, in particular. Your wand did not implant the charm that now lives in Draco Malfoy's body. Therefore, your own wand cannot seek that charm out."

"What?" Hermione almost staggered backwards. "You mean it won't work?"

"Not with that wand."

Hermione stared at her wand, wrestling with the sudden urge to dash it to the floor and stomp it into a dozen or so pieces. How could she have been so dumb? Of course her wand would be useless in this situation. The only wand that would work was...Arlan Brewster's, most likely, as he was probably the Azkaban guard in charge of implanting such charms. The prospect of dressing up (again) in Hannah Abbot gear, all in order to sweet-talk Brewster's wand from his ready grip, was not at all appealing. Snape wasn't helping matters; he appeared to be gloating, and Hermione felt as if she'd just been given a failing grade--only this time she hadn't flunked a class, she had flunked her own life.

"Shit-shit-shit!" She wailed, on the verge of tearing up. "Now what do I do?"

"Time for plan B," Snape said, mimicking her words from earlier that morning. She scowled at him, but his face remained quite serious.

"Nah, what say we just forget him?" Ron offered.

"Because the Ministry wants us to forget him, Ron!" Hermione exclaimed, her voice cracking. "They want Draco to disappear for a reason. Because he's important... important somehow."

Ron shook his head once, very slightly, and Hermione could almost hear his thoughts in her head before he actually spoke them outloud. "He's not Harry, Hermione. He's not important like that."

"First Harry disappears. Now Draco. Who else has been forced out of one world and into another, Ron? Better yet, who's next?" Hermione felt her face sag, and was dimly conscious of the fact that hot tears were coursing down the planes of her face. She was too warm and her head itched terribly. She wanted to do nothing more than rip the stupid wig from her head and collapse onto her bed.

"Next?" Snape said, his voice low. Hoarse. "You think Harry's disappearance is connected to the Ministry? The same way you believe Draco's is?"

"Of course," Hermione sniffed, collecting herself. "They must have forced him into hiding, somehow. Or maybe he even asked that they help him hide out. I'm not sure of the details, not at all, but it seems the most likely scenario..." She trailed off, realising how ridiculously hopeful her words sounded. But she had to have hope, didn't she? It was the only thing she had left when it came to Harry.

"No," Snape said, drawing upright. "The Ministry has nothing at all to do with Potter's disappearance, Hermione. I can assure you of that."

"How do you know?" Hermione spat. "I saw the way Fudge treats you--he wouldn't tell you a thing, Sevvy."

"You've looked for Potter on your maps before, haven't you?" Snape's hand drifted toward her shoulder, and something like clumsy, unpracticed compassion was reflected in his eyes. She stiffened at once and his hand retreated, back into the folds of his robes--except they weren't robes anymore, and he had to stuff his hands into his pockets instead.

"Of course I have. Dozens of times."

"And he's not there?"

"No. His wand...he's either found a way to mask the frequency, or perhaps he has a new one. Perhaps he's found a way to manage without it."

"He has."

At once, it felt as if all the blood in Hermione's body had seeped down into her feet; her chest constricted painfully, so much so that she let out a stunted gasp. "How do you know?" she asked, instinctively moving closer.

Snape met her eyes. "Because I was there on the day that Potter sent his owl back to us. She was carrying quite a load, a Firebolt and spell books...and Potter's wand, clenched in her beak."

Hermione watched as Snape's face went wavy, as if she were viewing him from a fishbowl, and was dully aware of Ron coming up behind her, holding her steady. "That's a lie," she muttered. From the corner of her vision, she could see a framed photograph sitting on her desk, not far from Andy. It was a photograph of herself, Ron, and Harry--taken by Colin Creevey, of course--sometime around the beginning of their sixth year, all three of them tan and awkward, their faces darkened by the history that was rising up around them. The trouble with photographs was that they didn't usually talk back. Paintings of people who had never existed at all were free to chat from sun-up to sun-down, but photos of real people, dead or alive, never seemed to say a word. They simply smiled and waved, a teasing shadow from the past that echoed, echoed, echoed... Harry had known that best; she'd seen him pore over pictures of his parents on more than one occasion, tears glassing over his vision as he watched them share private smiles and hold hands, but never look on him with recognition reflected in their own eyes. For the past few years Hermione had pretended that the Harry in the picture was waving at her; that somehow, somewhere, he could see her looking after him. She had even talked to him now and then, foolishly hoping he might talk back.

But now she realised that, for the first time in this one-sided conversation, she had run out of things to say.