Blood of Mud, Wing of Bat

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Chapter 38: Recipe for Disaster

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POW!

A vivid red flash leaped from the end of Hermione's wand, converged on Sheila Lasherton's chest, and turned her mammaries into two enormous musk-melons. The woman's mouth formed a surprised "o" as she tried to catch the fruits but too late. They fell to the floor and broke in half with a couple of messy splats.

"And as for you." Hermione rounded on Ron.

"Hermie, I can explain," he gibbered, frantically trying to locate his wand.

"Explain this!" she howled, aiming again. ZAP! Ron's male member was transformed into a petite aubergine. He quickly snatched up the vegetable for safekeeping, lest the same fate befall it as had befallen Sheila Lasherton's musk-melons.

And then --

-- Hermione awoke with a gasp, bolt upright in the dark in a strange bed.

It's only a dream, she thought wildly. It was only a dream.

---

It was late Saturday night. The day had passed in a seemingly endless haze of nightmare and reality. Hermione had collapsed at her parents' house for some sleep around noon, but since then she had awakened no less than five times and hurried back to St. Mungo's each time to make sure Malfoy hadn't broken free of that Paralyzing Draught yet. Because the moment he did, Freida and Georgia would be in danger once again. She knew what she or Ron would have done in Malfoy's place, and it was to be sure anything he did would be a lot more drastic. But anything he did to Freida and Georgia would have to be over her dead body, because no matter how wrong their actions had been, she was determined to protect her children.

Luckily for Hermione, the Paralyzing Draught had proven to be remarkably tenacious stuff. As yet it had only partially worn off, despite its having been nearly twelve hours since it was applied. The last time Hermione had checked, Malfoy had been moved to St. James' office so the Healer could keep an eye on him while working on some paperwork after hours.

Once Malfoy was fully functional again, Hermione had no intention of letting him out of her sight until she knew Freida and Georgia were out of danger. So now that she was awake, she headed back to St. Mungo's to check up on him once again.

---

St. James' office resembled a cross between a library, a comfortable small den situated in a rustic hunting lodge, and the back room of an Apothecary. The furniture was heavy and primitive, the walls dark panelled and the ceiling a dusky brownish-orange. A fireplace roared merrily at one end, and an antler chandelier lit the room from above. The walls were lined with bookshelves and close-packed racks of different bottles, while the floor was dominated by a large cluttered desk and a smallish but comfortable-looking couch. The couch had apparently been covered with papers and books as well, but those now reposed in heaps on the floor.

Malfoy was curled up on the couch, looking tired and irritable. His robes, now more than a bit rumpled for having been slept in, were opened from top to bottom revealing a silken white under-robe. That, too, had been unfastened, but was arranged to be as closed as possible to protect his modesty. Most witches and wizards amongst the purebloods and the more traditional mixed blood families felt it improper to expose any skin but their hands, necks and faces in public.

He had a small round tin in one hand and was applying a clear salve or ointment to his ribs with his other hand, slipping his fingers carefully between the folds of cloth. It appeared he had been doing this for some time, at least judging from the still-drying sheen of salve glinting from the back of his neck and around the collar-line, the backs of his hands and his wrists. Particularly his left wrist. It probably coated his arm and shoulder as well. Hermione suspected it was some sort of anti-inflammatory or minor painkiller, such as one might use to combat arthritis, chronic stiffness, or general muscle and joint woes. However, the salve must have had a Smellbinding cast on it, because she was not able to detect its scent even in her fly form, making exact identification impossible.

St. James was still there as well. He was sitting at his desk reading the Daily Prophet and talking about having Healed Malfoy two years before. He'd been talking about this all the other times Hermione had checked in as well. Apparently this was a favorite topic for him, at least while in Malfoy's presence.

"Did you know," he was saying conversationally, "there are only ten Healers alive in all of the British Isles who have cured a Wizard who was injured by a Muggle gun? And only two of those were dealing with multiple bullets. Certainly nothing so severe as what I had to deal with in Healing you. Why, I was written up in the Caduceus and Wand for it, and that doesn't happen to a Healer every day."

Malfoy dipped his fingertips into the salve again, then reached under his arm to apply it gingerly. He winced slightly at his own touch. He seemed to be concentrating intensely on what he was doing and paying absolutely no attention to what St. James was saying. This didn't seem to bother the Healer at all. Of course, St. James had cheerfully chatted away while Malfoy was under the worst of the wards and could neither remember nor truly comprehend much of what he said anyway. So perhaps it simply didn't matter to him.

"That's why I can't hate you for it, you know," continued St. James. "Although Merlin knows I ought to. Wands at my back, my poor wife Stunned, our house ruined. Yes, I ought to hate you, but Healing you drove me to perform like I had never performed before and never have since. I've been recognized for three separate advances in cardiovascular reconstruction, and two innovations in gun bullet removal that have since been taken up into the Manual of Emergency Medicine for Muggle Patients."

"How come," said Malfoy, "you never talk about the glass wand?"

St. James' monologue was broken. "The what?"

Malfoy's pale eyes travelled upward, came to rest on St. James' face. "You must have told me this story a dozen times over the last two years, and yet you've never mention the little glass wand. One of the others gave it to you, and you pressed the tip against me. It stung me, and then the pain was gone. You never talk about it."

"Ah," said St. James sourly. The change in his manner was dramatic, gone from bragging to guarded. "That's because I was hoping you hadn't seen that."

"I was right there, how could I have missed it?" said Malfoy peevishly.

"But you were dead," said St. James. "Aside from a very illegal technicality -"

"If I was dead, you wouldn't have bothered with any of that," Malfoy pointed out. "So obviously I wasn't. Now are you going to tell me about that wand, or not?"

"I'd rather not," admitted St. James.

There was a short silence.

"I remember what your friends looked like pretty well too. Maybe I should go find one of them and ask -"

"Fine, fine," said St. James, lifting his hands. "No need to get nasty about it."

"I think it's a fair question. You did use the wand on me, after all."

"I did, but-"

"Well?"

St. James sighed. "First of all, it wasn't a wand, it was a hollow needle. The glass part contained a clear fluid I injected into your bloodstream when I stung you with the needle."

Hermione could see Malfoy working it out in his head.

"A potion," he suggested. "A potion meant to be taken internally, but not orally."

"Not a potion," said St. James. "It was a… a Muggle preparation."

Malfoy's eyes widened. "You gave me a potion made by Muggles?"

"No, it was - well yes, technically -"

"Jesus," said Malfoy, clearly taken aback. "What is it with you and Muggle artifacts? First scalpems and then this. You're getting as batty as that Arthur Weasley, and I don't mind telling you I find that frankly terrifying in a Healer."

St. James' lips pressed together. "This is exactly why I didn't want to tell you about it. I knew you'd throw a fit. But it's exactly like a potion, except made without magic. At any rate, it worked, didn't it?"

Malfoy was still absorbing the news. He set the salve aside and let himself fall back against the couch, his eyes darting this way and that.

"Yes," he said, a bit belatedly. "It did." And after a further pause, "It worked unbelievably well."

"I'm not going to let you get your hands on any more of it," said St. James, "if that's what you're after."

"Why would I be after that?" said Malfoy scornfully and just a touch too quickly. "A Muggle potion. Who ever heard of such a thing?" He didn't meet St. James' eyes.

The Healer frowned. "I expect you were after it, before I told you what it was, and now you're trying to decide if you still want it. Well, the answer is, you can't have it because I refuse to give it to you."

There was a significant pause.

"I'm willing to pay," said Malfoy.

St. James didn't seem the least bit surprised. "You can't just buy the stuff, the Muggles have it highly regulated. There has to be a prescription, and -- "

"I can't be bothered with the details," said Malfoy impatiently. "I'm sure it can be worked out one way or another. All I want is the recipe. It is a potion, isn't it? Even if some fool did let Muggles get ahold of it. There must be a recipe for it somewhere. Tell me what it will cost to obtain it and I'll make sure the money gets to you."

"You don't seem to understand," began the Healer.

"No, you don't understand," said Malfoy sharply.

There was a sudden, startled pause, as the Healer looked at him warily.

Malfoy took a deep breath, visibly attempting to calm down.

"I need that recipe. I'm quite wealthy, you must know this. Tell me what it's worth to you, including your trouble, and I will pay. Without argument. And you needn't worry about my telling anyone. No one ever need know it was you who passed it on. I'm perfectly capable of discretion."

"And what will you do if I say no?" inquired St. James unpleasantly. "Obliviate me? Murder me?"

A grimace found its way across Malfoy's face. "If that were the case, I'd hardly admit it now, would I?" he retorted. "Not while I'm wandless and at your mercy."

"How very reassuring," said St. James drily. "Why don't you try standing up again? Moving around a little should help disperse the last of the Paralyzing Draught more quickly."

Malfoy shrank back against the couch.

"No," he said. "Not just yet."

St. James did not argue this, but continued to look at Malfoy disapprovingly. "You know, I'm surprised at you. You really ought to have known better than to even ask about that needle."

"You needn't worry about me telling everybody you've been consorting with Muggles, if that's what you're worried about."

"I don't mean for my sake, I mean for yours," said St. James sharply. "You're only going to make things worse for yourself, pursuing those sorts of avenues."

Malfoy's eyes narrowed. "Are you threatening me?"

St. James sighed in exasperation. "No, I'm not threatening you. I'm trying to save you from yourself."

Malfoy looked surprised and offended. There was a short pause, and then he said, "I don't require saving from my-"

"Look," said St. James. "You put a good deal of importance on the purity of your blood, don't you? In fact, I daresay it's what you and your family are famous for, that pride in blood."

Malfoy stared at him suspiciously, as if trying to decide between hexing him and demanding what on earth he was getting at. Of course, since he was wandless, hexing him was out of the question.

"Yes, of course," he said haughtily, falling back on arrogance. "What of it?"

"Then isn't it terribly ironic that your blood is actually about as filthy and contaminated as blood can get?"

Hermione gathered from Malfoy's gobsmacked expression that nobody had ever said such a thing to him in his life. For a moment he was struck entirely speechless. After that first startled pause, however, anger quickly suffused his features.

"What?"

"Tonight, if You-know-who calls you to perform a mission, what is the first thing you'll do?" asked the Healer calmly.

"Why should I tell you, you - " began Malfoy murderously.

"You'll lay on every pain killing salve and potion you can get your hands on, won't you?"

"That -"

"Your giant Adam Balm prescription is legendary around here. And don't tell me you haven't gone back to cooking up Pain-No-More at home."

Malfoy huffed in outrage. "How did you know about -"

"And when you've arrived at whatever sordid little hidey hole is the Death Eater base of operations for tonight," continued the Healer, "while they're giving you your instructions, they'll also be filling you with combat drugs to heighten your alertness, reflexes, and stamina. You'll go out and do your mission, the whole thing will last maybe an hour if that, and you'll still be high as a kite when you get home. The only reason you'll sleep at all is because you're sleep-deprived enough that you can pass out for two or three hours despite being under the influence. A short time later you'll be back in circulation, still half-hyped up, and tomorrow night you'll repeat the whole process before the stuff has had a chance to wear completely off.

"You've been doing this to yourself for years, Malfoy. You've built up tolerances for these drugs that are completely insane. The amount of this stuff in your system is incredible. I don't even want to speculate on what would happen to you if you went cold turkey on those combat drugs... it wouldn't be pretty, I'll grant you that. The shock alone would likely kill you."

Malfoy squirmed. Hermione recognized the look in his eyes - it was denial, pure and simple.

"You'd have to be weaned off them slowly... perhaps given temporary substitutes...."

"What's your point?" growled Malfoy.

"The point is," said the Healer bluntly, "your blood is so tainted it might as well be poison. And let's not even talk about Dark Magic. You've got so much of that filth on you I still set off Dark Magic Detectors and all I did was heal you once two years ago. And now you want to go putting even more heavy-duty, highly addictive painkillers in your system as well? Well, you won't. As your Healer - even if it was only once, and against my will - I refuse to give them to you."

"But why not?" exclaimed Malfoy, clearly not comprehending St. James' train of logic. "I'm hurt. You're a Healer. Where else would I get relief from this?"

"It's precisely because you're hurt that I won't give it to you," said St. James.

"But that makes no sense at all!" protested Malfoy.

"Look," said St. James. He got up, walked around his desk to Malfoy's couch, and knelt down before him. He reached forward and took Malfoy's left hand; Malfoy flinched, but allowed him to draw it forward. The Healer slid his hand into Malfoy's in the position of a handclasp. "Now squeeze. As hard as you can."

Malfoy shifted uncomfortably. "What is -"

"You can't, can you?"

"This is ridicu-"

"Just do it. If you can."

Malfoy sighed, but adjusted his position and tightened his grip on the Healer's hand.

"Is that the best you can do?"

Malfoy muttered something sulkily, in which the words "paralyzing draught" could be heard. However, he didn't even seem to believe his own excuse.

"This isn't good, Malfoy," said the Healer. "That's nerve damage, and very difficult to heal magically."

"I know," said Malfoy, scowling. He withdrew his hand from the other's grasp and tucked it against his body, holding it with the right.

"Do you lose your grip on things? Small things, in particular? Your wand?" The Healer's eyes played speculatively over Malfoy's hands as the right protected the left.

"No," said Malfoy firmly. "I don't."

"Even when the painkillers wear off completely?"

Malfoy squirmed and looked away.

"Do you ever let them wear -"

"Look, this isn't about my arm," interrupted Malfoy.

"No, I imagine it wouldn't be, would it? But it's an easy enough illustration to make. The arm is just going to keep getting worse. Eventually you're not going to be able to hold a wand at all, and I'm not talking about fifty years from now. I'm talking within the next two or three years."

Malfoy paled and looked away uneasily.

"Now this... this can be healed, but it will require rest. No fighting, and no re-injuring it for six months or longer. In fact, no using it at all, except when you can't avoid it."

"No using my wand hand?" Malfoy said in disbelief. "For six months? Please. I'd sooner kill myself."

"As a Healer, I cannot recommend that option," said St. James. "But you do see my point? The pain is your body's way of telling you to stop what you're doing. And if you ignore the warnings, if you don't stop, your body will simply wear out long before its time. And you're right, that arm is the least of your worries. This --"

The Healer reached out towards Malfoy's chest, but Malfoy pulled back against the couch, fending off the touch with an elbow. Hermione realized St. James must be referring to the damage done by those bullets, perhaps amongst other problems. The Healer did not attempt to touch Malfoy again, but only rocked back on his heels and looked at him seriously.

"Well. Do you see my point? You don't need a better painkiller, you need to stop doing what you're doing, because it's injuring your body further. It's not ethical for me to give you that painkiller because I know you'd only use it to get away with doing yourself more damage. You need rest, not more drugs."

Malfoy's right hand moved to pick up the tin of salve again. Given what St. James had said in his tirade, she now recognized it as Adam Balm. Adam Balm was a brand name for a harmless painkilling ointment which wore off after only a couple of hours but could be reapplied in unlimited amounts without side effects. Hermione imagined it would be very helpful for a person with old injuries that tended to stiffen up. The Smellbinding charm on it eliminated odors from its active ingredients: Calendula, dragon's breath ash, and mashed hedge-fairy.

"Yes, Adam Balm is safe," said St. James. "You can use as much of that as you like. But nothing stronger, or you aren't doing yourself any favors at all."

"You don't understand," said Malfoy, glaring at him in what looked almost like betrayal. "You know what I'm trying to do with Batwing and all the rest of it. And with Salazar incapacitated it's going to take much longer than the three months it was supposed to. It might take a year, even two years!"

Hermione was suddenly on alert. What was that he'd just said? Unless she was mistaken, he'd just referred to plans not even Crabbe or Jones were privy to. The ones not even Trelawney and the Aurors had been able to figure out. Just how much had Malfoy told St. James? And what had Salazar to do with Batwing? She'd never heard Malfoy mention his son in connection with it before. Well, except to say he refused to work at Batwing on weekends when he could be visiting his son instead.

St. James appeared unmoved. "Well then, you'd better conserve your abilities hadn't you? Burning yourself out now isn't going to help, is it?"

"But -"

"Simply don't overdo it. Accept that you have limits and explain them to whoever-it-is that gives you your missions. If they want to keep making use of you, they'll have to accept that."

"That's not how it works," said Malfoy, clearly frustrated. He looked like he wanted to say more, but there were apparently some things that even St. James wasn't to know about. When he spoke again, Hermione got the distinct impression that it was a compromise between what he could say and what he couldn't. "I'm only valuable because I can do something no one else can do. If I refuse to do that, I'm useless. And people who aren't any good to the Dark Lord end up dead sooner rather than later. Do you see now?"

"But -" began St. James.

"There are no buts," said Malfoy fiercely. "That's how it is, and it's hardly a secret amongst those who know the least bit about the situation. Now are you going to help me or not?"

Hermione remembered what Malfoy had said, back in his Manor, surrounded by marble and crystal and enchanted friezes. He'd said they'll simply keep pushing you harder and harder until you reach that point where family and survival become more important than anything else. She wondered if that awful look she'd seen in his eyes at Ernie's, as dead and soulless as a killer's, was actually the look of killing or if it was simply the look of surviving - at any cost.

"No," said St. James quietly. "Not that kind of help, at any rate."

Malfoy looked as if he intended to retort, but just then, there came a knock on St. James' office door.

---

Hermione had quite a lot of new things to think about. But before she could think over them too much, St. James had returned from answering the door. He looked rather disturbed.

"They're saying Rudeo Nesbitt is in the lobby looking for you," he informed Malfoy. "Apparently he has a warrant to question you about what happened at the Apparition platform this morning and he's threatening to come up here after you if we don't deliver you immediately."

Malfoy managed to look both alarmed and confused. "What happened at the…?"

"Oh, but maybe you wouldn't know. It's all over the news tonight." St. James picked up his copy of the Daily Prophet, displaying a minor headline:

CELEBRITY WIFE DEFEATS ST. MUNGO'S APPARITION WARDS
D.M.T. Denies Any Records of Stunt

Malfoy's lips twitched as he read the words. His expression grew incredulous. "Whaaat?"

Hermione was so stunned she didn't even register they'd called her a "celebrity wife". She'd known, of course, that people would think her fake Apparition was a real one. That was the whole point. Hermione had just assumed that everybody would think she'd been barely outside the Apparition wards when she disappeared. That was the simplest explanation. But if some overzealous reporter had decided otherwise and actually measured to find out… well. Obviously nobody could really Apparate through those wards, but with Malfoy and his crazy Apparition talents thrown into the mix, it'd take weeks for them to decide that for certain. And then, once they'd decided she couldn't have Apparated, they'd set about figuring out what it is she'd really done. That was not good!

"It says here, 'The furor arose when several news media published recordings clearly showing Hermione Weasley, the estranged wife of Chudley Cannons Beater Ron Weasley, Apparating away from within St. Mungo's Apparition wards. Apparition Enforcement claimed to have no record of the Apparition.'"

"Whhh," said Malfoy, sounding as if he'd just accidentally swallowed a particularly plump insect. He shoved the Adam Balm into a pocket and began to hurriedly re-fasten his robe. Hermione realized that he had as many reasons as she did to freak out about this particular news item. The last thing he needed was more reasons for Aurors to climb all over him, and if they somehow decided he could Apparate through Apparition wards, he'd really be in trouble. There wasn't a Wizarding court in the world that would deny Special Operations their Apparition restraint charm then.

"'Besides her colorful marriage woes, Mrs. Weasley is famous for having freed the House Elves," continued St. James, reading. "She later created the original Fun School Integration Activities Bus (FuSchIA Bus) to allow Muggleborn students to meet their wizarding peers and travel to obtain school supplies for Hogwarts, a program now popularly enjoyed in various incarnations by students worldwide. She has recently been in the news for collaborating on a business venture with suspected Death Eater and renowned Apparition expert Draco Malfoy. Neither Weasley nor Malfoy could be located for comment.' Quite interesting, I thought," began St. James, when he was finished reading. "Though I have to wonder-"

"I have to go," interrupted Malfoy. "Where's your floo powder?" He lurched off the couch and promptly fell, evidently still semi-paralyzed. He would have ended up completely on the floor except that St. James dropped his paper and jumped to catch him. They grappled for a moment, with St. James trying not to drop him and Malfoy trying to squirm out of his grip.

"I have none here," said St. James. "Take it easy, slow down."

"No, I have to go now," said Malfoy, clearly distraught. He clung to St. James and managed to get his feet back under himself.

"You're not going anywhere until you can walk properly," admonished St. James. "Why don't you walk around in the office a bit and flush out a bit more of that Paralyzing Draught? Here, I'll help you."

"I can't let Nesbitt catch me like this," puffed Malfoy as St. James looped the smaller man's right arm over his own shoulders and started to walk him around the office.

"He won't," said St. James soothingly. "At least… he couldn't, not without searching the building exhaustively. He'd meet a good deal of resistance if he tried." Hermione thought that this was a terribly weak reassurance, considering Special Operations agents had probably memorized the unplottable St. Mungo's from top to bottom decades ago and passed the mental maps down by oral tradition. And St. James' office wasn't exactly in a secret location. They'd only have to find one person who knew where Malfoy was recuperating, or maybe they'd only have to know which Healers were known to associate with him.

"My publicist must be frantic," said Malfoy, already moving on to the next topic of panic. "And my lawyers… nobody knows I'm here."

"Well, you'll be good as gold in only an hour or two. You can contact them then."

"Remind me to thank Mattham for this Paralysis Draught personally," panted Malfoy savagely. "When I get my wand back!"

"This is why we have a policy of disarming you before allowing you in," St. James said drily. "You're a bit predictable, you know."

"Is that Draught even cleared for use on patients?" Malfoy wondered, ignoring the jab at his personality as St. James hauled him along step by step. "It seemed awfully powerful and fast-acting."

"First of all, with all the Death Eater rubbish you have in your system right now, nothing else would have worked," replied St. James. "And secondly, no, it hasn't been cleared for use on patients but you were not yet a patient at the time it was used. It's been authorized for use in security situations."

"By security personnel only, I'm guessing," said Malfoy as they negotiated their way awkwardly around the end of St. James' desk. "And Mattham is not security personnel."

"True, however, since you were attacking her personally, the exception of self-defense applies," said St. James drily. "Really, we have thought this out, you know."

Malfoy grimaced but said nothing as they limped together back down the other side of the room.

"Since we're on the subject of ill-thought-out impulsive revenge," said St. James conversationally, "have you given any thought to how you're going to handle taking action against the Weasley girls who injured your son?"

Hermione took off and flew down to their end of the room to make sure she didn't miss a word.

"Why, so you can report me before I even manage it?" retorted Malfoy.

"No, actually, believe it or not, I was going to try to talk you out of it so you don't get yourself arrested."

"Ha, don't bother," said Malfoy bitterly. "It's perfectly within my rights to cast a Multigenerational Revenge Curse that'd have those two brats and all their descendants wearing donkey's heads and tails until the dawning of the Age of Capricorn, and believe me I've spent much of the last three hours perfecting the wording I'd use. But I daren't use it. God help me, I can't afford to offend Hermione Weasley now. Not even for my son."

Batwing, thought Hermione with a shiver.

"I'm glad," said St. James.

"I'm glad somebody's happy about this mess," Malfoy snarled.

The more Hermione heard, the more obvious it was that Trelawney and Zabini were right. Whatever Malfoy was trying to do with Batwing, it was of life-or-death importance. But why was it so important? What could he possibly be trying to do? That was Nesbitt's Million Galleon Question, and it wasn't just Nesbitt's influence that was making the entire Batwing project seem more and more ominous.

They were approaching the couch again. Malfoy slowed down, forcing St. James to stop as well.

"Do you want to wait a bit longer?" suggested St. James.

"I think so," said Malfoy. He sounded frustrated. He also sounded tired. There was a bit of a shuffle as St. James helped him sit again. "I'm going to complain to your superiors about that Draught… it needs to be regulated. She can't just go about Paralyzing people."

"I suppose she ought to press charges against you for assault, then, as well," said St. James. "After all, it's only fair."

Hermione was just trying to decide whether he was joking or serious when a second knock on the door resounded through the room, this one firm and authoritative. Malfoy and St. James froze like rabbits.

"It's him," hissed Malfoy.

"I have to let him in," said St. James.

"Are you insane? You do not want Rudeo Nesbitt to see you with his own eyes or he'll never leave you alone again. He's like one of those Muggle dogs that's trained to never let go once its bitten."

"Dear Merlin," said St. James, rapidly losing his composure. Hermione could sympathize. She'd only been having Auror problems for three days. She couldn't even imagine having them for two years.

"Quick. Out the window," Malfoy ordered him. He pointed at the room's single window, which was so heavily and darkly draped it barely seemed like a window at all. St. James gawped.

"Out there? But it's just a ledge. I'd have nowhere to go!"

"Never mind that. By the time he gets done breaking in, he'll never consider you were here. He'll be concentrating on me. Go quickly."

"This is insanity," complained St. James. But he must have wanted to get out of there fairly badly, because he pushed aside the curtains, opened the window, and put a leg out.

The door shook with the intensity of the pounding on it.

Hermione should have known better than to expect Malfoy's intentions in offering an escape route to the Healer were purely altruistic. The moment the window had closed behind St. James and the curtains fallen back into place, he pushed himself to his feet and made his way to one of the shelves of jars, clinging to the walls for support. He reached unerringly for one particular jar containing a pickled Double-Ended Centipede, then turned and staggered back to St. James' desk, grabbing at anything he could reach for balance.

Bam! The banging on the door had steadied into rhythmic, heavy booms. They were trying to break the door down.

Sweat had broken out on Malfoy's forehead. He plunked down in St. James' chair and opened a desk drawer, found a letter opener. He used it to break the wax off the jar then pry the cork out with a loud pop.

BOOM!

Malfoy cringed as some sort of magical explosion went off on the other side of the door. Plaster trickled from around the edges of the door-frame. After a moment though, he resumed his work, using the tip of the letter-opener to fish the Centipede out of its preservative juices. Slap. The Centipede landed on the desk. Malfoy quickly slit the specimen from end to end, then lifted out its digestive tract with the tip of the knife.

Double-ended Centipedes eat Vernica leaves, Hermione remembered suddenly. Vernica powder is used in making Floo powder. Vernica powder, wood ash, and Eye of Newt.

Malfoy grabbed the centipede gut in both hands and squeezed its messy green contents all over the photo of Hermione on the Daily Prophet.

Eye of Salamander, used in the ink used for printing moving pictures, she thought. Close enough.

Unfortunately, she had no time to be impressed by this evidence of survival skills on Malfoy's part. There was a short suspicious silence from behind the door, and then suddenly latch clicked loudly, unlocking.

"Merlin's bloody teats," swore Malfoy, his voice raw with stress. He tore off half the newspaper page and dove for the fireplace, just as the door slammed open courtesy of an Auror's boot.

"Got you," crowed Nesbitt, plunging in past the other Auror to pounce on Malfoy before he had time to do more than fling the paper into the fire and fall flat on his face on the hearth. The fire flared a sickly green, briefly, but the moment was lost.

"Get off me!" Malfoy hissed frantically, fear mingled with fury, as Nesbitt hauled him heavily to his feet.

"Oh no, not yet," said Nesbitt. "You and I are going to have a little talk. About Apparition wards."

"I don't know anything about that Apparition of Weasley's," gasped Malfoy, hate twisting his features as he was dragged by Nesbitt toward the door. "You have no proof I had anything to do with that!"

"But I do have a warrant to question you about it," said Nesbitt, "which is almost as good. Don't you think? Come on lads… we're adjourning to the courtyard."

And Malfoy was pulled scratching and spitting out of St. James' office.

Do I really want to watch this? Hermione asked herself. Not really. She'd had about as much as she could take of Nesbitt the night before.

But though she would have thought that no emergency could ever compare in magnitude to her children being in danger, this Apparition issue was it. She'd never before come so close to being found out. And if she was found out, she could go to Azkaban for life. They might force her to betray Rita Skeeter as well. Malfoy wasn't likely to cooperate with Nesbitt, but then again if they had caught her on media, how long would it take for someone somewhere to spot some crucial bit of evidence? The more she knew about the investigation, the better off she'd be.

Just when I thought things could hardly get worse, she groaned internally.

And then she raced out the doorway, following after the Aurors and Malfoy.

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