It was all rather eerie. Whitehall was all intact, the home of British Government standing pristine and in its neo-classical beauty. Somehow, Bobby felt, it would have been more fitting if the place were in ruins, as if blitzed by bombs; a testament to the fighting and loss of life that must have occurred here with the Dark Lord's triumph. How could these buildings stand spotless, as though Government Ministers and their Civil Servants had not been dragged without, screaming, and slaughtered where they stood, before these walls?

Of course, Roberta Alcott could only assume that that had been the case: there were no records of the atrocities, of precisely how the capital had been captured, she and others had simply been brought here and here, she had found, the Death Eaters ran their operations. It was the not knowing. That was chilling. It was hardly as though the thousands who had maintained l'ancien regime could simply have been allowed to walk away. She could imagine it. Quick. Industrial. And not necessarily clean. But all the evidence would have been very easy to wipe away, afterwards. It was terrible to behold the Cenotaph, which no-one had bothered to destroy (no doubt an unnecessary effort) and to think that the dead had not one grave between them, neither to be remembered, nor to show that they had ever existed. There was no evidence as to how they had died and now none remained that they had ever lived.

The only thing that had changed and showed the tolls of war was the deserted state of the streets. In this city of seven million or more inhabitants, the quietness was chilling. Dead or fled? It was not possible to say which. Of those who remained, the slaves were incarcerated within, whilst the wizards would apparate at whim.

It was thus that Bobby walked, in contemplation, wondering whether it was possible to run and hide. A bustling city is apt to provide camouflage for a fugitive. Given the absence of crowds, things did not look good at present. She would have all day, though, to explore and possibly plan an escape.

She crossed onto Trafalgar Square. Nelson's Column had been smashed to smithereens. Clearly, no hero but Voldemort could be venerated in these times. And yet the National Gallery still stood. Perhaps it housed his private collection? There appeared to be a little traffic at the entrance. She would certainly have a look and, if caught, could pretend to have been sent by her Master to check all was in order, whatever was going on.

Severus was in a sour mood. What with the entire supply of muggles available, and a complete absence of demand from the wizarding population, he'd been paid a measly pittance for the slaves he'd brought to market. It was absurd. The price of bread was higher than the potential for decades of free labour! But then now there were food shortages...

Perhaps there were more lucrative means of disposing of his stock. As abhorrent as the thought may be now, things would get more desperate still, and even if he couldn't, why allow the whole of the populous to starve? And was there any harm if he could profit by saving lives here and there?

His trail of thought was interrupted by the approach of a familiar figure.

"Come to see any little friends of yours off? I'm afraid you're too late, they're gone, although it was hardly worth the effort on my part, the paltry sum I got for the lot."

Bobby stared in silence, clearly shocked.

"Or perhaps you're here for a valuation? I doubt even the great Roberta Alcott," he gave a mock bow, "constantly busying about the place, telling us how important she and her errands are, would fetch much above a galleon at the current rate. Which is an absurdly low value, if you hadn't bothered to follow the surges in inflation."

She remained dumb-struck.

"Although they do say you know things... That could be worth quite something, if true. Oh, for God's sake, girl, pull yourself together. Do you suppose I was seriously suggesting that you sell yourself?!"

Bobby had not reckoned on bumping into a colleague so early into her escape attempt. She had to get rid of him without arousing his suspicions. She smiled brightly.

"Hello, Mr. Snape. Lovely weather, isn't it? Glad I've found you. The Master was saying he wants a few things, if you'd be able to pick them up in time for his return this evening?"

"Go on."

She thought frantically. The other thing about plans is they shouldn't be too complicated. The more detail, the more chance of flaws giving the game up. But then she needed him out of the way for long enough to make a decent start.

"There's the, um, let me see if I can remember correctly. A new supply of laid ivory parchment, emerald inks and, er, the Madeira from Berry Bros has run out. And can you restock your main potions supplies? There's a little bit of brewing he'll ask of you later. Oh, and he wants his riding boots, they're at Richmond, apparently." At least she were sure all of those things existed.

Voldemort officially owned all palaces and stately homes, although he hadn't bothered taking up residence anywhere. He was constantly tied to his desk in these early days in office, and whilst he occasionally enjoyed the indulgence, didn't actually need sleep. Palaces of any note were currently used for storage, or office space. Conveniently, she could leave London via Richmond, and the palace wasn't so far as to be an absurdly implausible request for a daytime errand. She hoped. And by the time anyone realised she hadn't come back, it would be too late for them to catch up. She hoped.

"I thought I'd get the booze and the boots, and you could do the magic stuff, er, I mean-"

"You propose to go to St. James' Street now whilst I go to Diagon Alley?"

"Yes." She would head west, out of London and across the country towards Wales. Then to Ireland. Then America.

Severus had been tidying that morning. There had been no apparent shortages then. And the master hadn't worn those boots in ages, wherever they were.

"And there's no hurry. He's not back until this evening. I'll be heading off now, so..."

Definitely suspicious.

"Did the Master provide any money with which to make these purchases?"

"Oh, yeah." Bobby hadn't thought of that but quickly removed the purse she had been given earlier. She hadn't spent the cab money, having not been out in so long, she preferred to walk, and to save everything for the planned escape.

"I've got this muggle money for my stuff. If the prices have gone up since he budgeted this morning," she added, "I doubt anyone will complain when they know who we've been sent by!"

She giggled nervously.

Snape grew visibly impatient, the question unspoken.

Crap, what about the magical money? What had Snape been doing here again?

The lie came quickly and her nervousness lent well to the impression of embarrassment in bearing bad news.

"He, er, said the proceeds of your transactions here should, um, more than adequately cover the purchases."

Now that was typical of the Dark Lord, the stingy bastard.

Vampires really are the most loathsome creatures, mused the Dark Lord. It was terribly tiresome that an alliance was necessary. He would have to concede something in return for their allegiance.

Such a plentiful supply of muggle blood available but of so little value compared to what else he might bring to the table. Would that he could offer mudbloods, and both parties' interests might be fulfilled!

But no, such a gift would be considered an insult: however secluded they might be, hiding in their filthy little covens in the New Forest, it was no secret from the vampires that he, Lord Voldemort, regarded such beings as mudbloods as beneath worthless. No, purebloods would have to be offered to cement this alliance. Purebloods. The younger, the sweeter. How tiresome.

However absurd the fact may have been, the Dark Lord knew that his followers would far from willingly offer their children to him. But it was necessary, mutterings and mutiny in the ranks be damned. Might even be a useful opportunity, he mused, to weed out those who dared ponder opposing him.

A pity, too, given the potential of magical, young minds to be moulded. To be compelled to willingly devote their lives to serving him. It was a great shame that all of that potential would be lost. But it was necessary. And there would be other children.

Indeed! His followers should simply have move children. Have more children, and be grateful that those they had had (or would shortly cease to have) had served him where they themselves were unfit to.

Then the war would be won.

A/N

Have split up what was turning into a huge chapter into about three chapters now, so sorry for something shorter than usual here but it means a quicker update and not one that's so horrendously long you won't read it. Sorry for taking ages, have drafted next few chapters and have notes for plot beyond that. Will see it through, sorry again for delay and thanks for bearing with!

If you've read this far and enjoyed/ have any feedback, please comment. Lack of response, good or back, really scuppers writing: one sits and thinks why continue all this effort if no one seems to be reading it?! Writing bug is back anyway. Thanks to those who've supported so far, and particularly shout-out to Wendy! x