A/N: wow, i am SO sorry for that wait, guys! please enjoy and i'll try updating as frequently as possible! midterms put a downer on things and i had no motivation to write.

A man.

A man in an ugly drench coat and black shoes walked along the dark parts of Diagon Alley. His shirt was tight along his lumpy belly, while he struggled to keep up his pants every now and then. On his head was the brightest shade of brown hair, combed over neatly—but ridiculously.

This man was Draco Malfoy.

"Oh, I'm sorry, mate. I didn't see you there!" Ron Weasley patted the stranger's shoulder after accidently bumping into him, walking in long strides from his brother's store. The man just nodded nervously and kept walking, never looking back even for the quickest second. Ron scratched the back of his neck and went along with his own business.

Draco swallowed and thanked Salazar his disguise was working perfectly. He wasn't sure whose looks he had taken on, but he knew it was no where near what he would have preferred to look like. Fat and idiotic looking wasn't exactly in.

Another few minutes of walking in the stranger's shoes, Draco found himself at the entrance to Weasley's Wizard Wheezes. He looked around and walked in, avoiding the running children and barbaric activities. The store must look like the Weasley household—chaotic and loud.

"'Ello!" George greeted with a crooked smile across his face. "Can I help you with anything, sir?" He asked, walking along side Draco, appearing to look like a middle aged fat man.

"Oh," Draco hesitated, forcing himself to sound like he looked and not who he was. Ha, he thought, story of my life. "No. Thank you." He murmured, attempting a smile. His lips only curved into a weird looking slur of muscle movements and he walked off, leaving George a bit confused.

Stepping into an isle that housed different types of education magic tools—the kind no kid would actually want to use, but Draco guessed was required at some point to show the store actually had value besides turning everyone else's' lives into a living hell—and slipped out his wand from inside the ratty drench coat. "Imperio," He whispered into the air and everyone around him froze in time.

He took a moment to look at the view. There were three boys, around ten, fooling around with the dragon in its cage and a little girl pulling on her mother's skirt, probably begging for something she couldn't have. In the corner were some older boys, one laughing and the other with his eyes darted in the direction of the love potions where another girl stood, looking hopeless and humiliated. Near Draco, was a pair in mid-snog. Their tongues playing a game he would have rather not witnessed in the frozen state of mind. What kind of store was George Weasley running here?

Draco shook his head and went back to his own business after putting up an invisible charm to the passing crowd outside the windows. "Where do I even start?" He said to himself, biting his chubby lip before readjusting his fingers around his wand.

Making a decision, Draco walked to the back storage room and searched quickly. Of course, he found nothing. By the time he had scrimmaged through all the junk Weasley had back there, his fingers were bleeding for answers. For anything. Draco decided he wouldn't have minded being attacked by a few Death Eaters then. Or even Snatchers.

Being on a tight schedule and not getting what you need to get to the next appointment on that schedule was hardly infuriating. Not to mention, having the same people in the same position was getting tiring to see.

What he really wanted to see was Hermione, safe, in his flat. Not in the hands of some pirate looking Snatcher with eye liner and a best friend that had more hair on his face than Hagrid. The image of Hermione being dragged around had really done him well this time. He had counted his blessings, nonetheless. Auntie Bella wasn't on her and carving 'mudblood' into her arm—so that was a plus.

A few more minutes went by and Draco decided to search elsewhere. Maybe he could try and take a peak into his mother's memories. Or even tap into the Ministry files. Anything was better than wasting more time.

Once he took a few steps towards the exit, he froze.

The wood made a strange noise and Draco noted it very well. He stepped over the same area in the isle again and heard the noise once more. It was hollow. He grinned and pointed his wand towards the wooden floor. With a flick of the tool, the wood pealed itself open and Draco's eyes feasted upon a thin rectangular object, sealed with a Dark Mark.

Draco thought before acting. The Dark Lord wouldn't just leave a letter lying around. These pieces of information would have been particularly protected by some sort of dark magic. Draco pointed his wand again, and sure enough he saw the poison coating his prize.

Thinking quickly, he said, "Geminio," and picked up his copy of the letter. He wasn't sure why the poison hadn't transferred over as well. However, he guessed it was because Voldemort had only placed the curse on the more valuable of letters—not worthless duplicates. Draco, though, did not find this letter worthless at all. It'd get him to Hermione. It had to.

Fixing the mess he had made at the shop, memories destroyed and items back in their proper places, Draco Apparated home. He immediately changed his form and shook slightly, as if to shake off any of the stranger's skin that didn't wither away with the spell.

Draco opened the letter slowly, only to have his world crushed a little more all over again.

The letters weren't in English at all. In fact, he didn't even recognize this type of language—or writing. It was official: underestimation wasn't in the cards.

Not in this game.

Hermione opened her eyes. It felt like lifted weights. She hadn't been here long, but her body felt like a hundred centuries had been dumped over every inch of her body. Licking her dry, cracked lips, she forced her head to turn and look around. It was a tent, she was sure. Where? She had no clue. The air was chilly, but not too cold, while the atmosphere stayed silent.

Trying to think back, all she saw were sharp yellow teeth. Dangerous eyes. And Draco.

Draco.

The thought of Draco made her ache more. What had happened to him? Was he okay? Hermione swallowed and shifted, realizing now that her hands were tide securely above her head. Her wrists hurt at every move, the rope digging into her flesh. She winced and bit her lip, fighting back the tears.

"Finally awake, beautiful?"

Hermione looked up at the man walking towards her in slow, steady strides. "You . . ." She hissed, oozing hatred from the deepest parts of her soul. "Let me go. Now." She demanded, hating the grin across Scabior's pleased face. Yes, she remembered him all too well. All up to the point when he cursed Draco.

"I'm afraid I can't do that, love." He replied, fetching a glass of water from a nearby table. Scabior bent down and looked into the woman's deep chocolate eyes. "Drink." He commanded softly.

"Let me go." She said icily.

Scabior sighed at this. "Don't be difficult." He said and nudged the glass at her lips. "Drink this or I'll—"

"You'll what?" Hermione challenged. "Hex me? Rape me? Kill me?" Her lip curled and he remained firmly quiet. "Do it. I'd rather be dead than sit in here one more minute, you foul—" She was put to halt when the fresh cold water was forced down her craving throat. She swallowed, regardless of the dangers she could be facing when drinking something from a stranger. She was dehydrated and needed the water—like she needed Draco then.

Scabior stood when the glass was empty. "That wasn't so bad, was it?" He chimed, walking and setting the glass down. He stared the mudblood down. She was quiet something, wasn't she? A perfect mind with the right curves in the right places. He could do wonders to that body. Oh, but he'd keep her. He'd keep her all for himself once this was all over. He wasn't going to let some arse of a chosen one harm her. That mind, that body, that scent—all his.

Hermione looked the other direction and blinked. "He's coming for me." She said quietly, but loud enough for the Snatcher to hear.

"Who, beautiful?" Scabior barked a laugh, flashing his surprisingly clean teeth. His blue eyes beamed with humor as he took a seat at the table a ways away from where Hermione sat, bound. "No one's coming for you."

"Yes," She looked sharply at him then. "Draco's coming. He won't let me sit here and rot in front of the likes of you." She held his eyes. "He might like me to rot—but, believe me when I say, Draco takes pride in what he controls. If he isn't the one watching me rot—you sure as hell won't be."

Scabior looked at her as if she were joking. "The Malfoy boy?" He chuckled, "I'd like to see the day when that happens, love."