Chapter 10: Directions

It was hardly dawn, the sun only just teetering on the edge of the sky, yet on Borgin and Burke's shop floor knelt a blonde figure. His shoulders stood taunt beneath his robes, and his fingers fiddled with the cloth clutched between them.

"Oh, you're beautiful," he whispered, letting a smile creep onto his face. He reached out to brush his fingertips along the lid of the Ottoman stood in front of him, and felt a carpet of dust covering its surface. Draco swept his cloth over the lid where his fingers had rested, delicate so as not to disturb the wood's polish. A small tornado of dust fluttered to the ground, dragged towards the front of the shop and out onto the street below, where the front door had been tugged open.

A deep voice cleared their throat.

"I didn't expect to see you here this early," Fenrir Greyback mused, easing the door shut as he entered. The blonde rose slowly to his feet and dropped the cloth on his desk, fixing a questioning look on Fenrir.

"Nor did I expect to see you again," Draco said. "A second visit within the week? What did I do to deserve this?"

"Nothing in particular. But I was interested in making a deal with you."

"Really?" Draco's eyes narrowed in suspicion. "You're not the sort to make business deals. What is this really about, Fenrir?"

The werewolf chuckled. He slung his hands into his pockets, shoulders low and relaxed. He didn't seem to have come looking for a fight, but then again Draco didn't trust that his intentions were good. The blonde's eyes flickered towards the cobbled street outside, surprised to find it sparse of the usual werewolf hoard. Greyback had come alone.

"For your information, Malfoy, I make plenty of business deals," the werewolf said. "I have an antique I thought you might be interested in. But if not, I can always take my business elsewhere..."

Without his permission, Draco's face contorted with intrigue. He couldn't help it; a certain inbuilt curiosity tickled at his mind. Greyback hardly seemed like the sort of person to collect antiques, but he'd been around long enough to have acquired something of value.

"I'm listening," Draco said.

"It's an old vase. Belonged to my mother. It's got flowers painted on it, and a signature on the bottom."

Draco's face brightened at the idea, though he tried to keep his tone low with apprehension. "Well, did you bring it with you?"

"No." Greyback's arms folded over his chest. "I have some... Errands to run. But I can bring it by this evening, if you're willing to wait."

There was something about his stance - legs wide apart, shoulders relaxed, elbows squared in front of him - that gave a sense of stern arrogance, as if the werewolf had just won a bet and was still basking in his glory. But whatever victory made him grin as he did now was unbeknown to Draco. The blonde was a little perturbed, but that was hardly an unusual reaction to Fenrir's presence.

"Of course," he agreed. True, he'd hoped to return to the Manor as soon as possible, but Draco knew he wouldn't be missed.

Greyback smiled. The edges of his mouth curved upwards, into a shape that closely resembled a fishing hook. A shiver shot down Draco's spine."

"I'll be by later then," Fenrir said, and turned to leave the way he'd came. His figure disappeared around the door frame, and only dark streams of smoke wafted over onto the other side, the remnants of Greyback's Apparation.

Draco, expecting the swift arrival of his usual morning customers, turned back and continued his work, trying not to let Greyback's stare play too heavily on his mind.

-TRANSITION-

Murmurs tickled at the edges of Hermione's consciousness. Her skin tingled, shivering in the sharp cold, and the grass beneath her bare back was wet with dew from the long, rainy night that had just passed.

Hermione's eyes flew open. It was day, and the sun blinded her vision as it shone through the tree leaves; she was curled up on the ground in the middle of a dense forest, stark naked with not a single string of clothing to keep her warm. She looked around, dumbfounded. The last thing she remembered was pain, darkness closing in on her, and the ghostly screams of her unborn child echoing around in her aching skull.

A soft heap, slightly damp, dropped into her lap, tossed at her from above. Hermione started, and glanced down to find a crumbled pile of clothing.

"Put them on," a gruff voice ordered. "And get up. We have places to be."

Hermione pulled the clothes over her frame, and although they were a little on the larger side, the warmth made her cling to the material and hug it tight around her. Beneath them, she'd caught glances of red marks gauged into her skin, slicing across her stomach and lacing her back in red. They were raw and ached, but she dared not inspect them.

She stood, and the figure approached. He dropped a pair of muddy brown boots at her feet. She stepped into them and glanced up; sure enough Greyback was standing over her, his arms crossed tightly over his chest. There was a narrowness to his gaze, critical or tired she couldn't tell, but the messy state of his hair told her that, of course, he had transformed last night too. However, he didn't look at all pleased to see her. Hermione glared back; the feeling was mutual.

Without need for greeting, the man turned away and nodded for her to follow. "Come on." There was no need for him to explain why it was him here, waiting for her. After last night, the sight of someone who'd experienced exactly what Hermione had was almost... Comforting.

Hermione stumbled after him, struggling to walk; the boots were miles too big, but tripping over tree roots was preferable to losing a few toes to frostbite. Fenrir strode on up ahead, seeming unconcerned with whether she kept up or not, yet every so often Hermione would catch him glancing slyly back to make sure that she was still there.

An opening made itself clear through the trees up ahead, and Hermione was fairly sure she could hear the rumble of cars zipping by on a motorway. Finally, Fenrir stopped and waited for her, yet he didn't dare turn to look at her until she was stood beside him, her breathing heavy.

"You walk too slow," the werewolf accused, only to be countered by Hermione's sudden scoff.

"Correction," she said, still heaving. "I walk at a perfectly normal speed. You, however, walk absurdly fast. Do you have somewhere better to be?"

Greyback didn't bother answering. Hermione looked around, peering out onto the road, hidden by just a thin row of trees. It wasn't a motorway as she'd expected, but a quaint little road that ran through the forest, cutting a dent in the trees which continued just as thick on the adjacent side of it. It was the kind that usually joined small villages and towns in the countryside.

"Where are we?" Hermione wondered aloud. "And what time is it?"

Greyback glanced up at the sky. "It's mid-afternoon," he said, then turned to his left and set off down the trodden path beside the road.

"This way."

-TRANSITION-

It was dark before any signs of civilisation came into sight. A small town hugged the horizon, lit by the glow of lamps through foggy windows, and a sense of comfort coated its cobbled streets. Hills spanned out in every direction, and it seemed as though the road they'd followed was the only one that wove in or out of the little town.

As their feet stepped from grass onto pavement, Greyback's expression barely changed. He headed for a lit store up ahead, tall windows bathed in the light from inside, which trickled out onto the pavement. A cafe - and one which was approaching closing time, judging by the young waiter who had just finished wiping down tables and now headed for the door. His hand reached for the closing sign, but before he could turn it his eyes met Fenrir's. The boy's face dropped, and his grip slid from the sign as he stared, frozen by fear. Unfazed, Greyback strode towards the door and shoved it open, making the boy stagger back and almost fall to the floor.

"I'll have the usual," Fenrir snarled. The boy agreed with a shaky nod of his head, and darted back into the kitchens.

When he returned, a plate was clutched in his hands. Hermione watched from the table she'd sat herself at as the boy crept back out from behind the counter, and flinched when Fenrir snatched the plate from him.

"Go," Greyback said, and the boy ran straight for the door and hurtled through, sprinting down the street.

Hermione found her eyes drawn back to Fenrir's. He caught her gaze, and she assessed the look in his eyes. He carried a piercing stare, one which made her want to drill her own gaze into the table and never look up. It was one of determination, of someone who got what they wanted whenever they wanted it - someone who refused to take 'no' as an answer. Hermione was having a hard time figuring out exactly what he wanted with her.

"I have a reputation," Fenrir told her, as though trying to provide an explanation. Then his gaze snapped away from hers and he stepped forward to slap the plate down in front of her.

At one glance, Hermione's mouth began to water. A huge, bloody rib laid in the centre of the plate, oozing with a red liquid that stained the white china beneath. The meat was pink, warm but hardly cooked, as though it was fresh with the body heat of the carcass it had been sliced from. If she looked closely, she was sure she could just about see the thrum of the animal's heartbeat still echoing through its veins. Any other day the sight of such rare meat would have had Hermione hurling, but here her eyes were latched onto it, a hunger burning the empty pit of her stomach. She wanted to eat it. And a second after the thought had come to mind, her hands gripped the rib and her teeth had sunken into the flesh, engorging herself in the delicious scent of blood that filled her senses.

Once the rib had been devoured, Hermione glanced up to catch Fenrir watching her. His eyes bored down from across the table, undeterred even when she stared back. His mouth curled into a sly smile, on the brink of appearing vindictive. Still he left no clue as to what he was so pleased with - or whether the lick of his lips was directed towards the rib or the woman who ate it.

Hermione wiped her mouth on her sleeve, and watched it come away stained with blood. She shivered. Her stomach felt full for the first time in days, and she could have curled up on the ground and fallen asleep, completely contented. But it seemed as though Fenrir had grown tired of waiting. He said nothing, but his hand grasped her by the forearm and yanked her to her feet. Staggering, Hermione glared up at him. Fenrir took no notice of her warning stare; he only gripped her tighter and Apparated them out of the café.

-TRANSITION-

Dark fog swarmed around Hermione and messed with her vision. She was thrown into a swarm of sudden motion, plummeting downwards with the clasp of Greyback's paw clutched around her arm as her only sign of stability. When her feet landed on solid ground, the Earth seemed to sway from side to side, making her stumble with a dizziness that gave her a sick feeling in her stomach. She reached out for something to steady herself, and found a cold metal pole that, upon a glance, turned out to be a lamppost.

A city street faded into existence around her. The concrete road beneath her feet was black and damp with rain, and as she glanced up she realised that the whole world had turned a million shades of grey. An instinct buried deep within her rib cage yearned to be back in that forest, surrounded instead by shades of green and yellow and brown, all layered on top of a clear blue sky.

As if voicing her thoughts, Fenrir groaned. He was ahead of her, walking off down the road and yet again expecting her to follow. She turned in his direction; a familiar building resided up ahead. It's floors stretched into the sky, tall enough to intimidate even the smuggest of visitors, and each brick was painted a dark shade of grey, stern and unmoving - it was all rather fitting, considering the building's owners. Yes - this time Hermione knew exactly where they were headed: Malfoy Manor.

Hermione sped up, racing after Fenrir with a boiling rage bubbling beneath her skin. This was the last place she wanted to be. Fenrir strode down the street carelessly, yet even at his leisurely speed Hermione had to jog to keep up.

"What are we doing here?" she demanded once she'd caught up with him, fuming when Greyback paid her no attention. "Why did you bring me here? Greyback -"

"I told you I'd need a favour from you."

Greyback's tone was unusually calm and his gaze remained fixed ahead. "You know, for getting you a free ticket out of Azkaban? I'm cashing that in tonight."

Hermione's face broke into a look of disbelief. "I don't think it's fair for me to do anything for you," she blurted, her features contorted in rage. "I think I've suffered enough, considering what you've done to me!"

She recalled the feeling of her bones breaking, organs shifting, muscles tearing apart, and the exchange appeared to be complete - she'd suffered enough to get out of Azkaban, and would have to suffer further every month for the rest of her life. Yet here Fenrir was, demanding more of her.

The werewolf halted and turned to her, making her skirt to a stop alongside him. He leaned in to her, his fists clenched tightly at his sides to hold in his pending rage. His voice was tainted with restrained aggression as he spoke.

"If you think I'm such a monster, then why are you still here?" Hermione remained perfectly still with her eyes locked on his. He leant back and scoffed. "That's what I thought. And anyway, I'm pretty sure what I'm about to ask of you will be just as much in your interest as it is mine."

Hermione sighed. "Fine. What is this 'favour'?"

"I'm sure you've heard about your friend, Harry Potter, and his recent marriage? Well, I have some acquaintances who aren't pleased with the arrangement."

What acquaintances? Hermione wondered, but dared not say it aloud.

"I want you to get Potter out. I need him out of Malfoy Manor, out of the country if I can, but I don't want to have to take an unnecessary risk by kidnapping him. You can go in there and convince him to leave with us. He won't trust me, but he'll follow you."

Hermione's arms tensed. She'd heard through whispers that Harry had been married to Draco Malfoy, but had by no means believed them. Now, hearing Harry's name, she wanted to see him. Merlin knew what state he'd be in under Malfoy's roof, and although it had only been days since she'd seen him, it felt like whole years had passed her by.

"What's the catch this time?" she said.

Fenrir shook his head. "There isn't one."

"You wouldn't go out of your way to help me or Harry."

"Who says I wouldn't? Perhaps I'm in a charitable mood."

Hermione frowned at him with a narrow sideways glance. "Somehow that doesn't seem to fit your personality."

Fenrir chuckled. "I told you: There are some people who want Potter out of Malfoy Manor. I don't know why. I don't ask questions, I just do the job I'm paid for."

They approached the Manor's gates, and in an effortless leap, Fenrir jumped halfway up it and climbed the rest of the way, perching on the top with his legs bent in a low crouch.

"Come on," he beckoned Hermione, who shook her head.

"I can't climb that," she called back. "It's too high."

"No it's not. You can make it," Fenrir told her stiffly. "Get a move on, Granger."

Although unsure, Hermione grasped the fence with both hands and hoisted herself up, surprised to find that doing so wasn't quite as difficult as she'd imagined. Her feet slid in between the bars and caught on the horizontal rows behind, finding grip where she would have easily supposed there was none. Within a few steps her hand reached the top of the fence.

Hermione grinned, pleased with herself, and tried to pull herself up beside Fenrir. The werewolf grabbed her arm and towed her up, but she shook off his grip - she didn't want or need his help.

Hermione gazed down at the world around her. The fence wasn't particularly high, and reached nowhere near the heights that her cold, damp cell in Azkaban had. But it was tall enough for everything to seem slightly smaller than usual, detached from her as she sat perched on the gate beside Greyback. The Manor stood silently ahead of her, its dark bricked walls fading slightly into the night sky behind as though it was a mirage, hidden away by the night. Hermione recalled the last time she'd been here, and shivered. It wasn't the kind of memory she liked to resurface often.

"Shouldn't there be wards of some kind?" she said; it seemed too easy for them to simply climb over a fence and enter a heavily guarded Manor.

"There are," Fenrir grunted back. "They're disabled. But they won't stay that way forever, so I suggest you hurry up." With that, he launched off the fence and landed neatly on the ground below, legs bent into a crouch. He glanced back up at Hermione, still balanced precariously on the top of the fence. He seemed to prod her without words, and some insane notion within her trusted him. She let go, and felt the unsettling sensation of falling, but before she could become afraid her feet had met the ground and she was still again.

Rising, Hermione breathed deeply. She glanced back up at the fence now behind her, and even in hindsight it appeared infinitely tall. It seemed impossible that she'd succeeded it so easily, yet she had. A small smile graced her features; maybe this werewolf thing wasn't such a terrible curse after all.

She followed Fenrir as he strolled across the grounds, his chin raised like a hound following a strong scent in the air. Hermione watched his back as she walked behind him. His muscles were tense, shoulder blades taunt and steps careful on the grassy ground beneath their feet. This time, he didn't look back to make sure Hermione was following, in fact his eyes remained fixed on the air up ahead. Yet somehow she could sense that he was thinking of her, his body racked with tension at the knowledge that her eyes were scorning over him.

Coming to a stop, Fenrir turned back to Hermione. He pointed to a window on the building, three stories up with a faint light glowing through the curtains. "Potter is in that room," Fenrir told her. "Climb up there and get him out as quickly as possible. I'll be down here waiting once you're out."

Hermione eyed up the brick wall with a raised eyebrow. "I can't climb that," she said, shaking her head.

"You said you couldn't climb the fence," Fenrir countered. "But you did."

"No. This is different. I can't climb that wall, it's impossible."

"I think you'll find it's entirely possible if you give it a shot. Use the ivy. It should be easy enough."

"But I can't -"

"Enough complaining." Fenrir silenced her with a raised hand. "I don't have time to listen to you bicker. Get up there and get it done."

In a cloud of Death Eater smoke, he Apparated out of sight.

Hermione staggered back from the empty air where he had stood and swatted smoke from across her vision. For a moment her skin felt deadly cold, as if all the warmth had been drawn from her blood and scattered into the night air. She shook off the sensation.

Her eyes shot towards the window Fenrir had pointed out to her, then trailed down the ladder of ivy below it. The ivy clung to the bricks in a straight line, from a mere metre or so off the ground all the way up and past Harry's window. But doubt crept into Hermione's mind. It had been raining, and the vines would be slippery and wet. Not to mention, whilst climbing the fence had been simple, scaling the side of a building seemed to require slightly more skill than she possessed.

However, a magnet drag towed Hermione towards the wall, and her hands gripped the ivy despite every absent thought that said it was impossible. She wanted to see Harry. She had to see Harry. What else was she meant to do? It wasn't like she could walk away, tormented by the possibility that it could have all been real, she could have climbed this ivy and seen him.

Hands clamped around the ivy, she planted a boot flat on the wall and jumped, hoisting the other right beside it. Then she climbed, both hands and feet crawling up the ivy, hooking around the vines and leaves, her grip just gentle enough so that they wouldn't snap. Somehow, she didn't fall. Somehow, her fingers didn't slip off the leaves, despite the rain making them slippery as she'd imagined.

Every scent that surrounded her grew heightened, amplified, as though the world was in high definition. She could smell the dew on the leaves, taste the warm night air at the back of her throat. The distinct scent of each object and creature passed through her nostrils as she hung from the ivy and panned her gaze across the view,. She felt so alive. Despite the heavy boots on her feet, and the paper thin clothes that hung off her and smelt slightly damp, the cold only gave way to a tingle in the tips of her fingers and down her spine, the kind of sensation that made her feel as though the very vibration of the Earth ran through her.

One scent stood out to her. It was indescribable, something she couldn't quite put her finger on, yet it was there, wafting up her nose and making her think of Hogwarts, making her miss the six years she'd spent there. Even with the cold night air swirling around her with a bitter tint to its cool refreshing breeze, the scent carried with it a warm glow, one that reminded her of home. It drew her to scamper up the wall quicker and dart in through the open window.

As her boots hit the carpet, Hermione's eyes flickered up, anxious, and at first the room seemed empty. It was a bedroom, furnished with a four-poster bed, an unused wardrobe and a fireplace, in which the coal was still warm from use. A lamp was switched on beside the bed, and cast a glow upon the snow white bedsheets. Hermione only noticed the head of dark hair rested on one of the pillows and the lump under the covers when it moved, shifting suddenly as though jerked over by her presence.

"Harry," she uttered, kicking off the heavy boots to rush over to the bedside. She reached a hand to his shoulder, but he jerked away again. His skin was covered by a sheen of sweat, which shimmered in the soft glow of the lamp beside him. Hermione caught his shoulder and shook, beckoning him into consciousness. "Harry, wake up!"

Then Harry's eyes flew open.

"Hermione?"

-TRANSITION-

It was dark, the day had come full circle, and Draco still sat waiting at Borgin and Burkes. The store had closed hours ago, the customers becoming sparse and trailing out until the floorboards echoed silence. Outside, the waning moon was trapped behind a cloud, and the cobbled streets were just a swath of black shadow. The shop floor was similarly dark, illuminated only by the faint glow of a candle flickering from the back of the store. It had been a while since Draco had done a dusk-til-dawn shift, but then again due to the circumstances back at the Manor, it had been a few weeks since he'd had the store open for a full day; a little more time to catch up on his work seemed to be just what Draco needed.

But his thoughts were invasive, and wouldn't leave him alone. He was hunched over his desk, paperwork spread out around him, and yet his quill had hardly touched the page. Concern rattled through him; he'd been anxious since noon, when a call from Blaise had thrown any hope of working out the window; Harry wasn't OK. According to Blaise, the Gryffindor had raged through a series of violent fits mid-morning. An hour later, his temperature had plummeted again, a cold drilled into the man's bones so that no number of blankets could warm him. Draco had been desperate to return home the moment he heard, but Blaise only threatened to drag him back to the store if he returned to the Manor before closing time. He was right in some ways; the store needed running, and returning home would only make Draco panic and likely disturb the medi-witches to tended to Harry. But the blonde couldn't help but wonder whether Harry had requested that he be kept away.

With a sigh, Draco dropped his quill and rubbed at his eyes with his palms. His temples pounded, drawing him further from his work. There was no use trying to get anything done at this time, what with his eyelids drooping and his head spinning with worry, and for all his waiting it didn't seem likely that Greyback would turn up any time soon. He began to roll up the scroll that laid open on his desk and collected the many pieces of parchment that were spread out around it.

The sound of smashing glass caught his attention.

The blonde's head snapped up towards the store front, blue eyes wide and turned a curious colour by the golden glow of the candle light. He stared ahead at the shadowed shop floor and past it, through the front door onto the narrow street below. He saw nothing, not the shimmer of a light, not a human-shaped shadow, not even a mouse scuttling over the stone path.

Draco crept closer, grappling through his pockets for his wand. His ears pricked, attentive, listening out for any more sounds. A voice slapped through the air from outside, an indistinguishable phrase which echoed through the streets and made Draco flinch. He scampered towards the door and peered through the store window, but the streets outside were bare. But there was someone out there, he could tell - for once he hoped it was Fenrir Greyback.

"Lumos," Draco whispered and the tip of his wand turned into an orb of light. He held it out before him as he eased the door open, a counter curse prepared on the tip of his tongue. As he approached, a street lamp flickered on above him. Draco froze - the light had smashed weeks ago, the casualty of a violent brawl that had erupted from the pub down the road. It had been cold since. Draco was drawn closer, approaching the lamppost with his wand outstretched even further.

His eyes scanned the streets, crowded by shadows and fog. "Greyback?" he questioned the darkness hesitantly. He stepped towards the foggy veil ahead of him, and felt a breeze waft over his face. The night was chilly, biting at his skin, and the darkness gave him the daunting feeling that there was someone lurking just around the corner, waiting for him.

He was right.

The door of the shop slammed shut behind him and the light at the end of his wand flickered out as it was snatched from his grip. Draco swung round, ready to flee back inside. But rough hands grabbed his forearms and yanked him back, whilst another clamped over his mouth, silencing any cries for help that flared on his tongue. And just like that he was gone, Apparated away into the night by a silent predator.

A/N: This is, admittedly, a bit of a transition chapter, and there is quite a bit of mystery at the moment. However, I promise that the next chapter will divulge some answers. Thank you to anyone who reviewed, hope you're all liking the story!