January 28th

There was little for Hermione to do in London other than wander the streets. This was a task that was best left for the warmer months, but she had to make due with what little she had. Action was almost constant in the capital city. With almost nine million residents, something was always happening. One just had to know where to look.

It was dangerous to expose herself as often as she did. Truthfully, if she really wanted to be safe, she would find a remote area and hole herself up in an abandoned building. Leave only for quick trips into neighboring villages for something to eat. But, that sort of existence seemed terribly boring. Maybe she liked the idea of the danger she put herself in. Never knowing when she turned a corner if she would run straight into someone who would recognize her could be thrilling.

Antonin once accused her of having a thirst for danger. She'd shrugged her shoulders and replied that she was easily bored. It also didn't help that her childhood had been spent with Harry Potter who was an absolute magnet for dangerous situations. Perhaps if she'd been Sorted into Ravenclaw like the Sorting Hat initially wanted, she might have made friends with those rare students who enjoyed quietly sitting in the library having no adventures. But, for a reason she still didn't quite understand, she asked the Sorting Hat to put her in Gryffindor.

Sunday nights weren't typically nights when the pubs in the city overflowed with drunken patrons. There was probably less chance of someone recognizing her. Wizarding society in the United Kingdom was much smaller than many likely realized. Decades of war and unrest and uncertainty hadn't helped rebuild the population either. That had been one of the main reasons why the Dark Lord insisted that each of his followers marry a suitable prospect and begin breeding the next generation of his followers into existence. There had been limited success, but even then, she didn't think there would likely be a wizard slumming amongst the Muggles who wouldn't be willing to look the other way.

She chose a location as far from the last London pub she'd visited as possible. Running into the kindhearted man she robbed wasn't ideal. Sure, she'd have the ability to get away from him if necessary, but she really didn't want to run the risk of using magic unless she absolutely must. Antonin could still be searching for her in Wales if she was lucky.

As she sat down at the end of the bar in a fairly seedy pub, she tried not to think too much about the chaos she probably left behind. Treaty or not, Antonin could very well end up harming the Jordans. Even those suspected of aiding a fugitive could be in serious trouble. Somehow her trail would likely lead back to them. She has half-tempted to reveal herself just to keep them from harm. The thought made her chuckle to herself. Maybe it was possible for her to change. There might be hope for her after all. Altruism was hardly something she had a great deal of personal experience with. She'd grown too selfish over the years.

Quickly, however, she thought better of turning herself in. The uncertainty of what Antonin had in mind for her when he finally had her within his clutches was too much to risk. He hadn't gotten his reputation as being cruel and savage in error. He'd cultivated that persona, fed it and coaxed it into being. Years in Azkaban once threatened to turn him completely mad, but he'd clung to the last bits of sanity he could. The twisted manner in which his mind began to work when he was with the dementors feeding on his happiness and joy became a well-sharpened weapon outside of the infamous prison.

She was right to fear him. No one who knew anything about her former teacher would blame her for being afraid enough to keep running even when there was nowhere she could run. Eventually, he would catch up with her. That was an expectation she lived with. Once upon a time she might have been able to nurture the hope within that assured her she would make it against all odds. The last bit of optimism she possessed had been maliciously ripped away.

After digging into her beaded bag for enough money to buy a pint from the man behind the bar, Hermione stared into the glass, tracing patterns in the condensation with her fingertips. As much as she might have wished to gulp the liquid down, she had to pace herself. Unless she was able to convince one of the other patrons to fund the rest of her night, she had to make the drink last. No one would allow her to remain inside in the warmth if she wasn't a paying customer. Life could get difficult without money. Not for the first time she cursed her lack of it.

When she first ran away, she had a great deal of money at her disposal. Months, years even, of careful saving and hiding of much of her money in an empty box tucked under the floorboards in her attic allowed her the freedom of paying for her lodging and food for the first few months. In the beginning, when she started hoarding the money, hoping her husband never caught on to the small sums that seemed to be missing each month from their bank vault, she'd been planning on running with their son.

The thought of her only child remaining in that house constantly being influenced by the man she'd been forced to marry was difficult to dwell on. Most of her husband's anger and cruelty was directed at her, not their son. Hermione didn't believe for a second that he would ever hurt their child, especially not after the heartbreak of losing their daughter. But, she didn't want to imagine what kind of man he would grow into with a Death Eater as a father and a Death Eater as a mother. Likely, he would follow in their footsteps. Her husband would've been pleased. She wanted so much more for him.

Ignoring her concerns about running out of her drink too soon, Hermione began to gulp it all down. She longed for the haze that intoxication could bring. Thinking about the son she left behind, what a horrible mother she turned out to be, only made her feel worse. A good mother would have never left their child behind in an unhappy house with a violent father. Without her there to take the brunt of her husband's anger, what if he started taking it out on the one who remained? She didn't want to think about the possibilities.

"Allow me to buy you another one."

Hermione almost dropped her glass when the masculine voice spoke just outside of her ear. Her mind had been hundreds of miles away to a village in Scotland. She hadn't even realized that one of the other poor souls in the rundown pub had gotten near her barstool. At first, she was tempted to tell him to bugger off, but stopped herself. Maybe a little flirting and a few suggestive looks in his direction might get her in the drunken state she desired.

The Muggle wasn't terribly unattractive, if she was honest with herself. In fact, there was a certain amount of confidence to him that she found appealing. His smile was friendly, kind. She'd spent too many years surrounded by men who only smiled in that feral, deranged manner that promised more pain than pleasure. When she returned his grin with one of her own and invited him to sit down, an idea formed. Perhaps, if she played her part well enough, she might not have to worry about finding a warm bed to sleep in that night. Besides, it had been a while since she'd allowed herself to get close enough to a man to scratch her primal itches and alcohol certainly wasn't the only way a person could distract their minds from unpleasant thoughts.

"This hardly seems the sort of place to find a beautiful woman alone."

She granted him her most innocent of blushing smiles. Sometimes she looked in the mirror and felt a hundred years old. It was exhilarating to hear she wasn't as repulsive and hideous as she felt. Her husband had always been sparing with his compliments. Before her attack on Antonin meant she had to abandon her family for her own safety, she hadn't heard a kind word from him in a very long time.

"You think I'm beautiful?"

His sudden nervousness only endeared him further to Hermione. He was clearly one of those mythical nice men she'd heard about and never met. She could eat him alive. Flustered, with bright red cheeks, he quickly ordered another round of drinks before he had the courage to respond.

"Well… yes. Of course."

She liked the Muggle. Not even bothering to remember his name or much of anything that he told her about himself, she swallowed glass after glass of his offered alcohol. She granted him the encouraging smiles, the soft touches of his arm, and the flirtatious giggles that only encouraged him to keep buying.

When she lost count of the number of drinks she'd consumed and was beginning to feel a sense of ease and relaxation that she hadn't experienced in longer than she could remember, she grew bolder with the squeeze of his thigh. There could be no doubt in the Muggle's mind that she would follow him to his flat or any hotel room he wanted to pay for. Survival wasn't always ethical, but sometimes it had the opportunity for pleasure. As she leaned over to whisper in his ear that she thought it was time they found somewhere a little less public, the door to the pub opened abruptly letting in a blast of cold air.

A tall, lean man with shockingly pale hair entered the pub. She almost gasped as she watched him unwrap the heavy scarf he had around his neck. What was Malfoy doing there? Was he finally coming to tell her exactly why he kept following her? She'd almost forgotten her plan to go home with the Muggle. Only when her drunken eyes focused on the newcomer and he finished the removal of the scarf did she have the sinking realization that it wasn't Malfoy at all. Just some faceless stranger with the same color hair.

She tried to ignore her disappointment for the rest of the night.