The first requirement in taking a step in the right direction is to take a step in some direction. ~Robert Brault
Nothing diminishes anxiety faster than action. ~Walter Anderson
The first step binds one to the second. ~French Proverb
Drinking makes such fools of people, and people are such fools to begin with, that it's compounding a felony. ~Robert Benchley
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It's been a while. But if the world ending doesn't motivate me to finish this, I don't know what else will.
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A split second after the eccentric English witch disapparated, the floo ignited and two men folded out, wands extended, scanning the room. Christopher recognised the stance and gait of law enforcement, whatever the ministry. Straightening he addressed the men immediately, "Hermione Granger received a message warning of your arrival and disapparated from here, there may still be traces."
One of the men immediately sprang to the spot and casting a complicated charm, disappeared with a crack. The other eyed him warily.
"Why didn't you stop her?"
"Pardon?"
"Who are you?"
"Christopher Manouvrier. French Ministry."
"Then why didn't you stop her?"
"For what crime monsieur? The French ministry has not been briefed of any extradition orders?"
"Well, that is… yes. What are you doing here?"
"I am inspecting the business for Mademoiselle Lovegood, to ensure that she will be safe here. Why are you chasing Hermione Granger?"
"I'm following orders. She has classified information in her possession and has been reported missing."
"Well, which one?"
"Whot?"
"Is she missing, and therefore a proposed victim, or does she possess contraband materials?"
"Er, both."
Christopher raised a bemused eyebrow.
"I'll not detain you from your search. I am sure I will be notified if the French Ministry is everbriefed on your law enforcement's quite major disruptions on our soil. In the meantime, I will stay within my jurisdiction."
Christopher turned from the now floundering officer, and approached the young man, still drowning in the yet to be measured dress robes.
"Please contact my office if you or Miss Lovegood have concerns for your safety." He nodded at the boy and handed his calling card to the blonde witch. To imagine, he had thought the beauty rather dim. With that, he calmly ignited the floo, and folded into it, briefcase in tow. The Law officer glared at him, and Christopher rather hoped the two youths could hold their own.
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The first place that came to Hermione's mind as she spun into apparation was Gare Du Nord, where she was supposed to meet Dennis earlier that day. As she materialised on the platform, two things hit her at once; the press of the muggle crowd around her and the pouring rain deafening over the glass latticed roof. It was a wonder she hadn't apparated directly on top of someone, and she cast a hurried look around her shoulder, scanning for anyone staring at her sudden appearance, but met no one's eyes. The roar of an approaching train on the tracks was met with a press from the evening peak crowd about her. Hermione didn't so much consciously board the train, merely letting the swell of people steer her as she continued to look at the faces around her. Surely someone had noticed her appear out of thin air? She found her feet stepping over the gap and between the gleaming doors of the train, still watching the platform behind her. She didn't bother attempting to sit, merely walking to the end of the carriage while peering out of the window.
Even muffled by the glass, and the slowly closing doors, the crack of apparition on the platform was loud enough to draw her gaze, over the rain and the roar of the engine. A man appeared amidst the slowly emptying platform, but didn't draw more than a glance from those exiting the train. Around her on the carriage, no one drew their eyes from their books, papers or drowsy commute. He was roughly middle aged and fully robed, head twisting too and fro, searching the platform for someone- for her.
Suddenly conscious of her garish outfit, she ducked into a single seat opposite the window of the carriage. The train emitted a whistle and slowly pulled up from the platform, gaining momentum. The wizard was scanning the windows now, but the train pulled ahead and Hermione drew a breath of relief.
It was over. She had made it out. She had no idea where she was going, or where she would stay for the night. The breath of relief stuck in her throat, transforming into a stream of shallow, quick gasps that raced in and out of her chest, punctuated by the rapid beating of her heart. She was alone again, with nowhere to go.
What if the ministry were waiting for her at the next station? The electric lights of the carriage shot her reflection against the windows, in sharp relief to the pitch black of the metro underground. The portly man she had sat next to shot her an alarmed look as she battled to bring her erratic breathing and shaking hands under control. She hadn't got the tent off Luna, she had no idea if Christopher would question Dennis, if the ministry didn't get to him first. Everything was spinning out of control and sitting still was no longer an option. Lurching out of her seat the moment of the train, she weaved through the compartment and slid the adjoining doors aside, moving into the void between carriages. The cramped walkway, despite the rubber barrier closed in around her, gave her a moment to pause. The hot air whirling about her legs was nothing to the racing of her thoughts. She had to focus.
As the door to the next carriage opened she scanned the quiet, slightly emptier cabin, cataloguing away the looks her appearance drew, and searching instead for any form of restroom. Ahead, near the main carriage doors, a foot wide metal door stood out only for the small green indicator of vacancy. Her feet moved on auto-pilot and as she slotted the door behind her in the cramped, acrid smelling space, the flickering electric light bounced of the thin strip of polished metal attempting to serve as a mirror. The blurry eccentric vision before her wouldn't pass unobtrusively in muggle Paris. If the MLE were waiting at the next station, she would stick out to them too. She hadn't got her beaded bag of Luna either. Marshalling her shaking hands she battled with the clasps of her leather satchel and rooted through the scant possessions she still had.
The deluminator, her letter from Narcissa, Snape's old textbook and his journal, a wallet with some Euros and a small bag of galleons, a handkerchief and a few self inking quills.
She didn't have another set of clothes. The momentum of the train around her slowed and Hermione felt her breathing rapidly exceeding her self control. If she got off the train now and the MLE were there, they would spot her in under a minute. If she stayed holed up in the bathroom, she had at least as long as it took them to search the train.
She examined the items again, and did her best to slow her breathing. Ron's deluminator was heavy to the touch and offered a calmness as she weighed it in her hand. She had to think logically.
Was she a witch or not! Hermione let out a shaky, deranged laugh and drew her wand out once more. The ministry might be tracking her magic, but if they were following her already what was the harm? They would trace her to a moving train. The stream of magic flowed across her frayed nerves and the handkerchief elongated into a headscarf, the beautiful but bizarre leather robe that Luna had designed transformed back into her old, slightly snug muggle leather jacket, and the adapted pieces of her Yule ball dress fell to the floor around her. Covering her elaborate braids with the head scarf, and transforming the ridiculous heels into ballet flats, she turned once more to the train's substitute mirror and grimaced. It would have to do. The shift underneath it all could reasonably be mistaken as muggle. Hitching her satchel onto her shoulder once more, she stumbled as the train swept into motion once more.
The enclosed space and flickering light of the restroom swarmed around her and she slid the door aside. Emerging into the cabin once more, she swooped into an empty seat and waited, heart pounding, for figures to begin searching the cabin.
The train rushed onward.
The muggles around her turned pages, newspapers shuffling.
Self consciously, she tugged at the headscarf, adjusting it uselessly.
Her hand slid in her bag, shaking all the while.
The doors to the next compartment slid open, but she was too terrified to turn around. Doing her best to glance out of the corner of her eye, she tried to glimpse the reflection offered by the black windows and penetrating electric lights of the cabin.
As soon as she saw the male profile and long cloak, her fingers grasped the heavy weight of the deluminator, and flicked the switch.
The cabin plunged into darkness, only the intermittent lights from the tunnel shedding light on the chaos that emerged as the muggle commuters looked up from their pages and cried in alarm. The train slowed it's momentum, as the tunnel outside lightened, approaching the nearby platform. Hermione glanced at where the figure once stood, bracing for the lights of curses cast, but none came. Standing in a fluid movement she moved towards the doors, as the ruckus hid the faint noise of her footsteps. Only a heartbeat later, the other commuters rose, blocking the aisle and camouflaging her in the still dark crowd. It was in the immunity of the pack that she departed the train, and disappeared into the metro beyond, another muggle trying to get home. Absently, before ascending the stairs, she flicked the deluminator once more, lighting the train up and preventing an unnecessary delay for her fellow commuters. .
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He didn't want to be anywhere near Narcissa. He didn't want to see Narcissa. He didn't want to be in Narcissa's house. He didn't want to see Narcissa's ratbag spawn. He didn't want to step foot in the elaborate grandeur of Narcissa's guest suites, and he certainly didn't want to hear her needling busy-bodying.
He wanted to get drunk.
Because he was his father's son, and he was a damned fool and he didn't give a shit about any of it.
And because he was a damned fool, his limping gait had taken him from the magical boulevard, down the muggle streets and straight to the Injured Accordion. Where three tumblers of fire whiskey had been bested by his one remaining useful ability. Self-pity.
The place was moderately full but Severus didn't bother scanning the room. The flares of the floo went unheeded and the jangling bell above the door could go fuck itself. Rita Skeeter could perform cabaret in front of him and he'd not look up for the world.
He shuddered at his own thought.
He definitely wouldn't look up at that harpy.
Images of red lips pursed at crystal goblets filled his vision. Red velvet robes draped around fragile collar bones. Red blushes creeping down decolletage hid little by a white, diaphanous slip.
He poured himself a fourth.
Drunkard. Lecher. Fool.
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