/This part is dedicated, in a very strange way, to all the guys in Walmart who tried to hit on me in the electronics section whilst I was writing it. (Me: "What part of piss off, I'm writing my magnum opus don't you understand? Please, enlighten me so I may clarify." Guy: "Uh, I didn't understand half of that. You use too many big words." Me: "Good.") As I've said, I look about sixteen or seventeen, not thirteen./
BY THE WAY, that reference to a nursery rhyme-- I'm sorry, I realized I took it out in the second draft.... whoopsies. To make it up, there's a reference to a president in here, I swear there is. Like, his name. In order. Really.
Chapter Three: Enter Sandman
"If life hands you a bowl of lemons
don't forget to send them back
and ask for a refund!"
-Chris, my fencing teacher
And she screamed.
***
Albus Dumbledore stared around the dungeon, his piercing blue eyes serious and worried. The half-full cauldron, the parchment on the floor, the quill lying on the desk, the inkbottle still unscrewed, all these he took in at a glance, as well as the faint lingering smell of smoke.
The tripod was undisturbed, no liquid was on the floor. There was no sign of a struggle, but Severus was most definitely gone.
Dumbledore drew out the parchment Snape had been writing on, and re-read it for the sixth time.
Something's come up. Can you come up to Hogwarts and teach for a few days? I'll have made my excuses by the time you arrive (I'm going to say my cousin is fatally ill), but in reality one of my students, Draco Malfoy has vanished. I'm setting up a Locator Potion, but once I find him I may need a few days to retrieve him, and I want Dumbledore none the wiser. You're the only other Potions maker who's up to Master level that I know, and even as a subsitute you will need that qualification. I know this may be vague, but please come anyway, and I'll explain in more accurate
So it was Draco Malfoy that was missing. That doesn't explain a damned thing, Dumbledore thought wearily. I wouldn't put it past Lucius to take the boy home for summer early without telling anyone. But that theory doesn't sit right, somehow. Surely young Malfoy would have told Snape he was leaving, he is Snape's favorite student. Dumbledore sighed, and saved the train of thought that came with the words "Snape's favorite student" for the Pensive.
I just don't know......
It was time to call in this Maria Bargram person, and see if she knew anything.
***
Smoky crimson light served to offset the emerald green of Harry Potter's half-lidded eyes quite nicely; or would have, if he hadn't been drowsy to the point where they were glassy and glazed. Half asleep, paying no attention whatsoever to Professor Trelawney, the Divination teacher, and yawning profusely, he rested his head on his elbow and prepared to drop off to sleep.
Bang!
His arm had slid off the slick surface of the polished table and hit the corner of it with a loud noise. Harry sat up straight with a jump, blinking lassitude from behind his round glasses, and chanced a glance at Professor Trelawney, who looked distinctly miffed. Her two greatest admirers, who also happened to be Harry's fellow classmates, Lavender Brown and Parvati Patil, manifested their indignity by scandalized expressions. Harry's friend Ron Weasley, on the other hand, looked grateful for the interruption, and took the distraction of their instructor as a chance to shuffle his tarot cards again.
"Really, my dear," Professor Trelawney was saying mournfully, as Harry brought his attention back to her, "you should learn to pay more attention during these lessons. For truly, you live a life most perilous, and the Sacred Art could provide some forewarning to the plans of your extraordinary foe, He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named...."
But Harry had heard this little speech a million times before, or however often he gave in to the arms of Morpheus, and since that was quite often, everyone else had heard it too. Indeed, Dean Thomas seemed to be about to resort to desperate measures; he pulled a Dungbomb out of his pocket and was prepared to throw it when the rather timely bell to signal the end of classes rang. In the commotion to pack up various divination devices and the haste to descend the silver ladder that led to the hallways below, Dean's frantic efforts to lob the explosive at the insect-like woman and Seamus Finnegan's equally frantic efforts to restrain him went unnoticed.
Lunch was a blissfully uneventful affair for Harry, Ron, and their friend, Hermione Granger. This was a fairly momentous event, considering Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry rarely got off in a meal without one minor, or major, prank. Perhaps it was the absence of the Weasley twins and Lee Jordan, who had graduated last year and were sorely missed.
"Dammit, double Potions this afternoon," groaned Ron, who was examining his schedule as he wolfed down steak and kidney pudding with amazing alacrity.
"Where's Snape?" Hermione muttered, looking up at the staff table and leaving her own food momentarily.
"Maybe he's ill," Ron suggested. "Then we wouldn't have to endure the Slytherins..." He trailed off hopefully.
When they had finished lunch and made their way down to the dungeon corridor, they found the hall barred by a jam of students, both Slytherins and Gryffindors. Harry wriggled along the cold stone wall, feeling the rough stone rub and snag on his robes, and managed to duck and weave his way to the door, receiving several elbows in the stomach for his troubles.
But the cause of the problem was immediately revealed. The classroom door was locked. "Professor!" Harry cried, hammering on the door with his closed fist. "It's locked!"
"I am perfectly aware of that," said a melancholy female voice from behind the door-- a voice that was definitely not Snape's... or if it was, he had undergone some serious surgery. "I merely needed a moment to sort my papers and I did not wish to be disturbed. Severus left very messy records, I must say."
The door swung open and Harry, along with the rest of the student body, gaped up at the tall woman before them.
She had long sheets of blue-black hair (which were currently stuck up on red lacquered chopsticks) and sharp, strangely tilted amber-brown eyes. She was smiling, mouth closed, down her long straight nose at Harry in a friendly way, and he thought she looked very out of place in the gloomy dungeon. There was a vague air of wrongness about her face, too, which Harry couldn't place.
"Come in," she said, standing aside.
Harry was followed in by a multitude of students, all of whom gawped at the woman as they passed. Hermione, of course, was the first to ask about her presence.
"Where's Sn-- er, Professor Snape, Professor?"
"He's indisposed... sort of," said the woman. Her smile faded a little. Then she shook her head, as if to clear it, clapped her hands, and said, "Let's get started, shall we?" As the students found their seats (Slytherins on one side, Gryffindors on the other, as per usual), the woman chalked her name on the blackboard.
"Look at her eyes," he whispered quietly, so no one but Harry and Hermione could hear. "The pupils aren't round."
Even the Slytherins were fairly quiet throughout the lesson, figuring it would not be wise to antagonize this possibly impartial new teacher.
Homework was a surprise, however, for when the lesson was finished, Professor Bargram did not write anything on the large blackboard at the head of the class, but instead turned to face the students themselves.
"I want you all to write an essay on a specialty potion that does something only under the right circumstances. A Wolfsbane potion, for example, which does nothing to humans but allows werewolves to keep their own minds when they transform. It must be a specialty potion, but you may take your pick of what kind."
Hermione looked as though Christmas had just come early.
***
The scream filled the room, a long, unearthly wail of pure terror that ended abruptly when the man in blue lunged forward and clamped a callused hand tightly over Denae's mouth again. "Are you mad?" he demanded angrily. "There are Dark Creatures outside, searching for us. Do you want them to find us?"
Denae stared at the man's unveiled face, a look of fear on her face. Her eyes were wide and her face as white as paper. The man sighed, and removed his hand.
"You!" Denae hissed, when she got her breath back.
"What?" asked the man, puzzled.
"You-- you-- your skin--" Denae stared at him. The man's eyes were dark, and heavy-lidded, the eyelashes long and black. He was obviously Indian, however, the tilt of his eyes and his silky black hair betrayed him.
What was not Indian about him was his skin. Instead of the usual golden-olive hue, the complexion of his face was.. well, there was no other way to put it: tinged with midnight blue. All but a small area around his eyes and in the darkened interior of the shop, it was a terrifying effect-- it looked as though the man had died and been reanimated.
"I know, I know." The man sighed again. "It's the cloth I wear. The dye they use has permanently stained my skin."
"Why do you--" began Denae, but at that moment, a jumble of voices became distinguishable through the half-open door.
"--that's where they went, over there--"
"--Gareth, cover that entrance--"
"--only two doors--"
"Quick! In here!" The man seized Denae's arm and dragged her over to a large, walk-in style wardrobe, carved all over with pictures of skeletal women with floor-length hair. He wrenched the door open and shoved Denae inside, then crawled in after her, settling himself among the fur coats, tunics and dress robes.
There were more muddled voices, discussing something, then a loud voice said the first intelligible thing since they had hidden.
"The Bean Nighe isn't here."
"If she wants to be an idiot and stay hidden, that's her and the Baroness's problem," replied a sharp voice.
"It's treason to talk like that, Gareth, I could have you turned in." Footsteps echoed through the room, and then someone began to tug on the handle of the wardrobe door. The man in blue gritted his teeth and pulled inward as hard as he could on the door in the limited space of the wardrobe.
"You and what army, fumblefingers? You can't even get that door open --"
"Oi! Over here! We found someone!" The shout came from outside. "But... blimey... I dunno.. alley trash, I'd say..."
There were further murmurings from the voices, then the soft padding and heavy clumps of shoes on stone. The pull on the door slacked off suddenly, leaving the man in blue to lean against the back of the wardrobe, panting, and Denae to watch the searchers through a crack in the doorframe.
"You there," barked a voice, and Denae jumped. One of the men, Gareth, was speaking to someone just outside the door of the shop. "Have you seen anyone-- a man in blue robes, a girl with red hair and blue eyes?"
"Why should we waste our time on the likes of you?" a female voice drawled.
"Make it worth our while and we might tell you," another one said. "Five Galleons for the direction they went."
There was a rattling, scraping noise, as though someone had just drawn a knife. "Now, look, you pop-eyed, triple-breasted whores, I want to know where they went, and I want to know now. Understand? Otherwise I might just cut out your tongues, and I'm sure you'd find that rather a hindrance in your trade."
"I don't know... how much do you think a gangster'd pay for a mute moll, sir? Sure, there are some disadvantages, but--"
There was a sharp intake of breath, and the drawling female cut off abruptly.
"All right. I saw them heading back for the alley. They'll probably cut across Charring Circle and back to Diagon Alley. Now, please, leave. We're losing business." The woman's voice was frightened.
"You're coming with us," leered Gareth. "If we don't find 'em, you can be their replacements... on the gibbet."
"Naw, they're far to pretty to waste on the crows," said another voice. "I'll tell you what I'd like to do; I'd like to take that pretty one and--"
"Please, gentlemen," one of the women pleaded. "I've got children, I can't leave them--"
"Bastards, they are," spat Gareth. "I do believe I'm going soft in my old age. All right, we'll leave you here. With a guard to make sure you don't do nothing funny, of course. It'd be in your best interest if you didn't make, say, any moves that could be subject to misinterpretation, if you know what we mean. Bruno, stay here and make sure the two broads don't escape."
"Right, Boss."
"All the rest of you, move out," Gareth ordered. "Take the back route to Charring Circle, and Martin, Van, Buren and I'll go the straight way."
The mob moved off down the street, splitting into two groups.
"Wha? Where?" growled the guard, spinning. There was a swish and a sickening thunk. "You bitch, you stabbed me," bellowed the guard, and there followed a confusing melee of noise, that ended with an unpleasant crack and the soft steady drip, drip, drip of liquid.
Back in the shop, the man in blue turned the door handle and helped Denae out of the wardrobe. They proceeded cautiously to the door as voices drifted through it.
"Give me a light, won't you? I could use a smoke; that was a near miss."
The man in blue stepped through the doorway, Denae timidly following him. Her face went pale and she fought down a gag at the scene before her.
Two tall women in slinky black dresses, both wearing blue sashes as belts, both with heavy, dark honey-blonde hair, both wearing knee-high boots of soft leather, stood over a man in the street. The man was obviously dead-- his eyes were blank and glassy and his mouth slightly agape in an expression of horror. There was a small dagger buried in one arm and his head had hit the curbstone with enough force to cause a pool of blood beneath it. One of the women was holding a lighter; the other taking long drags off a cigarette.
"These guard types really should learn to be a bit more careful, Amit," said the woman with the cigarette, stepping forward and over the fallen man. As she moved into the light, Denae saw she had wide, innocently baby-blue eyes. "This one here impaled himself on my dagger, accused me of doing it, then clumsily tripped over my foot, and then was unprofessional enough to hit his head and cause a mess in the street. And then he went and died on us. Inconsiderate. I'm very disappointed indeed."
"On the plus side, you rescued her," observed the other woman, also coming up to stand beside the man in blue. She looked exactly the same as the first, and with a start, Denae realized they were identical-- twins.
"I'll wager you haven't even introduced yourself," laughed the first woman. The man in blue frowned.
"There wasn't exactly a lot of time after she yelled--"
The lady snorted. "Well, what do you expect when you show them your skin without warning? It's not exactly normal, is it?" the second asked rhetorically. "Anyway, there's plenty of time for that now."
The man in blue shrugged. "Why not? I'm Amit. That one--" he indicated the first twin "--is Rizpah, and that one--" he gestured to the second twin "--is Rahab. They're assassins," he added causally.
Denae's eyes widened perceptively, and when she told them who she was, there was a slight quaver in her voice she wished had not been there. Rahab raised a heavily penciled eyebrow at her, but made no comment. Rizpah looked sideways at Denae, a long suspicious glare. Amit did not seem to notice.
"Shall we move on, then?" queried Rahab, after a moment's silence. "Those thugs ought to be back in about an hour, and I for one don't want to run into them again if it can be helped."
Amit nodded his agreement, and the four walked quietly off through the street. Amit led, his hand on a dagger at his waist, then Rahab, with a protective arm around Denae's shoulders. Rizpah provided rearguard, a silver knife with an eight-inch blade in her hand, quiet and watchful. Her well-worn leather boots made a soft scraping noise on the stone roadway; the only other sound was the click of Denae's heels and the quiet nasal breath of the man in blue. He had replaced his veil.
About half an hour later, and still in the dark and dirty highway where Denae had taken a wrong turn, they entered a slum. Thin women, big-eyed children and greasy-looking men lounged about on streetcorners and in shop doorways. A few slept under awnings, snoring uproariously. None of them seemed to have wands; perhaps they couldn't afford them. One young child with red hair looked at them as they passed, pointing them out to her companion, a boy of similar age with long, filthy black hair and brown eyes. The red-haired girl's other tiny hand was twined through the grating by the curb.
Amit took no notice of these unfortunates. Rahab shot them a pitying glance, Rizpah a slightly contemptuous one. Denae's face showed no emotion at all as she surveyed the squalor.
But halfway through the slum, they stopped. Beside them was an inn, the faded sign above proclaiming it "The Stinky Cheese Log". A set of rickety steps lead up to the door, which was elevated above the street, and the sound of low voices emanated through the slightly ajar door.
"Ian'll have 'em lined up," said Rizpah, advancing up the steps and sheathing her knife in her boot-top as she did so. "But I reckon we can clear out the rabble quick enough."
Denae followed Rizpah through the heavy wooden door and into the main common room of the inn. The room was dark with smoke, the only light from the flickering fire and the high-bracketed torches on the walls. Drunkards downed mug after mug by the fire; some leprechauns sat in a dark corner, sipping to what all accounts appeared to be tiny shot glasses of cooking sherry. Everywhere were failed witches and wizards; Squibs, or shop owners who had sunk their entire monetary wealth into expanding their inventory. They all had one thing in common: everyone seemed to find solace in drink.
The bartender up at the bar was a tall man with a hooked nose, greasy dark brown hair, black eyes and sallow skin. Amit sidled up to him and said a few well-chosen words. The bartender nodded, and then addressed the room, which went instantly quiet.
"All right, folks," he called with practiced authority. His voice was as oily as his hair. "Everyone out, Cheese Log's closing early tonight."
There were some collective groans, but no one really objected. One drunk in the corner yelled back, "Yeah, we always have to clear out when those two whores come in. C'mon, can't we stay and watch?"
"You are the last person I would expect to be a voyeur, Matthew," said the bartender, turning a calm gaze on him. Chuckles ran around the room; apparently Matthew wasn't the only one to have been the focus of sarcasm in days gone by; other people were remembering too. "And they're assassins, not whores."
There was a sudden scramble for the door. The leprechauns in the corner extracted some gold out of the pockets of their red vests, threw it onto the table, and promptly vanished into thin air. The rest, less magically apt beings within the room pressed around the door, fighting tooth and nail to get through. Those who had wands blasted a path through the battling crowd and forced their way outside.
Amit raised a quizzical eyebrow at the barkeep. He shrugged nonchalantly. "Anything I can get you?" he asked, as the last of the customers fled out into the street.
"A large martini, please," said Rizpah, smothering her third cigarette in the ashtray on the bar and fiddling with her lighter.
"A small shot of cognac, if you don't mind," added Rahab. "And some butterbeer for the young one here." She placed a hand on Denae's shoulder. Denae stared at it pointedly, then up to Rahab, then down again until Rahab withdrew.
"Amit?" the man inquired. "Anything to drink?"
Amit looked up hopefully. "Do you have a very large glass of water?"
A few minutes later, they were all relaxing at the deserted bar with their respective drinks. Denae sipped her butterbeer and grimaced; she hated anything fizzy, and would have rather had cider. The adults discussed estimated time of travel, where the searchers were now, and other matters which did not interest Denae very much at all. The only person who seemed to notice this was the bartender. He sat down next to her and offered a long, pale hand. "Ianmonstin Snape," he said, by way of introduction. "But call me Ian."
"Denae Gordon.... did you say Snape?'" Denae gaped at him. This man was a Snape? But he seemed so... well, nice.
"Must have; it's not a very common name, is it? Why?"
"Oh.. no reason..." Denae felt herself blush. "I just.. know someone else named Snape, that's all."
"Oh, really? Who?" Ian Snape's eyes were just as black and unreadable as Severus's.
Denae realized it probably wouldn't be a good idea to say she was collecting information on Severus Snape for the headmaster of Hogwarts. Still, no harm in asking if he was related, if she did it casually. Perhaps she could find out some more about Severus Snape's family.
"He's the Potions master at Hogwarts," she said carelessly. "Severus Snape. Are you related?"
Ian laughed bitterly. "I should say so. We're brothers, of a sort. Never really got along."
I can see why not, thought Denae, but didn't say anything about it. Instead she said, "Oh. I wondered about Snape's family, you see. Can you gi-- who else is there?"
Ian's voice was suspicious. "Why do you want to know?"
Uh-oh. Fighting to keep the panic out of her voice, she said, "I'm... er... doing a genealogy chart for all prominent wizarding families. Yeah. And someone... uh.. told me that the Snapes were one." Denae personally thought that was a pretty weak excuse, but Ian seemed to accept it.
"Oh. Well, let's see. I'm quite into genealogy myself, actually. There's Raj Snape, our father, and Regina Snape, our mother. Then, in order of age, there's Giavanna, our eldest sister, and then Severus, and then me, Ianmonstin, and then Rhysenn, our youngest sister. Giavanna's married, but kept her maiden name. Her husband is Leon Wolf, and they have two children, a boy called Aurelian, who's about sixteen or so and a girl named Chandra, a year or two younger..."
Denae struggled to keep up with the barrage of weird names that was assaulting her brain and making her head spin as Ian rambled on about his family. After about five minutes of steady family history, Denae dropped her forehead to her hands. I was afraid of getting not enough information... I didn't think I'd get too much...
That butterbeer really was beginning to look appetizing; she raised her mug to her lips and was just about to drain the tankard when there came a sharp rap on the door.
"Ah, Amit?" Rahab tapped Amit on the shoulder. "I don't think we have to speculate about estimated time of arrival with those thugs anymore. They're here." She pointed calmly at the door.
Amit stood up and peeped through the curtains out the window. Then he stated, with great feeling and in no uncertain terms, his opinion of the situation.
"Bugger."
***
Draco sat on Lizyrd's bed, staring at the wall. Lizyrd had gone out to talk to her father; he could hear their voices in the next room, conversing heatedly. The words were muffled but Draco could still hear the tones; a male voice said something undistinguishable, but with a sharp undertone, and a cool female voice, Draco assumed it was Lizyrd's, in response. The male voice replied angrily, and then there was the sound of footsteps. Lizyrd opened the door, came in, closed it rather forcefully and sat down on her desk. Draco stared at her. She was very pale, her face totally expressionless, her mouth closed, but her eyes were burning.
"All right, what's pissed you off?" asked Draco quietly.
"What?" Lizyrd looked around at him as if just realizing he was there. Her voice was as emotionless as her mouth. "Oh, just Dad. How do you know I was ticked?"
"Because you looked just like me when I'm hacked off about something."
Lizyrd smiled, tight-lipped, but the fire in her brown eyes eased a little. "Is there anything I can get you?" she asked. "Something to drink?"
Draco thought for a moment. "Do you have anything to eat in this hell-hole?"
If he'd considered what he was saying for a moment, he probably would have phrased it differently, as the barb about her house and room surely wouldn't help her temper. Draco had a feeling that with anyone else, they would have been offended, and so he waited for the onslaught of insults, but they never came. Lizyrd just laughed.
"Wait until Dad leaves. Then we can scavenge. He'll be leaving for work soon."
Draco was curious. He had no idea what Muggles did for a living. "What kind of work is it your dad does, anyway?"
"He works at a hardware store. He's a--"
"Bye, Lizyrd, I'm leaving!" The yell split the air, and Draco was surprised the walls didn't fall down around them.
"See ya," Lizyrd bellowed absently. Her response was, if possible, even louder. It sounded very odd coming from someone as small as she was.
"Lock up the door after me, won't you?"
"Righto."
"Does everyone call you Lizyrd?" asked Draco, his curiosity piqued.
"Yeah. I doubt half my friends even remember my real name anymore."
"What is your real name?" Draco insisted.
"Not telling. Now, you want some food or what?" Lizyrd stood up with one fluid motion and strode out of the room. There was the clunk of a door being locked, and then quiet footsteps back through the hall to her room. She stuck her head around the doorframe. "Come on."
Draco followed her down the hall. "There's the bathroom," she said, pointing to a door off the corridor. "If you need it."
"Thanks," said Draco gratefully. He went into the bathroom and shut the door.
Lizyrd proceeded down the hall to the kitchen. She was, in actuality, thankful for the time to collect her scattered thoughts, and do a bit of planning. She opened the refrigerator door. They had an extra person to feed now, and usually the only food they had in mass quantity was tofu-- not because they were particularly poor, but because no one seemed to find the time to do little things like grocery shopping.
Lizyrd sighed, and leaned against one wall. Listen to me, reasoning things out as usual. I don't even know how long he'll be here; rationalizing is completely pointless. It's not as if he's even really my responsibility, it's not my fault he got dumped here, of all places, by whoever sent him. Well, what do I think of Malfoy himself?
She answered her own question without the slightest hesitation. He's all right, I guess. Probably terribly confused about the whole ordeal, I know I would be. Doesn't seem particularly trustful, but oh well. Sarcastic, but that doesn't bother me. I wouldn't have made it this far in fencing if I didn't have an elephant hide. Literally and figuratively.
Lizyrd looked up at a particularly loud creak. It didn't take a genius to figure out someone was walking down the hall, and it didn't take a rocket scientist to figure out that person was probably her... impromptu guest. She sighed, opened up the fridge again, and stuck her head inside.
"I've got the stuff for sandwiches, if you want them," she said, not bothering to look over her shoulder but managing to address the general area where he was anyway.
Draco jumped. He didn't realize she knew he'd even walked in, let alone knew where he was standing. "Uh, yeah, sure," he offered, hoping he sounded offhand.
Lizyrd emerged, her arms full of food, and kicked the refrigerator door shut with one bare toe. Then she literally threw a sandwich together, set it on a plate, and gave it to Draco. They both sat down at the table. Draco wished he could wolf his sandwich, but Lizyrd was staring at him and it made him very oddly uncomfortable, and perhaps a bit tingly in the general vicinity of his ears.
Draco glanced down at his sandwich. Ah, to hell with it, he thought. No Malfoy was going to be prevented from eating quickly simply because some Muggle girl was looking at them. He picked up his food determinedly and took a large bite.
Rather a bit too large, in fact. He nearly choked on a piece of cheese, but managed to swallow most of it, then took another, smaller bite. He finished the sandwich swiftly in this way and Lizyrd took his plate, and set it by the sink.
"We're going for a walk," she announced. "I'm supposed to cook dinner tonight for myself, and we haven't got holy mother of pearl to eat."
Draco snorted.
"Of course," she added wickedly, grinning, "I'm not usually technically supposed to go for walks, especially along the highway, when my parents aren't home, but-"
"You don't usually technically have a handsome six-foot tall blonde male personage with you," finished Draco.
"Niiice. I wasn't actually going to mention the blonde part, but other than that, you talk like I do."
"If you say so."
"Shall we?"
The neighborhood was just like Draco would have imagined. Boring Muggle houses lined the streets, curtains closed against the late morning summer sun, and air conditioners hummed in every yard. Very soon his shirt was sticky with sweat, and Draco was beginning to regret he had agreed to come. Lizyrd did not seem fazed at all by the heat, and kept up a fast pace, while still managing to talk.
"I trust you will protect me from, shall we say, untoward, uncanny and unnecessary advances from anyone I don't personally recognize?" she asked. Draco realized she had a talent for lining up big, hard-to-process words in rapid succession and was also doing it on purpose.
"Of course," he panted.
"Unless, of course, those advances come from one particular extremely tall blonde of the male moiety of society."
Lizyrd laughed and ran up ahead before Draco could think of a suitable reply. Although if he had to say one, "What the hell is a moiety?" was looking like a definite winner.
They came out of an intersection on to the highway. Draco was amazed at all the speeding cars, and looked at them for most of the walk. A large building, presumably the grocery store Lizyrd had implied, was just up into view in the smoggy distance ahead when Lizyrd dropped back to walk next to him and said, without moving her mouth, "There are two people, following us. They don't look friendly."
"So?" said Draco, beginning to look over his shoulder. Lizyrd seized his arm.
"Don't look! Just keep walking, but take a peep over your shoulder, careful like. Pretend you didn't see them."
Draco snuck a quick look out of the corner of his eye. His heart began to pound against his ribcage like an inexpertly wielded war-hammer; it turned out that his acting abilities were the least of their worries....
A man and a woman walked some fifteen feet behind them, pretending to be interested in a clearing full of wildflowers by the roadside. Both were dressed expertly in Muggle clothing-- trousers, shirts, even jackets despite the hot day. Both had their sleeves rolled up.
Both were carrying wands.
And even from this distance it was visible, on the white skin of the inside of their forearms-
The Dark Mark.
A/N: I'm so evil, I'm so evil... ::does a dance:: Next chapter: scene in the grocery store (someone gets beaned upside the head by an economy-size package of feminine products, just so you know), we have our first snog- but it might not be who you think, Rahab and Rizpah do their stuff, Ianmonstin--what an awesome name-- Snape shows his mettle, and we find out who kidnapped Severus and why. Anyhoozle, big long thanks section: (you realize this adds 5k to the story..)
Thanks to ::rolls up sleeves:: Lana Mavi, Orpheus, PadfootMew, and Miss Liss for being my betas, thanks to Bob Spelled Backwards for being one of my previous betas, thanks to Emily Malfoy (I know, Malfoy rocks), Brooke, (HEY! EVERYONE! BROOKE'S MY SISTER! (Heh, that got your attention.) Isn't she cool?), AliEnChick, (you think I'm good? Aw..), Roxanne Malfoy, Split Personalities Are We, (heheh, what an awesome name!), Monkey Girl, Athena Lionfire, (glad you like it), Sophie Clark/Willow, (screw Nick, let's you and I go see Bella Fleck!), SaltineRitz, (you rock!), Harrys Crush, BabyBerry, Nykto, Amanda, Dewi, *Star**Kitty*, Nunya, Jo, Netsurfer77, Trinity, Gem, Someone, Devonny Stratton, Kelly, Sailor Courtney V, and I really think I need to go have a lie down. Or paint my toenails. Yes, definitely paint my toenails. ::faints::
As Spamwarrior would say, bite my shiny metal ass! Or, as I would say, bite my dull unpolished ass!