Notes: A 'ship idea struck me after re-reading parts of the first book, and here's the result. The pairing is Terence Higgs & Mandy Brocklehurst, and yes, I know it's off the wall, but hey, so's Tom Riddle/Cho Chang and there's a 'ship for that. (Not bashing anyone's preference, just saying that if people can put those two together, then Terence/Mandy isn't as crazy as it sounds.) Here's some background info:
Terence wasn't a seventh year in SS; he was a 5th year, like Wood, and it'll be that way in all my fics unless otherwise stated. (It never said in the books what year he was, so I'm taking some creative license. Besides, making him a little younger gives the 'ship more possibilities.) He was removed from the Quidditch team at Lucius' request (read: demand) so that Draco could be in direct competition with Harry. After graduating Hogwarts, he became an Auror with the Ministry. (See, not all Slytherins are bad. ;))
Mandy's year hasn't changed; she was first year in SS, same as Harry, Ron & Hermione. In this particular story, she is the daughter of the new Minister of Magic, Josef Brocklehurst. The rest of her backstory will be revealed during the course of the fic.
The story is set 5 years after Mandy graduated Hogwarts. I'm using Will Theakston (the actor from the SS movie) as Terence's model (though I'm not sure what color eyes he has ... brown, I think?), and Mandy is just thought up out of my own head, since we've never seen her and there's no physical description available. I'm trying to stay as close as I can to canon, but there will be some things that don't fit. You can consider those parts to be AU.
Disclaimer: Harry Potter and the Potter-verse are owned by J.K. Rowling
and Scholastic Publishing, et. al.; I don't own, please don't sue.
Any characters or places not seen or mentioned in the Potter-verse are
my own creation.
Someone To Watch Over Me: Prologue
© 2003, By: Ash Carroll (a.k.a. OlliKat)
The light of a full moon shone into the barren cell, a slice of silver falling across the pile of straw in the corner on which the prisoner sat. Tonight was the night. Fifteen years she'd been waiting for this, and they hadn't passed kindly. Her clothes were tattered, long dark hair straggly and tangled, but she was far better off than most.
She hadn't stopped eating, hadn't stopped living; the Dementors' power over her limited by the absence of joy. She lived for revenge, intent on making him pay for destroying her life. And he would pay. Dearly, and with everything he valued most. But the first order of business was to escape this wretched hellhole.
It would be easier now than it was before; escape used to result in being hunted down like a Muggle dog and brought back to receive the Kiss. Now, however, since the Dementors no longer took orders from the Ministry, they'd have no incentive to stop her. Nor would they try very hard. Still, it was wise to be cautious.
Matara listened, waiting for the nightly cell-block patrol to pass. Once the footsteps had retreated, she crept toward the wooden door of her cell, peering through the small window as far as she could down the corridor. Satisfied that the coast was clear, she moved back to the pile of straw, sifting through it until she felt the small metal object hidden within. Picking up the jeweled hairpin she'd hidden upon her arrival, she jimmied the lock until the door swung open.
The corridor was dimly lit by torches braced to the wall, and she moved cautiously, keeping hidden in the shadows. Her black robe, tattered though it was, aided her attempts to slip past her captors undetected. By the time they noticed she was free and the alarms were raised to pacify the Ministry into thinking they cared whether the prisoners escaped, she intended to be long gone.
Footsteps approached, a feeling of cold settling around her. She ducked into an alcove, pressing herself against the wall. Listening in silence, she waited for the Dementor to pass, letting her breath out in a rush as the chilling aura left her. Moving out from the alcove, she resumed her trek.
Several corridors later, Matara found herself standing before the gateway to her freedom; a stone statue of a particularly gruesome-looking dragon. Few knew of the secret passage, and even fewer had ever escaped by using it. The list of names was about to be lengthened.
She spoke the password in Draconian, the language of the dragons, and the statue slid backward, revealing a ladder. Wasting no time, she gathered her tattered robes around her legs and climbed down into the dank, musty passage. The statue slipped back into place above her and she made her way down the corridor, moving as fast as she could.
Footsteps sounded above her, the familiar feeling of cold surrounding her as the alarm sounded. She broke into the best run she could manage for not having moved so fast in quite a while.
The warmth returned as she reached the end of the passage. Pushing up the grate that covered it, she emerged on the other side of the wall surrounding the prison. She was free. Alarms rang in the distance, and she allowed herself but a moment for the thought to sink in before she took off running again.
~*~*~* *~*~*~
It was nearly a week before she reached The Leaky Cauldron, and more than day after that before she was able to get into Knocturn Alley. With no wand it was more than tad bit difficult; she'd only managed by finding an easily manipulated wizard to let her in. Gringotts was her first stop, and she unfastened the key to her vault from its place around her neck, hidden beneath her robes.
Making her withdrawl, she headed to Madam Malkin's for some new robes, Madam Garnier's to have her hair fixed, and Ollivander's for a new wand before finally stopping into The Witch's Brew. The barkeep looked up from the glass he was polishing.
"Whadda yeh wan'?"
She traced a coy finger on the bar. "I'm looking for an old ... friend. Patrick Van Maer. Perhaps you know him?"
He nodded. "Aye."
"Have you seen him recently?"
Another nod. "Aye. Comes in ev'ry night, 'round suppertime. 'Bout six."
Matara sent the scab a calculating smile. "I'll wait for him, then, if you don't mind."
"What yeh be drinkin'?"
"Ogden's," she replied, "it's been ages since I've had a good Firewhiskey."
He set a shot glass on the bar and filled it. "An'thing else yeh be needin'?"
She gave a slight shake of her head. "Not at present."
"Suit yerself," the barkeep replied, and went back to polishing glasses.
~*~*~* *~*~*~
Nearly an hour and two more shots of Ogden's later, a tall black-robed man entered the pub. He was just as she remembered him; lean frame, green eyes, and blondish hair, though now it was tinged with gray. He rested a hand on the bar, long fingers drumming against the oak surface.
"Yer usual, then?" the barkeep queried, and receiving a nod, proceeded to pour him a straight-up double Jameson's Irish, then move to the far end of the bar, well out of earshot.
"Old habits die hard, I see."
He turned to look at her, choking on his whiskey as he recognized who she was. She folded her arms across her chest, waiting for the coughing to stop, watching as he gasped for air.
"M-Mat ... Matara?"
"In the flesh."
"But- how did you-?"
"Escape? It was easier than it used to be."
"But the Dementors ..."
"Work for themselves. The simpering nitwits at the Ministry haven't figured that out yet." She gave him a cold smile. "Much to my advantage."
He finished off his whiskey. "I must say, you look well for being in that rat-hole fifteen years," he offered, his expression sobering. "We thought you'd died."
"I've too much unfinished business on this earth to give up before it's been completed." Her dark eyes hardened. "He's going to pay dearly for what he's done."
Patrick signaled for another drink. "I realize you're on a bit of a high," he lowered his voice, "having just escaped Azkaban, but he's been taught well and he's not a child anymore. You can't expect to take him on all by yourself."
"Of course not. That, my dear Patrick, is where you come in."
"Well, you know I've never been one to back down from a righteous cause, but I've got my own orders to follow."
She trailed a lazy finger down his arm and slipped her hand under the sleeve of his robe, tracing the Dark Mark, identical to her own, she knew was branded on his forearm. "I can make it .... very worth your while."
He knocked back his whiskey in one gulp, placing the shot glass on the bar. "We've a mission coming up in the morning, but what do you say we make an appointment for tomorrow evening and ... discuss it."
Her teasing fingertips raked his arm with long nails. "I'll be waiting."
"I'm counting on it," Patrick replied with a lusty gaze as he and a few fellow Dark Followers exited the pub, preparing for the morning's mission.
If he hadn't seen it with his own eyes, he never would have believed. But it was true; Matara had escaped. He grinned in satisfaction. His Belladonna had returned, and they'd serve the Dark Lord together.
Just like old times.
To Be Continued ..............................