Faster, Mudblood! Kill! Kill!
Chapter Two: Zippity Doo Dah
"Is that you, Granger? My God…nightmares really do come true," Draco said, too busy glaring at Hermione to notice that he felt, for the moment, pretty good. Not back to his usual self, of course, but it seemed that the Dementor had ceased its all-out, parasitic penetration of his exhausted mind, and he even felt well enough to grace Granger with the famous Malfoy lip-curl, a tactic that he suspected made him look at once both devilishly handsome and devastatingly wicked.
"Wow," Granger said, a look of alarm passing over her face as she squinted at him in the dim light. "It's disturbing how much you haven't changed, Malfoy."
Neither have you Granger…though that ensemble suggests you're making a go at a Brand New You…just like the telly's Mary Tyler Moore, it looks like you've gone and made it after all—or you think you have, anyway. Bravo for flopping miserably.
When Draco had been seventeen, he'd seen Muggle television for the first time, viewing it with Somae at the DeSilver's winter home near Avignon. While a proud, pureblood wizarding family, the DeSilver's were so ostentatiously rich that they felt compelled to buy the best and most luxurious items, whether they be Muggle or Wizard in origin. No one seemed to actually watch the television, but once he'd demanded a demonstration Draco had been mesmerized for hours, using the weird, plastic wand to flip through literally hundreds of channels. After several rounds, he'd finally stopped on a programme that featured a very peculiar sort of sport: men on horseback who raced around while trying to capture baby cows with a length of rope. A 'Rodeo', the announcer had told him (a very rude announcer, who never said "you're welcome" when Draco thanked him for the bits of random information he provided). At the time Draco had scoffed at the silly horse-men, who wasted so much effort when they could have easily caught the baby cows with a well-placed spell or two. But after an hour or so of watching (Somae tutting in the background all the while, perfectly bored), he felt an odd sort of wonderment and admiration for the men, who let go the 'lasso' with a mere flick of their wrist, and from several metres away managed to rope up the cow, even while atop a mad, galloping stallion.
It was the first time Draco truly understood the meaning of the word 'skill', and he'd sulked for a while afterwards, realising that he would never be able to lasso up a baby cow—not without some kind of magic, anyway. If there was one thing he did have a preternatural skill for, though, it was verbal sparring, and he comforted himself with this undisputed fact. When he let loose an insult, Draco could almost see it as it whipped out to wrangle the horns of his target. He took pride in this one, long-practised skill; treasured it, really.
And now Hermione Granger stood before him in a ridiculous Muggle outfit—with uneven blonde pigtails that reminded him oddly of Hannah Abbott—looking for all the world like a dumb, vulnerable baby cow….and Draco couldn't bring himself to insult her! Not that dozens of particularly cruel blows weren't dancing on the tip of his tongue—they were there in droves, but he found himself simply too exhausted to deliver the goods. He flopped back on his bed instead, blotting the light out with both of his hands.
"Malfoy?" Her authoritative tone wavered a bit. Good.
"Despite all appearances to the contrary, I'm not here to have a go at your balls, Malfoy."
Go fry ice, silly bint.
Even without voicing that particular insult, he relished her imagined reaction—how if he'd actually spoken out loud the insult would have darted out and smacked the Mudblood's pink cheeks, making them go pinker with anger and frus—THWAP!
He sputtered and sat up. In the middle of his pleasant visualization, Granger had managed to throw something at him, and it had landed right on the tender protrusion of his adam's apple. Before he even had time to feel astonishment, he plucked up the improvisatory missile and lobbed it back in her direction, not bothering to note what the object was. It was a clean throw, but the thing hit the security field and bounced right off it, skidding across the floor towards him.
"Sorry Malfoy. Only the guard can pass objects through the energy field—though I didn't realize he had such a precise sense of aim." She smirked a bit, gesturing at the Dementor standing a few feet behind her. Looking closely, he thought he saw a good deal of insecurity coursing under the surface of that smirk; she might be playing it cool, but the Dementor's gray, scabby presence was definitely getting to her.
Leaning forward with a deep sigh, Draco picked up the object and turned it over in his hands. A squashed package of chocolate frogs. How thoughtful.
"Eat up," she supplied, coming closer and sitting down on a stool—presumably brought into the room by the Dementor, who seemed to possess a sense of hospitality after all.
"Why?" he pouted, though began to listlessly unpeel the cellophane off the treats even as he did so.
"It'll give you a pick me up. Trust me."
He glanced up sharply, studying her from a short distance. She looked the same to him: same milk and water English colouring; same pinched expression of superiourity; he also suspected that beneath the blonde hair her same God-given brown, bushy mop was still thriving—most unfortunately. What had changed was the singularity of her presence. From what Draco could remember, he had never once seen her without a Potty or a Weasel attached to her hip. Yet now she was here all alone, and apparently of her own volition. Perhaps she wasn't here simply to plague him—she always had been a gormless do-gooder type, after all.
"What do you want, Granger?" he finally asked, shoving a soggy frog under his tongue. It began to melt at once, and to his surprise he felt the muscles around his ribcage relax a smidge, while his mind seemed to sharpen up just a bit.
"First off, Malfoy, let me assure you of one thing." She paused and gave him an odd smile—almost genuine, but not quite. "I know the truth about you."
"Oh yeah? And what's that?" he askly, dimly stuffing more chocolate into his mouth.
"You didn't kill your father."
Draco swallowed hard.
***
So far, Hermione wasn't too keen on Azkaban. Despite the fact that the Dementors were supposedly on order not to "feed" off her, she was feeling pretty well picked over. Like a plate of olives with the pimentos popped out. She was having some funny thoughts, too. An ancient Disney song ran through her head at top speed, the vocals as high-pitched as a squirrel's on helium:
Zippity doo day, zippity yay! My oh my, what a wonderful day…
"You didn't kill your father," she finally got out, then watched with no great surprise as Draco opened his eyes (previously closed in order to savor the candy, it seemed) and stared at her dumbly, the swell of his top lip adorned by a tiny smear of chocolate.
"I what?" he choked out, reeling forward. "What did you say?"
Plenty of sunshine, heading my way! Zippity doo dah…
"I said I know you didn't kill your father," she repeated, shutting her eyes briefly against what was fast becoming a headache. When she opened them again, she was taken aback to see that—rather than the song's promised sunshine—Draco had sent a malevolent glare heading her way. Not a glare of typical Malfoy arrogance and contempt, either. Instead, his wan face was blotched with the creeping fingers of a red blush, making it appear as if both of his cheeks had been soundly slapped.
"And how in fucking hell might you know anything about that?" Draco asked. For someone who had looked as weak as a snowy-white kitten when she first walked in, he was fast gaining colour and attitude. It suddenly seemed as if the temperature in the cell had upped by a few degrees.
Mister Dementor on my shoulder…it's the truth! It's actual! Everything is satisfactual!
She blanched and tried to shake the capering song from her head once and for all, feeling her wig go slightly askew as she did so. Steadying herself, she said, "How do I know? Because I've made it my business to know. How do you think I got in here in the first place, anyway?"
He stared at her. "How should I know? Suck a fair bit of wank, maybe?
She stared back, realizing that he was entirely serious. "Wrong in one, you pompous arse. Though you're right in suspecting I'm not exactly here on legitimate business."
"Fair go," he said, settling down a bit. "So you broke in here, did you? Is this a last-minute, poorly hatched Gryffindor plan to break me out of the big house, then?"
Reading the not-at-all-veiled sarcasm in his voice, she let out a weary sigh. "No one is going to break you out, Draco. There's really no need. Within a few days time you won't even be here anymore."
"Yeah, right. Like I'm…." he trailed off, the full force of her words finally sinking in. "I won't be here? Have you been drinking bobotuber pus, Granger? They gave me seven years, in case you've forgotten."
Now she had his undivided attention. "A warning, Draco," she said, snapping her fingers. "Probably the first and last you'll ever receive from me in your life, I might add." She paused for a beat, allowing him time to interject. When he said nothing, she smoothly went on. "You might have noticed that the prison is currently understaffed. There is supposed to be a guard at your door for every hour of the day, but your spunky mental health indicates that you haven't actually been under watch for very long. Am I right?"
He frowned. "So what? Believe me, just having them here off and on is bad enough. I'm downright pleased to hear there's a staff shortage. Ecstatic, in fact." Even so, he shuddered visibly, some of the heat draining from his cheeks.
"A staff shortage might be good for you, but it's a big steaming turd of a problem for the Ministry. In late August three Dementors left Azkaban, all on the same day. The same thing happened a month later in September. If the pattern continues, three more 'mentors are going to migrate right around this Tuesday…and this after years of the Ministry swearing up and down that they finally have real control of the creatures. So now they've been reduced to frantically shifting the guards around, leaving less-dangerous criminals such as yourself unwatched for long periods of time so that they still have enough security posts down by the lifers."
"And this is bad news for me how, exactly? See my face--?" he indicated, pointing. "Still ecstatic up there."
"Fine, fine. You're ecstatic," she said, growing impatient. "But I think that will all change when the Ministry dumps you out on the streets of London…sans magic and wand."
Draco blinked. "Huh?"
"That's right. No more abracadabra for you. The Ministry is desperate—up to their bums in seventeen different kinds of scandal—and now the Dementors seem to be abandoning us for the other side…again," she said, rather enjoying the fast-rising expression of concern that was over-taking his features. "In order to neaten things up around here, the Ministry is going to start up a new incarceration program for non-dangerous criminals. You're scheduled to be plopped down into London central this coming Sunday."
"They can't do that," Draco said, frowning. "Even if they take away my wand, I can always get another one. This is the dumbest thing I've ever heard of."
Hermione shook her head, regarding him with something close to sympathy. Even though he deserves what's coming to him. Mudblood indeed! We'll see just how well he fairs amongst the good-for-nothing Mudbloods, won't we?
"It's not just your wand, Draco. They are forcing you into exile. The wizarding world will--quite literally--be invisible to you. Just as it is to Muggles."
His mouth fell partway open, revealing his perfectly white, straight teeth. "You're lying. There's no way you could know all this, anyway. So yes, you must be lying."
She sighed; this was all rather more difficult than she had imagined. "No Malfoy, I'm not lying. I'm here to offer you a degree of assistance—though I'm starting to think I'm dotty for doing so. But once you've been forced into exile, you'll be in sore need of an ally, preferably one who knows the Muggle world. And having said that, I'd like to offer my services. For a price, of course."
"Money?" he guessed. "Or more likely you're in need of a date for some hideous Muggle event?"
"Neither," she said, gritting her teeth against the casual way in which he was accepting his fate. "I'm afraid your payment can't be specified until a later date."
He let out a thin snort. "Then forget it."
"I thought you might say that, so at this point I might as well tell you the whole the truth…I'm an expatriate from the Ministry, Malfoy, and for the last two years I've been a private investigator, while at the same time working undercover as a spy—"
"What? You've been what?" His mouth flopped open again and, against all reason, he began to laugh uproariously. High, gasping giggles erupted from his throat as he bent over and clutched his abdomen in an attempt to calm himself. "Oh, that's just too priceless, Granger," he finally choked out. "You…a spy. Probably for batty old Dumbledore and his precious Order, right? Ha-ha-ha…oh, that's just too rich!"
"Shut up!" She snapped, jumping up so fast that her stool fell over with a clatter. "I am a spy, Malfoy. I drive a convertible and everything!"
He continued to giggle, shaking his head even as she tried to convince him.
"Look!" She announced, pulling the .38 Ladysmith from the waistband of her skirt and proudly holding it up to the light. "Would bookworm Granger carry a gun if she weren't seriously a spy? Think about it!"
"I have thought about it, and I think you're seriously off your rocker," he said, breaking out into a fresh peel of laugher.
She shoved the .38 back into her skirt, forcefully calming herself. Had she really expected Malfoy to do anything less than laugh? Deep down, she supposed not. In a way, she was almost gleeful that he was rejecting her. Now she was under no obligation to help him—though in her mind she had already done more than enough by giving the git fair warning. If his arrogance doomed him, so be it.
"Very well," she finally said, standing up straight in a dignified sort of way. "I've done all I can for you, Malfoy. Good luck on Sunday." And with these final words she allowed herself to give him a sideways grin. But it wasn't enough to put a dent in his fully-restored confidence. As she walked to the exit, he managed to sling one final stinger.
"Hey Granger…if you're really a spy, then why the hell are you wearing a sailor suit?"
She truly hoped and prayed that the Dementor would gnaw on his half-cracked mind for the next sixty-two hours.
***
"Eighty-Nine bottles o' mead on the wall! Eighty-Nine bottles o' mead! Take um down and pass em aroun'…Eighty-Seven bottles o' mead on the wall!"
Severus Snape pinched the bridge of his nose, shut his eyes, and did his best to bite back a swiftly-rising onslaught of profanity. The dim candlelight and antiquated, fuss-free environs of the Leaky Cauldron suited him as well as any of Hogwarts' various dungeons, as did the maze-like collection of hallways and private rooms that provided quick sanctuary away from the hubbub and clamour of the pub's bustling first floor. What did not suit him was the pub's regular clientele, and he was fast-regretting his decision to remain quartered near Diagon alley, rather than letting a room somewhere in London proper.
"You failed to mention bottle eighty-eight," he said as mildly as possible, though the source of his serenade—a round-cheeked older fellow with cottony white hair and the plush, reddish nose of an alcoholic—had launched too loudly into the next verse to even hear Snape's commentary.
Only here for a week, and already Snape was beginning to miss his old life. How do I miss thee? Let me count the ways.... Yes, much to his chagrin, he was beginning to think longingly of his time spent with runny-nosed moppets who splashed their potion mixtures most carelessly, all of them seeming to share a brain so deficient that he was often surprised that they didn't drool or slur their words when speaking. As for the rest of the Hogwarts staff, many of them were, in his opinion, decidedly idiotic, but all of them were at least smart enough to allow him a wide berth. And then there were, of course, the dungeons themselves. Though perhaps not considered a pleasant place by many, he was given the run of them at Hogwarts, and while teaching was a bane to his innate potions skills, he had been blessed with ample time for his own research and laboratory experimentation.
Blessed? Let's watch our word choice. Bad enough that I'm actually missing that dratty old pile of mouldering masonry…
"Eighty five bottles o' mead on the wall!..." The drunken bard paused in mid-verse and placed a casual hand on Snape's shoulder, trying to force the ex-Potions Master into a back-and-forth sort of swaying. "Join in, old chap! Still got eighty-five bottles to go….let's hear you open up that fat gob and sing to the world!" With those last words, the old drunk let a good amount of spittle fly out and patter against Snape's cheek, his sour breath foul enough to turn the most steady of stomachs. Aggravated, Snape jerked away, trying to shrink further into the large cowl of his robe.
A brooding man alone at a bar, hulking in black, drowning robes…Does this lush not know a shady character when he sees one? At this bitter thought, Snape downed the rest of his brandy in one quick shot, slamming the snifter down on the bar. Giving Tom, the barkeep, a sharp nod, he pulled his robes around him and rose from the barstool. As per house rules, the consumption of alcohol was technically limited to the bar itself; if it were otherwise, Snape wouldn't need to set foot down here at all. As it were, he had already requested that Tom send his meals up to his private room, and Tom, apparently being quite accustomed to shady characters, had given him no trouble for this.
Once he'd retreated to the sanctuary of his room, Snape tore free of his heavy outer robes, using the hem to blot away the perspiration that glazed his neck and shoulders. The Minister of Magic's words drifted back to him: Keep a low profile…if there's one thing we don't need, it's having the public know that an ex-Death Eater is working under us.
Fudge's concept of "working", as it turned out, was better described as making Snape wait for Fudge to show up and order him around. Such a task was demeaning enough, but the situation was further problematized by Fudge's apparent inability to issue any real commands. So far Snape had been on order to: 1) Look out for anyone dodgy; 2) Eavesdrop on conversations; and 3) Wear heavy, itchy robes to disguise himself. Snape had trouble seeing the point in any of these three orders, as just about everyone in and around Diagon Alley looked suspicious to him—especially those who smiled a great deal, or wore pastel-hued robes and matching bonnets. As for eavesdropping on conversations, so far Snape had overheard two witches argue about what remedies could best sooth menstrual cramps, had witnessed several heated banters regarding Quidditch teams, and had been treated to more pub sing-a-longs that he cared to count. Disguising himself seemed to figure in little, as he was hardly a recognisable face in the wizarding world. He had, after all, spent the better part of these last fifteen years underground.
But the worst thing about all of this, by far, was that Snape had become something he loathed, something he had, never in his life, aspired to be: A Ministry employee. One who belonged to a group of complete inepts; an assemblage of uninspired, middle-of-the-road baby-makers, all of whom hailed the chief, the biggest inept of all: Cornelius Fudge.
Such was why Snape could not longer fully align himself with the Order, even if he was one of their loyal few; Dumbledore and his lot saw the Ministry as corrupt and underhanded, while Snape saw them as nothing more than utter dunderheads, but he had worked quite tolerably with those in the Order on and off for the last several years. Snape endured his honourary role as a member of the Order because he privately found those involved to be reliably intelligent Witches and Wizards, and this despite their constant defense of silly Muggles. The Muggle question was one he purposefully removed himself from, and though he sensed that Albus Dumbledore privately chastised him for this, any scoldings on the matter had thankfully gone unvoiced. After all, Dumbledore alone had a very clear idea of why Snape had aligned himself with the Order in the first place, and it had been more for personal reasons then political ones.
Amidst these distracting thoughts of the Ministry, Snape could feel the three snifters of brandy working their magic on him. Sighing, he plopped himself down into a rather dusty armchair and gazed into the fire, feeling….well, blank was the most appropriate word that came to mind.
Severus Snape was bored.
Not to say that his life at Hogwarts had been remotely exciting—it hadn't. But it was predictable in a way that he found comfortable and familiar, even if he had felt a bit caged these past few years. At some point he had actually become restless enough to start pacing the dungeons at night; the students bored him, and his own research seemed tired and done to death—a mere re-tread of the advanced discoveries he'd made in his younger years. For one horrific month or so he had wondered if Harry Potter's absence and its shattering effect on the mission of the Order was the cause of his new-found boredom. Much as he loathed the boy, his antics had always given him something to focus on. Only a few years back Snape had spent many late nights "Potter-hunting", as he called it; for there really was nothing more satisfying that taking points from a foolish, ballsy Gryffindor—particularly if that Gryffindor was Potter or one of his two best friends: the big-haired Muggle and that clumsy, youngest Weasley boy.
I wonder where Potter is now? Snape thought lazily, staring into the bright orange blur of flames. Dead? Somehow, he doubted it. Most annoyingly, the boy led an improbably charmed life, managing to side-step fatal injury at every turn and corner; if he were dead, someone would have surely found out by now, and a grand funeral promenade would have been held right on the Ministry steps.
Snape wondered which was worse: a living but missing-in-action Potter, or a dead and martyred Potter. Both had their distinct disadvantages. Since his disappearance, Harry Potter had—quite impossibly—become even more famous; not memorialised, just famous. The Daily Prophet was peppered with weekly prizes for the best "Potter sightings", and the WWN regularly featured prominent Diviners who made great show of speculating on the boy's whereabouts. Snape's favourite theory was the one concocted by Sybill Trelawny herself, who claimed that Potter was a sushi chef on a Japanese whaling ship and traveled the globe desperately trying to outrun his fate, which was, of course, to experience certain death at You-Know-Who's hand.
If I ever have the misfortune to lay eyes on him again, what kind of man will he have become? It can't be much of one, if he's spent these last three years running.
Snape nodded at this thought, tipping back in his chair. He found it was somewhat of an uneasy relief to be able to think of Harry Potter and not find himself breaking out in a hot, impatient sweat, or have his hands involuntarily curl into fists. Appalled at the prospect of mellowing with age, he pinched his eyes shut tight, groaning inwardly.
"Good grief, my man. Just what is your problem? You look like a constipated hippogriff."
Snape's eyes sprung open at the voice and he gave a strangled cry of surprise. The stiff, unpleasant face of Cornelius Fudge was flickering inside the fire; the Minister of Magic, it seemed, had decided to pay Snape an unexpected visit.
"You!—" Snape stopped himself from calling the Minister a bumbling arsehole who walks like a man just in time. "You…surprised me, Minister Fudge. I was just…" he paused again, searching for the right word. "…woolgathering."
Oh bloody hell, please tell me it's not come to this. No, I cannot be diminished to the point of locking lips with the Minister's buttocks. Please…let this not be my fate.
"Well, then." Fudge's flame-dappled expression seemed to soften a bit. "I guess even someone like you deserves a quiet Friday evening, eh? Though I do hope you didn't waste away the entire day moping about like a bump on a log," he finished, frown returning.
"I presume this is not a courtesy call," Snape said, crossing his legs in a businesslike fashion. This pained him…it really did. Facing the Minister in such a civil manner.
"Not in the least," Fudge said, shaking his head until all of his chins wobbled. "As a matter of fact, I'm calling up to issue you a new assignment, Sevvy."
Snape blanched at the sound of his recently-acquired nickname, but kept his expression carefully neutral. "I suppose it would do me little good to hope that this new assignment might allow me to finally leave the Leaky Cauldron? I've begun to hear those bloody pub-songs in my dreams…."
Fudge frowned. "Always did like a good pub song myself," he remarked, sniffing in an offended way. "Good clean fun, that is."
"As for my new assignment…?" Snape prompted, ignoring the Minister's affronted expression.
"Ah yes…well, it deals with one of your old students, actually. Lucius Malfoy's son, Draco."
"Draco?" Snape barked, leaning forward. "Draco is in Azkaban for suspicious yet undetermined involvement in the mysterious death of a loved one. There isn't much more to his story than that, is there?" Snape certainly hoped not, though if there was one person he wasn't pleased with these days, it was Draco Malfoy. The former Slytherin was the reason why Snape was now an indentured slave to the Ministry.
And after all I tired to do for the blond idiot.
And he had done a lot; or had tried to, anyway. As the boy's former head of house, he had agreed to testify at Draco's trial; had even said all the right things: Yes, Draco was a dedicated student. Yes, he was a dutiful son, with no reason whatsoever to harm his father. Then the peroxided wonder, on the day of his sentencing, had been allowed to give the public his final words. And they had been quite final indeed…for Snape, anyway.
Snape could still see him up there on the stand, two Dementors flanking him like a pair of surly bookends. His summer tan had faded to the colour of swiss cheese, and the Azkaban gray robes only sallowed him further. He'd lost enough weight so that his handsome features stood out in sharp relief on his face, his gray eyes especially large and luminous as he addressed the audience, looking—for the first time in his life, Snape suspected—completely sincere. He thanked the gathered crowd for allowing him the chance to defend himself, and hoped that even in his death, the public would not judge Lucius too harshly for having finally been revealed as a Death Eater. Draco reminded them that not all Death Eaters were completely bad people, and that several of them had been very kind to him as a child—old Professor Snape, in particular.
During Draco's speech, Snape had been seated in a top row, impatiently checking his pocket watch. When his own name had tumbled from Draco's lips, all eyes had swiveled in his direction—Snape actually heard them pivot and pin him to the spot. In all those eyes, he saw the same question reflected: Death Eater? A Death Eater, teaching at Hogwarts?
Dumbledore, being….well, Dumbledore, had done his best to defend Snape's past. He pointed to Snape's past fifteen years as a spy as evidence of his willingness to be rehabilitated. To work along the side of light. No good, the Ministry said. If he wanted to make up for his past finagling by spying, he would be spying for the Ministry, not Dumbledore, thank-you-very-much.
And shortly thereafter, Severus Snape, Ministry Slave, was born.
"What is it you want me to do?" Snape asked Fudge, being the good little slave that he was.
"Well, a lot of this is top secret. But…okay, well here we go…" Fudge paused, looking oddly nervous. "We're piloting a new incarceration program for low-level criminals, and Draco is one of the first prisoners we plan to test our new program on."
"I see," Snape said, not seeing at all.
"The new program will effectively banish Draco from the wizarding world in all its entirety. He won't be able to see us, won't be able to perform magic, and won't be able to enter any wizarding locales. His exile will last for a full seven years, after which he will be allowed to re-enter wizarding society."
"What?" Snape asked, dumbfounded. "How is that even possible?"
Fudge looked uncomfortable, as if he had already revealed more than he felt Snape should know. "Easier than you might think. Variation on the Muggle-repellant charms we use on Diagon Alley and the like," he said gruffly.
"But why exile him to the Muggles?" Snape asked, still not understanding. Azkaban had been the wizarding prison of choice for the last several hundred years, and while Snape agreed that the Muggle world would make an unpleasant prison in its own right, why change things now?"
"There now, Sevvy! Remember you place," Fudge ordered, his cheeks reddening. "It's not your job to question Ministry operations. You just do as you're told."
"But you haven't yet told me what it is I'm to do." This through gritted teeth.
Fudge blinked. "Oh. Yes…right. We need you to monitor Malfoy's activities in the coming weeks. Once he's released, we need to keep an eye on him—make sure he doesn't break through to the wizarding world, find a wand he can use, that sort of thing."
Snape allowed a brief image of Draco, stumbling down a street full of Muggles, to play forth in his head, finding that the image wasn't entirely unsatisfying. This brought forth a new question entirely, however; if Draco disappeared from Azkaban, people were sure to hear about it. The press was always snooping around that place, hoping to find chinks in the prison's impenetrable armour. "Sir, won't it look suspicious if Malfoy simply up and vanishes from Azkaban?" Snape asked. "Even as an inmate, he's still a glamourous, society-climbing playboy. The heir to the Malfoy fortune. People—women, especially—will throw a fuss if he disappears."
"Ah. Good thinking, Sevvy. I've just taken care of that, as a matter of fact. Sent a brilliant new reporter from Witch Weekly out to see Malfoy earlier today. An in-depth interview with our golden boy ought to keep the tabloid-readers satisfied--for a short time, anyway. That reporter--Rhoda Rhodes was her name--yes, I do believe she might have fancied me…."
"Minister," Snape prompted, clearing his throat lightly.
"Yes? Oh…yes. Let's see…as a Ministry employee, you will be given a spell that will allow you to locate Malfoy's presence. Mind, this spell works two ways—meaning it will also reveal you to Malfoy. So you best hide yourself carefully so as not to alarm him."
"Fine," Snape said, eager to end this conversation.
Fudge appraised him silently for a moment, then finally said, "I see you've grown out that beard, just as I asked you."
"Yes," Snape said, reaching up to finger the rather sparse muddle of whiskers that covered his chin. "What do you think?"
"I don't like it," Fudge said, drawing up shortly. "I think you're better suited to a mustache. Yes, a mustache and mutton-chop sideburns. It's a classic look, don't you agree?" At this, Fudge gave own mustache and sideburns an affectionate pat.
"Yes, classic," Snape said, biting his tongue. In his own mind, he was already beginning to sharpen his razor.
***
When Hermione was dumped out near the bank of the Thames, she knew immediately that she was about to puke up her toenails. It was just inevitable.
Do you face downhill or uphill? Against the wind or into it? I can never remember, she thought dully, clamping a hand over her mouth. She made it to a tree and managed to lean against it for support, sweat rolling down her face as she dry-heaved over and over again. It wasn't just the portkey-sickness that had her upchucking—it was everything that had happened in the last two hours. The cavernous, worm-like tunnels of Azkaban; the horrible, gray wave of terror that she had felt when the Dementor guarding Draco had stepped out of the dark and placed a single, damp finger on the back of her neck. She collapsed to her knees and buried her face in the cool grass for a few minutes, breathing in the scent of decayed leaves and wet earth. It was a raw and pleasant smell.
When she finally stood up and looked around, she realized she was only a dozen or so metres from her parked convertible. Her Press Pass—which had doubled as a portkey—had disappeared from its station around her neck. One time use only. Not that she really minded. Wobbling her way over to the car, she noticed that a few teenagers were watching her curiously from their perch atop a stack of wood pallets. She had purposely parked in a sparsely-populated area, but had forgotten that this was a prime gathering spot for young criminal-minded types—most of them looking to deal their goods, in one way or another.
What are they looking at? Hermione glared at one of the boys, who stared back at her openly, a cigarette dangling between his lips. Ooh right. They just saw me appear out of thin air. Next time I should just portkey right out of Crookshanks'.
Perhaps it was because she was Muggle-born herself, but Hermione at times seemed to have difficulty remembering that other Muggles didn't have an inkling about the existence of witches and wizards. All her Muggle-born friends were witches and wizards, and she didn't have the innate distrust and suspicion of Muggles that Ron had—though even he could be forgetful at times. Like his father, he had the bad habit of walking right up to Muggles and asking them where he could find a felly-tone. That, combined with his new fascination for Muggle cinema, had almost transformed Ron into a bonafide Muggle himself. He'd even learned to enjoy televised Football.
Hermione waved casually at the wide-eyed teens and revved her engine—or tried to rev it, anyway. The resulting noise was really more of a half-hearted sputter.
Ten minutes later, her stomach now quite settled, she was stepping into 'Reflections', a decrepit piano bar that was the closest thing that she and Ron had to a neighbourhood pub. Located four blocks from Crookshanks', Reflections was populated by retired men, for the most part—most of whom had worked desk jobs in their glory days. The windows were blacked out, and the bar stocked exactly two brews on tap, plus five varieties of bourbon and scotch. It was, in short, the sort of place where Ron and Hermione could meet up with no worry of running into anyone they knew—or anyone who might even want to know them, for that matter.
Squinting in the dim light, Hermione flashed a smile at Nova, the late afternoon lounge singer. Nova herself was standing atop a makeshift stage, her red mouth opened wide, belting out the lyrics to "The Girl from Ipanema". Her garish makeup and dyed black hair—styled into a stiff, Cleopatra-like bob—made it impossible to detect Nova's true age, but Hermione guessed she might be anywhere from fifty to seventy years old. She always tried to leave Nova generous tips, and on a few occasions the aging songstress had finished her set and stumbled over to Hermione's side, her glass of bourbon sloshing. She had patted Hermione on the hand and said such a lovely girl before traipsing away, only to be quickly surrounded by three or four admiring males.
The only male client not in love with Nova was Ron, who currently had his eyes glued to the bar-mounted television, predicting the outcome of a West Ham football game.
"FUCK ALMIGHTY! Red card, you piece o' shit. Sack that keeper!" Ron shouted as Hermione made her approach, his face red above his half-drained pint glass.
"Keeper down," she hissed, pushing her thumb into the small of his back. "We're undercover here. Remember, Richard?"
"Oy!. There you are, Helen," Ron said, belching lightly against the back of his hand. "I've been here for almost an hour with nothing to do but get knackered."
"So I smell." Hermione made a face and waved at the air. "Dewers and soda, Ralphy," she called to the barkeep, holding up two fingers.
"Drinking? You?" Ron mused, staring at her through bleary eyes. "Azka—I mean, that place must be even worse that it is in my nightmares, if it's enough to drive you to the bottle."
"You're more right than you know," Hermione said, taking a cautious sip of the scotch. "In fact, consider me a drinking woman from here on out." With that, she slammed the rest of the drink down, nearly choking mid-swallow.
Ron searched her puckered expression, seeming to sober a bit. "That bad, yes?"
"Awful. And I only came face to face with one 'mentor," she said, shuddering visably. "And can you believe Malfoy was in typical form? Cracking wise…curling his lip up so far up you'd think he had a line of grade-A Columbian charlie laid out on it."
"Charlie?" Ron asked, looking puzzled. "He's in Romania, not Columbia."
"Nevermind. It's a Muggle thing." Hermione sighed heavily, signaling Ralphy to refill her glass.
"Hey," Ron said, shaking her by the wrist. "I have just the thing to cheer you up."
"Does this outfit make me look like a sailor?" she asked abruptly, yanking her wrist away.
"Well…" He lingered, studying her blouse and foppish tie. "The navy and white does add a nautical touch, you might say."
"Oh, bugger off." She drained her second glass with a grimace.
"I'm serious, Helen," Ron said, shoving his large hand into his jacket pocket and rummaging through it. "Look what came in the post today." From his overstuffed pocket he produced a silver wristwatch and shook it between two fingers, his grin wide.
"Is that…?"
"You got it," he said, unclasping the watch and sliding it over her wrist. She stared into its domed face; a perfectly ordinary wristwatch, except perhaps for the odd, silvery substance fizzing just behind the crystal face.
"Andy?" She whispered, her tone experimental. She watched intently as the liquid inside the watch-face swirled, certain she saw an eye wink out at her just before the silver beaded together, spelling out individual words.
H e l l o H e r m i o n e…
"Eeeh!" She shrilled, clapping her hand over her mouth. "It works! Oh sweet Merlin it bloody works!"
"Shut it!" Ron hissed, giving her a sharp jab in the ribs. Hermione swallowed her shout of joy and bounced lightly at the knees. What she held in her hand was one of a kind—the first of its kind, as a matter of fact. I could just kiss you, Fred and George, she thought hazily, planting a kiss on Ron's ruddy cheek instead. He groaned a made great show of scrubbing her affection away, but his eyes were glossy with unspoken pleasure.
Compu-Watch; yes, the first of its kind, indeed. Hermione and the Weasleys had worked out a successful system, it seemed. As with the Compu-Cauldrons, the watch had been designed via a four-prong process. Hermione researched and spent several hours perfecting the spell that enabled the object to work at all, Ron had sketched out the basic design, and Fred and George had assembled the final product from the notes that Hermione and Ron had provided. Now, both she and Ron would have direct, twenty-four hour access to Andy and the wealth of information he provided—even when on the go.
As if in response to her thoughts, the watch on her wrist tightened slightly.
Y a y !
She stifled a laugh, holding the watch out for Ron to read. "Cauldron think's he's got a fucking sense of humour," Ron groaned, grinning just the same.
"Oh." Hermione straightened up, her giggles draining away. "I forgot to tell you that Draco turned down my offer. Didn't even want to hear me out, really."
Ron shrugged, seeming unconcerned. "Feh…let the fucker wander through Picadilly Circus, I say. I hope a biker gang happens on him and makes him their gimp-baby."
"Tempting as that may be, you know we just can't," Hermione said, wringing her hands together helplessly. "Dumbledore is certain that someone with inside connections has copped a deal with Voldemort. The old scab needs Draco for something, and I doubt it's for his stellar fashion advice."
"So you still want to track him down then, I take it," Ron said, giving her a hard stare.
"We have to! It's on Dumbledore's orders…"
Ron snorted. "Dumbledore has never given an order in his life. He's just good at making people believe that he shells out commands."
Hermione shrugged weakly, her enthusiasm over the new Compu-watch almost completely sapped by now. "The Ministry is going to have at least a few Aurors trailing Malfoy on Monday. Ask Andy who they are—they should have possession of the charm that tunes into Malfoy's presence. All I need is that charm and Malfoy is mine."
"Uh…" Ron swallowed hard, hesitating. "Andy already gave me the necessary details."
"Oh? And how many Aurors have been assigned Malfoy-watching? Four?"
"One."
Hermione blinked. "Only one? Really? Who is he? Or she, for that matter."
"You're not going to like it…" Ron shook his head vaguely, averting his eyes.
"Just tell me already! It isn't Dawlish or some other equally impossible Fudge-lover, is it?"
Ron shook his head again, then closed his eyes and tipped back, draining the rest of his beer into his throat. He coughed once and finally spoke.
"It isn't exactly an Auror. It's…Professor Snape."
******************************************
Thanks to all the lovely readers who reviewed this, on Schnoogle, WIKTT, and elsewhere: Lozzie, Helene, Tein Riu, Severely Snaped, JessicaCMalfoy, MissCora, Salazar Stewart, Lillith, Cheerdancr89, JSawyer, SaintGemini, Supermouse35, Bellemaine, VenusDeMilo, Unregistered#1, Shinigami Black Yuy, Weird Cowgirl, Ashura, Tinadoll, Akele, Wolf of Solitude…. Your support means a great deal to me.
"Zippity Doo Dah" is from the Disney movie Song of the South. I don't know who gets credit for writing "Ninety-Nine Bottles of Beer on the Wall"—but I'm of the opinion that whoever put that little gem to paper should be beaten in public. =D