Silver Mist4: You are very loyal and good to me! Hugs SilverMist4 Why do you not want Hermione to live??? I hope you like this chapter as much!
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Chapter 7: Flight to the ServantAs he headed further south, the air became slightly warmer, and Draco found that he was no longer stuck to his broom. Even so, he didn't like to move around too much in the air.
Looking down, he realised that he was flying over a small town. He banked sharply to bring himself out from over it. Even from the height from which he soared along, Draco could see individual people on the streets. He flew further away, keeping his eyes down to make sure no Muggles – or wizards, for that matter – looked up and saw him.
The day wore on, and as lunchtime rolled around, Draco began feeling extremely hungry, which wasn't surprising, as he'd had no breakfast. Spotting a clearing by a stream in the forest below him, he dived towards it, grinning giddily as the wind whipped through his hair, stinging his face and wiping all fatigue from his mind.
Feet from the ground, he pulled up sharply and landed with only a slight bump.
'And they say Potter's a better flyer than me,' he said loudly, the smile still on his face.
He picked up his broomstick and went to the stream's edge. There was a large, smooth rock next to it, so he sat on that, lying his broom by his side: he didn't want to be away from it, just in case.
It wasn't a large clearing: perhaps a circumference of eleven feet. The clear stream ran more to one side, but more or less in the middle, while a few large rocks dotted the ground. The grass was quite long: it came up to about his ankles, but it wasn't long enough to hide large snakes. It was quite dark and cool, as the pines around the edges towered in their ages, hiding the clearing from the sun. But what got him most of all was the silence: even in the most deserted corridor of Hogwarts, you could hear the whoosh of a cloak, or the squeaking of the suits of armour. But here, there was nothing. Not even any birds. If he cared to sit perfectly still, the only sound would have been the slight breeze playing around the trees.
Pulling his bag off his back and around to his chest, Draco dipped his hand in and pulled out a bread roll, some salad – lettuce, tomato, cucumber – and a couple of slices of ham, which he'd kept cool with a freezing charm, done only half-way.
As he put together his little picnic, he thought about his situation. It seemed impossible to escape. If Hermione was really taken by Nott and Lucius, how would he, Draco, get her back? Perhaps he could explain the situation to his father … surely Lucius would let her go if he realised his son could be in trouble? If not … well, he'd think about that if it happened. He knew he couldn't go back to Hogwarts without her, for his own sake, but how was a completely different matter. He wasn't as physically strong as many of the Death Eaters, and knew about half the magic. He was, after all, sixteen and, as yet, only a novice in the Dark Arts. They would all have a huge advantage over him. He had stealth on his side, because he was slight, but he didn't have an Invisibility Cloak, or the power to cast a spell of such magnitude upon himself. So, how to sneak in, rescue Hermione and get out again, all without being seen? It seemed nearly impossible, but he supposed if he had to do it, he could. The transport back was easily solved, but undesirable: they'd have to share his broomstick. That was assuming, of course, the Mudblood didn't attack him and push him off. He might have to stun her…
Busy with his thoughts, Draco didn't realise time was passing. When his train of thought broke off, it was quite late in the afternoon.
'Bugger,' he muttered. He stuffed the rest of the roll into his mouth – his thoughts had distracted him so much he hadn't actually eaten much –, filled his empty flask with water, splashed his face down and stood up again. His butt was cold from the rock and he was shivering slightly as he climbed back on his broom.
He kicked off from the ground and continued his flight over land and lake, careful to stay below the clouds tonight. He kept an eye on his compass, and only had to adjust his course twice.
He saw the village around five o'clock, in the near distance: the lights alerted him as the sky had darkened somewhat. His stomach leapt as his mind whispered, this is it. Any minute now Nott's manor will come into view and I'll have to rescue the person who I wish I didn't have to rescue.
He had mixed emotions about the whole mission: one part of him was glad he'd get her back to school and clear his name; another was feeling extremely resentful, mainly at his father, but also at Hermione: why did the stupid girl have to go and get herself kidnapped? I mean, for heaven's sake, I thought she was the smartest girl in school? And yet another part was secretly thrilled and excited by the prospect of rescuing someone, especially a girl. That part didn't care that Hermione Granger was a Mudblood; that part didn't care that they hated each other and she would like his help least of everyone in world. It didn't care that if he didn't get her, he'd be in trouble: it only cared that Hermione was a damsel in distress, and someone he must rescue. He decided it must be the Gryffindor part of him.
Coming into Wolfshaw, the village, Draco flew much lower. He could see Nott's manor on the far side of the village, behind huge locked gates and a long driveway, and it gave him a strong feeling of foreboding.
He flew over the length of the village … he was nearly there … feeling suddenly sick, he swooped lower to the ground, where he tumbled off and threw up in a clump of thick bushes.
'Hey!' shouted a voice from behind him.
Draco stood up and turned around, wiping his mouth. The caller was a man in his thirties, with a scruffy black beard and long nose. Behind him, Draco now saw, was a small pub, its lights flooding the ground in front of it, Draco in plain view.
'Are you alright?' asked the man, as he continued to approach Draco, who panicked and held up a hand.
'Stop!' he commanded. The man stopped. Who was he? Might he be a Death Eater? If he was, Draco couldn't afford for the man to know who he was. Just in case. 'Who are you?' he asked, in a would-be calm voice.
'Name's Alfredo Mortimor,' said the man cautiously; he obviously felt something similar to Draco. 'And who're you?'
Draco thought quickly, weighing up his options. He could tell the man his name – he might simply be a Muggle – but he could also be a Death Eater – or someone in contact with Dumbledore or Fudge …
'William – er – Myles,' said Draco, pulling the first name from his head. Where did that come from?
'Myles, eh? Not related to Jeffery Myles, are yeh?' said Mortimor gruffly.
'Who? Um, no,' said Draco, utterly bewildered.
'Right,' continued the man, and his voice was much warmer. 'Good on yeh, lad! Fancy a drink?'
Draco blinked.
'No thank you,' he said as politely as he could manage. 'I have some – uh – business to tend to.'
Mortimor raised his eyebrows.
'Business?' he echoed disbelievingly, 'at your age? What kinda business?'
'It's of the personal sort,' said Draco coldly. Sixteen-year-olds could have business; it wasn't limited to adults only!
'Ah, right,' said Mortimor knowledgably. 'When is this – uh – business of your gonna be over?'
'Soon, hopefully.'
'Right. Well. When yeh've finished your business, come an' have a drink with me an' me mates, alright lad?'
'Right.' Draco muttered, turning away. He heard Mortimor lumbering away. Idiot, he thought contemptuously, picking up his broomstick. He felt a little better after that talk with Mortimor, though it was unclear to him why; it must have just taken his mind off Nott and Hermione.
He looked around behind him; the coast was clear; Mortimor must have gone back into the pub.
'Bloody drunk,' Draco muttered to himself, wiping his mouth again and clambering onto his broomstick. Taking a deep breath, he kicked off from the ground into the cool night air. He glanced down as he rose, but neither Mortimor nor anyone else came out of the pub. He turned his attentions to Nott's manor instead, and flew with purpose.
He soared over the high, black gates that were fitted with sharp spikes at the top, and into the dark grounds. His heart was hammering against his rib cage and his breaths were shaky. His broom moved slightly off course, his hands were that bad. Then he stopped flying altogether, and simply sat in mid-air. It suddenly struck him that Hermione could be in any room of the manor … he would probably need to hear from Nott where she was, or he could search for her for a week and not have any luck.
Draco's eyes scaled the manor, searching for signs of life – lights were on everywhere, but that didn't mean anything … there! In the forth-floor study! He could see a silhouette moving against the candle-light. It was too beefy to be Mrs Nott, and Theodore would only fit that body if he stuffed his clothes with pillows; he took after his mother in stature. So it had to be, in all likeliness, Nott.
He aimed his broom and flew slightly to the left of the window, to stay out of view. There was no balcony, but the window ledge was wide, so he landed carefully on that, and, holding his broom in his right hand, made his was carefully along the ledge, toward the window.
He tried to steady his breathing, tried to make his footsteps as silent as possible … the window was slightly ajar – that was good for him … carefully, carefully …
He successfully positioned himself at the side of the window, and if he leant around a little, he could see right in. He'd have to be oh-so-careful, though. His right hand against the cold stone of the wall, his right clutching the comforting wood of his broomstick, he got down on one knee and peered into the study.
It was large room, walled with bookshelves, only half of which were filled: Draco knew Nott to be an avid Dark Arts Practiser, but not one for much reading, even on that matter. A huge oak desk stood in front of the window, facing away from it. The door was on the opposite side of the room to the desk, and they were in a direct line to each other. On the wall left to the desk, the one Draco couldn't see, he assumed there must be a fire, because he could see its dancing flames on the opposite wall. A thick, dark blood-red rug covered the wooden floorboards. It gave off the appearance of warmth, but Draco was sure the fact the rug was blood-red had some significance.
He couldn't see any people, though. He was beginning to think he'd flown to the wrong room, when Nott suddenly strode into the centre off the room; he appeared to have been standing near the fire. Draco gasped and pulled backwards, terrified that Nott had seen him. A quick glance back into the room proved, however, that he hadn't: he was sitting at his desk, calmly writing out something, chuckling gently to himself. Draco breathed a quiet sigh of relief and put a hand over his racing heart, willing it to be quiet.
A minute or two passed, in which Draco could feel his knee cramping up from the stone ledge and the cold. Then, as he was starting to get impatient –
The door banged open and a large man strode into the room, a man that Draco had only met twice …
'Nott!' barked Mulciber, stopping in the middle of the room. A smaller man entered behind him, fending off Mrs Nott.
'No, thank you, Ma'am,' he said, 'I'm fine!' As soon as he was in the room, he slammed the door in his face before turning to Nott angrily. 'You're wife is a curse!' he hissed.
Nott stood up.
'Don't you dare insult my wife, you arrogant, snivelling little –'
'Nott!' said Mulciber again, glaring at the smaller man, whom Draco had never seen before. Nott's head snapped around to him.
'What?' he asked, obviously irritated.
'The plan,' said Mulciber impatiently. 'What's the plan?!'
'Oh, yes!' said Nott, having just remembered. He walked around his desk and leant against the front, facing the two men. Draco couldn't see his face but when he spoke, he knew he was smiling. 'Right. I'm glad you're both here, then! It's all organised. We're putting it into action Wednesday, and then Lucius estimates Potter will come on Thursday or Friday: it is, after all, a bit of a hike!' The three men laughed viciously. 'Now. Rules.' Nott walked around to the right side of his desk, to collect some papers. Draco saw him give Mulciber and the other man piercing glares.
'Rules?' said the small man flatly. 'We are Death Eaters! We do not have rules!'
'Shut up, Jugson,' said Mulciber angrily. 'What are the rules?' he asked Nott.
Nott turned back to the men. 'They are very strict,' he said, the hint of frustration in his voice. 'Number one: we must drive her insane –'
Jugson laughed. Mulciber and Nott glared at him.
'This is no joke, Jugson,' snapped Nott. 'Disobey these rules and you will find yourself at the mercy of the Dark Lord.'
Jugson shut up, but he looked quite disgruntled.
'We are allowed to torture her, in any way we see fit, as long as she keeps both her sanity and her life. However,' he directed his gaze to Mulciber, 'we are not allowed to rape her.'
Now Mulciber looked put out.
'No rape?' he repeated dumbly. Jugson laughed again.
'Why would we want to rape a Mudblood?'
'That's right, Mulciber,' said Nott, ignoring Jugson. 'No raping. We are allowed to make her think we would, even if that involves touches of the … sexual nature …' Nott grinned.
Mulciber also grinned, and Jugson rolled his eyes, but neither spoke for a moment. Then -
'Any other … rules?' said Jugson scathingly. Nott looked down at his paper.
'No, that pretty much covers it, I think. But when we take her, don't limit yourself to gentleness: be tough and make sure she knows you're the boss. Rough her up if you have to, but make sure she doesn't escape.'
'Right,' said Jugson, but Mulciber wasn't finished yet. 'What class will she be in?'
'Class? She won't be in a class, you moron!' snapped Nott. 'How would we get away with that? No, Wednesday afternoon there is a special trip to Hogsmeade for the senior students (fifth-year up), because they all have a free period: there is a ball next Friday night, they all have special permission to … shop till they drop.' He laughed, but Draco was confused.
What did they mean, get her? Didn't they already have her?
'When Granger wanders off by herself – as she's sure to do, because her two friends wouldn't be much help in beauty matters – we'll put the Imperius Curse on her and guide her over to us. Then we grab her and bring her back here!'
They all laughed heartily, but Draco barely heard them. His heart was no longer hammering, and his breathing had slowed right down. He felt strange: calm, yet full of panic. So, he thought slowly, trying to wrap his mind around it. They don't have Granger yet. They are planning to take her. Which means she's not here …
'Which means someone else has her!' he said out loud, without thinking.
The silence inside the room alerted Draco to what he did wrong: he stared at the slightly open window in horror. They would have been able to hear him, even if they couldn't work out what he said. He leant forward again and peered into the room. Mulciber and Jugson were standing so still, Draco would have thought someone had cast a body binding spell on them. Nott, however, was walking silently towards the window: he couldn't see out now, but when he got to the window and opened it …
Draco stood up, his heart beating fast again. He backed up until he was on the edge of the window ledge, then leapt off the same time he jumped onto his broomstick. He had the awful feeling of freefalling before his broom caught his weight and he was flying again. He leant forward, over the handle, and the broom hurtled away from the window, just as it was flung wide.
'INTRUDER!' Nott roared, and there was a sudden deafening sound like a horn being blown right in his ear before Draco realised it was the sound of a hundred voices all yelling 'INTRUDER' as one.
Panic gripped his stomach like someone had bound it in iron; he fought to breathe as he urged his broom faster … a shout reached him threw the air, even though the words were unrecognisable … then, like a crack of a whip, he heard a rushing sound and suddenly his broom was on fire: he yelled and twisted around to look. The tail was alight, like a bright beacon in the sky. Then it hit him: it was a beacon! Nott had set his broom alight when he could still just make him out, so he could fire a well-aimed spell at him.
The heat was hurting both his butt and face, as the wood heated up beneath his body. Suddenly, a blue-white light was rushing towards him – Draco recognised it as a spell – he tried to turn, but his broom couldn't fly well enough – the spell hit the tail of his broom, and after a splitting sound, it was suddenly gone, and Draco was falling.
As he fell towards the ground, Draco strained his already-beaten mind to think of a spell to save him. Not one came to mind. He turned over in the air and watched the ground come closer … the wind rushed over his face and through his hair, but wasn't anywhere near as pleasant as when he was diving on his broomstick.
The wind turned him over again once more before slamming him into the ground, the top of his legs first, then his back, then his head. It was a close contest, though.
Draco stared up at the inky black sky, not breathing. Come on, he urged himself silently, breathe, Draco, breathe! Finally, he opened his mouth and drew in a big gulp of air, then another. He felt light-headed and dizzy as he turned his head to the right. Part of his broomstick, still alight, was lying about five feet from him, giving off some warmth. But, even though the heat was quite pleasant, he knew they'd be looking for any sign of fire, so he sat up.
'Ahh!' he gasped as he did, then groaned: his body hurt as though he was the one on fire, not the broom. As he tried to stand, he put both hands on the ground to elevate himself, but he let out a gasp of pain as his right wrist touched the ground. He held his arm up and looked at the wrist: it was swelling already. He'd sprained it. Gritting his teeth and letting out the smallest of groans, Draco dragged himself to his feet. He took slow, steadying breaths before trying to walk. OK, it was painful, but he'd manage.
He looked up; he'd just fallen four stories and he could still walk.
'Miracle,' he muttered, wondering if it was worth it: he was still at least a half a mile from the gates, he guessed, and if he knew the Nott's, there would be some other thing guarding the manor: there certainly was at his own house, so he supposed there would be at least one somethings at this one.
Holding his arm away from his body so his wrist wouldn't hit him, he walked as quickly as he could away from the house, presumably toward the gates, or at least the fence. Soon he was nowhere near the fires, so he slowed his pace a bit. He knew they would all be in the ground now, but there wasn't anything he could do about that.
After a few minutes of walking, in which both Draco's heart and nerves calmed a bit, he heard a strange high-pitched cackling, coming from a clump of trees a few feet from him. He backed up a little, not taking his eyes of the trees. He went to get his wand from his pocket, but when he pulled it out, his wrist protested loudly and painfully, and he dropped his wand.
Where is it? He thought desperately, scanning the ground. Suddenly, a movement out the corner of his eye made him stand up, his swollen wrist pounding with his pulse. There was no sound except for his beating heart for a moment or two, then –
Something ran at him, moving very quickly. He didn't even see it properly until it ran past him and he felt a sharp pain down his left arm: looking down, he saw whatever it was a scratched him. He stifled a yell and instead focused on whatever it was.
It paused about five feet away from him, its eyes glinting in the dark. It was dark, almost as dark as the night, with a pointed face and large eyes. It was covered in a kind of coarse fur, but its hands, face and feet were devoid of it. It stood about three feet tall, give or take a few inches. Draco recognised it straight away: it was an Erkling, an elfish creature which originated from Germany. Luckily, he was bigger than it: if he was a small child he would have more trouble.
'Come closer, little Erkling,' Draco called softly to it, bending down a little so it would think him easy prey. 'Come and get small, pitiful Draco …'
A loud, rustling noise sounded behind him, like something big and vicious bursting out trees. Draco froze, took a deep breath, then turned around to face the trees.
At least thirty Erklings stood there, having emerged from the trees.
'Oh crap,' said Draco, staring at them all. One was one thing. Thirty was something else.
Without any kind of warning, all thirty were suddenly running at him, dissolving and re-appearing in the dark. The first two leapt and hit him in the chest, as another one latched onto his right wrist. Draco let out a yell of pain as the teeth sank into his swollen wrist, tearing at it. One of the Erklings on his chest went for his throat, making horrible gnashing noises with its teeth. Draco grabbed its throat with his left wrist and threw it away. He twisted violently, and even though it hurt his wrist, the second Erkling fell from his chest. He bent lower to the ground and placed his foot on the Erkling that was hanging from his bleeding wrist. He put pressure on his foot, hoping it would let go, but no such luck. As he raised his foot to squash the cretin, a screeching filled the air behind him. He turned just in time to see five Erkling rushing at him, before they leapt onto his back and started ripping at his clothes. Yelling in pain, Draco was forced to the ground under the weight. He ignored the pain in his wrist, as it wasn't even comparable to the pain his back was in, and he bucked and twisted, trying to unseat the Erklings. His body was on fire – they had every inch of him – one ripped at his face, tearing his lip – he saw his wand on the ground near him, only a few feet away. He stretched his body; reached … an Erkling suddenly grabbed the back of his neck.
Draco yelled in anger and pain, reached his hand over his head, grabbed the Erkling by the scruff of its neck and threw it as hard as he could. Then he tried again … nearly there … yes!
He gripped his wand tightly and brought it back to his body so no Erkling would get it. He rolled onto his side with great difficulty and aimed his wand at his wrist, which the Erkling was still hanging off of.
'Relashio!' he gasped, and hot sparks shot out of his wand at the Erkling. It let out a yell and let go, scrambling away, nursing its head. He said the spell three more times, each time catching a creature. A couple scrambled away, but most he got with the Impediment Jinx. He stood up, all the Erkling cowering away from him. One rushed at him.
'Stupefy!' Draco yelled. The Erkling dropped to the ground, unconscious. The others didn't look so keen now. 'Don't like magic, do you?' he sneered, wiping some blood of his face. 'Why don't you all go back to your trees and let me go, eh?'
The all ran off, glancing over their shoulders at him. Draco nodded and turned away, wincing. He was torn pretty bad: his right wrist was not only sprained, now it was cut and bleeding: His shirt was pretty mangled, and his back was bleeding too – he could feel it. He had numerous bite marks on his face, but most weren't too bad, except for a gash above his eyebrow and a cut lip. All in all, he was pretty mangled himself.
'And they wonder why I don't like magical creatures!' he muttered, as he set off toward the gate, limping now.
When he reached the fence, he leant his head against the cold metal, feeling the coolness soothing his burning face.
He was breathing heavily still, mostly because he was trying to ignore the pain. He'd healed some of his cuts, but he couldn't see most of them, which made it too tricky to do while walking.
Draco lifted his head and looked out through the bars: below, in the town, he could see the pub's lights. He could stay the night there. He'd have a mirror then, and he could heal his wounds.
He stood back from the fence and looked up. If only he still had his broomstick. He looked at the bars. Too close together for even him to get through. He sighed and pulled out his wand with his left hand.
'Spatiumus,' he said, pointing his wand at the bars. He then shoved it back in his pocket, took hold of a bar and pulled it to the right. It was a bit of a strain, but the bar stretched and bent, like rubber. Then he did the same to the one on the other side. Soon he had a gap large enough for him to squeeze through. The spell would've worked better if he'd used his right hand, but that was out of the question at the moment.
He still had his bag, which seemed a miracle in itself, so he took it off, squeezed through the gap, then brought his bag through. He locked his eyes onto the well-lit pub down the hill and set off towards it, wincing on every other step.
Ten minutes later, Draco pushed the pub's wooden door open and stepped inside. It was filled with the smell of alcohol and wood smoke, but it felt warm.
The man Draco had met earlier that night, Alfredo Mortimor, was sitting at the bar, drinking and talking loudly. He looked around when the door opened, as did a lot of the other men; there were no women.
'William Myles!' cried Mortimor, his words slurred. Then his eyes took in Draco's appearance.
'Blimey!' said another man at the bar.
'William!' said Mortimor, getting off his stool and swaying a bit. 'What happened to yeh, lad?'
'Business,' said Draco dryly, approaching the bar. Mortimor's eyes twinkled.
'Ah yes,' he said, grinning at his friends. 'A sixteen-year-old's business,' he winked, 'very important, and very secret. But,' he added, looking at Draco again, 'I don't know whether I like this business of yours. It seems to me – hic – that it's a little – hic – dangerous.'
'This was just a drawback,' said Draco coolly, sitting on a stool next to Mortimor. He definitely needed a drink. 'Besides,' he added on sudden inspiration, 'I'm not sixteen.'
'Yeh not sixteen?' said Mortimor. Draco resisted the urge to roll his eyes.
'Nope,' he said instead, 'nineteen.'
The bar erupted with laughter. Draco looked at them all, getting angrier the longer he laughing continued. Finally, the barman stopped and leant on the bar, looking Draco in the eye.
'I don't care how old yeh are, laddie,' he said in a thick Scottish accent. 'Yeh could be fourteen fer all I care. If yeh gonna pay, I'll serve yeh a drink.'
'Right,' said Draco, who now felt foolish. Beside him, Mortimor wiped tears of laughter from his eyes.
'Yer alright, William Myles,' he said joyfully. 'Cormag!' he ordered suddenly. 'Get Mr Myles here a drink!'
'Right yeh are, Alf!' said Cormag. Then – 'What would Mr Myles like?'
'Uh …' said Draco. The truth was, he had no idea what Muggles drank.
'Get 'im a Firewhisky!' said Mortimor, clapping Draco hard on the back.
'Firewhisky?' said Draco stupidly; that was a wizard's drink: what was it doing in a Muggle's bar?
But Mortimor laughed. 'Don't look so surprised, lad! This is a wizard's bar by night, it is; both Muggles and wizards by day.'
Draco stared at him. Was every place he went into going to be a coven for wizards? How was he going to keep anonymous if they were all bloody wizards?
'I suppose the broomstick earlier gave me away?' he said, remembering what the nutty woman at the inn had said.
'Yep!' agreed Mortimor.
Cormag put a glass in front of him and filled it with a red-brown drink. Then he poured some more red in, stirred it and pushed it toward him.
'I trust you've had one of these before?' said Cormag suspiciously.
''Course!' said Draco, as if that question was highly insulting. The truth was, however, was that apart from a sip of wine occasionally at home, he'd only ever had Butterbeer; his parents were very strict on that. He decided to take it slowly. He took a sip. The liquid was very hot, and felt like it was burning his mouth, then his throat. He gasped as it went down and clutched at his throat. Already he felt slightly light-headed.
The men all laughed again, but this time Draco ignored them.
'Never mind!' said Mortimor, slapping him on the back again. This time his hand hit one of Draco's cuts and the boy yelped in pain. Everyone stared at him. 'Yeh alright, William?' Mortimor was watching him.
'Yeah,' said Draco, feeling his cheeks burning. 'Yeah, I'm fine.'
He sat looking at his hands wrapped around his glass as the men around him started talking. He was partly listening, and from what he picked up, they were all Purebloods. Good, he thought. He liked being around people like him.
'Disgusting!' said one man loudly, commenting on something another had said. The first man nodded.
'I know! Could sense her a mile off! Those house-elves should be dismissed if their masters had any dignity! They'd reek of her now.'
Draco lifted his head. This sounded half-interesting.
'What?'
'A group of house-elves,' said a third man. 'Oscar here says he saw 'em with a Mudblood.'
'Damn right,' said Oscar. 'Just walking down the street, no shame whatsoever. Course, they were looking pretty shifty. Bloody house-elves. Dunno why any self-respecting wizard'd let his slaves run around with Mudbloods.'
'Maybe the Mudblood kidnapped them?' suggested a podgy man sitting at a table.
'Nah,' said Oscar, shaking his head. 'She actually looked kind of reluctant, you know? All the house-elves were holding her hands or walking ahead or behind, looking around.'
'It's odd alright,' said Cormag, shaking his own head. 'Not a natural sight, Mudbloods and house-elves.'
But Draco was thinking now.
'What did she look like? The Mudblood, I mean?' he said to Oscar. Oscar thought for a moment.
'Not very tall … brown hair – kinda bushy, you know? Thin. Not bad looking, actually.'
Draco's heart skipped a bit.
'What was she wearing?' he said, in a would-be-calm voice.
'What is this, twenty questions?' said a fourth man, but Oscar ignored him and instead focused on Draco.
'Hard to tell, really: she was wearing a black cloak. Grey skirt … grey jumper … grey socks, black shoes … kinda looked like a school uniform, actually. Why?'
'No reason,' said Draco, taking a large gulp of Firewhisky to calm his nerves. What did it mean? Oscar had definitely described Hermione. But why did house-elves have her? What was going on? His head felt light, like it was floating away from him. He groaned and put his hands on either side of his head. He heard Cormag laugh, though it sounded distant.
'The boy drank too much in one go! Poor lad …'
Draco opened his eyes and tried to focus on Cormag.
'No, I'm fine,' he said thickly, blinking hard; two Cormags were swimming in his vision. He knew there was only one really, so he blinked again, trying to bring them together. His body felt very hot. The vision of both Cormags faded, the colours dimmed, the sounds of the bar grew fainter …
He slipped off his tool onto the floor, unconscious. A few of the men laughed. Mortimor tutted and slipped off his own stool.
'Yeh got a spare room, Cormag?' he asked.
'Sure do,' replied Cormag, getting a key off the wall behind the bar and coming around from behind the bar.
Mortimor bent down, put one hand under Draco's legs, the other around his back and scooped him up.
'He's awfully light for sixteen,' said Mortimor, following Cormag out of the main bar room.
'What do yeh think happened to 'im?' asked Cormag, as they climbed the stairs.
'Dunno.' Mortimor looked at his bloodied face. He also had a large bruise on one cheek. 'His broomstick's gone, and look at him … I'd say he was attacked.'
'No kidding,' said Cormag sarcastically. 'Here we are, Alfredo.'
He unlocked a door and they went in. The room was sparsely furnished, with a wooden dresser, bed and chair. Alfredo laid Draco's body on the bed and took out his wand.
'What are yeh gonna do?' said Cormag nervously.
'Just heal these.' Mortimor motioned to the many cuts, bites and bruises. He muttered a few healing spells and most of the cuts closed up, the ones on his back especially well. 'These'll still bleed,' he said, motioning to those that hadn't closed up properly. 'But he'll be OK … the cuts weren't infected with poison, so that's a plus…' he paused.
'What?' said Cormag. He was hovering by the window, which was near the bed.
'I think I should put an anti-tracing charm on 'im. At least for now,' he added, seeing the apprehensive look on Cormag's face.
'Do yeh think that's a good idea?'
'Do you think the people who did this to him will like that he got away?' Mortimor yelled, swelling with anger. He didn't know why, but he felt responsible for this kid. He wanted to make sure he'd be OK.
Cormag shrugged.
'Fine. But what if someone good is looking for 'im?'
Mortimor hesitated.
'OK,' he agreed. 'But I'll put the charm on 'im for now. It'll last for … three days, alright? Just give 'im enough time to get away from … the people who want 'im.'
Cormag nodded and turned away. He heard Mortimor whisper something, then say:
'Alright, I'm done. We'll see him in the morning.' He chuckled. 'William's gonna have one hell of a headache in the morn!'
Chortling, both men left the room, leaving Draco to his alcohol-induced slumber.
Nott, Mulciber and Jugson stood over the remnants of the broomstick, looking at it.
'He's not here,' said Jugson.
Mulciber and Nott glared at him.
'You don't say?' said Nott sarcastically.
'Whose is it?' asked Mulciber, drawing the attention away from Jugson.
Nott bent down and picked up a part of the handle. On one side it said Nimbus 2001. On the other, engraved into the dark wood, it said: Draco Malfoy.
'Malfoy?' said Mulciber, his shock evident in his voice. 'Not – not Lucius' son?'
'The one and only,' said Nott dryly, standing back up.
'Only?' said Jugson. 'I thought –'
'But what would he be doing here?' said Mulciber, after glaring at Jugson, he looked at Nott. 'Why isn't he at school?'
Nott shook his head.
'I don't know,' he growled. 'Did you hear what he said outside the window?'
'Something about her being someone else?' said Mulciber, frowning.
'No,' said Jugson. 'Something about someone else having her, I think.'
They both looked at Nott. He hesitated
'I think Jugson's right on this one,' he said eventually. 'I'm sure he said someone else has her.'
'What could that mean?' asked Jugson.
'We are not the first ones thinking of kidnapping the Granger girl. We are also not the first ones to do it.'
The three Death Eaters stood in the grounds, the chilly air matching each one's heart, as one question raced through their minds: what would the Dark Lord do if they couldn't get the girl?