The heavy door creeps open, scraping across the well-trodden floor. I stand where a mat used to be, where the customers used to wipe the mud of their feet before entering the shop, but now it's best to wipe your feet when leaving. I am faced with aisle upon aisle of jars, disorderly and unlabelled. Not what's expected from the best supplier in London but the Magical Capital has become entirely a black market. I presume this used to be Diagon Alley, the architecture of the building, olde traditional style still looming in the air. But it no longer has any of the character to it. I scan my eyes along the rows, trying to find what I want. Clearly each jar contains a useful ingredient for potion brewing but the laziness and lack of care is obvious. Most creatures are still alive, whether they are supposed to be or not, and their tortured faces and tightly compressed bodies tells me it would be much kinder to relive them from the stain of life. Most of the jars are now dusty and the herbs have begun to decay and wither from lack of sunshine. The fresh ingredients create a thin line at the front of the stack, behind is all the rot, painstakingly obvious, but who cares? Let everything rot just below the surface.

I approach the front desk with caution, presumably if spells are frowned upon in this day and age, potion brewing is unspoken of. Every potion is a bad potion, used only for the Dark Arts they tell the young witches and wizards at the new teaching school. They are right, and the potion I will brew is to kill, the darkest intention of the dark arts. I raise my head to the man at the desk; he is small and stubbly with old rags on. Clearly he is here to make as much of a living out of this wreck as possible. He is not the owner of this shop but just another who is being exploited by long hours and next to no pay, Marx would have a couple of harsh words for Britain's wizarding economy, that is for sure. Just past one wall of brick is the prospering shops of Central London and here we are with all our spells and incantations doing nothing for the great economic flop.

The man looks up at me, his fingers quivering and teeth chattering: "I'm under orders not to take custom from women, especially not such a ripe and fresh young lass such as ya'self," he barks, dutifully.

I open my mouth to explain but then realise words aren't necessary. I raise the sleeve of my long black robe to reveal the Dark Mark. I'm not ashamed of using it as a tool, it can be a lethal weapon if I want it to be and it certainly helps me get things done. Nobody dares to disobey a Death Eater.

The man at the desk appears to physically shrink when he realises what I am showing him. His eyes grow twice as large and his tongue slathers out with awe. Unworthy, he must have been, to recruit to the Dark Army. He is a believer in the cause, like many who have been indoctrinated that way.

"Welcome Madam, what would you like? All our ingredients are fresh and suitable for use," he pants; beads of sweat appearing on his forehead.

"That I very much doubt," I charm; his eyes grow wider than I thought was possible, as he fears I may report him.

"I need five ounces of lacewing flies, 5 leeches, powdered bicorn horn, ten ounces of knotgrass, three strands of knotgrass, as much boomslang skin as you have in stock and some fluxweed that must have been picked at full moon." I tumble out, with a satisfaction.

"Right madam, let me see about all of that," he chirps, moving the numbers and ingredients through in his mind as he dashes up and down the aisles. Skidding back with a handful of jars he gives me a knowing look: "Polyjuice potion."

"Pardon?" I say, upholding my cold exterior.

"You're brewing another Polyjuice Potion, I've had many requests for it lately, something to do with needing it to fool the Spanish Minster, I heard on the grapevine. Lucky for you lot that I keep well stocked up," he says, anxious to look involved and important.

"I'd be careful, if I were you, disclosing such information in a public place to a complete stranger. Lord only knows where the eyes and ears of our enemies are. It is no business of yours what this potion will be brewed for, and if I were you I would keep one's grapevine to one's self," I say, in an aristocratic fashion that Narcissa Malfoy would be proud to sport.

I use a simple shrinking charm on the jars, after checking they are correct, and place them in the inner-pocket of my robe. I give the shop assistant a venomous glare and turn swiftly on my heel to leave. The shop door clicks shut behind me and soft fresh waves gush on my face. I love the outside, where nature can touch me without evil. Turning left I look down the longitude of the street. Most old shop windows are bordered up with Muggle cardboard, if I move too close a stronger force of resistance will be inflicted, an expelling curse that will throw me into the shop across the street. In return that shop will expel me to the one opposite, so effectively I will become the ball in "Angry Shop Tennis". The few shops that are not bordered up, like Potions, are simply titled with what they sell and have no elaborate sales propaganda. Boring, you could say. Mild. Not worth visiting. The street is deserted, but a few rats and me.

Pop. I hear it and twitch my head around, looking down the street back the way I came. A man approaches me. He is around medium height, broad shoulders with his hands hunched into the pockets of his waterproof puffed up anorak. His blue wash jeans hang down vertically until they dab into the puddles of the cobble street and his nearly white trainers sludge through to stop just infront of mine. I look up at him, very mid-thirties Muggle, unique to this area. His brow has too many lines for his age and his pure blue eyes, though looking focused, look worn out and exhausted of love. His hair is strictly short, balding possibly on top. Although he may appear trapped, outside of everything I used to know him, I see he has found security and more freedom than I ever have.

"Frederick Weasley," I say in posh-like mocking tone, which is a test to see if he still has his old humour.

"Hermione Snape." Obviously he has.

"Do you remember this place?" I sigh, inviting him to maybe warm up to the memories we share.

"Why, of course I do, that used to be my shop," he points up the street to the only shop that is still painted flamboyantly. The defiance of the colours are appropriate to our situation, Fred hasn't given up yet.

"May I ask how life has been treating you these past ten years?" We walk side by side, like close friends but without holding much eye contact.

"Not bad. Could be a lot worse. I erm," he stops and I see that infamous red glow engulf his face, "I, well, I now work in a fancy dress and joke shop in Mansfield, renting the flat just above out of my wages. It leaves little money for much else. It's a safe living and it's a place that You-Know-Who would never dream of searching."

I smile approvingly; "So you managed to fit in okay, you know, with the new culture and all?"

"What culture? We are talking Mansfield. If I wanted to move somewhere to enlighten my experience of life I would be a hundreds of miles away from where I am now. But this place is fine, if you like kebabs and cheap beer. I'm into the easy life now, no facing demons or toxic potions. I hate to say it but I have become rather boring."

"Boring and Fred Weasley don't mix, I don't believe it! You must find some way of getting your kicks..."

"Well, I guess there's The Lexis on Saturday nights, pick up a couple of birds for the night and then finding myself the next morning in the middle of the park wearing girl's underwear," he sniggers.

"Charming, the life of a bachelor," I tease, we beam at each other for a couple of seconds, both not wanting the light atmosphere to fade. We both open our mouths occasionally; ready to say something, but then shyly close it again thinking it may not be appropriate. Awkwardness begins to develop.

"So… How is Ron?" Fred asks once we turn a corner into another deserted street.

"Ron?" I say, suddenly remembering that it is he Fred came to see and not I. I can't tell the truth about Ron without ruining the friendly spirit between us.

"You told me you saved him, how is my brother?" Anxiety is flooding through the small tears on his face. I know I can't skim around the truth.

"Well, to be brutally honest Fred," I begin, and then bite my lip hesitating, "he's crazy. And when I say crazy I don't mean Weasley's Wheezes crazy I mean he has lost his mind. I think the torment of Azkaban was just too much for him."

Fred tenses the muscles in his face and looks down to the cobbled street; he brings a hand up and starts picking at the stubble on his chin, a sign of worry.

"I'm sure he's still getting over the shock," he says in an attempt to convince himself.

I relax myself and remember that Fred needs comfort, "Just wait till you see him, he may feel better once he sees you, after all you are family."

Fred stops abruptly in his tracks making me rewind backwards a couple of yards to keep near: "What's wrong?" I ask in the most sympathetic but slightly patronising tone.

"Nothing!" he replies, "I'm just sick of wandering up and down these barren streets. You said you'd take me to the headquarters and there is no time like the present," he beams, with a big cheesy smile on his face that hides a complex of emotions contrary to it.

I approach him, ready to take his arm and fly off to Grimmauld Place but then remember my rather unusual assignment for the day as a Death Eater: "We have to make a quick stop off at Hogsmeade first Fred, I'm sorry."

He gives me, as expected, a confused look: "Why? What is there now? I heard that the shops have all been ransacked and the only place left in business is the Hogs Head, which is hardly surprising. George and I always knew that there were some dodgy dealings went on in there, too dodgy even for our enterprise." He suddenly shrinks on himself, after a few seconds of found reminiscence he is reminded of the great loss that followed. I stand in silence for a while but then realise that time is moving on.

"It's my erm, job, if you can call it that. My job for the day as a Death Eater, we sometimes get given daily tasks and I'm expected to report back tomorrow morning with my findings."

"What job? Report to whom? What findings? You really do what they tell you to do? I thought that you…"

He's babbling now, damn it, I should have come back and done the task later. I stop him in his tracks: "Fred, I've been asked to go to the Shrieking Shack and evict its inhabitants. I don't know who they are but apparently the Dark Lord wants to use the Shrieking Shack as a spy hole for Hogsmeade. That is all I know. Now come with me please, so that I can prove to you that I would never harm someone!"

"In my view evicting someone from their home is…" – I quickly apparate him to the edge of Hogsmeade. God – such a chatterbox! We land safely but as I let go a look of fury spreads across Fred's face. He makes a pathetic little growling noise that portrays his disapproval.

"Don't worry Fred, I'll put them up in the Hogs Head for a couple of weeks until they find someplace new." I grab hold of his well-padded arm and drag him across the muddy lane leading up to the house. The sun is setting, radiating a thin crimson line behind the house that illuminates it with fire. Eventually Fred stops resisting me and we approach the door.

"Knocking required? Or are we just going to barge in like those lunatics you work for?" Fred says, half joking, half deadly serious.

I give the door four firm knocks, scattering dust across our faces, coughing and spluttering I open it. The place looks deserted: no pots and pans in no sinks or sofas facing television sets. I am reminded of my first visit to this place, the derelict atmosphere, desertedness.

"Nobody home, what a shame. Come on places to go people to see," Fred pushes, breaking the silence and my thoughts. I look over to him, his hands are crossed across his chest and he's pacing slowly, anxious to leave.

Suddenly, we startle as we hear a thud upstairs and I presume someone is coming down to us, the banging continues, this person is mad at our intrusion. Nervously I edge further forward. The floor boards directly above me creak in turn, one after another, moving towards the stairs I can see at the end of this room. A sweaty hand grabs onto mine and I notice the redness of Fred's face, the bloodshot wideness of his eyes.

Then an outrageously high pitched shriek fills our ears. The shriek that the Shack is famous for. I cover my ears and tightly shut my eyes, not wanting to be here and hoping if I see no evil they'll be no evil.

Pop! Has someone else just entered the shack? I open my eyes slowly, still squinting and cringing, I am scared like a little girl. A deep breath is needed, some focus, who is it that's just come and who made that dreadful scream? My vision clears and I notice that Fred is on the floor, his body scrunched up in an aims to defend himself. Hovering over on its hind legs is a wolf, teeth bared and ready for a meal. My head goes dizzy as I lose the nerve to face up to this creature.

My breath becomes laboured, as my muscles tighten with panic: "Stop, please stop," I beg futilely.

"He's not capable of stopping," A soft voice beckons behind me, I swerve around, "Lucius tricked you, he sent you here to be killed. I came as soon as I realised."

Snape looks calmer than I expect him to be, resting against an unstable old table, staring down at the situation. I look at Fred on the floor, untouched so far and beginning to cry with dread. Then my eyes drift up to the wolf, his eyes so focused with something, not anger or the need for raw meat, but a deep passion of loss, a deprivation. I realise who this wolf is.