"I would think twice before going on this mission," he'd told Draco.

The shadowy corner of a multistorey car park they'd occupied had made it hard for Draco to examine Snape's expression, especially at that time of night.

He furrowed his eyebrows. "But it sounds... easy? Unless you do want us to break into Azkaban, after all," he said in a questioning tone.

"Don't be foolish. Neither of you can even cast the Patronus Charm."

Draco was relieved to hear that, though no less puzzled.

"It does sound easy," Snape continued smoothly. "So easy that it should strike a cautious person as suspicious."

Draco sighed. "If you think it's a bad idea, then why did you send me the tip?"

There was a pause. For a while, they simply listened to the sounds of a night-time muggle city. When Snape finally spoke, he sounded tired and almost sympathetic.

"I sent that tip because I know, Draco, that these past several months have not brought you any closer to your ultimate goal."

"And you think this little mission will?"

"It's quite possible, yes. The advantage you'd given the Order is not enough for them, you know that. In fact, they're more than likely to use it against you. But these Portkeys—they could be your bargaining chips, your official pardons—"

"Then it's worth the risk."

He'd made up his mind then, and none of Snape's words of caution with which he'd departed back to Hogwarts could convince him otherwise.

Now, a week later, on a windy afternoon, hiding with Ruth in the bushes near the edge of a cliff, watching two Snatchers cross an invisible barrier and disappear behind it, Draco was suddenly unsure.

It was easy. Too easy.

Obtaining a Portkey to a simple Quidditch tournament during peacetime had been a slow and headache-inducing bureaucratic ordeal. Obtaining Portkeys to Azkaban during wartime should have been impossible.

Yet, here they were, transported to the Ministry by a pair of contemptible Snatchers.

Too easy.

The Portkey creation process was supposed to be closely regulated by the Ministry, or so Draco's father had told him. The control had to be even more stringent now that Voldemort was in charge, determined to track down every last member of the Order.

Unauthorised travel was not only illegal but also exceedingly difficult, as the Portkey spell was a closely guarded secret, accessible only to those accepted into a relevant position within the Ministry. Before Voldemort's takeover, only three officials were responsible for making Portkeys (with the fourth one having passed away shortly before). Two of these officials were muggleborn and had tried to flee following the takeover but were hunted down and imprisoned. This left one pureblood specialist who, surprisingly, had the guts to quit his job, refusing to cooperate.

He was now cooperating, but due to health problems—no doubt inflicted by all the torture—he could only work from home. That's why the Snatchers had to travel all the way to his house, carefully hidden on the edge of this cliff, to collect the Portkeys themselves.

So convenient.

The wind tugged at his cloak, dragging it through the mud. By this late in March, the snow had all but melted, giving way to occasional rain. Today, the clouds were grey, but it wasn't raining yet.

Draco craned his neck to peer over the edge, where jagged rocks jutted from the raging waters far below. He wasn't normally afraid of heights—being a Seeker and all—but at this moment, looking down felt almost dizzying.

"Don't forget," he told Ruth in a whisper, returning his gaze to the seemingly empty space before them, "we're not going for the kill this time."

"Anything you say, lieutenant," she said in a distorted voice that didn't sound too happy.

"I mean it. We need to get these Portkeys, and we need to do it quietly. No one can know we have them."

"I know, I know."

"They're much more important than these Snatchers. They can grant us our freedom—"

"Jeez, would you stop selling? I can go a day without killing, I'm not a total psycho—"

The invisible barrier rippled. Draco held up his gloved hand, and Ruth immediately fell silent. He gripped his glamoured wand and prepared to strike.

As soon as the two men exited the grounds, materialising out of thin air with a large wooden box floating beside them, Draco and Ruth sent two Stunners flying—one for each man.

Only to be blocked by two sturdy shields, raised a moment prior.

Before Draco could even marvel at the sudden show of competence, the men hurled hexes towards them, their red strips of fabric flashing in the air.

Protego.

Just as Draco raised his shield, he saw three more balls of light flying towards them from the sky. At the last moment, he extended his shield above his head.

"Look up!" he shouted, noticing a broom flier.

But it was too late, and Ruth was struck by one of the spells from above. Her wand flew out of her hand and off the cliff.

She didn't have time to reach for her second wand to repel the next wave of hexes. Instead, her empty hands flew up, conjuring another shield wandlessly.

As the hexes crashed into their shields, she cast an apologetic glance at Draco. He shook his head, hoping his look would silently communicate the change of plans—they were going for the kill now.

It did, because the moment Draco cast a Blasting Curse—the force of which broke the shields of the men on the ground and made them drop their wands—Ruth, with two abrupt movements of her hands, sent one of them tumbling off the cliff and summoned his wand to her hand.

Draco struck the second man with a Cutting Spell to the throat, then turned to cast a hex at one of the fliers who made a rather impressive dive after the falling man. The flier dodged the hex, abruptly halting his descent. His face was hidden behind a Death Eater mask. After a final glance downward, he soared upward and began firing hexes at Draco.

There were three of them, the broom fliers: two Snatchers and one Death Eater. All were fast, but the Death Eater was the fastest.

Still casting hexes and curses, Draco and Ruth stepped out of the bushes to avoid the cliff's edge and manoeuvre more effectively. A myriad of red balls shot into the sky, some—strangely enough—streaked with black, but all Draco noticed was that they missed their targets.

"Damn it!" he yelled.

"I have an idea," called Ruth, darting further back from him as she evaded another hex. "Watch this!"

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw her discard the Snatcher's wand and bring her hands together. As she forcefully pulled them apart, Draco heard a cracking sound. The broom of one of the Snatchers splintered in mid-air. The man, along with a rain of wooden pieces, plummeted to the ground, his face ploughing into the mud.

Finishing him off, Draco saw the other two men freeze in the air and, a moment later, disappear with a loud pop.

He blinked at the clear sky, wondering what had made them leave. He didn't have to wonder for very long.

"Drop your wand!"

The voice startled him. It was a man's voice.

Draco spun around to see the only remaining Snatcher holding Ruth's small cloaked figure at knifepoint, towering above her. The Death Eater stood next to him, pointing his wand at Draco.

"And no wandless tricks," said the Snatcher, pressing the knife into her neck. "Try anything, and she dies." His voice was hoarse and scratchy, his skin mottled and pockmarked.

Ruth's jaw was set as she stared at Draco. He knew what that look meant, and it annoyed him to no end. What a fool. He would never leave without her.

But what could he do?

"Drop the wand," the Snatcher gritted out. "I'm counting to three."

Draco's mind scrambled for a plan.

"One."

He could drop the wand and attack them wandlessly. But they would be expecting it.

"Two."

What they wouldn't expect was a muggle firearm. But then again, they were likely to Stun him the moment he dropped his wand.

He had to try something.

As the Snatcher began uttering the final word, Draco let his wand fall from his gloved fingers.

"Atta boy." The Snatcher's thin lips stretched into a smile. "Now kneel—"

"Three!" said the Death Eater, swishing his wand.

The Snatcher's body went slack, and the knife slipped from his grasp. Ruth caught it mid-fall and sprang back as the man fell to the ground.

Draco stared at his body, utterly bewildered.

"You can pick up your wand now," the Death Eater told him.

Summoning his wand to his hand, Draco wasted no time aiming it at the masked figure. Ruth followed his example, raising the Snatcher's knife.

Yet the Death Eater didn't flinch, resting his own wand at his side.

"I've just saved you two," he pointed out. His voice sounded youthful yet calm and measured.

"Who are you?" demanded Draco.

"Let's make a deal. I take off my mask, you take off yours."

Draco smirked. "I don't think so."

With a shrug and a nonchalant, "It was worth a try, wasn't it?" the Death Eater slowly pulled back the hood of his cloak and removed his mask, revealing short blonde hair and a soft, intelligent face. The face Draco had seen before.

The Death Eater must have been looking for signs of recognition, for he seemed slightly disappointed when neither Draco nor Ruth showed any reaction to the revelation.

"The name's Terence Higgs," he introduced himself curtly.

Terence Higgs. Draco didn't know much about him. They had never been on the Quidditch team together; Draco had replaced him as Slytherin's Seeker when Terence chose to focus on his NEWTs. He wasn't particularly popular in Slytherin, so Draco had heard little about him. No fun at parties. A good student. A stickler for rules.

What the hell was he doing here?

Draco asked him just that.

"I'm here to—" After a moment's hesitation, Terence straightened his back and raised his chin. "I want to join you."

Draco raised his eyebrows behind his mask. "And why would you want to do that?"

"Because I don't want to be a Death Eater," Terence said, his voice slightly rising at the end, as if the answer were obvious. "I never intended to become a Death Eater. Last year, my mother and I planned to move to France, away from all this madness. We thought we had time, but they came for me. Mother managed to bribe her way out, but I had to stay. I thought I would just bide my time, keep a low profile, and then they'd realise they have no use for me and would let me go. That was the plan. But it's been so long, and I—I can't do it any longer."

"Can't do what?" asked Draco.

"All these meetings, all these hunting trips... The missions and raids I could handle, but not their idea of fun. The things I've seen them do, they are positively... uncivilised."

Ruth cut in, "So you want to defect over some aesthetic objections?"

"Of course not!"

He perked up and instantly stilled as her knife drew closer, almost touching his chin. Draco walked towards them, stopping just close enough to see Terence swallow.

Having composed himself, Terence continued speaking. "After Hogwarts, for quite some time, I had a halfblood girlfriend. We even celebrated Christmas together. She didn't warn me about her dad, though. I'd thought he was a muggleborn. But no, he was an actual muggle. Naturally, I was appalled. But walking out would have been rude, so I chose to stay until the end of the dinner. And, much to my surprise, he... he was okay. Not at all what I expected.

"So, I didn't mind it much. We had our share of fights, but her parentage was never a problem. Yet it became one with the Dark Lord's return. It all went to shit then. We broke up, she moved abroad, and I... I became a Death Eater."

"So what," Ruth said dryly, "is this little act of rebellion your attempt at getting your ex back?"

"No." He glared at her. "All I'm saying is that maybe I was—wrong. Maybe they're all wrong," he finished in a lowered voice.

To Draco's ears, the speech sounded quite sincere. But was it?

"You are a Slytherin, Terence, are you not?" he said. "Slytherins are no heroes. Give me the real reason."

Terence huffed, and his voice grew more frustrated. "All right. Remember what I told you about my plan to wait it out until they tire of me? I realise now that if that happens, they're much more likely to kill me than let me go. The ranks are volatile, unpredictable; there is no telling what might happen tomorrow."

Self-preservation. This, Draco could believe.

Ruth began circling him, her knife inches from his body. "Say we take your word for it. Pray tell, what use would you be to us?"

And this was the real question. The most important question. Despite the name the Prophet had given them, they didn't welcome all the stray blood traitors of the world. No, they were a closed club.

"I can tell you where the real Portkeys are."

That got Draco's attention. He turned to glance over his shoulder at the wooden box lying near the invisible border.

"That's right," said Terence, "these are not Portkeys. The real ones are already in the Ministry. You didn't really think they'd let Snatchers transport something so valuable, did you?"

"Then who did?" Draco asked. "When? How?"

"By Floo."

"But we heard it's been thrashed."

"It was repaired long ago. Snatchers just used this little bit of misinformation to lure you into a trap. There is a real price on your heads, you know."

When neither Draco nor Ruth said anything, Terence continued, "I suspected they were planning something. An ambush. Hoping to get to you, I volunteered to help them, said I would escort them safely. They only agreed when I swore up and down that I didn't need the reward money. Once they heard that, they were very eager to accept my help, even though I'm an inexperienced Death Eater. They're terrified of you. A lot of people are."

Casting Terence a look of warning, Ruth lowered her knife. Passing Draco, she walked all the way to the bodies of the first two Snatchers, approaching the wooden box. Following a flick of her wrist, the lid slid to the side, and the box toppled over, spilling a dozen ragged boots.

Draco cast a detection spell—the one Snape had taught him—over the shoes. This, at least, Terence wasn't lying about: none of the objects were enchanted or cursed in any way.

"These are not Portkeys," Terence said, "but they did have one made specifically for you. If you see any Quick-Quotes Quills, well... Don't touch it."

"Quick-quack what?" asked Ruth.

With a slight squint, Terence studied her for a few moments.

Oh Merlin.

Draco rushed to change the subject, but before he could, Terence aimed his wand at him and shouted, "Stupefy!"

Draco, who'd been on his guard the entire time, was ready for that. Wandlessly raising a shield, he sent a Stunner of his own.

As it hit Terence in the chest, he fell to the ground, losing consciousness.

But the first Stunner didn't even touch Draco's shield. It flew past him. Spinning so quickly that something—something purple—flew out of his pocket, Draco found where the Stunner had landed—on a man in a dark grey uniform. Hit with the spell, the man's body slumped against a tree, and a gun slipped to his feet.

Draco didn't have time to pick up whatever had fallen, because, at that same moment, he saw four more men behind the trees already aiming their guns at him and Ruth.

The Wardens.

Long time no see.

Draco turned his shield against them and cast a quick glance to the right, finding Ruth already behind a shimmering blanket of defensive layers.

The air quickly filled with the deafening roar of gunfire as bullets crashed into their shields. The defences held firm, thick and impenetrable, sending bullets ricocheting in all directions with loud clinks and clangs.

The Wardens, undeterred by their lack of progress, continued reloading and firing, making Draco's ears ring.

Without lowering his shield, he brandished his wand, casting a powerful wave of energy toward the men. They were knocked off their feet, some even dropping their guns.

Draco's eyes met Ruth's. They needed to leave, now!

Ruth kept her shield up as she started to run toward him.

But they couldn't leave without dealing with the last Snatcher. At the very least, he had to be Obliviated. As Draco looked at him, the Snatcher stirred, as if waking up. Damn it.

And what on Earth were they to do with Terence?

Draco began casting Stunners at the muggle men.

"Take cover!" one of them shouted.

But it wasn't Draco's spells that they were all ducking to avoid. No, it was a small object—an innocuous-looking metallic fruit—flying toward Draco and Ruth. He'd seen it in pictures.

A hand grenade.

Ruth was running toward him. She didn't see it.

"Watch out!" he cried out, fortifying his own shield. The defensive layers grew thicker as they encased him, head to toe.

The hand grenade landed between Draco and Ruth, at an equal distance from each of them. The moment it hit the ground, it exploded.

The blast collided with Ruth's shield, launching her high into the air and backward. Toward the cliff's edge and over it.

Draco had less than a second to decide what to do.

As he glanced around, time seemed to slow.

The Wardens lay on the ground, shielding their faces with their hands.

Terence's unconscious body tumbled to the ground, farther away from Draco.

The Snatcher—now awake—was crawling on the ground, reaching for his wand that had been blown from his grasp.

And Ruth, eyes closed, was falling, vanishing from sight beyond the cliff's edge.

When that second was over, Draco made his decision.

Hearing nothing but the ringing in his ears, he sprinted to the cliff's edge and leapt into the grey sky.

The wind howled past him. It made his eyes water.

Ruth was already halfway down, plummeting towards the sharp rocks jutting out of the water. The vastness of the drop chilled Draco to his core, the water rushing up to meet them with reckless speed.

He couldn't reach her in time.

In a split-second decision, Draco gripped his wand. The single tree branch protruding from the cliff extended. It snatched at Ruth's cloak just as she shot past it.

With her whole body coming to a stop with a jolt, something slipped out from her cloak and fell. Her second wand.

Draco couldn't care less about it.

The distance between them was rapidly closing.

He saw the tree branch crack and, even with the mad wind in his ears, he thought he could hear the sharp, splintering sound that accompanied it.

The branch split into two, letting go of Ruth.

But just as she began to fall again, Draco finally reached her.

His palm brushed against hers, and he grabbed her by the wrist, pulling her close and closing his eyes to the terror beneath them.

Destination.

Determination.

Deliberation.

The world around them twisted, and the air pressed in from all sides.

The next thing Draco knew, they had tumbled onto a hard surface, which—thank Merlin, Morgana, and all Four Founders—did not feel like the rocks.

Instead, it was the cold ground. Clutching the fresh grass beneath him to stop the world from spinning, Draco tentatively blinked his eyes open.

The sky above darkened, and as the noises in his head subsided, he heard it rumble.

Having pulled off his mask with his weak fingers, Draco breathed in a lungful of humid air, stealing a single glance at their RV that stood lonely amidst the trees. Then he just lay there, staring up at the clouds for Merlin knows how long.

The sound of coughing brought him back to reality.

A groggy voice, "What—what happened?"

He turned his head to the left and found Ruth sitting up, her eyes uncomprehending and her tangled curls frizzing in all directions. Her mask lay on the ground, discarded.

"We got out," he said simply.

"But—but—" She pressed her hands to her temples and squeezed her eyes shut. "Did you—did you get them?"

"No. Maybe the Wardens did."

"Maybe?" she repeated, dazed.

Still on the ground, Draco attempted a shrug. "Maybe, maybe not."

She opened her eyes and stared at him incredulously.

"But—but the rules, Draco. They know what we were after. And they saw me doing—You said they cannot know our strengths. You said only a fool reveals the true extent of his powers. Why did you let them get away?"

"You silly woman."

With a chuckle, he stood up and offered her a hand, pulling her to her feet.

"Misfits need misfits," he said, steadying her. "Preferably alive. Ideally—" He looked her over with a critical gaze, frowning at the long red scratch across her cheek. Must have been the tree branch. "—unharmed."

The sky rumbled once more. As the first raindrops touched his skin, Draco pulled Ruth toward the RV.

"Come, let's patch you up."

Three hours later, they sat in their small kitchen, all healed and cleaned up, drinking hot tea.

Their flat was an odd little place, from its outward appearance to the eclectic blend of styles within. Draco's room was modelled after his chambers in the Manor, while Ruth's—in her words, not his—was much more modern. The kitchen itself was a mix of the muggle and the magical.

"To the first failed mission," Ruth said gloomily, raising her tea cup.

"It's fine," said Draco, snatching yet another chocolate-chip cookie. "I knew it was too good to be true. Or, shall I say, too easy."

Despite all the ways the mission had gone wrong, Draco found himself in a strangely good mood. Perhaps he was simply too relieved that they had escaped in one piece to lament their failure and the loss of not just one, but two wands. That was a problem for tomorrow.

"Did you believe that guy?" Ruth asked him.

"Who? Terence?"

"Who else?"

Draco finished the cookie before answering. "I'm not sure. Back at Hogwarts, I didn't know him all that well. He may have been telling the truth."

He probably was. It was a shame they just left him there, Stunned. He needed to cancel the spell the moment he spotted the Wardens, but honestly, that was the last thing on Draco's mind under the rain of bullets.

As he thought about it, his mind stumbled upon another memory: he had dropped something. When the Wardens showed up, something had flown out of his pocket. But what?

It wasn't his wand or mask, and his pouch was still secured at his waist.

What, then?

Something light, something... purple.

He froze, his fingers inches from his tea cup.

The business card.

His heart skipped a beat.

"What?" Ruth asked, noticing the change in his expression.

No. Nobody had taken the card. Even if someone had noticed it, they would probably have dismissed it as useless trash anyway.

But what if they hadn't? What if they thought this girl could lead them to Draco?

He felt his mouth go dry.

"What?" Ruth repeated, more urgently this time.

"I—I need to go."

He got up from the table, loudly pushing back the chair.

"Where?"

In an instant, Ruth was up and blocking the doorway.

"I lost it," he said.

"Lost what?"

"The tattoo salon card!" he explained impatiently. "I need to check on her."

Ruth frowned. "You mean you lost it there? How?"

Draco raised his hands in frustration. "It slipped from my pocket, okay?"

"What was it doing in your cloak pocket?"

"How would I know?!"

Ruth arched an eyebrow, and it made him calm down a little.

"There is no need to panic yet," she said slowly. "Let's just go and check on her."

Moving to their narrow corridor, she retrieved their masks from the top shelf of a cabinet and held one out to him, saying, "Just in case they are waiting for us there."

From across the street, the tattoo salon "Monique's" was barely visible, its narrow and modest façade nestled between two larger shops. It had a peculiar lilac door, recently painted, by the looks of it. But it wasn't the door that captured Draco's attention as he and Ruth crossed the street towards the shop under the pouring rain; it was the shop's single window and the fact that it was curtained off at this hour of the evening when every other establishment on the street was open.

It could be that she was simply filling in at the café again. It could be. However, as they approached the lilac door, Draco found that less and less likely.

They stopped at the doorstep, and Draco drew his wand. None of the muggles paid any attention to them anyway, hiding behind their umbrellas and rushing home to escape the rain.

"Homenum Revelio," he muttered.

The shop turned out to be empty, but that didn't ease the sinking feeling in his stomach.

After exchanging tense nods with Ruth, Draco flung the door open and stepped inside, wand at the ready.

Before he could see it, he smelled it—the unmistakable scent of blood.

Ruth closed the door behind her and flicked on the light.

He saw her then—bound to a chair, bleeding and utterly still. Clots of half-dried blood matted her long, kinky hair. Blood streamed down her face, pooling in her unseeing eyes. Her hands were a horrifying mess, every single nail torn off and lying on the dirty floor.

The blood was fresh. It might have happened mere minutes ago.

"This isn't the Wardens' doing," he heard Ruth whisper.

Draco found himself unable to voice his agreement, his throat tightening as he stared at Monique's lifeless body.

He wondered what it was that had killed her in the end. Was it that blunt trauma to the head, or was it a simple Avada?

I'm opening a small tattoo shop. Well, it's really small, and I'm only a beginner, so...

I'm sure you'll do great.

Just so you know, my husband owns a shotgun.

Draco's eyes darted around the small room, his breath coming in short bursts.

What had he done?

It was all his fault.

At the edge of his vision, he saw Ruth's hand reaching for an object on a small, cluttered table. A red feather. No, not a feather.

A Quick-Quote Quill.

"No, don't!"

He dashed toward her, but as his hands grabbed her shoulders, her fingertips had already brushed against the Quill. Horrified, Draco felt a familiar tug at his navel.

The Quill landed them in the centre of a small, claustrophobic room with stone floors, walls, and ceiling. It had no doors.

As soon as they made contact with the ground, a strange green gas began to seep into the air through tiny holes in the corners of the room.

Draco grasped Ruth's hand again, desperately attempting Disapparition, but nothing happened, and they stayed exactly where they were.

The gas invaded his nostrils, burning his eyes. He held his breath, trying to break through the Anti-Apparition wards, but the gas had already entered his system. All he could see was the green smoke. The colour grew darker and darker, until everything went completely black.

As Draco and Ruth collapsed onto the stone floor, unconscious, many miles away, Terence Higgs awoke in a sterile white room, blinded by the lamps above him, strapped to a cold, metal table, and surrounded by a dozen of masked figures in white lab coats.