Unaccounted

A/N: A huge thanks to my beta, nastygrl, who found time for this chapter in her busy schedule

Unaccounted

She did not turn towards the familiar streets that promised relative safety for anyone bearing the dreaded markings of the Warren dwellers. Directing her steps away from the narrow, claustrophobic streets of the place she had come to call home during the past months, Hermione ventured into the grey area of the wizarding world just between Knockturn and Diagon Alley. Here, the more and more segregated worlds of Purebloods and acceptable Halfbloods and those who were less fortunate, still interacted and intertwined.

The only apothecary serving Purebloods and Warren folk alike was appropriately named Ombre & Dusk.

Setting off a tinkling and out-of-tune alert, making a voice, rough with age, call out.

"That will be an extra 13% charge for late night service!"

Daylight robbery.

"That will be fine, sir."

The apothecary emerged from behind the shelves that were stacked with dusty ingredient jars, bags and crates. Some of the twisted-looking ingredients were only serviceable in potions, ones she would have eagerly studied not such a long time ago, but no longer. She had seen their effects first hand on the battle field.

With a determined inward shrug, Hermione threw off the suffocating memories. The now was what had to be taken care of. She could lick her wounds later, in safety.

An old, grey nightcap, reminiscent of the illustrations in her grandmother's age old children's books, sat atop the shopkeeper's narrow head; yellowish, sickly eyes studied her suspiciously. Customers bearing a heavy coin purse did not wear threadbare robes with Halfblood markings.

Hermione set her jaw.

"I need a Pneumonis Clarensis Potion, an Immunis Potion and ..."

She took a deep breath.

"... a Morning After Potion."

The gnarled hands stilled.

"That is a non-Ministry approved potion."

The population had been severely decimated. Contraception had been among the first things to be outlawed under the new regime, regardless of how desperate life had become.

She held his gaze for several seconds, willing her eyes to stay steady and calm while her heart was thumping wildly in her chest.

"How much?"

For the second time today – or had it been yesterday already? – she feared that the law would be called in. A rush of relief washed through her when he did nothing to ward the door or use the alerting device, with which every shop had been outfitted.

"20 galleons."

Hermione knew that the cost of the ingredients amounted to a maximum of 10 sickles.

"Agreed."

"For the last potion only. Plus the other two and the late night charge."

Careful now. She pressed her lips together and nodded before she pulled on the strings of the soft leather pouch and extracted the coin purse from where she had hidden it between her breasts in her stomacher.

The old man's eyes gleamed greedily as he watched her counting out the cut-throat price he demanded for the simple brews. If only she could procure the ingredients, if only she could manage to brew in the low-quality cauldron they used for cooking their meals, if only she could make sure nobody would notice...

Leery eyes stared at the place where her breasts were pushed up by the stiff and tightly-laced material of her robes. Muggle clothing had quickly joined the fate of all forms of contraception and was now obsolete.

"Next time when you need potions," he licked his thin lips, "I might be willing to come to a different agreement to make them more affordable for you."

Was it written all over her face? Was it obvious to everyone in the streets? Would it be obvious to the people that were her family now?

"I will remember that."

... and ask Arthur to buy our potions from now on.

Stepping out of the shop and rounding the corner, she quickly uncapped the smallest vial and sniffed to check the potion before downing the viscous liquid quickly.

Better be safe.

The coin purse was considerably lighter now, but its contents would still pay for two weeks worth of food. Two weeks in which efforts could be made to save for false work papers. Work papers meant paid employment, and employment meant the possibility of gaining access to one of the few surviving wizarding villages, now highly expensive and extremely selective in whom they admitted into their midst.

It could also mean fresh air and sunshine that were not blocked out by the crammed buildings along the alleys and free use of magic.

***

"Her ... Jeanne!"

Molly pressed her against her bosom and held her tight. Molly's voice was a choked sob.

"I thought you, too, would not return."

Hermione let her hold her and calm down.

"I brought some things."

Molly let go of her and watched her lay out her treasures on a relatively clean length of linen.

First, she lay down the bright red bell pepper. The rare delicacy brought forth gasps from both Molly and Arthur. Molly finally felt on familiar terrain and bustled over to the other side of the room to collect her cooking knife and started slicing thin stripes. She handed a few strips to Hermione and Arthur, and kept one for herself. With the rest, she began cooking a vegetable broth in their dented cauldron. Fortunately, her cooking charms were so strong that even the magic dampening spells could not disturb them much.

When the cauldron was bubbling, Hermione put the first vial down.

"Immune system supporting potion, two drops per day in hot water."

Molly pressed her hand to her mouth, her eyes swimming with tears and gratitude. She knew that prices in shops skyrocketed as soon as one of them entered. Potions tended to be especially affected, as people were desperate for much-needed healing and had no choice but to pay any amount.

The last vial was placed on the white fabric.

"Pneumonis Clarensis potion."

Now both Molly and Arthur were on her, hugging and kissing her fiercely.

"How? ... How?"

When they saw her troubled face and her efforts to search for words, Arthur put a gentle finger on her lips.

"No. Don't tell us, if you can't. We thank you. There are no words to express our gratitude."

Hermione nodded, thankful.

"There is more."

She handed over the purse.

"This will pay for food. It will give you time for more important things."

The older couple looked at each other with unbelieving and troubled looks.

Had she stolen the money from a powerful wizard who would come looking for her?

They kept casting her wary glances even as it was her turn to support Ginny's back while she was going through the long and painful process of expelling the clogging mucus from her infected lungs.

***

She had not come.

Another goblet joined the fate of its twin in hitting the wall and falling down to the floor with a dissonant clanking noise.

When he had asked her to come back, she had nodded.

Draco Malfoy looked around and selected a precious crystal decanter for execution. The shattering of glass finally brought the desired calming effect to his wound up nerves.

Had he not paid her enough?

Maybe he had scared her after all, and she had decided to stay away from the trade?

No.

Once caught up in Cutbush's web, there was no escaping for the girls. The contracts were specific and merciless.

Had something happened to her?

The punters could be brutal. Had Cutbush sent her to somebody who had hurt her?

A powerful feeling of possessiveness overcame him.

She was his little innocent harlot.

His.

He purposefully strode to his door, flung it open and bellowed into the deserted hall.

"Goyle!"

The large Death Eater poked his head out of a door further down the corridor.

"Yes, Draco?"

"Come in here, bailiff."

Gregory Goyle complied silently. This was not his friend Draco; this was his superior, the High Reeve.

"What can I do for you, sir?"

"The girl that you brought to me last week."

"Yes?"

"Where did you find her?"

Goyle scrunched up his face in puzzlement.

"We found her in a group of hookers. Was hiding a bit, or so it seemed, against the wall. Didn't look like the others. Didn't try to come onto us, either."

"WHERE?" The voice of the High Reeve was very calm.

"Batty Street," Goyle hastened to supply.

"You're dismissed."

Five minutes later saw the High Reeve of South England in full Death Eater regalia, striding out of Blackhearth in the direction of the Apparition point.

The guards of the Warren gates did not recognise their first in command as he passed through with his mask firmly in place.

Walking along the narrow streets, he did not heed the nervous glances people were casting his way. Sometimes he would stop and look closely at the small groups of girls and women standing alongside the rows of houses. Every now and then, one would dare to smile, hoping for a rich client to fulfil her quota for the night.

During the past week, he had caught his thoughts wandering back to the brown-haired girl more often than he wanted to admit or had been appropriate.

It was just her lack of experience, he told himself. Otherwise he would have simply partaken in the services offered, paid and dismissed.

If she even was that inexperienced. There was more than one way to skin a cat. She did not have to lie under a man to sell her charms.

Infuriated by his endless thoughts of her? He all but tore into the large group of women assembled at the corner of Batty Street, all of them showing their left leg up to the delicate hollow of the knee.

Forcing himself to slow down and look carefully, he went through the rows and little subgroups.

She was not there.

He did not know whether he should be happy or worried about her absence.

Was she at home? Was she ... with a client?

He did not like the thought.

Was she hurt or in trouble?

He liked that thought even less.

"You."

The girl he had addressed looked delighted and fearful all at once. The robes of this Death Eater were decidedly expensive. That made him a dangerous and rich man. He reeked of power. He was the kind of man that could afford a steady mistress. Or two.

"Any business, sir?"

She smiled a toothy smile that tried to hide that she had already lost some of her back teeth. He could barely suppress his revulsion. Would his girl look the same in a few months or years time? How long did the girls last out on the street?

"Have you seen a brown-haired girl? Curls, brown eyes, new to the trade?"

She shook her head and then proceeded to lift her skirt higher and lean forward to give him a better view of her ample cleavage.

"But whatever she does, I am willing to do as well. For a little premium if it's anything... too unusual."

His eyes were cold behind his shiny mask.

"The girl. Do you remember?"

Now she looked appropriately scared.

"There was a new girl like that here. About a week ago. She did not honour the code and just stood with us. Had the two Dea... bailiffs not taken her away right after she put herself up against the wall as if she had already earned that place... Well, she never came back anyhow."

Draco Malfoy looked at her for a little longer.

"Do you know her name, or where she lives?"

She shook her head mutely.

Without another word he pressed a few galleons into her hand, turned on his heel and hurried back to the Apparition point, witches and wizards jumping out of his way.

***

"Goyle!" He barked for the second time today.

"Bring me Cutbush."

With measured movements he summoned his Pensieve. There was work to do.

***

"How is the business going?"

Francis Cutbush contemplated the question of the High Reeve and the possible answers and their implications and consequences. So far, he had been left alone. Death Eaters frequented his girls, and he supplied the entertainment to feasts, private parties and the occasional revel. In return, the masked wizards had not interfered with his doings.

"I cannot complain, High Reeve."

Draco Malfoy kept his back to his visitor, not exactly a polite gesture that made it clear that either the High Reeve deemed the panderer inept at causing him harm or that the shady man was simply outnumbered in Blackhearth. Probably both.

"Would you like to keep it that way?"

Cutbush was a sensible businessman who valued his monopoly in the unexpectedly expanded underworld of the wizarding world.

"Is there anything I can do for you?"

People in stations of power hardly ever met with the likes of the panderer. They had people for that purpose to do their bidding. If one of them was willing to meet face to face, it was usually to arrange rather extreme pleasures of the flesh. It would be a pity to lose one of his prettiest girls, but it would be even more of a pity if he would lose all of the girls. Should the High Reeve be into necrophilia or blood sports or be the reincarnation of that insane wizard the Muggles used to call The Ripper, it mattered not. Francis Cutbush would keep him satisfied.

"You have a new girl. Long brown curls, no make up. Worn robes. She started last week."

He threw a Pensieve shot of the girl at Cutbush. Coming near, let alone touching the man, was out of question.

The panderer picked up the slightly fuzzy photograph and looked closely.

What the bloody fuck!

He had no idea who that girl was.

This was a disconcerting bit of information. Was somebody trying to infringe on his business? Why did he not know about it?

No girl walked the street without either going to auction or being tried out by himself. This girl was not one of his flock.

"I want to buy her contract. All the copies. In return, I will let you carry on. For now."

Cutbush inclined his head.

"I will be honoured to give the girl into such renowned hands."

Malfoy threw a coin purse at the man, who caught it easily.

"She will have no more customers starting now. I expect her here no later than tomorrow at midday.

The panderer secured the coin purse in a secret pocket spelled against theft and bowed out. Leaving Blackhearth he calculated how many men he could rouse at short notice.

He had a girl to find and a whore to make.