Onto Greener Grass

It seemed that age had its ways of making it easier on its victim: senses became deadened to all pleasures to the point that you no longer really craved. For someone hitting their waning years, this may be a tolerated trade-off... a balm, but to Bella, it was a form of tyranny. As she sat at the table in her room, dissatisfied and in no position to rectify such a state, her eyes greedily followed the woman in the garden opposite her window. She longed to be free from this arthritic and weakened prison. She wanted to feel the passions and strength she had shared when inside the Healer's skull. How long had it been since she'd been caressed and experienced pleasure? Even the simple pleasures of life weren't hers to enjoy.

Meadowes thwarted her move. In his passivity, he held some power over her. He knew, had guessed, or it was down to sheer dumb luck, that the information he had trapped in his skull was valuable enough to keep her under his skin. Until he broke or let slip some delicious snippet, she was no better than a dog at her master's table, waiting for scraps. It wasn't an ideal situation for her; it crimped her development as the next Dark Lord. But Bella knew about waiting... she knew about patience.

Starlings chattered and writhed in the grey sky, heralding the evening, and in the small courtyard below her window, she caught sight of the early drinkers catching a few puffs on their cigarettes in the fresh air before returning to their pints in the stuffy bar. Her memory stretched back, and she guessed her fingers would be in the Great Hall now, while their hosts waited for dinner. She felt a flicker of envy...

While she idled, waiting for Meadowes to buckle, she considered her plan. Putting fingers in Draco and Hermione had been inspired, but also rash. As her mind unwound from its giddy delight of their skin and her cuts, she realised that two of her precious anchors were now roaming free and beyond her direct control. It had worried her at first, but it didn't seem beyond her to move further north, leaving anchors at key locations en route... in case they were needed. Of course, she had no real idea how her travelling and possession skills were working, but it seemed reasonable to her, after her experiments in sub rosa, that should she be ousted from a host, she would snap back to the closest anchor.

She would work her way north, to Hogwarts, to despatch Potter, Weasley and all those who had worked against her...and if she couldn't get them directly, then their children would be the next best target. There was also something undeniable about the possibility of manipulating the minds of the students as they developed. So many eager minds ready to be fed, and she'd nourish them, fattening them up with her philosophies and dreams. She'd have them lapping up her words, craving her sweet tones, doing anything for one more mouthful. Within a generation, she could have a devoted cadre. The possibilities were endless. And the beauty was that no one would seek her out; they'd never even think to look for her.

Where to put her anchors, though? Those in the brats would only be useful for a short time...a very short time. One had to be secreted within Hogwarts... or maybe two; it depended on how far she could travel from an anchor. And they would have to be close to potential hosts: wizards. And where else? The Ministry? Where couldn't she have an influence?! A dark laugh rumbled in her chest. She'd have so many thumbs in so many pies!

Something else niggled at her: Snape's punishment and ruination. Her foray into his skull had showed that in some way he could cope with the strain and the torment of his environment; he could defend himself against his conscience... but he crumbled at the thought of Lily. But even that wasn't enough! If only he'd seen Lily's death... her dread, her terror... heard her screams and watched her fall. If he'd been there and known he was impotent: if only his hand in her demise had been more evident. There was little his mind could do to protect him from that.

It was an interesting idea, and from it, a scenario unfurled in her mind like a Dark Mark in the clouds. It would be fun, and if it didn't quite work, well, enough damage would have been done to make it worthwhile. Hermione was going to willingly enter Snape's mind to cure him... what if she could manipulate Snape into seeing Hermione as something more than just an irritating know-it-all? His mind was already fracturing...the split in those ravens of his had indicated as much...and she knew she had the skill to create more fractures in his psyche... in his personality, for want of a better term. Yes, in Severus Snape was a facet that craved love... and another that killed it: a coping mechanism. A smile curved her lips. She'd let Hermione cure him...while ripening her for the plucking...then connive to have Snape destroy her. When he recovered, he'd see the ruin he had fathered, and it would be another weapon in her arsenal. Perhaps death was too good for him: sometimes, living with yourself could be hell.

A doubt meekly raised its head, and Bella sighed...there was always something! She had no direct link to Hermione... how would she be in a position to play with his head? To cure Snape, Hermione would have to be in close contact with Snape... lying beside him, in fact... but how to get to Hermione to get close enough to Snape? Suddenly, a wave of exquisite realisation broke over her mind, causing her scalp to tingle and her heart to leap in her chest.

She didn't have to worry about Granger or Meadowes. How had she been so stupid?! They needed Snape, and whereas she had no idea where Granger would be or how to get to her, Bella knew exactly where Snape would be. She laughed out, slightly disappointed that it was more a wheeze, and rose to her aching feet. She'd entered his head before, and she knew how to lie quietly in someone's mind. It was too delightful! She'd have a front row seat to their destruction, with a free travel pass to anywhere she wanted, courtesy of Hermione or Draco.

Meadowes had served his purpose, and from what she could tell, he'd be no threat to her; even if he found some strength to confess what had happened, they'd only consider him a madman. She gathered up her anchors and slipped them into her pocket. Time to let Meadowes drift and find a temporary, more suitable, host for the path back to sub rosa.

ooXoo

Hermione stepped through the flickering fires into the Room of Requirement, unease twisting her insides. She knew it had been looming...there was no way to avoid it...and now, she realised just how much she'd been dreading this encounter. After the firelight, it was quite dim, and she struggled for a moment to focus on the two people standing side-by-side before her. When her vision improved, she found it impossible not to feel sympathy lance through her chest at the sight of the couple.

"Hello, Miss Granger," Lucius drawled.

Next to him, Narcissa's eyes narrowed slightly and her frame stiffened. It wasn't as if Hermione had expected a warm welcome, but Narcissa's frosty countenance gave her the chills and withered what was left of her confidence.

"Good evening, Mr Malfoy," she replied tightly. "And Mrs Malfoy."

The tall, painfully thin witch sneered. "Oh please don't stick to formality on my account," she hissed. "I've heard nothing but 'Hermione' from your mouth, Lucius, and I daresay that she is as free with your name as you are with hers."

It was petty and bitter, but meeting Hermione was almost unbearable; it brought out the worst of her emotions. She rallied behind the arrogance and dislike that had fuelled her through much of her young life, and it helped to smother the despair and uncertainty the situation engendered.

"Narcissa, dear," Lucius soothed, flashing Hermione a cautionary glance, "how about we settle and talk about our next move? I'm sure we could all do with a drink."

There was a pause, and Hermione felt as though the rest of their relationship balanced on this moment... that Narcissa's response was the fulcrum to either her rise or fall. She swallowed a hard lump; Narcissa had the power to destroy what she and Lucius had cultivated... what she and Draco had nurtured. Narcissa had never seemed so powerful or dangerous.

For her part, Narcissa saw a threat; Hermione had come between her and her family. Lucius and Draco had come to rely on the Muggle-born in a way...and she couldn't understand why...they couldn't rely on her. It pained her in so many ways that Hermione was doing something she hadn't even been given the chance to do. Why should a child have more influence on the family than the mother?! She knew it came down to feelings of power... and Hermione made her feel weak. She despised it.

As if pre-empting some disaster, Lucius withdrew a small bottle from his breast pocket and strode to the small table, where he poured three measures of a honey-coloured liquid into tumblers. Narcissa backed down enough to indicate one of the chairs, and her lips curved up into an empty smile.

"Where are my manners? Do sit, Hermione," she uttered crisply.

Lucius returned and offered a drink to each of the ladies, noticing with interest that Narcissa had chosen to sit between himself and Hermione. He claimed the remaining seat and lifted his glass.

"To new beginnings," Lucius offered.

Hermione smiled and a flicker of pain danced across Narcissa's pale face as they joined in his toast. They quietly took a sip. Narcissa felt somewhat better at Hermione's gasp and stuttering cough: Lucius had secured some potent Firewhiskey from somewhere. It warmed a way to her stomach while juniper played on her tongue.

After a few more gentle coughs, Hermione sat forward and placed her glass on her table. As she did so, she withdrew a small package from her pocket. Muttering the counter-spell, the package enlarged to the size of a shoe-box.

Lucius eyed it hungrily; it was almost as delicious as the key held in the Azkaban gaoler's hand had been. They were so close to their escape, to their Utopia, that he found himself hovering on the same precipice he had when he'd heard of Voldemort's last and final demise: he hovered on the edge of action, looking down on absolute failure and devastation, while a gentle wind of hope for the future kept him upright and balanced. Why when the deed was almost done did he harbour the greatest fear for its success? Why did he feel as though the cliff edge would crumble beneath his feet?

The lid slid off, and Hermione pulled out three small, slender, burgundy books and a wallet file. "These are your passports; you'll need a photo ID to..." the idea of them learning to drive flashed through her mind, and she had to bite down on the looming laugh "...join the local library, or if anyone needs to see your identification." She hesitated then handed them out to Narcissa, who plucked them from her fingers expressionlessly. "In here," she said, while lifting the wallet file, "you have birth certificates and a marriage certificate: they're charmed...as are the passports...to convince any Muggle of their authenticity. I'd be surprised if you ever need them, but better safe than sorry."

Narcissa flicked open her passport and studied the strange document. Her date of birth was the same, as was her place of birth, but her name...

"Lucas Malverne?" Lucius barked.

Hermione blushed and cringed. "It was the best I could come up with! It had to be close enough to your own so that it'd reduce the chance of mistakes and suspicion if you went out-and-about, and I couldn't very well use Malfoy."

"I think I can endure Marissa Malverne," Narcissa stated smoothly, her lips twitching. "And Jayden isn't terrible for little Draco."

"You did all this in a few days?" asked Lucius, shaking his head at what seemed impossible.

"The passports and certificates for you and Mrs Malfoy are the ones I used for my parents...just changed the names and details...and the set for Draco came from using the Protego Charm," she replied simply. "I can connect you up to the utilities when I get there, so you won't have to contact any utility companies. You will only need money for the local shops, so bank accounts aren't needed."

"But how did you obtain the house?"

"When Draco picked the house, I went back and... convinced the estate agents to give us the keys. He'll be Confunded until tomorrow evening at the earliest."

"So, it's ours?" breathed Narcissa.

Hermione smiled and pulled out a shimmering bunch of keys. Lucius let out a choked gasp and Narcissa swayed in her seat as though close to collapse.

"I've created a Portkey to take you to a secluded spot a few minutes walk away. All you have to do is wait until the Unplottable wards are complete, and then you can move straight in. Once they're complete, no one will bother you. For the owners...the builders...and the estate agents, neighbours...travelling salesmen, the house will seemingly never have existed." She licked her lips and glanced between them. "Once you use the Portkey, you won't be able to use magic at all... for anything."

"We understand," Lucius confirmed without hesitation.

"What about Draco?" Narcissa asked, feeling light-headed at the speed of it all.

"This weekend is a Hogsmeade weekend," she supplied. "We discussed that he'll 'slip away' with the other students and make it look as though he just went out with his friends. By the time, they realise he's gone, it'll be too late to track him."

Was it really that simple? Lucius frowned and glanced at the box of wonder on Hermione's lap. It was ridiculously easy. Suddenly he was gripped with terrible anxiety.

"You're quite sure that you can do this?" he demanded brusquely.

Hermione blinked and reared up. "I sent my parents away to live on a different continent, managed to hide with every Death Eater and Snatcher hunting us, dealt with a fragment of Voldemort's soul, held it together to lie when under the Cruciatus, and you think I'm going to struggle with this?"

"The Ministry has ways of tracking wizards," he implored, trying to make her see the danger the Ministry posed.

"I can make the house Unplottable," she responded icily. "They will never find you."

"Don't we need a Secret-Keeper for this to work?" Narcissa asked.

"Yes, and..." she inhaled and nervously drummed her fingers on her thighs "... we could use Professor Snape."

Lucius emitted a mirthless laugh. "As much as I have faith in Severus and trust in your abilities, I'd rather not place all my secrets in one basket."

Narcissa glanced across at her husband, her brow puckering. Just what secrets did Severus hold in his soul? All this had come about as a result of trying to help Severus. Something cold and hard solidified in her belly; Severus held something crucial, something vital. It was so... immense that Lucius had made even himself unable to divulge it. It explained his evasiveness and frustration when she questioned him. Her heart twisted in sympathy at his plight, but anger swirled beneath it; he didn't have to bear such weight alone, and he could...should...have trusted her!

"What about you?" Hermione asked, looking into Lucius' blue eyes.

"I... do not have the strength to be a Keeper."

"I do," Narcissa declared, her voice flowing with passion.

"Excellent," Hermione said with a smile. "We can do the Fidelius now."

Narcissa crumpled in her seat. She had felt as though Hermione had stepped on her toes, but the truth of it was that without the young woman, they'd have rotted away. She couldn't have conceived or put into action any of this. Hermione hadn't supplanted or undermined her... she had created a new role within this relationship, one that Narcissa could never have filled. It didn't alleviate her feelings of powerlessness, but it did highlight that Hermione had taken nothing from her. Tears prickled her eyes. Hermione had given them everything.

"I must apologise, Hermione" she uttered thickly. "I saw you as an interloper, as a wedge between Lu...well, I can see now that I was foolish. We wouldn't be free to live a decent life without you, and for that you have my undying gratitude." She reached out and grasped Hermione's hand. "Lucius tells me that you will use our house to cure Severus; be assured that you shall always have a warm welcome in our home."

Hermione smiled and squeezed the thin hand. "You're welcome, Mrs Malfoy."

Narcissa smiled wryly. "Oh, please, Hermione, call me Marissa."

ooXoo

The ravens watched as a figure emerged from the cave. It wasn't quite the pained wizard they'd followed. The figure was shorter, ganglier and younger. They knew who he was, so they continued to revel in the warm air and the water. Above them, a sun blazed pleasantly in a glorious blue sky. The bushes had swollen into beautiful low hedges, and the pebbles on the riverbank stretched out to merge with lush grass. Above the wind and the babbling water came the sound of creaking swings.

It still wasn't perfect. Something was missing, and the boy knew what it was...he just didn't have the knowledge to fully appreciate the sense of loss. He felt an echo of it when his gaze landed on the empty playground, and a cloud slipped past the sun, draining the warmth and making him shiver.

Somewhere, he knew the other part of him was asleep...if you could it sleep...and so for the first time since they'd been here, he had control. He walked over to the stream and sank to his haunches, idly tossing pebbles into the water. Trying to get himself to realise what was going on had been hard work. It was almost as if wallowing and sulking were the only things he'd grown up to be any good at...he still thought it crabbiness. It wasn't made easier by the fact that he didn't actually know what was going on; he couldn't formalise it from vague impressions and instincts into something accessible.

He knew this wasn't a place as such, and he knew that deep down neither did the older Severus. He also knew it reacted to how he was feeling; watching his other self had been very educational. Sitting back, he let his palms caress the soft grass. It was strange being the only one awake. He was aware of things that he knew hadn't yet happened to him, but they were so vague now, like trying to grasp a dream. He had tried to get a rise out of...he chose to call that other part Severus...Severus, but the man was obstinate. Now, he was only dimly aware of the events, horrors and emotions he'd tasted, and the words he'd used now seemed bland and tasteless.

It was peculiar that he was alone. He'd expected to have Severus curled up at his feet, but when the light returned, the cave had been empty. In a way, it made sense, and he hoped Severus would figure out how to communicate. He'd enjoyed the short talks, and this loneliness was disconcerting.

Inhaling deeply and falling back to watch a few wispy clouds drift across the sky, he rested his hands behind his head and thought about the people he'd heard speaking. He knew someone somewhere was desperately trying to help him, and he had to have faith that they'd succeed. An instinct warned him that survival here was impossible.

ooXoo

It was Friday and Muggle Studies. Draco had waited patiently for his wand, letting the sniggers and murmurs wash over him, and settled in his corner, listening to Hardwicke discuss romantic poetry, while going over and over Hermione's plan. He had expected excitement or anxiety, but once she'd left the room last night, he'd gone cold. It was almost as if he didn't dare to feel anything until the deed was done. In a way, it was a blessing. He still recalled the tormenting and terrifying emotions he'd suffered while serving Voldemort.

Hardwicke had given them their task: to read and critique Ozymandias by P B Shelley. Draco flipped to the sonnet and started to read. He'd never heard of Shelley, but the poem filtered into his brain, stirring his mind. One phrase caught his attention: 'nothing beside remains'. He glanced up from the poem and caught Hardwicke watching him, but the man languidly looked away, as if their eyes had met quite unremarkably. Frustrated by the professor's ambiguity, Draco glared down at the poem. Was he teasing him with a poem that could so easily reflect his family's misfortune? Well, he thought with a smirk, their future was more than decay and desolation.

When the class ended, he stood and dawdled to the front, caressing his wand... perhaps saying goodbye to it. Hardwicke was focused on some papers on his desk, and it wasn't until the last student left that he looked up. Draco found himself staring at the man's eyebrows, stomping down on his rising discomfort.

"Professor Slughorn tells me he wishes to petition for your wand to be returned to you on a permanent basis while at school," Hardwicke stated gruffly. "He's asked all your teachers to sign it."

Something squirmed pleasurably in his gut. After the news of his impending escape, he would have thought that nothing could offer more joy, but this news made his skin tingle. He hadn't realised how much his lack of wand had affected his self-esteem.

"That's... very generous."

"It's very belated," the man snapped back. "Left to me, you'd keep that wand of yours...I'm damned sick of the sight of it...but I have to take it until they come to their senses and approve the petition." When he finished, he held out his hand and harrumphed.

Draco felt a grin tug his lips and slid the wand into the gnarled hand. How ironic that when he was on the cusp of flight, they were working to make him feel more welcome. It made no difference; denying the Wizarding world and having his family together in peace far outweighed the chance to be a complete wizard in a spiteful one.

"I daresay you will survive the weekend without it," Hardwicke muttered while slipping Draco's wand into his pocket. "As an aside," he continued conversationally as he shuffled papers into order, "Mr Filch intends to use the students in detention this evening to clean the seventh-floor corridor--near the staircase to the Astronomy Tower. Apparently there was an impromptu duel there earlier this afternoon, and a few wayward curses have affected the décor."

Draco's grin died, and his eyes darted to meet Hardwicke's; his mouth dried and his throat constricted. His special room was on the seventh-floor, nestled between the staircase leading up to the Astronomy Tower and the disused bathroom. He'd figured out that the curved wall formed part of the tower's base.

There was nothing in Hardwicke's expression to suggest anything other than the sharing of some basic news that may be helpful should Draco decide to do some extra-curricular stargazing. Had Hardwicke seen him in the corridor, or was he using Legilimency?

The uncertainty was crippling. Everything was screaming that Hardwicke knew about the room, his meetings with Hermione and his plan to flee... but what could he do? But... was Hardwicke trying to threaten or aid him? After all, if he was seen skulking around later on the way to his sanctum, it would make his movements more difficult in the morning: Slughorn may invoke his threat of tagging him due to his jaunts away from approved areas.

"How did you like the poem, Mr Malfoy?"

The question jarred him from his chaotic thoughts. "It was interesting," he replied neutrally.

Hardwicke flashed him a grin, his beard and moustache twitching. "I like poetry," he added. "I always think that to the open mind, it can convey so much in so few lines, while the closed-minded just see confusing metaphors."

Draco merely nodded and glanced at the door. He had no idea where this was going, but he knew Hardwicke had picked the poem for a purpose; what that was, he had no idea, and the failure to grasp it was teasing him.

"It's a warning to all others who seek to aspire that nothing remains forever." He stopped and drummed his fingers on the desk. "And maybe it's a warning to consider what you leave behind to evidence your existence."

"A trunkless leg of stone?"

Hardwicke chuckled. "Maybe... but is that what Ozymandias wanted the world to remember of his reign... of his glory?"

"I don't know," he responded, genuinely baffled.

"Consider this then, Mr Malfoy," he said, standing and leaning closer. "Stop being the legs of stone and be the poet." After a quick scrutiny of the boy's face, he eased back. "If you can't, you'll never escape the ruined past. Now, toddle along and enjoy your weekend."

ooXoo

"Hey! 'Mione... wait up!"

Buffeted by her peers pouring out of the Astronomy class, she turned, and in the torchlight, caught sight of a mop of red hair battling the flow. A thrill went through her belly, and she suddenly wished she'd put her hair up.

"Hi," Ron said awkwardly when he'd escaped the flow to reach her side. "I... me and Harry haven't really seen much of you over the last few weeks or so, so..." he trailed off, hoping that she wouldn't see this as an accusation.

To his relief she smiled. "I've been so busy with my lessons, and I've been... been doing some tutoring for the OWLs. I heard that Gryffindor won their match against Ravenclaw. You made some spectacular saves."

His face split into a grin, and he shrugged humbly. "The whole team played well... shame that you couldn't watch it."

He scuffed his foot, and she shifted her satchel. Around them, the students thinned out until only the crackling torches and an expectant and hungry silence kept them company. She wasn't sure what she wanted or expected. It came as a surprise to realise how much she had missed Ron and yet hadn't found it difficult to divert time and energies from him. The selfishness of it made her sag and hang her head.

Ron, on the other hand, knew exactly what he wanted: he wanted her to stop disappearing and spend time with him and Harry... mainly him. He just didn't know how to communicate it.

"Harry and Ginny are going to Hogsmeade tomorrow," he began clumsily. "Apparently, a new shop has opened up and is offering a discount on..." he said, gaining confidence, only for his brain to catch up with his mouth. "Well, okay, it's a Quidditch store, so not your sort of thing... but we could, you know, go to Madam Puddifoot's for... er... tea, or something?"

As Hermione watched him shuffle and blush an idea slithered through her mind. She'd been wondering how to secure some time to complete the wards around the Malverne residence while maintaining a good alibi, should anyone come asking her about Draco. Her first plan had been to go to Hogsmeade and then slip away from the throng of students, but now, Ron, Harry and Ginny could be her alibi. The wards would take about twenty minutes... easily enough time for them to lose themselves in the new Quidditch store, and they'd be adamant that Hermione had waited for them outside, because that's what Hermione had always done.

She forced her lips into a shy smile and nodded. "That'll actually be very nice, Ron." She felt uneasy as his shadowed face lit up, but this was an ideal opportunity for her. "What time are you going down?"

"Just after lunch," he shot back happily. "We can go down straight from the Great Hall."

"Perfect," she said brightly.

Ron straightened and grinned back. "I should go and get some rest for the match tomo..." he began before pausing to lean in awkwardly and kiss her cheek. His lips brushed her skin, and then he was stepping away, gifting her with a small wave. "See you at lunch."

Hermione watched him skip down the corridor. Her cheek tingled and felt damp, and she wiped her hand over it. Not so long ago, they'd kissed... really kissed. It had been crazy and heady, and in that time while they'd healed and got their lives back in order, they'd shared moments that had snatched her breath. But now, back at Hogwarts, and it was somehow diminished. It had been as soon as they'd climbed aboard the Hogwarts Express. She felt as though they'd reverted back to students, and her mind drifted to those first few weeks... where she'd helped them with their homework and reminded them of their timetables. While she accepted it would be nigh on impossible to develop the relationship further at Hogwarts, she hadn't expected it to regress to what it had been before their hasty and magnificent first kiss.

Feeling bitter, she hoisted her bag on her shoulder and stormed off. She'd barely reached the top of the staircase when movement caught her eye. Instinct told her it was Draco, and for some reason, she blushed. Even without spells he could make himself practically invisible. Instead of continuing, she changed direction and headed for the camouflaged door by the staircase.

She felt him at her side, and then his hand was on her elbow, guiding her into the pitch black room. When the door clicked closed, a torch flickered into life, providing enough light to see without hurting the eyes. His fingers still cupped her elbow, and her skin tingled. Disappointingly, he released her to step over to the stove.

His appearance could only be described as haggard. "What's wrong?"

Draco shook his head and shivered. "I need a warm drink first; I've been waiting for you in that corridor since half past midnight. I'm freezing."

Hermione frowned, but settled quietly on a cushion to hug her shins. While he prepared the tea, she studied his outline. Silhouetted in the starry window and his face partly illuminated by the burner, he looked quite... alluring. She inwardly groaned and dropped her forehead to her knees. Her quandary was snuffed out when he slumped next to her.

"Damned burner will take ages."

"Here," she uttered softly and pulled out her wand to cast a warming charm. She saw something flicker across his face and realised that for a fraction of second, he'd been alarmed, but as the warmth seeped through his limbs, he relaxed.

"Thank you."

"Not a problem; now what's wrong?" she said with feigned exasperation.

"Hardwicke knows."

"Knows?" she repeated incredulously. "Knows what?"

He dragged his fingers through his hair, and for the first time since they'd worked together, looked vulnerable. "I'm not sure. He shared a poem with us in Muggle Studies, and..." he paused and licked his lips. "I think he was dropping a hint that he knows I'm leaving... he may be helping me."

"Wait," Hermione warned. "You can't be sure he knows just because you shared a poem."

"Every Friday I hand him my wand and he tells me that he can't wait to waste time handing it back to me on Monday morning... Today, he didn't."

"He could just be bored with it," she argued.

"No... if you'd been there... read the poem."

"What was the poem?"

"Ozymandias."

"I don't know it," she admitted.

Not that her ignorance was a problem, as Draco rummaged in his shirt pocket and withdrew a slip of a paper with the poem written on it. While he made the tea, she read Shelley's sonnet.

The mug warmed her hands, but the tea itself settled uneasily in her stomach. The poem was beautiful, but its use in class and the ensuing talk with Draco made her scalp prickle. She half expected a teacher...or Auror...to batter down the door and drag them away.

"He can't have warned the teachers," she said soothingly, more for her own benefit. "If he had, then we'd be both in the Headmistress' office by now."

"I considered that," he replied dolefully. "I wonder if he isn't using this to his own advantage."

"What do you mean?"

Draco sighed and fell back against the cushions, resting his forearm across his eyes. "Earlier this term, someone sent a snake to kill me," he said bluntly. Ignoring her startled gasp, he continued. "I couldn't find out who'd sent it on account of... a clumsy rescuer. Hardwicke found the snake and asked me if I knew the creature. Since then, he's given me some rather excellent advice and I've been left pretty much alone."

Hermione bit her tongue and squeezed her eyes shut. She'd heard rumours that Draco had been on the receiving end of some unpleasant curses, but she'd never seen any evidence for it or thought it prudent to ask. The way he shared it with her so matter-of-factly made her shiver at what he'd had to learn to accept.

"I've had the impression for a while now that on some level he's helping me: he immolated the snake, you see... destroyed all trace of it. And he hasn't informed my father or the other teachers." He let out a short dry laugh. "If he had, you can be sure I'd never be let out of anyone's sight."

"But, Draco," she implored, "we can't afford to trust him, and he could have been covering his own tracks."

"Maybe," he demurred as he lifted up onto his elbow. "However, I doubt very much that Hardwicke is trying to kill me... drive me insane with cryptic advice, yes; kill me, no."

"All we need to do is to hold on until tomorrow afternoon," Hermione muttered.

ooXoo

Breaking with habit would arouse suspicion, so as was his tradition on every other Saturday, Lucius walked into the bustling foyer of St Mungo's and strode over to the guard on the door to the lower levels of the hospital. Usually, the guard just sneered, but today, he held out his hand and planted it firmly on Lucius' chest.

Stepping back and flashing a disgusted look at the guard, Lucius snarled, "What is the meaning of this?"

"This part of the hospital is closed to visitors," the burly guard replied.

"Why?"

"I can't say, sir," he answered, clearly enjoying being the bane of Lucius' morning.

Panic flared, making his skin crawl and his breath snatch: this was a disastrous turn of events. "When will it be open to visitors?"

"Can't say for sure, sir."

He wanted to ask after Meadowes, but that would be imbecilic. Instead, he summoned a polite nod and stalked away. He had only one place to check, and that was the room they'd used on previous occasions. He knew how to get there; he just didn't relish using Muggle public transport.

Muggle London was busy and hard work at the best of times, but in the rain on a bitter, windy December day, it was sheer hell. Soggy newspapers had disintegrated into slippery pockets of mush, and plastic bags skittered along the pavement, intent on tripping unwary walkers. People, all eager to get out the rain, jostled and knocked into him, and cars drove past as if determined to hit puddles at speed to drench pedestrians. The cold, damp air bit into his lungs, drawing out painful coughs, and the incessant roar of traffic, beeping of horns and the screech of air brakes made his head throb. The bus shelter offered no peace. It seemed to entice and trap the cold wind and had been designed to trickle fat droplets of rain onto those who waited within.

He hugged himself to stop heat being leeched into the air and watched three buses go past. He wasn't sure how long he had left to wait, but from past experience, the number sixty-three came shortly before his bus. Breathing into his freezing, cupped hands, he silently joined in the litany of public transport passengers everywhere and urged his bus to hurry up.

By the time the sixty-three came, he sat alone, and it suited him. He didn't have anything against the Muggles, per se; it was just that he preferred to be alone. He found that Muggles generally felt the same way. His solitude was disturbed when an old lady with a trolley sat down opposite him. When she looked across, he nodded respectfully.

Soon afterwards, their bus chugged down the bus lane and pulled up with a puff of smoke and an ear-splitting screech. He helped the lady with her trolley and gladly stepped into the stuffy but warm bus. He paid the fare and sat down mid-way down the length of the rather busy bus behind his companion in the shelter.

He closed his eyes and let the rumble of the engine ease his discomfort and the warmth ease his chills. The ride had taken twenty minutes last time, but the traffic was so much heavier today; either way, it would take too long. There was nothing for it but to settle back and enjoy the ride.

"Terrible what happened in that 'ospital."

The words drifted to him from in front.

"Yeah!" chimed in another feminine voice. "They should 'ave them sort locked up, not put in places with us."

"Says that it were a worker, though," countered the other voice.

"Bet when they catch 'im, 'e'll say that 'e were overworked."

"Can't believe that it's 'round here," someone else added. "I mean ye 'ear o' these things 'appenin', but it's always somewhere else, innit? It's really got my Bernard worried."

Lucius cracked open an eye and lazily listened to the three chatting women.

"'E's been on the run for two days now," a plump woman declared hotly. "And they say 'e could be anywhere. Ye tell that Bernard o' yers not to fret; the bugger is probably well away by now."

"No, Doris, the papers said that 'e's most likely still in the area...somethin' about 'im not 'aving resources to go anywhere. My Malcolm works down at the local police station, and 'e' says that protocol is to watch 'is 'ouse and see if 'e comes back."

"But 'e'd be daft to do that!"

"No no! 'pparently a lot o' 'em go back 'ome."

"Well, they ain't given out an address... just an area."

"Hmm... 'e's from down near Baxter Place, from what I've 'eard."

Lucius opened his eyes and eased forward. Baxter Place was his goal. A very nasty sensation was crawling up his spine. But it couldn't be! he mused.

"'E can't 'ide forever," stated Doris firmly. "They been sayin' that 'e's close to seventy. 'Ow many of us at that age can keep anythin' up for long. Mark my words, ladies; this Meadowes' bloke is as good as caught."