When One Door Closes

He couldn't settle. Either the desire to go to his sanctum bullied him or he felt dread inching along his spine. He'd been so sure when talking it over with Hermione that Hardwicke was an ally, but in the chilly room, listening to the wind whistle past the window and watching shadows creep across the walls, he wasn't so certain. One thing he knew without doubt was that at half past two tomorrow afternoon, he would be leaving Hogsmeade and the Wizarding world.

Perhaps the thought lulled him to sleep, because he woke late morning to the sun in his eyes and a throbbing headache. Groaning, he staggered out of bed and across to his desk, where he slipped into a dressing gown. Grabbing his wash bag, he padded off to the Prefect's bathroom, where he hoped a warm shower would help dissolve the hammer in his skull.

As usual, there was no one in the corridor, and he allowed himself a moment of luxury and relaxed, pretending that all was well and as it had been when he was a small boy first venturing into Hogwarts. It didn't last.

He could feel eyes on him. They'd been watching him since he'd returned to school. Of course, should you look, there'd be nothing there: house-elves prided themselves on their ability to work completely unseen. His lip curled up and he shuddered, wondering if they'd always watched the students: what secrets they knew... what they shared and who with? He was glad when the bathroom door clicked shut behind him.

In a few hours, he'd be away from all this. No more spies, no more fists in the dark, no more powerlessness, and no more snickers and pity. It would be him and his family... in a Muggle house in the middle of nowhere. As water pummelled him, he contemplated life without magic. He snickered at the thought of cooking: maybe Potions would be of help there. Muggle Studies had no doubt been a help; after all, he did now know the basics of Muggle life. While towelling dry, he wondered what he would actually miss. What hadn't he already lost and pined for? What had he already given up and forgotten?

What about defence... power?

It was true that magic had granted him the ability to protect himself, but long gone were the days where he actually could. In the Muggle world, they only had fists and... weapons; he knew how to deal with them, knew how they hurt. In the Muggle world, no one had such a gross advantage as curses. He smirked as he slipped on his trousers: he knew how to use his fists.

And power? He'd never really had any. His name had carried some gravitas within the Ministry and in high society, but it had never been his power... or his father's, if he thought about it. It had been in a name, wrapped around history and wealth. When history no longer mattered and the wealth dried up, the illusion evaporated. All they had left was reputation, and that was a dubious gift.

In the Muggle world, he could slough off his wizarding heritage and emerge a cleaner and better man. The thought was incredibly alluring... almost intoxicating. It kept his spirits soaring even as he walked through the cloying bog of glares and vicious whispers. Soon, all this would be a memory... and then forgotten.

oOo

Hermione pushed her mashed potato around the plate. Her appetite had fluttered weakly on the way down to lunch, only to collapse in a nauseous faint once the food appeared. Her stomach was growling and grumbling from missing breakfast, pummelling her to greater discomfort and anxiety, but the thought of food in her mouth was distasteful. Feigning some enthusiasm, she chatted with her peers as she did most mealtimes...politely, yet distantly.

Around her, people frenetically discussed the Hogsmeade trip; the first-years were bursting at the seams with excitement, and the older years were cataloguing their past purchases and creating new, extravagant shopping lists.

Part of her thrummed along with the building thrill, but another was screaming at the sheer...almost painful...intensity of it. A thousand eyes seemed to watch her, a thousand voices seemed to pull on her mind, and a thousand ears seemed to strain to hear her impending deception. She'd never felt so scrutinised and vulnerable. Her stomach roiled; this time she was working against her friends: betrayal sat heavily in her guts.

She grimaced as gravy-sodden potato slipped from her fork and hit the plate with a glutinous splash. What she was planning was right. She knew it implicitly, but she imagined Ron's face, expressing hurt and disgust. Harry and Ginny's voices coalesced in her mind into one long litany of disappointment and bitterness. But this was right! It still didn't stop anxiety gripping her throat when she caught sight of a flash of red hair amongst the milling throng.

"Hi, 'Mione," Ron blurted happily, before sitting and pulling the potatoes closer. "Oh wow! Sausages."

She flashed a smile, trying to ignore how he slopped the food onto his plate. "Hi, Ron."

"Harry and Ginny will be here soon," he explained around a mouthful of mash.

All she could do was nod and push her plate away.

"What's up?" Ron asked, eyeing her plate.

The question tugged on her unease, stretching it taut over her guilt until she thought she'd snap. Inhaling slowly, she fought against her panic. "I'm just not hungry."

Ron hesitated and hastily swallowed his mouthful. "Are you feeling okay?"

"Yes."

"You look a little off-colour," he pestered.

"I'm fine, thanks."

"We can always stay here," he offered gallantly, but she could see how the words weren't agreeing with his pained expression.

"No, I'll be fine. The fresh air will do me good."

He sagged with relief, and despite herself, Hermione smiled at the irony: he was actually acknowledging her feelings, and she was batting them aside for her own selfish gains.

"Well, okay then."

Harry and Ginny joined them just as Ron attacked his rice pudding, and it dawned on her how much she'd missed and how things had changed. Ron had lost some of his gangliness, his shoulders filling out with all the extra work on the broom; Harry had swapped his cheap NHS glasses for sleek, stylish ones that accentuated his eyes. Ginny had changed her hair, cutting it shorter, which left it light enough to begin to curl naturally. They were the same, yet different, and it left Hermione feeling out of synch and disconnected. Now she knew why her aunt had kept muttering about how tall she'd grown when she was a child: it wasn't stating the obvious; it was struggling to grasp the change.

"I'd almost forgotten what you looked like," Ginny joked.

Hermione bristled slightly: she had been just as busy with Quidditch as she'd been with her project. Ginny had no right to be sarcastic. A returning comment flew to her lips, but she caught sight of Harry's face and the words evaporated. Ginny had spoken for Harry. Her pique morphed into chagrin, and she shrugged her shoulders sheepishly.

"I've let myself get too wrapped in study." Across from her, Harry frowned, and her heart dropped. "I'm sorry," she added, with genuine remorse.

Ginny harrumphed and fixed Harry with an intent glare. "Too many have been busy with things," she uttered crisply. "We're all to blame."

Harry dipped his head and stabbed a piece of sausage, but Hermione caught the blush creeping across his cheeks. Obviously, Harry had been sharing some of his concerns and frustrations with Ginny and had painted a very bleak picture.

For the merest moment, Hermione felt the urge to cancel her plans, to slip back into the warmth and comfort of her friends' company and spend the day with them, just as she'd done years ago. Too much rested on her shoulders, though, and she sagged under the weight. There really was no other choice. She plucked up her goblet and took a fortifying sip to swallow her rising bitterness. It was so unfair! She shouldn't have done this as an excuse to help Draco. Another way should have been found. This was cruel.

"You sure you're okay, 'Mione?" Ron's concerned voice shattered her introspection.

"I... feel a bit queasy."

"You want to go to Pomfrey?" Ginny asked gently, reaching out and placing a warm hand on Hermione's.

Hermione leant greedily into the contact and smiled weakly. "I'll be fine. Honestly."

Ginny didn't look convinced, but she smiled and nodded. "Okay, but let us know if you want to come back."

The walk down started more as a refining of dodging skills than a gentle stroll as students piled past, and it wasn't until they reached the lake that they had enough room to walk side by side. From up head, they caught excited cries and chattering on the crisp wind, and every now and again, a bevy of students would hurtle past, intent on not missing a thing.

On the edge of Hogsmeade, they paused at the Shrieking Shack, taking in the dilapidated house. So much had happened within its walls. Ginny held onto Harry's arm as he stood and stared. Ron's hand snaked its way into Hermione's: some ties bound eternally.

Behind them, children laughed and skipped; some had never seen a magical town before, and others had emerged from a war-torn world, learning to live and love it again. Dark shadows mingled with innocent wonder. Hopefully, in time, the marvel and delight would oust the shadows. Harry tilted his head, temple to temple with Ginny, and closed his eyes, and Hermione squeezed Ron's hand. They spent a few moments reflecting upon what had been, what could have been and what had been done and lost. With a sigh, they silently saluted the shack and turned away from their memories to face their life.

Hogsmeade was madness. Students spilled out of doorways and flowed down the main street to pour into shops. Adults caught up in the current were either battling the tide or going with the flow. Hermione was slightly miffed to see that the bookshops were relatively dry, while Honeydukes and the new Quidditch shop were drowning under a sea of eager kids.

"Oh man!" Ron groaned. "We'll never get in through the door: look at them!"

Ginny studied the mass of bodies critically. "I have a Dungbomb."

Ron inhaled thoughtfully and glanced across at Harry. "Would that have been strong enough to stop us when we were that age?"

Harry laughed, sloughing off the glum that had settled around him. "Come on; I think we'll survive."

Ron grinned and stepped forward, only to pull up short and turn, red-faced, to Hermione, who had folded her arms and had arched an eyebrow.

"Er... sorry, 'Mione," he mumbled.

"Ronald Weasley," she scolded, flashing a wink at Ginny. "I'll meet you in the Three Broomsticks in half an hour."

His forehead creased before his mouth split into a wide grin. "You're sure?"

Yes," she replied softly. "I never could get used to a broom...dragons are more my style."

Ron and Harry looked at each other and then burst out laughing, their minds supplying an image of Hermione leaping onto the Gringott's dragon. "Okay, 'Mione; save us a table, yeah?"

She watched them battle though the heaving tide, using elbows and their status to good effect. Soon, she lost sight of them, and the feeling of camaraderie that had been settling itself got the jitters and fled. Feeling abandoned, she turned on her heel and sought out the sanctuary of the bookshop.

The bell tinkled merrily above the door as she strode in. A wizened man glanced up and studied her, wondering whether she was a customer or a nuisance. Hermione smiled and walked over. Time to leave a lasting impression for her alibi.

"Hello, I'm after a book for a friend of mine," she said conspiratorially. "I understand that it's quite... unusual."

The shopkeeper's eyes assessed her while his lips writhed as though tasting various possible responses. "Go on," he said, indicating through tone of voice that his offer to listen did not imply a desire a help.

"It's called The Vagaries of Arithmancy."

The man frowned and rubbed his chin. "We have one copy; oddly, the Muggles have more of 'em... lap the stuff up, do Muggles. You'll find it over in the far aisle, between Myths and Muggle Mysteries. "

She smiled politely and padded over to the required aisle. She felt his eyes on her before the bookshelf blocked the view. Pulling out her wand, she aimed it at herself and whispered a charm. Slowly, a figure appeared in the air: a perfect replica of Hermione. It was an illusion and would copy her movements in a repeated cycle.

Making sure that she was still alone, Hermione reached out and ran her finger over the books; her copy did the same. Satisfied that a cursory glance would convince anyone that she was still perusing the horoscope section, she released the charm and watched as 'she' carried on looking and touching the books.

Shops had anti-Disapparation charms...to prevent shoplifting...so she was left with casting a Disillusionment Charm and distracting the shopkeeper. Luckily for her, a group of students walked in holding chocolate wrappers. The shopkeeper reacted with a vigour that would have put Madam Pince to shame. As the children protested, waving their sticky fingers in the air, she slipped out onto the street and Disapparated.

oOo

Narcissa stood in the small room. Her eyes drifted lazily over the rotten floorboards, the perishing plaster, the torn fabric on the chairs and the general gloom and despair that decorated the shack. When they'd first stepped inside, she'd mentally catalogued each fault and flaw, accepting each one as a lash across her skin. It had been excruciating. There was the mouse-hole that had made her skin crawl; there was the crumbling wooden floorboard that had made her shove all the furniture to another corner; there was the damp plaster that she was convinced had given Draco his nasty cough; and there were the chairs that she'd had to beat the bugs out of. But, and she laughed, she'd gotten used to it.

There wasn't a mouse; a neighbour's cat had dealt with. The floorboard had creaked and groaned, but it had never moved beyond a gentle dip when a foot rested upon it. The plaster may have caused the cough, but they'd gotten used to the smell and Draco had gone to Hogwarts. The chairs probably still had bugs scuttling through the weave, but after cleaning and washing clothes all day, she didn't care when her weary bones wanted nothing more than to settle down.

She tugged her shawl tighter. Lucius' extravagance meant that she'd not been able to buy fuel; not that it mattered, as they'd crept away to the Room of Requirement as often as was not suspicious. She'd forgotten how bitterly cold the house could get. The bailiff was due soon for the rent, and she had to keep up appearances and go beg for washing for the few coins it would garner.

Today, she could actually wish guilt-free not to get any laundry. Today, it wouldn't matter if another woman was quicker with her elbows, bustling to the front to get the sacks. Today, she wouldn't have to sink her arms into the large wooden tubs and scrub until her back ached and her hands cramped. At the thought she flexed her fingers. The heat and lye were ruining her hands. It wasn't vanity...she'd long since got past that...it was pain. Her skin was rough and red and split across her knuckles. They constantly itched and throbbed. Today, she could stand back; her toes wouldn't be trampled, and she wouldn't have to fight. She smiled and inhaled deeply.

A knock at the door brought her out of her dream. She walked over and opened it. The bailiff smiled lewdly, as he always did when she was on her own.

"Ye got yer rent, Mrs Malfoy?"

She stiffened and sneered at him. "I've never defaulted; even when you raised it without notice."

His smile slipped. "Ye will," he said darkly, dragging his gaze over her frame. "The likes of ye always do."

Beneath her shawl, she shivered. He knew what he meant by the 'likes of ye'. Despite her status and trial, she'd received some kindnesses from her neighbours. Underneath, they were all women, and in the face of certain trials, they banded together. She'd been told what happened when you couldn't pay the rent. Those slightly higher up on the food chain took other sorts of payment. She'd haughtily assured them that she wouldn't miss a collection, but one of them had smiled sadly and caught her hair between their fingers, twisting it around her work-roughened fingers.

"You don't get it, love," she'd whispered softly. "You're pretty. They put the rent up, make surprise collections... even rob you. Anything so that you stand there with no money and no option."

Narcissa still gagged at the memory.

"Ye got it, then?"

She pulled out her purse, and she was gratified to see the smallest flicker of annoyance cross his features. When she'd finished, he grunted and span on his heel, and Narcissa was grateful to slam the door on his retreating back. That was the last time she'd see his pock-marked, greasy, sneering face. The relief was almost a physical pleasure, snatching her breath and making her knees go weak. No more! It was almost over.

The sobs came. They started as small whimpers, then they grew in strength until they became keening wails. Finally, she was bent double, using a chair for support, as tears poured down her face and her breath came in deep, desperate gulps.

She purged herself, vile words and bitter tears. Exhausted, she sank into the chair and curled up. However, time wasn't a luxury she owned. Soon, she'd have to go and pretend that today was just like the thousand Saturdays before it. Regaining control, she stood and staggered into the bathroom. The faucet screeched under her hand and then water chugged out. Cupping the freezing water, she splashed her slick face. The cold snatched her breath, but it calmed her. She summoned the ice and the determination that had given her the power to stand before a Dark Lord. For a few more hours, she had to be the wretched Narcissa Malfoy.

oOo

It was quite amazing! Despite Meadowes' face being plastered on the local news and his description spewing from every radio, she was strolling along the streets as though she were invisible. How apathetic and self-absorbed these Muggles were! Police cars drove past, and all they did to bother her was throw up dirty puddles. People strode past her, giving her nothing but nudges and bumps and disgusted glances. And to think that Wizards had spent decades, centuries, creating charms to keep the Muggles oblivious! What a waste of time and energy.

But the anonymity was granting her something she'd thought impossible to have: choice. So close to St Mungo's, she could see the witches and wizards walking past, their minds focused on their business rather than their surroundings. It gave her the opportunity to select a more suitable host.

A fine drizzle tickled her skin, and she could feel the cold nibbling away at her fingers and toes. She'd have to pick someone soon. If only her...his...eyes were better. Damn old age! Too close and they blurred into obscure blobs of colour; too far and they seemed to smudge into the background. Grumbling under her breath, she continued to scan for that someone special in the small window of visibility.

Stomach growling and patience wearing thin, she caught sight of a likely candidate. It was one of the nurses that she'd seen following her sweet Healer around. Obviously his death had affected her: frame bowed under the weight of grief, tears about to fall for all the 'what ifs' and her lips tight, holding back all the words she'd never uttered. Oh well! Soon, it wouldn't matter at all for her. It would all be a distant memory.

Her joints protested, but she straightened in a series of cracks and groans. It was so easy to enter into the stream of people babbling along and sidle through to reach her. It was even easier to slip into her confused and numb mind. They stood face-to-face for the merest moment; long enough for the fingers to be transferred and Bella to leave her dry and wasted husk and slip into the warm and passionate nurse.

She straightened her spine...Gods that felt good!...span on her heel and strutted away. Behind her she caught the sound of a meaty thud and the staccato of heels against pavement as pedestrians bypassed a sudden, immovable obstacle. Then came the gasps and the frustrated mutterings of busy people suddenly having to deal with something. By the time the ambulance arrived, she'd be in St Mungo's. By the time the Aurors got involved, she'd be... well anywhere!

oOo

Now this is strange! he thought as he emerged from the cave. The sky was blue and endless; nothing blemished it. In the distance, the horizon was tinged copper where a sun was either saying goodbye or hello. Over the rolling hills, a gentle warm breeze carried the smell of lavender and pine. The stream was now a full-bodied river where dragonflies and kingfishers darted, and the ravens played in the boughs of trees heavy with fruit.

"Slytherin!" he yelled excitedly as he backed into the cool darkness. "Come look at this."

He could see Snape lying in a tight ball on the floor, but despite his prodding and tugging, the man wouldn't wake. It didn't come as a complete surprise; he'd been thinking while Snape had brooded. With a snort, he stood and left Snape to his peace and quiet... he did need it, after all.

Oh, the warmth was glorious, and the grass was lush and cool beneath his fingers. With a laugh, he skipped over to the babbling river, plonking himself down on the soft earth. He tugged off his boots and socks and plunged his feet into the deliciously cool water. After running around in shoes too small for him, he'd often wished he could have done this near the old playground, but the canal had been very uninviting. With a contented murmur, he collapsed back, wiggling his toes and inhaling deeply. Heaven!

The sounds of wings attracted his attention, and he cracked open an eye. Several ravens had landed next to him, curious.

"Hi," he uttered casually. "You can call me Sev."

Author's Notes: Thanks for your patience. I'm sorry to say that due to some pesky issues with my hands, the updates for this (and other stories) will be very slow. I can only apologise and hope that you can bear with me. Thanks to you all for reading... I feel very blessed.