Walden Macnair sat on a park bench, watching the children play. It was a fine day, and the sun felt nice on his face - so nice, in fact, that he had to pinch himself from time to time not to fall asleep. Whenever he jerked awake, his fingers automatically closed around the bottle of firewhiskey in the paper bag on his lap. A cooling charm kept it nice and cold, and the liquid inside felt like icy flames going down his throat. A hair of the Crup that bit him, for sure, although last night’s hangover had nearly faded by now. Every working day should be as easy as this.

Apart from the firewhiskey, the bag only held two other things: the parcel of fish and chips he’d bought in Knockturn Alley this morning, and a box of chocolate frogs. Macnair hadn’t eaten a chocolate frog since his first year at Hogwarts, but it wasn’t as if the sticky things were meant for him. He wouldn’t touch them if he were paid for it. He’d need them for the job - and for that he was paid, quite handsomely, if he said so himself.

Another swig from the bottle, another trail of liquid ice down his throat. Those damn kids hadn’t moved from the playground yet, though they weren’t using any of the primitive Muggle climbing structures. From what Macnair could see, all they did was sit around and yap. Fat ugly blobs they were, too; the blond one at least. His cronies were not quite as massive, though no one in their right mind would have called them delicate. Perhaps it was true, and Muggles did feed their offspring with nothing but deep-fried junk food. Disgusting, the lot of them.

He grabbed a handful of chips, tossed them into his mouth and washed them down with another mouthful of whiskey. Real Old Ogden’s it was, too; a treat, Malfoy had said. There would be more if he “completed the task to satisfaction”, in Malfoy’s prissy way of putting it. The man always talked like he’d swallowed a dictionary; half the time Macnair just nodded and pretended to have understood. No matter, though; the galleons and the booze more than made up for it.

A shout from the playground caught his attention. The blob had gotten to his feet, grinning to his gang and pointing with his fat finger. A skinny boy with black hair was lingering on the edge of the playground, keeping a safe distance to the other kids. Half a head shorter than the blob, he looked about seven or eight years old, maybe less. It was hard to tell with Muggle kids and their ridiculous clothes. This one seemed to have been given a particularly ugly set, though: faded and baggy, they looked as if they could have fit a boy twice his size. Green eyes blinked nervously behind absurd round glasses, as if the runt expected to be attacked any moment.

“What’s up, freak?” the blob asked.

“Aunt says tea’s ready,” the skinny boy mumbled. His voice was so quiet that Macnair had to strain his ears to catch the words.

“Too bad you won’t be getting any,” the blob sneered. “He stole food from the kitchen again,” he added to his sniggering audience.

“I didn’t!” A note of defiance crept into the boy’s voice. “You took those brownies, I saw you!”

“Oh yeah?” The blob pushed the other boy in the shoulder. Behind them, the gang were getting to their feet. Macnair leaned forward on his bench, interested.

“Is the freak being a cry baby again?” a boy with a ratty face asked eagerly. “He gonna tattle on you, Duds?”

“I’m not a cry baby!”

“You are, you are!” The boys latched onto the word, gleeful with the indignation it provoked. “Cry baby, cry baby, Harry is a cry baby!”

“Am not!” The skinny boy’s hands were balled to fists. Macnair inwardly shook his head at the runt’s idiocy – half of those boys were a head taller than him and about twice as heavy.

“He is, too!” That was the blob again. “He cries when he’s locked into his cupboard – don’t you, freak? Boohooo, let me out, let me out, I’ve got to use the loo, let me out!”

The gang roared with laughter. “Did you get to the loo in time, freak-boy, or did the little baby shit his pants?”

“Shut up!” the boy shouted. “Shut up, you fat losers!”

The blob pushed him again. “You shut your mouth, freak! Or else!”

“I don’t care!” The boy pushed back with surprising strength, making the blob stumble. “You’re just a fat pig, and I don’t care what you say!”

“Get him!”

The boy turned and ran, the gang in hot pursuit. Some of the fatter boys soon lagged behind, but the ratty little bastard was fast, and made a grab for the skinny boy’s overlarge shirttail. The kid tore himself loose and ran on, throwing a scared look over his shoulder. Macnair had never seen anyone move so fast without the help of a broomstick. The blob had never even bothered to join the chase, preferring to cheer on his cronies:

“Get him! Get him! Corner him – he can’t get away!”

They did manage to corner him between a hedge and a dustbin, but the boy dodged their grabbing hands and ran. Merlin, but the kid was fast! His feet hardly seemed to touch the ground. Macnair watched, fascinated, as the boy dashed across the playground, weaving around benches and bushes.

“Come on, you idiots, get him!” the blob yelled.

No, Macnair thought. The kid was too fast for them. He was getting away, and if the gang’s red and sweaty faces were any indication, it wouldn’t be long until they admitted defeat and let him go.

Muggles. They were so primitive.

Under the cover of his long, bulky jacket, Macnair reached for his wand. “Pedem offendo!”

The boy’s face as he tripped and fell was priceless. Must be quite a shock, to find one’s way suddenly booby-trapped by an invisible string, but that of course was the beauty of magic: The Muggles never saw it coming.

The boy’s pursuers whooped in delight and pounced.

“Get ‘im!” the blob panted, waddling towards them. “Show – him - ”

Like every mob with a helpless victim, they didn’t need to be told twice. They began kicking and hitting the fallen boy wherever they could reach him, using their feet and fists with equal force. The boy had curled into a protective ball, hands over his head. Macnair was mildly surprised by the ferocity of the attack. He had always thought of Muggles as rather placid, mild-mannered beings, the proverbial sitting ducks. These brats, though… if they didn’t stop soon, they’d do the runt a serious injury.

Which wouldn’t do. Macnair didn’t give a knut whether a Muggle brat got beaten up by his peers, but he hadn’t stopped the boy just for the fun of it. He, too, had no intentions of letting him get away. Not after he had seen how fast the boy could run. Malfoy would be delighted with this one.

“Confundo!”

The boys’ attack stopped as suddenly as it had begun. They stumbled back, looking confused as they seemed to notice the boy on the ground for the first time. The skinny kid stayed curled up, clearly not trusting the sudden respite.

“D-duds?” the ratty boy asked in a dreamy voice.

“Yeah?”

“You… going home?”

The blob frowned as if trying to remember something. “Tea,” he said finally. “Mum says tea’s ready.”

“Tea,” the ratty kid repeated in the same absent tone, as if he did not know the meaning of the word. For all Macnair knew, the spell might have blasted it straight out of his little Muggle brain. “Tea… I’ll come with you, Duds, okay?”

The blob grunted something that might have been a ‘yes’, and they toddled off, followed by the rest of the gang who slowly dispersed across the playground.

Finally, the boy on the ground lifted his head. When no fist or foot came crashing into his face, he began to sit up, wiping his nose on one frayed sleeve. He stared after the other boys with an expression of disbelief, then glanced around, clearly looking for the adult who had stopped the attack. His eyes, blinking stupidly behind those ridiculous glasses, finally fell on Macnair and widened in surprise. Of course – the disillusionment charm had kept him well out of the children’s sight before. To the boy, it must seem as if the stranger on the bench had suddenly appeared out of thin air.

Macnair got to his feet. This part of the job was usually the riskiest, what with Muggle pleasemen and their suspicion of strangers who accosted kids. Better to get out of sight as quickly as possible.

“You okay, lad?”

The boy wiped his nose on his sleeve again, leaving a red streak on the fabric.

“They messed you up pretty good, didn’t they?” Macnair held out a hand. “Here, let me help you.”

After a moment’s hesitation, the boy took his hand and allowed himself to be pulled to his feet.

“You want me to fix that for you?” Macnair nodded at his bleeding nose. “I know a neat little trick to stop the bleeding.”

The boy frowned. “Are you a doctor?”

A what? Macnair shook his head. “No, no, I just happen to know what to do. I get nosebleeds a lot.”

Which wasn’t a lie, although most of his nosebleeds came from disagreements in one Knockturn Alley pub or another.

“Okay,” the boy said slowly, clearly debating whether to trust him or not. Macnair reached into his bag and pulled out a chocolate frog.

“Here, eat this while I fix your nose. Takes your mind off things.” After all those jobs he’d done for Malfoy, he was slowly getting the hang of playing the friendly uncle. The kid stared at the frog as if he’d never seen a piece of chocolate before.

“Did – did that move?”

Cursing inwardly, Macnair froze the frog’s animation charm with a nonverbal spell. “Move? Laddie, they musta hit you harder than I thought! Chocolate doesn’t move.”

To his surprise, the boy ducked his head, blushing fiercely. “S-sorry…”

“Never mind,” Macnair muttered, wishing the kid would take the damn frog already. “Why don’t you have a snack, and I’ll fix your nose for you?”

“Okay.” The boy took the frog, but didn’t eat it.

“Put your head back, like this. Good, now close your eyes and take a big bite off your frog.”

He waited with baited breath. The boy eyed the chocolate frog in his hand, maybe wondering if he had really seen the thing move. Then he seemed to come to a decision, closed his eyes and bit off the frog’s head.

Macnair waved his wand, muttering a spell that would stop the nosebleed. Not that it mattered in the long run, but he didn’t want the boy to get suspicious.

“All done,” he announced. “Good as new.”

The boy opened his eyes, which were already beginning to glaze over in that familiar way. It had worked; it always did.

“What – what did you do?”

“Oh, nothing much. Just some good old home remedies.”

“I…” The boy’s voice faltered, and he swayed. The sleeping potion in the frog was a fast-acting one, and Macnair knew it wouldn’t be long now. “I feel… weird…”

“I bet you do, lad. Why don’t you sit down for a moment.”

“I’ve… got to go home… aunt’s waiting for me to…”

“She’ll be fine,” Macnair said, smirking at the thought of the Muggle bint’s face when her precious little darling didn’t turn up for tea. Oh yes, they never saw it coming. “Come on, I’ll help you…”

“No…” The boy blinked at the remains of the chocolate frog in his hand, then up at Macnair. “You – you…”

But whether the boy had caught on to what was happening, Macnair never found out. The green eyes drooped closed, and a second later the boy keeled forward, straight into Macnair’s waiting arms.

Yes, Malfoy would be delighted.

###

“Chocolate cauldrons.”

Severus Snape stood motionless for a moment as the gargoyle’s body came to life, stony muscles sliding under a granite skin as the beast moved aside. As passwords went, the assorted candy names were not the safest option the headmaster could have chosen, but Snape knew that the gargoyle had a mind of its own, and would not move for just anyone who hit upon the right brand of sweets. Today, he almost wished the thing had decided not to allow him entry.  He did not want to go up there; did not want to give his latest report and receive the instructions that would inevitably follow.

He did not want to, but that was nothing new. Snape had stood here before.

The gargoyle’s tail flicked impatiently, and Snape stepped onto the revolving staircase. It began to move, silently spiraling upwards until it came to a halt in front of the headmaster’s door. The carved faces on its surface leered at him.

“Him again,” a horned, Pan-like creature croaked. “What’s he got to tell this time?”

This, Snape thought sullenly, was probably exactly what the headmaster was thinking just now.

He had not knocked, but was not surprised when a voice from the other side of the door spoke up.

“Come in, Severus.”

On cue, the door swung open to reveal the headmaster’s office.

“Please,” Dumbledore said from his chair behind the desk. “Do come in and have a seat.”

Snape complied, lowering himself into one of the chintz  armchairs the headmaster insisted on offering his visitors. “Albus.”

“Tea?”

A porcelain teapot had appeared on the desk, complete with two dainty cups and a sugar bowl. Snape shook his head and watched in silence as Dumbledore poured tea in his own cup. It was another ritual the headmaster insisted on, as unavoidable as his star-embroidered robes and sugar-themed passwords.

“A pleasure to see you, Severus,” Dumbledore said, adding two pieces of sugar candy and a drop of lemon to his beverage. “Although I dare guess that your reason for coming to see me this late is not altogether a pleasant one?”

“I received an owl this afternoon,” Severus said. He took out the missive he had untied from the eagle owl’s leg. It was made of heavy, expensive parchment, the kind that could only be bought in a certain stationery shop in Diagon Alley. “Another invitation.”

“I see.” Dumbledore took the proffered card and perused its text. “The day after tomorrow… that means-”

“They already have the Muggle, yes.” Severus paused. “I shall decline to participate, of course.”

Dumbledore nodded. “I’ll arrange a staff meeting to give you an excuse.”

“The ‘entertainment’ is supposed to start at eight in the evening,” Snape said. “The Wiltshire woods, this time.”

“If you need someone to accompany you, Severus…”

Snape shook his head. “It’s best if I operate alone.”

“Are you sure? I could-”

“I’m sure, Albus. I know the schedule and the terrain. The fewer people are involved the better.”

Dumbledore nodded, giving him a long look. Snape found himself staring hard at the little flower patterns on the teapot. He hated coming here, reporting that another invitation had arrived. Hated what his being on Malfoy’s guest list implied.

“I know you never participated in these… functions even before you came to me,” Dumbledore said quietly. Snape looked up, and found those blue eyes filled, not with disappointment, but with a gentle sadness. “You always asked to stay behind.”

“Oh certainly,” Snape spat, suddenly disgusted. “I stayed behind out of the goodness of my heart, nothing else. And when they came back with their dogs and horses and that torn-off head, I never joined in their victory toast – that wouldn’t have been noble, would it, Albus?”

“Not noble, perhaps,” Dumbledore said calmly. “But I daresay it saved your life not to show your disgust too openly.”

“I didn’t care,” Snape hissed, furious with the old man’s dogged determination to see only what he wanted to see. “I didn’t care if they wasted half the night chasing after some Muggle only to see him torn to bits. I stayed behind so I could read in peace.”

“Severus,” Dumbledore said, still in that maddeningly calm tone. “Six people would be dead if you hadn’t saved them since, and that’s only the victims of Malfoy’s ‘entertainments’. Yes, I do keep count. Maybe you should, too.”

“I never kept count before,” Snape said, feeling tired. He wished with all his heart that the owl had never arrived, that he could have stayed in his dungeons lab and finished the second variation of Collins’ Dream Elixir, and never thought of Malfoy and his idea of entertaining company.

“You put yourself in danger every time you intervene,” Dumbledore said. “I worry about you, Severus.”

Snape wanted to believe that it was just manipulative lies, that he was being buttered up to ensure he would be a good little spy, but try as he might, he knew better. The old fool did actually worry about him.

“There is no need,” he said. “I know what I’m doing.”

Dumbledore nodded. “Of course you do.”

“Do I have your permission to cast the Corpora Ingemino?” Snape asked. It was another part of the process that he hated; the reminder that in the eyes of the Ministry, he was no longer a fully independent adult wizard. Ever since Dumbledore had vouched for him, the headmaster was designated to monitor his spell-casting… particularly when the spells in questions might not sit well with your average, law-abiding citizen.

“Of course,” Dumbledore said. “You don’t have to ask me every time.”

“Yes I do,” Snape said sharply.

For once, the headmaster decided to leave it at that. “Very well then… I wish you the best of luck, Severus.”

Luck, Snape thought as he headed back to the office door, had in fact very little to do with it.

###

Lucius Malfoy surveyed his dining room at length, and eventually allowed a smile to grace his lips. When they saw it, the house elves who had been watching him bowed in relief and gratitude. Their master had found everything to his satisfaction – none of them would spend the night nursing broken fingers or blistered ears. Master Malfoy was truly kind.

Lucius dismissed them with a flick of his hand, and when they were gone, looked around the room once more. Ah, how he loved these evenings… one of his few indulgences in a hectic life of political machinations and representational duties. A chance to celebrate the old ways with his dear friends, to prove that the time-honored traditions of their station had not died out. Everything had to be perfect on these occasions, or the servants would suffer his displeasure. A Malfoy never settled for anything less.

And it was indeed perfect: The long mahogany table was set for twelve, the golden plates and goblets glittering in the candlelight. In the kitchens, some of the most exquisite foods wizarding London had to offer were being roasted, sautéed, frosted and flambéed. His stable hands had brushed the horses until they gleamed, and the hounds had not been fed in three days. And in the dungeons… Malfoy’s lips twitched in another smile. The pièce de résistance of this evening’s festivities was currently residing in the manor’s dungeons, chained to a wall and scared out of its little mind. Malfoy had gone to see it earlier, to make sure it wouldn’t try to kill itself like the last one. It had not; it was probably too young to realize just what fate awaited it. They’d never had such a small one before, but Macnair had assured him that it could run like the devil, in the man’s own words. Malfoy did not object; it was a novelty, and providing novelties was the hallmark of a good host.

They would all be there: Avery, Nott, Rosier, Yaxley, Crabbe, Goyle, the Carrows… Narcissa had informed him that even Rowle was planning to Apparate in from Sweden. Nearly every member of the old Circle had accepted the invitation, except of course those who were… unable. A pity it was, too; Rodolphus and his charming wife had always enjoyed themselves greatly on these occasions. Lucius thought of Bella on her black steed, her generous curves outlined by the hunting jacket. Now there was a witch worthy of the name… not that he would ever share these thoughts with her sister.

The only negative reply to his invitation had predictably come from the Hogwarts dungeons. Staff meeting, my deepest regrets, must decline, etc. etc. Lucius knew only too well that it was an excuse; Snape would much rather spend an evening holed up in the library or his dungeon lab than join any kind of social event, and always had. Not that Lucius minded too much. Severus was a useful acquaintance to have, but it did add a certain class to any soirée if only purebloods were present. Snape with his shabby dress robes and his working-class manners (asking the house elf for a ‘serviette’!) would not be overly missed.

“Father?”

Lucius turned around. His little son was standing in the door, dressed in his sleeping robes and a terry-cloth dressing gown. Behind him, the nanny elf hovered uncertainly.

“What is it, Draco?”

“May I stay up and watch you from my window as you ride off?” The boy’s blue eyes were wide and hopeful.

Lucius smiled. “I daresay you may, Dragon. And remember, one day you’ll join us.”

“Yes, Father!” the boy beamed, and Lucius felt a tug in his chest. “I’ll catch the fox then, you’ll see!”

“I’m sure you will.” Unable to resist, Lucius ruffled his son’s fine blond hair. “Lawrence tells me you’re doing very well in your riding lessons.”

“I love horses,” Draco announced. “Father… how do you and the others find the fox? I mean, what if there isn’t one in the forest?”

“There’s always a fox in the forest, son,” Lucius replied lightly. “That is something else you’ll learn in time.”

Although Narcissa had asked him to postpone that time… at least until Draco went to Hogwarts. Well, witches always coddled their sons. It was a father’s responsibility to toughen them up when the time was right.

“Yes, Father.” Greatly daring, Draco gave his father a quick hug before he ran off, the house elf in tow.

“Don’t stay up too late,” Lucius called after his son, smiling indulgently as he turned once more to the gleaming dining room.

Yes, a perfect evening.

###

Snape had known the Wiltshire woods ever since he had spent his first Christmas break at Malfoy Manor, and Lucius had taken him horseback riding in the country. Gawky sixteen-year-old he had been, he had clung to the horse like a first-year to a bucking broomstick, afraid that he would bruise a sensitive part of his anatomy as he bumped along on the saddle. It had not been the most enjoyable activity he could have imagined, but Lucius wanted him to try it, and what Lucius wanted, he got. One lowly half-blood Slytherin was not going to complain.

Even then, the woods had impressed him with their gloom and their silence. This was not a forest for Muggles to go jogging and take their dogs for walks. This was wizarding land, where many centuries ago the Druids had held their secret conventions and worshipped the Old Gods. Even the Forbidden Forest did not go as far back in wizarding history.

Sixteen-year-old Severus would have been surprised, had anyone told him how much time his older self would spend in these woods. That he would come here every six months or so and lie in wait, listening for the faint sound of barks in the distance. He even had a fallen tree he sat on every time, and a book he read while doing so.

What a picture that would make to those who imagined a double agent’s life to be nothing but risk, danger and swooning women. Swooning women, ha! It was becoming ridiculous, how long it had been. Never mind women – he’d be happy with just one, and he was more than ready to compromise on the swooning.

Shaking his head at his own thoughts, Snape sat down on his accustomed tree and cast a Locator spell. It detected no human being in the vicinity of a mile, which was what he had expected. It was too early for the hunt to have progressed to the woods.

Malfoy was a man of tradition, who observed the customary proceedings with dedication. There would be the two-hour supper, with house elves dashing in and out of the room, serving one course after another. Then, the wizards would indulge in an after-dinner cigar while the witches retreated to the drawing room. Finally, Lucius would request that his gentle guests follow him to the courtyard, where the horses were waiting.

All of this, including the changing from dress robes into hunting clothes, took its time, hence the book Snape carried in his knapsack. He snorted as he took it out. If he had any aspirations of becoming the kind of spy you saw in Muggle movies, that knapsack was another thing he’d have to get rid of. It was ancient and patched, and about as elegant as Hagrid’s hairy dress suit. That Bond fellow wouldn’t be seen dead with it.

Snape opened A Potion Maker’s Advanced Guide to Forensics, his wand held loosely in his left hand. As soon as any human being entered the Locator radius, the spell would alert him to their presence. But if Snape knew Lucius – and unfortunately, he did – that would not be for another hour or two.

Sighing at the thought, he lit his wand and began to read.

###

One and a half miles from where Snape was waiting, a boy sat hunched under a hazel bush. His clothes were torn, his face grimy with filth and tears. He’d cried a lot in the last two days. He had shouted, even, yelled for them to come and get him out, but no one had. The only person he had seen was the tall man with the snake stick, standing there and smiling at him in a way that made him feel sick to his stomach. The man had left after a while, and Harry had sat in the dark, trembling and too afraid to cry anymore.

He knew about kidnappers, of course. They had talked about it in school – don’t talk to strangers, don’t tell anyone your name, never get into a stranger’s car or go into any house. He knew there were adults who hurt children, although none of the teachers had been very clear on how and why. Harry had the vague impression that it was some kind of sex thing, something adults didn’t like to talk about.

When he had woken up in the dark place, he had known that the man with the chocolate frog was a kidnapper. Only the man didn’t show up – no one did. There was a glass of water and a plate of bread on the floor, so Harry ate and drank, then cried until he fell asleep. When he woke up again, there was more bread and water, and a bucket for him to use. No kidnapper. He had tried to slip off the chain, but it wouldn’t budge, even though it seemed too large to be so tight around his skinny ankle.

The man with the snake stick had scared Harry into complete silence, but when the kidnapper finally came back, he tried to talk to him. Tried to explain that his aunt and uncle weren’t likely to pay any money to get him back. The man had told him to shut up and keep walking. He took him down a long, dark corridor, up some stairs and down another corridor, and finally into a huge courtyard that was bigger than the playground at school.

“Now hold tight,” the kidnapper had said, and then… Harry squeezed his eyes shut. He wasn’t going to think about that. Because people didn’t disappear with a loud *crack* and then reappeared in completely different places. Such things didn’t happen… not to normal people. Such things only happened to freaks. The kidnapper had stared when Harry had frantically apologized, then shook his head and muttered about “crazy mugols”. Maybe it was another word for freak.

The kidnapper hadn’t cared in the least that Harry had made them reappear in the middle of a forest; he had just pushed Harry under the hazel bush and told him to “sit tight till you hear the dogs”. He hadn’t explained what dogs. “Never mind, laddie. But remember: When you hear the dogs, it’s time to run. Or they’ll tear you to bits.”

And then the kidnapper had turned on his heel and… no. Harry wasn’t going to think about it. The man was gone, that was important. He had left Harry in the middle of the woods, and he had not tied him up or made sure he stayed in one place. He might of course be watching from somewhere, but Harry didn’t think so. There was nothing but trees and bushes around, no place to hide a camera or something like that. And if the man did come back, he could always say he had needed to pee.

Encouraged by the thought, Harry slowly climbed to his feet. His legs hurt after two days in the dark, cold place, but not so badly that he couldn’t walk. He took a step forward, then another. No angry kidnapper came bursting out of the underbrush, no poisoned dart whizzed out of the woods to paralyze him (Harry had seen that in one of Dudley’s action films). Nothing happened. Harry kept walking; where, he did not know. Maybe if he walked long enough, he’d come across a house or a road. Maybe he could get away before the kidnapper came back.

He walked, trying not to look at the darkness between the trees and the strange shadows. If he got too scared, he might not be able to go on, and the kidnapper would come back to find him still sitting under the hazel bush. No. It was just like the darkness in his cupboard, easy enough to ignore. If he just pretended that it wasn’t there, or even better, that he wasn’t there, it couldn’t reach him.

He walked, concentrating only on setting one foot in front of the other. Focused as he was, he almost missed the first bark of a dog in the distance.