Chapter Two.

In which Weasley is insane and I am forced to walk. A lot.

"What do you mean," I asked very slowly, "we have a bit of a problem?"

Weasley waved his hands vaguely around the alley. "No car."

"I can see that, thank you." I didn’t like the way he was staring pop-eyed into the semidarkness. It had been comforting in the exploding bar to see him look flustered, because that was proof he was sane. Now it was the precise opposite of comforting, because he had my wand, and he'd just kidnapped me, and in general one expects one's assailants to know what they are doing. "How exactly is this my problem?" I asked.

"It's your problem because Linnet has everything!" he shouted, and raked his fingers through his hair again. I hoped he wasn't getting the brown stuff on my wand. "Clothes, identification, documents, Portkey...she was supposed to be meeting us here..."

"Perhaps she got sick of waiting," I suggested. "How long were we in the bloody tunnel?"

He waved me off, and continued looking up and down the alley, as if the car were simply hiding from him and at any moment would leap out from behind a dustbin and shout Surprise! I stopped to think about my own question, though—how long had we been crawling around underground? I hadn't been checking my watch during the party, as much as I'd wanted to, and Weasley had said...he'd said...oh, hell, the poison.

"Weasley, how long were we in the tunnel?" I demanded. When he ignored me, I grabbed his sleeve and shook him as hard as I could. "How long were we down there?"

"Malfoy, what is your problem?"

"You poisoned me, you stupid ginger bastard, don't you remember?"

He blinked at me. Then he laughed. I could've killed him on the spot. "Malfoy, I didn't poison you, calm the hell down."

"You told me—"

"I only said that so you'd shut up and do as I asked." He continued to glance around, though without a great deal of enthusiasm.

"Why should I believe you?"

He rolled his eyes. "Because I don't want to kill you, maybe? You didn't even drink any of the martini, so keep your hair on."

I blame this particular lapse on stress. In all that exploding and crawling and things, there wasn't time to remember everything something as trivial as a martini. I stopped, and thought back—he'd given me the drink, he'd told me to stay near the bar, and...and...oh, bollocks.

When I got my wand back, I was going to hurt him.

But it suddenly occurred to me that we were alone in the alley, and that Weasley's plans, whatever they had been, had clearly been derailed by the disappearance of this Linnet woman. In fact, the only thing standing between me and my freedom was my distinct lack of a wand. I cleared my throat. "So, er, Weasley, sorry this kidnapping thing didn't work out. Better luck next time and all. May I have my wand back?"

He didn't seem to have heard me; he was shuffling around the alley muttering viciously. "I told O'Guin this was a dodgy plan," he announced to a small gay cat that was hunting through an overturned bin. "I told him a direct fucking Portkey would work just as well as the fucking tunnel..."

"Er, Weasley?"

"...stranded in the middle of fucking nowhere...'

"Weasley? Hello? Remember me, your victim?"

He stared intently at the cat, which had found something squishy and disgusting and was proceeding to eat it. "Right," he eventually said, then "right," again, and then he tossed my wand back to me so suddenly I almost failed to catch it. In my defense, it had been a long time since I'd had a chance to play Quidditch, Americans being almost totally ignorant of the sport. Weasley marched towards the entrance of the alley and barked, "Clean yourself off and follow me."

"Sorry, I don't think I shall—"

He spun faster than one would expect for a man his size and pointed his wand at my throat with a slightly mad look in his eyes. "We're in deep shit right now, okay, Malfoy?" he hissed. "I don't have time for this."

"Give me one good reason," I asked, "why I should go along with you."

"Because it's my job to keep you alive," he snarled.

"I thought you said you were kidnapping me."

"I am!"

I snorted. "Kidnapping for safety is a bit like fucking for chastity, isn't it?"

Weasley suddenly fished around inside the collar of his t-shirt and pulled out a fine chain—a necklace of some kind. It had a Sickle-sized hunk of translucent golden crystal hanging from the end; the pendant was covered with elaborate engraving, though I couldn't make out any details. "I'm a member of the S.J.F. and an authorized agent of the International Confederation of Wizards," he said slowly, and with a distinct growl. "My assignment is to get you into protective custody, hale and healthy or not, before Dies and his goons can shut you up on a permanent basis. I intend to complete this assignment whether you're conscious to participate or not. Do you understand?"

I could only blink at him for few minutes while I worked this through. "You," I said, "are completely insane."

He snarled, like a feral thing, and stuffed the pendent back under his shirt. "Look, Malfoy, you're not accomplishing anything by playing dumb with me. Do you want to wait around here for whoever took off with Agent Linnet and the car to find us? 'Cause I don't."

"Weasley, I'm telling the truth here," I insisted. "Who the hell is this Dies person you keep jabbering about, and what does he want with me?"

"We don't have time for this—"

"I'm not moving without an answer."

Livid red sparks burst from the end of his wand.

"Maybe you could jog my memory?" I tried. One would think I'd remember meeting someone whose name was a verb, especially if I'd done something that would inspire them to try to kill me—but I'd been under a great deal of stress recently, with various business affairs. Something key may well have slipped my mind.

It seems that was the right thing to say inasmuch as Weasley didn't hex me for it, but in all other respects the wrong thing, because he gave me the sort of look one normally reserves for the hairy things that stick to the bottom of one's shoes. "Nice try, Malfoy. O'Guin already told me about your little scheme, and you're not getting any money out of me."

"I didn't ask for any—" I stopped. This conversation was clearly not going anywhere until Weasley accepted that I had no idea what was going on, and getting him to take me at my word was about as likely as my being named the next Minister for Magic. I considered my options quickly and went for the one that seemed least likely to provoke him further. "Look, why don't we go back to my hotel room—"

"It's being watched," Weasley said flatly.

I rallied. "Then perhaps—"

"So's your house."

"What?"

"And the apartment in Los Angeles, which I think pretty much covers your home bases." He glanced at me sideways with an expression I didn't exactly appreciate. "Why do you think we went to all the trouble of setting up this fiasco if we could've just grabbed you from home?"

"Who—never mind, I already know, Dies." I was beginning to hate the man and I didn't even know him. "And where are you taking me again?"

"Confederation headquarters. You'll be safe there."

"From this Dies, yes, but what does the Confederation want with me?"

Weasley checked his watched and exhaled through his teeth. "They want to question you about Dies—"

"They'll be disappointed, then,"

"—and probably anything else Greenplate has been up to," he finished with a dirty look at me.

I didn't have any more idea of who Greenplate was than Dies, and I was starting to get annoyed. "And after they question me, what? Shall they send me on my merry way?"

Weasley shrugged. "Eventually."

"How long," I asked, "is 'eventually'?"

"You're in danger as long as Dies is on the loose."

I looked at him skeptically. "So what you're saying is that I've been kidnapped by people who are going to detain me indefinitely to protect me from the murderous advances of a man I've never met?"

"Well, when you put it that way—"

"How else shall I put it?" I demanded. "I have issues with people who want to lock me up, Weasley; that's why I left Britain."

"We're not locking you up," he growled. "More likely they'll just give you a house and false identification and stow you for a while somewhere in the arse-end of Canada until Dies is in custody."

"Which is just such a terribly appealing prospect."

"It's not like you've got much of a choice."

"There's always a choice," I said, and raised my wand. "I could just Disapparate—"

Weasley grabbed my wrist, squeezing the small bones. "If you run," he snapped, "then it's just a question of whether Dies can find you before we do. And, trust me, if I have to kidnap you again I will not be happy about it."

"You don't seem particularly pleased about it now." I shook him off and glowered, but had to admit he had a point. Whoever Dies was, I was confident I could escape him, given sufficient information time to plan; the Confederation, however, had agents everywhere, and in the long run they would find me if they truly wanted me. Weasley would probably hunt me down again just out of spite. "So what do you propose we do, exactly?"

"Get the hell out of this alley, for starters. We've been standing around way too long." He apparently took my question as acquiescence, because he cast quick cleaning charms on the both of us before pocketing his wand. The spell was entirely inadequate for getting the mud and filth off my clothes. "Follow me and keep quiet."

"Hang on," I said, "I can't go out there like this."

"Why not?"

"I'm wearing robes, you fool." Robes which were probably worth more than his life, and which were at that point thoroughly ruined, but still—violation of the Statute of Secrecy is grounds for deportation, and I had intended to return to Britain on terms that did not guarantee me a one-way Portkey to Azkaban. It's the people-locking-me-up business, you see. "Unless your Confederation can buy off the American Enforcers, too."

Weasley waved me off like a bad smell. "We can risk it," he declared, which was all well and good for him to say. "Just follow me and please don't argue any more."

"Fine." I stomped out onto the dark street, deliberately treading in a puddle so that it splashed on his shoes. "Lead on."

At this juncture I will have you know that I followed Weasley through the foulest, darkest streets of Kansas City for two hours and thirty-six minutes that day. We tramped through puddles. We crossed bridges. We circled the same hideous fountain at least three times. My back and calves began to cramp, my shoes rubbed my feet completely raw, and every time it appeared that we were even remotely close to stopping, Weasley suddenly turned in a new direction and kept walking. The few Muggles we passed looked at us oddly—and I grudgingly allow they were perhaps within their rights—but the longer we walked, the fewer people we passed, until we were for all intents and purposes alone on a moonlit street, surrounded by dark buildings that towered far over our heads. We didn't speak to one another the entire time, which suited me quite well, because I was too furious with Weasley, and also rather more concerned than I wished to admit to him about the matter of this Dies character.

At that point, you see, I was fairly confident that I had never in my life heard of him. I was also fairly confident that Weasley lacked the imagination to be lying this extensively to me—I'd never heard of any Tobias O'Guin and had no idea what an Ess Jay Eff was, but I knew the International Confederation of Wizards sometimes intervened quietly in the affairs of its member nations, whether those members liked it or not. Weasley obviously believed I had some extensive history with Dies, and that the second bomb at the party had been an attempt on my life, and that foul play had befallen his friend and her car, and that all these were interconnected. Which begged the question of whom, exactly, was misinformed—had Weasley perhaps kidnapped the wrong person, or had I not noticed the acquisition of a deadly enemy?

I didn't like either question or any of their possible answers, and by the time I'd worked through them I'd had quite my fill of the walking tour. I trotted up next to Weasley (bloody long-legged git that he is) and yanked on his arm. "Where the hell are we?"

"Somewhere near the Crown Center, I think."

"And where the hell are we going?"

He didn't answer right away. "Have you ever been to St. Louis?"

"What?"

"St. Louis, it's a largish city—"

"I know what St. Louis is!" A most terrible thought occurred to me. "We're not going to walk there, are we?"

"No, we're going to Apparate."

"Then why haven't we done that already?" I hissed

"We're being followed." I stopped short and turned around. The streets were completely empty, all the windows were dark—"Don't look," Weasley hissed, and hauled me forward by the arm.

"Who's following us?" I demanded. "More of those dye people?"

"Dies," he repeated. "Look, do you know where Kiener Plaza is, in St. Louis?"

"Yes, I know." I glanced up at Weasley's face; he was sweating heavily, which was making the brown hair color run down his neck, and his complexion strongly resembled old oatmeal. Nothing inspires confidence in one's protector better, I assure you, than such obvious signs of stomach-clenching terror. "Why, precisely, do you ask?"

He reached into my pocket, which triggered a few rather mad ideas about his intentions, but he just pressed my wand into my hand. "On the count of three," he said slowly, "Disapparate. Don't care where to—but be in Kiener Plaza in one hour."

"And what, er, will you be doing?"

"Meeting you there." He checked his watch, and I caught the upside-down face in a streetlight—nearly one o'clock in the morning. "Right. One—"

You will probably think I am exaggerating terribly when I say that the pavement exploded. I am not. An entire square of concrete blew upwards in a cloud of gravel just as Weasley put his foot on it, flinging him backwards dramatically. I threw myself backwards as bits of rock scored my face, bounced off a wall, and had a brief impression of a city street lit up like daylight with flying curses and spells. Weasley was on the ground, empty-handed, grimacing in pain, and I could finally see the dark shapes closing in on us from before and behind. We were both outnumbered and surrounded, and there was nowhere to run.

At that point, I did what any red-blood wizard of my class and breeding would do.

I Disapparated.

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