Chapter 2
The grotto did indeed look magical.
The donated present pile bins had already been emptied into a storage room twice. It was turning out to be one of their most successful fundraisers. Likely due to the fact that the Prime Minister had accepted the invitation from one of the club’s founders, who was a close friend of his from Eton.
The line to visit Father Christmas was dwindling as the children were shuffled off to have dinner. Sarah had made an early escape to the loo and Hermione decided that she would also take advantage of the lull to sneak off for a quick break and to grab some biscuits. She was sure her mum had put aside a plate for herself, her cousins, and the other teens that had been roped into participating.
She was making her way to the kitchen, distracted briefly by the enormous ice sculpture reindeer, when she saw a particularly annoying child that had been trying to peek up her skirt in the queue earlier and ducked backward into an alcove to avoid him. Unfortunately, backing straight into a couple snogging. Mortified, she mumbled her apologies and covered her eyes. She attempted to scuttle blindly away and crashed into a liveried server who miraculously didn’t manage to drop anything. Someone pulled her back to the alcove out of the way with a deep chuckle.
“Kukolka *, you are going to get trampled if you don’t look where you are going,” said an amused, deep Russian-accented voice.
“Minnie! What are you doing sneaking around?” Sarah chastised her.
“I am not the one sneaking around in dark alcoves. I was just going to get our biscuits,” Hermione replied with a scandalized laugh still feeling the lingering heat of the man’s hand on her arm.
“You are sisters?” tall, dark and mysterious asked, drawing her in closer and looking her up and down.
“Cousins,” Sarah snapped with a frown. “I think I better go with her. I need to help.”
“I think you want to stay here,” he said smoothly, releasing Hermione’s arm and pulling Sarah closer. “ Kukolka will be fine getting her biscuits. Unless you want her to join us?”
“I want to stay here,” Sarah affirmed monotonously.
Hermione looked at Sarah’s slack-jawed expression, her eyes were dilated and glassy, and she sensed that something wasn’t right.
“I need help carrying everything,” Hermione said in a plaintive, bordering on a bratty voice, pouting a bit and pulling on Sarah’s arm.
“I want to stay here,” Sarah responded in the same monotone clinging to the mysterious stranger.
“Your mum will be looking for you soon. The Prime Minister is scheduled to arrive shortly, and she will be mad if you miss him.”
“Da, we should not miss the Prime Minister,” the man said in a disgruntled voice. Running his fingers down the side of Sarah’s face and down her neck. Hermione grabbed his hand away before he ventured further.
“We better go,” Hermione said firmly, yanking her cousin away. Her eyes briefly caught sight of the tattoo on his arm. The dark mark.
Dark Mark.
Russian accent.
Antonin Dolohov.
Recently escaped Death Eater.
Her brain cataloged as she stumbled away, pulling Sarah behind her as she tried to process the situation.
Antonin Dolohov, the blood supremacist who had been snogging her very muggle cousin a few minutes ago, was here at a muggle holiday party in Highbury. Why was he here? Was he here for her? No, he didn’t seem to know her, and besides, it was unlikely that a 5th-year muggleborn was on anyone’s radar. She wasn’t important; she doubted anyone in the Wizarding World knew her beyond Skeeter’s slanderous articles last year. She definitely didn’t warrant sending a Death Eater after.
Unless someone wanted to use her as bait for Harry!
No, wait, she realized this wasn’t about her as loud applause interrupted her panic attack. The Prime Minister. Of course! He was here for the Prime Minister! She had to do something.
She didn’t have her wand with her and now was definitely not the time to test her theories on wandless magic and the trace. And really, all she had managed to do wandlessly thus far was a basic lumos and alohomora. Nothing helpful in stopping an assassination or whatever nefarious deed Dolohov had planned for the Prime Minister.
Wait, Kingsley Shacklebolt should be here. He was the auror Mr. Weasley had said was assigned to the Prime Minister. She could warn him at least. She had briefly met him over the dreadful summer of cleaning headquarters. Tall, clean-shaven black man, she thought, scanning the crowd frantically for him.
“Fuck fuck fuck,” her brain screamed as she pulled her half-dazed cousin through the throng of people. That monster must have done something to her.
She finally spotted Kingsley towering over the crowd. “Thank Merlin!” she thought. She was about to call out for him when she saw in her periphery that Dolohov was also making his way in the same direction. He probably needed line of sight to do whatever he was here to do.
Dropping her cousin’s hand, she was able to slip through the crowd with a bit more ease. Someone pinched her bum, but she pushed on with a grimace. A few feet away from the Prime Minister and Kingsley, she saw Dolohov reaching into his jacket, and she summoned her Gryffindor bravado, rushed forward, and stuck out her booted foot, sending him crashing to the ground.
She hadn’t planned on him reaching out for her as he fell, causing them to end up twisted together on the floor, his wand thankfully knocked out of his hand and rolled harmlessly away.
Hearing angry Russian expletives from underneath her, Hermione started apologizing loudly to draw Kingsley’s attention. Dolohov began to push her off, but her boot heel was caught up in something, and she was unbalanced again, causing her stockinged knees to slip on the polished floor.
Hermione landed flush on top of him, pinning him down more effectively. Mortified, she pushed herself into a sitting position. She felt her cheeks redden as she realized that she was now straddling the infuriated Death Eater -- in her elf costume, her tulle skirt puffed up around her. She continued apologizing loudly, keeping the crowd’s attention on them. Hopefully, that would discourage him from retaliating.
“Kingsley,” she called. “Would you mind helping me up? I am so sorry, but Merlin, my ankle hurts,” she exclaimed theatrically with an exaggerated pout, playing up her damsel in distress act. She arched her back and reached back to massage her ankle.
The Death Eater’s eyes widened as Kingsley Shacklebolt appeared above them.