AT THE FENCE

The grass is always greener….

Draco had unfolded his plan (preconceived by him weeks ago) how they would go about sidetracking the Weasley-clan to the remote area on the Estate, away from the Hunt.
His friends, Blaise and Theo, who were officially on the organising committee, had agreed to the ploy.
'I hope it will work Malfoy,' Nott frowned.' You depend a lot on Weasley's reaction.'
Draco exuded more confidence than he really felt at this point, but, as a true leader, he hid his doubt.

Inconspicuously Draco walked out of the kitchens, towards a quiet corner in the perpetually blooming rose garden.
There his mother stood, vaguely miming a person pruning the roses.
The war had taken its toll on her as well. Mrs. Malfoy was still a beautiful, stately woman, but nowadays "the house was empty", as Blaise had said behind Draco's back. She went through the motions of living, but only once in a while her eyes really focused on her surroundings. Draco doted on his mother and made sure her every need was catered for.
Passing her in the garden, he pecked a kiss on her cheek, and got a sweet, absentminded smile in return.
In a dark spot behind the toolshed Draco apparated away soundlessly to a manor a few miles away from his own.

This manor belonged to an aristocratic muggle family, the Porckupeine-Wutherspools, who had lived on these grounds probably as long as the Malfoy's had lived on theirs.
Finding his neighbour was never hard. The eccentric muggle, Lord Rodericke Porckupeine, was always in his courtyard, tinkering with his old-timer cars, or just sitting there, getting seriously pissed. Draco liked his neighbour. His wealth and his charming company making up for his Muggleness.
Being perpetually drunk, -and unworldly weird, like only the very rich can afford to be-, Rodericke was never baffled by the curious comings and goings of his neighbours. He had heard all sorts of rumours of course, but he had always brushed them off as pish-posh. The Malfoy's were jolly nice people in his opinion.
Draco invited Rodericke to the sending off of the Hunt. He easily extracted a favourable answer with the promise of excellent booze, company and admiring eyes for his old-timer.
Before taking his leave Draco surreptitiously pointed his wand at Lord Porckupeine back and whispered a string of words under his breath.

Back in the manor Draco finally met with the Master of Hell Hounds. This Ergard Stoone was a sturdy, earthly wizard. Not unlike a smaller version of that oaf Hagrid, Draco thought. But, meeting this chap's calculating sharp gaze, he new here was a force to be reckoned with. Probably just as well because their safety depended on his total command of his helpers, the Huntsmen and Whippers –in, as well as the Hell Hounds.
Draco got his first look at the pack of Hell Hounds, kept on thick leather leashes by Stoone's kennelmen. They were vicious dog-like creatures. Bigger than wolves, with poisonous fangs, fierce red eyes, big clawed sharp paws and an unrivalled sense of smell. They had been bred for centuries by pureblood wizards to flush out and oppress other magical creatures such as elves and goblins. Nowadays of course, they were no longer so employed. The dogs were solely used in games such as the October Hunt. Funnily enough Stoone was a very mild halfblood wizard. He had fled up North during the war with his pack, to avoid being drafted by Voldemort.

The yard, the stable courts and the front lawn were by now packed with wizards on hare horses, or still on foot. All dressed in the finest traditional wizard hunting robes. Food, drink and laughter everywhere as old acquaintances met, friends were embraced, stories were swapped and horses were shown off.
Draco moved around in the midst of this all, shook hands, smiled, bowed, smiled more, inciting warm feelings of friendship and a little envy in the men, and longing in every witch under 70.

…At the other side of the fence.

At the end of the lawn was a huge gate with golden bars, sided by an intricate golden and green fence. There, a large crowd had gathered. Mostly wizards from the nearby wizarding hamlet Wellerby-on-Brook, quite a few wizard-tourists as well, sporting camera's. Some had transfigured wooden branches into comfortable chairs, and set and chatted amongst each other.

And there was the press. Draco took a double take. Lots of press, actually. He spotted that idiot from the Quibbler, the young wizard from the Daily Prophet, Witches Weekly, and several other newspapers. That was a first. Reporters had never come to the countryside for this event. They just bought the story and the pictures from the regional news rag. Even Rita Skeeter was present, quick quotes quill at the ready.

'What the fuck, ' Draco fumed. This had the signature of -Granger-. And indeed, there she was. He saw her walking up to the reporters. 'Surrounded by her minions. 'Draco thought disgustedly. 'She walks like the bloody muggle queen.' Nobody had seen Draco yet, as he watched the gathering. Granger, Potter, Weasley, Weasley, Weasley.. My, they had opened up the whole can of worms. Loony Lovegood, sporting an outrageously big hat with antlers. Neville Longbottom, of course. Were Loony went, Neville followed. (The couple had been an unending source of mirth for Draco's friends ever since they hooked up). And what was it they were carrying, it looked like white flat boards?

His eyes went to Granger again. She was wearing one of her own knitted elf hats. Somehow this ridiculous sight suddenly took Draco's breath away. She was gorgeous. Why had he never seen that. Had she always been this beautiful? He felt as if someone had stomped him in the gut. And right at that moment, Hermione's gaze shifted. Still smiling at something Luna had said, she looked straight at Draco across the fence. Her breath hitched and she felt an electric current going straight to her core. Time stood still as they kept staring into each other's eyes. Electrifying grey eyes meeting melting brown.

Abruptly things changed as a reporter nudged Hermione with his arm to ask some questions. Shocked to the bone, Hermione tried to get a hold on herself. She launched into a passionate plea for the rights of house-elves, her S.P.E.W. badge flashing brightly as she voiced her opinions on abolishing the old and cruel practice of hunting.

Draco shook himself out of his dreamlike state, and understood that is was time to begin a counter attack. He quickly called over some reporters to his side of the fence. Immediately they flocked to him, the attractive witch from Witches Weekly in the lead. Draco gave a very contained, reasonable plea for the preservation of the Hunting tradition. He explained that the elf prey was never chosen by wizards, but always volunteered. Only the head strong and independent elves were ever prey, because it would not work otherwise. If they succeeded in not getting caught, clothes would be their reward. (That did not actually mean they left the family or stopped working, and no wages were ever paid, but Draco thought it better not to dwell on that.) 'The clothes,' he said, 'usually a riding cap, are proudly worn as a badge of honour.' 'And,' he added, 'no house elves have been killed in the Hunt for over a century.' (Two got lost or disappeared, but that also was better not mentioned).
'The Hunt,' he concluded, 'furthermore has a great social function in the wizarding world, because not often pureblood wizards get to mingle in such an informal way. Many a romantic wedding has it's roots in a meeting at the October Hunt.'
The blonde witch from Witches Weekly squealed at that. 'Ohh,' Lord Malfoy, 'and have you yet met the witch of your dreams?' Draco's eyes strayed to were Hermione was standing, back turned to him. 'I.. ehm.. I have no,.. no comment on that,' he said, giving the witch a bland smile.

Hermione wanted desperately to look at Malfoy again, but she was ambushed and dragged away by Ron and Arthur to a spot a little away from the crowd.
'Listen Hermione, 'Arthur whispered, 'we have just had the most extraordinary conversation with a muggle.' Arthur beamed. 'It was a very interesting man. He has this really old car that he maintains all by himself. He had the most fascinating stories about carburatings and sparkling plugs. His car can go so fast he says it almost feels like flying. How about that!' topped Arthur off.
Ron looked at his father fondly.
'Yes, 'he said, ' but the important part was that this muggle lives next to the Malfoy estate, and he says that he knows a back-way into the grounds. Says it's been there for as long as his family lived here, which is like centuries apparently, and it has never been discovered. Uses it sometimes when he wants to take a stroll in the woods.'
Hermione was so distracted by her longing for another look at Malfoy, that she did not hear the little voice in her head questioning the convenient appearance of this muggle. It was quickly decided, in the most rash of Griffindor ways, that they would change tactics, and use this back-entrance. But first, they had to give the Hunt a warm send off, with their protestation signs and the yells Hermione had made them practice.

Although a corner of Draco's mind was still puzzling over his intense feelings at seeing Hermione, he was sufficiently composed to mount Granger and call out: 'Master of Hounds, give your signal!'
Master Stoone, seated on a big black stallion, raised his arm, catching the attention of his huntsmen and whippers-in. A palpable ripple of excitement went through horses and riders alike. As his arm came down the horns sounded their ancient traditional signal, the hounds howled and barked and off they went. The ground was literally trembling from the pounding hoofs of forty or more horses. The hoofs clattering sound mingled with shouts en whoops from the wizards.

Hermione was more than a little miffed as the villagers and tourists started to clap at the magnificent sight of the procession coming round the corner alongside the fence. And what a sight it was. Excitedly running hounds , prancing and trotting hare horses, the colourfully attired wizards in the traditional hunting robes of black riding breeches, black boots, white frocks and scalet robes. All of them were wearing riding caps with ribbons at the back. Some robes were adorned with golden buttons, an indication of the function of huntsman or Whipper-in.

'Oh look,' Harry said to Ron, who was furtively trying to locate Pansy, 'Isn't that lad on the grey horse Stan Shunpike? I wondered what had happened to him after the war.'
'Apparently he has made it to whipper-in' Ron answered.
In preparation for today the boys had been drilled by Hermione in the details of this Hunt. So Stan's task today would be to assist in keeping the pack together. Not one of the hounds should be permitted to go straying or rioting. -going of alone in another direction to follow a different scent-.
'Not a good sign if we're dependent on the likes of him to keep the hounds from having a go at us,' Ron said worried.

Then all hell broke loose. As the protesters began chanting and waving their signs in the air, huge coloured stars and arrows exploded with horrendous bangs en wheezes all around them. The procession took of at breathtaking speed as the hare horses freaked out. Jumping meters high and far, the wizards on them could only hang on for dear life with the dogs running after them to catch up.