This place was similar to the last one, and the one before that and the one before that. Dark with damp walls with the faintest scent of mildew in the air. As his eyes adjusted to the single strand of moonlight trickling into the small window, he could see that there was something in the far corner of the room. He moved towards it, a rat scurrying out of his path as he did, and upon closer inspection saw that it was a mattress. From the looks of the mattress, it looked to be just as damp as the walls. In the pale moonlight, he could see that the mattress was just a shell of what it had once been, torn by the claws on the rat's feet and its filling scattered around the floor.

This is what his life had come to. Moving from cellar to cellar, each more disgusting than the one prior to it, as if he were nothing more than a street urchin.

His blue eyes closed, letting the anger, the irritation, that was bubbling in his chest simmer down into a reluctant acceptance.

He let out an exhale through his nose and slowly made his way to what used to be the mattress. Reluctantly, he lowered himself down onto it, stuffing puffing from the marks on it as his weight settled and proving his initial thought if it being damp correct. From there, he removed the bag he'd been carrying on his shoulder and placed it next to him. With careful hands, he removed a well-embroidered handkerchief from a pocket and unraveled it.

Inside lay two pieces of wood, elm, with a frayed dried red and tinted center, dragonheart string. Each half of the wood was five inches, ten total. These were the remains of his wand.

Icy blue eyes stared at the pieces as if willing them to come together again. To form one whole object so that he too could be whole. However, the pieces remained separated, mocking him, making sure that he knew and remembered. He no longer had magic.

He wrapped the wand back in the handkerchief and stowed it back into the bag. A look of disgust crossed his face as he started to lower his back onto the damp mattress, resting his head on his bag.

Two months. Two months since the Dark Lord, Lord Voldemort, the most powerful dark wizard of his time, was killed by Harry Potter, a boy of seventeen. Theodore could still hear the Dark Lord's body hitting the marble floor when he thought about it, and he thought about it often. That sound, the thud of the darkest wizard for centuries hitting the ground, was what he thought would free him from the life he had taken in the shadows.

However, he had been too optimistic.

One month to the day, June 2nd, the Ministry started a search for all persons affiliated with Lord Voldemort with a keen emphasis on collecting all Death Eaters, who were a potential threat to the way of life with or without Lord Voldemort. All high-class Aurors were deployed into the community, taking men and women from their homes to Azkaban prison. The captured Death Eaters stood trial for their actions. Few took full responsibility for their crime and accepted the punishment willingly, others stayed loyal to their Lord, thinking of themselves as heroes for cleansing the wizarding world of its impurities. Then there was the majority, the people that accepted that they had done wrong, but did not want to be punished for their actions, those that placed the blame on the charisma of the Dark Lord and said they remained for the safety of their families.

Sentences varied from person to person. Those that were closest to the Dark Lord, the ones in his innermost circle, the ones with the Mark, received a life sentence in Azkaban. The sentences decreased with the individual's actual involvement with Lord Voldemort.

However, one punishment for those that bore the Dark Mark and those known to be Death Eaters remained the same across the board.

Magical Decree from the Minister of Magic:

Wands of known Death Eaters, especially ones who bear the Dark Mark, are to be taken and broken. Persons that fall into this category are not to be issued another wand without given consent from the Minister of Magic himself.

A chill ran down his spine and he wasn't quite sure if he could blame it on the chilled damp air or his line of thought.

Azkaban was bad enough. However, going and doing time and then not being able to do magic again? The thought was completely unbearable.

June 14th. That was the day he'd done it. The day that he had taken his wand, ten inches of elm, and snapped it in half. He'd left home the following day.

He'd heard a rumor that if you went far enough away from London that they would stop looking for you. That you were safe from the time they would give you to serve.

Twenty-three days, he'd been on the run. Getting out of London is what took the most time, sticking to the shadows and moving at night, staying inside during the day living among, he shuttered and this time he knew that it was due to his train of thought, muggles.

Muggles.

He was going to have to adjust to them. After all, he had given up magic. He couldn't return to where he'd come from. On top of that, the place he was going, the place he was running to, was a muggle town. A town on the water, he'd always been fond of the water, Blackpool.

One more day.

One more day and he would be in a place where he felt the Ministry would not find him. One more day and he wouldn't have to break into cellars to sleep. He would have a house, one without damp walls and the stench of mildew. Not as grandiose as he was used to, no house elves to cook for him or clean his messes, but a far cry better than this place.

He let that thought ease him into an uncomfortable sleep.

A/N: Hello there! This is my lastest fanfiction. This idea came to me in a dream, believe it or not. I woke up and I figured that it was worth a shot, something different on my end for a lot of reasons. One, I've never written from a male's viewpoint before, and it's an adjustment to me for sure. Two, I don't think I've ever really written something like this. Doing this chapter was a lot of fun for me. So if you liked it, or you're curious about it, leave me a review and let me know.

~ Nikki