'Some are born great, some achieve greatness and some have greatness thrust upon them' - William Shakespeare
Someone had recognised her – their spells flying past, barely missing her – he speeds up her pace; she must get away, there has to be somewhere she can safe she can find shelter. She looks around her – wind whipping at her face, stinging her eyes – but sees nothing of any use to her. There is no way to deter them; no way to lose them.
She can't carry on much longer; she can feel herself growing weak – one of their spells hadn't been such a near miss after all – and she knows that she will need to find somewhere to rest or she will die. She could just about make out the shape of a cave – it wasn't perfect, but it would have to do – so she sped up her pace, hoping to slip into the entrance unnoticed.
She gets as close to the ground as she dares, not wanting to injure herself in the process, and directs her momentum a little to the right of the cave. She waits until she is almost level with the entrance of the cave before she suddenly twists her body to the left, sliding through the gaping mouth of the cave sideways.
She held her breath and waited – crouched by the entrance to the cave, just out of sight – to see if they would realise where she was. Her heart was beating rapidly in her chest, and she let out a sigh of relief as she saw them fly past her hiding place on their brooms.
Her relief was short lived, however, when she turned around and spotted a man crouched in the shadows at the back of the cave. Slowly, he made his way towards her; sharp cheekbones creating contrasting shadows across half of his face in the little light there was, gaunt features twisted into an expression of curiosity.
He reached out a bony hand towards her, as if she would flee at any moment – she would never admit it, but he was probably right – and inched closer towards her.
"I'm not going to hurt you," he whispered, his voice hoarse from disuse. She allowed him to reach out, to touch her cheek, his waxy skin reflecting almost yellow in the fading sunlight. He ran his hand gently over her body, touching her as if he hadn't had any physical contact in years and was starved for it. She wanted to pull away, but she found herself locked in his penetrating stare – this was a man who had seen many horrors in his life time; who had experienced things no one should have to endure.
He pulled his hand away from her leg, something wet reflecting in the light; bright red, turning almost black when he brought his hand closer to his face and into the shadows. They both stared as if they had seen nothing like it before; as if the sight of blood was completely alien to them.
With a gentleness that completely contradicts his appearance, he helps her to the back of the cave where a single moth-eaten blanket lays scrunched up into a ball. He tears a strip from the blanket – it's far from sanitary, but it is all they have – and he begins to bandage her leg with it. She keeps one wary eye on him at all times – there is no reason for him to be helping her; there is no telling what he will do next.
"That's all I can do," he murmurs when he is finally done, an apologetic smile aimed loosely in her direction. She is not entirely sure this man is all there; she knows that something bad must have happened to him, and she is grateful for his kindness.
She dips her head to him in thanks, and soundlessly exits the cave the way she had come. In the distance she can see the grounds of Hogwarts spread out before her like a map below her, and she knows that her destination isn't far. Being careful to keep her injured leg close to her body, she spreads her wings and soars above the tree-line.