Drawing his cloak closer to his body, the dark figure was cautious to keep his face hidden within the hood. Battling against the strong wind of winter the lone individual was mindful of his path, as he watched his breath escape into the air in a cloud of mist. Just another corner and he would be there, safety, for the moment anyway. The street was deserted, whether from the biting cold or for the same reasons that made his bones crawl, he was undecided. His body was screaming for him to run, but if he did it would mean almost certain death. If by the slightest chance someone was watching, it would indisputably bring attention to him. Attention he really didn't need. Around the corner, he could feel his heart trying to break out through his rib cage. 'A more merciful death, than any in store for him if he was caught,' he thought to himself.

He found himself in a rundown lane; there was only enough room for pedestrians or cyclists. Making it a place where people were only seen when they had business to attend to in the area. Two storey brick houses sat side by side leaving no space wasted; there were no front gardens or paths leading up to the front doors. Every house was identical; giving him a sense of puzzlement at how the residents knew which building was their home. He was lucky, for the house he was after was very easy to distinguish from the other. It had clearly been set on fire.

He almost let out an audible sigh of relief when he reached the old wooden door; it appeared as though the only thing keeping the piece of wood on its hinges was magic. Which is was. Letting go his collar his cloak flapped wildly with the wind, slowly removing the black woollen glove from his right hand, his eyes scanned the bare street. Finding it as desolate as before he placed his hand on the broken wood, feeling it warm to his touch he waited for the magic to recognise him. His mind was screaming at him, the process was taking too long. Did they change the wards? Could he no longer gain access into their sanctuary?

Five seconds later, he heard a click and quickly opened the door letting him swiftly pass through unseen. To anyone else it would have been no better than the open street. Everything was charcoal; the stairs that he had always assumed to have sat on his right were jagged logs, unusable. The carpet held a singe stench trapped in fabric that caused smoke to form with every step. His eyes flicked to the walls as always, dark patterns swam along their surface spreading to the roof. He could make out scorch marks just barely hidden underneath the fires trail. He had never been allowed to come here when the house had been untarnished by the fire; he tried to imagine the beige carpet and cream walls, alongside the mahogany staircase. No matter how hard he tried reality always managed to slip in, the stink of melted carpet and burnt plaster never evading his nostrils.

He was wary to not damage the package he kept hidden within his left cloak pocket, as he removed his remaining glove and placing it in his right with its twin. He made his way down the dusty hallway, his footsteps light and precise causing no sound. Turning to his left before the ruined kitchen, he gave no sign of emotion; his body appeared relax standing tall and firm. His face was still concealed in the hood but it too would have betrayed nothing of the nerves he felt, it was a blank mask. Closing his eyes for the briefest moment, he steeled himself for what was to come. His gaze fell on a busted table that was supported against the corner of the hall, only a long knife sitting on top. With unseen speed he picked up the knife, bringing it directly to eye level. Examining the object closer he took in the glossy white hilt, impeccably smooth all the way along. The blade itself glinted in the poor light that was coming from the blackened windows in the kitchen. A poem was engraved steel, on one side was...

"Blood of the foe and,

Blood of the friend,

It all runs red.

When I am dead,

Will you shed a tear for me?

For am I friend or am I foe?"

On the other side it read...

"How can you ever truly know?

Cut me open and you will see,

There is no difference,

Between you and me.

For foe or friend?

Red is all you'll see."

The poem was not unfamiliar to him, he read it countless times and every time it always made him wonder if it had been chosen with him in mind. Running his finger down the length of the sharp blade, his nerves tingled in warning. Grasping the steel of the blade in his palm, he swiftly dragged the weapon along his skin. His breath was even and deep as he let the pain sink in; clasping his hands together he spread the blood from one hand to the other before dropping the knife viciously back on the table. Positioning his hands palms out in mock surrender, he pushed them against the door in front of him. His frown deepened with each passing second but as before it didn't take long for the click and the door swaying open silently. Now in front of him was a long staircase that lead nowhere but down into darkness. But he knew that no matter how dark it seemed it would always be home to him.

Slowly taking one creaky step at a time, he soon reached the bottom. What met him was a small comfort from the raging storm outside the broken down house. A wooden table sat in the centre of the basement, six mismatching chairs surrounding it. A handful of daily prophets were scattered along the table's surface, while a fire crackled off to the left in an old wrought iron log oven, at the time a kettle whistling quietly on top of the oven was shooting smoke from its spout. Covering the two tattered armchairs that sat facing the warmth the fire gave out. To the right of the table cupboards and shelves lined the entire wall, he knew the shelves were filled with books and rolled up parchment all pertaining to dark magic and the lords that had be known to use it, defensive spells, old battle plans and anything else that could help win the war. He secretly hoped it was enough.

Amidst the dark he could make out a blackboard covered in white chalky scribbles, it had been strategically placed in front of the only window letting no light in. But he already knew without turning around what lay in the inky darkness behind the stair. Bunk-beds, swags, an old couch and a few make shift beds. The area was fairly large as it could fit nearly twelve people comfortably in the space, but no matter the size it had to make do it was all they had left.

He could hear snoring coming from the beds, he scowled at the thought that they were allowed to drift off and dream while he put his life right in the path of a wand and they would never appreciate it. He remained where he was though, he was annoyed by the sound he didn't want to wake them, he held enough respect for them to grant them that courtesy. Instead he watched the sleeping women sitting with her head resting on the table, and the man snoring also in one of the armchairs, a book dangling dangerously from his hand.

Swiftly waving his hand, he cast a silent Rennervate and gazed on as the woman slowly woke. Rubbing her eyes before frantically looking around the room, she did a double take when she saw the tall cloaked figure. He watched as her body visibly tensed when danger registered in her sleep drugged mind. Faster than he thought she would have been able to she was on her feet, her wand clasped tightly in her hand. To her, he appeared unfazed about the wand now pointing straight at his face and she was right. He didn't give it any thought as he gave her a once over.

She was petite, she always had been but now she was bordering on starvation. Her collarbone jutted painfully out and her arms were no more than sticks in his mind. Her cheek bones were more prominent than they had ever been, making her look gaunt. She was still pretty though, he could see that clearly and he knew her mother would have gusted over her about all the boys just lining up to court her. He couldn't' repress a wistful sigh at the thought.

She was wearing a red knitted sweater that hung two sizes too big over her skeletal body, her legs were covered in thick woollen sweats but it couldn't hide the fact that she was diminishing before his eyes. The only difference he could see besides her dramatic weight loss was her hair. It had been so vibrant before, so full of life just as she had been. Now it sat lank and uncared for, it cascaded down her back in brown tangles. Brown? He couldn't fathom it. Gone were the memories of a beautiful, headstrong woman, she was now a stranger. But he couldn't prevent the thrum of love that coursed through him at just seeing her standing there with all her strength. He knew he would always love this woman. Always.

He stood with his arms crossed along his chest as he looked down his nose at her. "Does constant vigilance mean nothing to you?" he hissed quietly.

The woman frowned slightly, before hesitantly lowering her wand. "You shouldn't be here."

"If you did not want me to have entry, then maybe you should change your wards chit," He said sardonically.

"You even sound like them now." Her voice was soft, he could hear the regret laced in her words and he scowled at her. It was however lost on her as his face was still hidden in the shadows of his hood.

"Why are you here?" She demanded.

Reaching up, he pulled the hood down releasing his long waves of black hair from underneath the collar of his cloak, strands flew about before settling just below his shoulders framing his pale skin. Blue crystal eyes glared down at the young women with practiced loathing.

"You look just like him now," she whispered.

"That is the point," he sneered.

A soft expression crossed her face briefly. "But your eyes, you kept-"

She stopped short when he flared his cloak out of the way dramatically, revealing a deep green clothed parcel that he held with reverence. Making quick strides, he placed it gently on the table the cloth falling away instantly. Eyes very similar to his, stared at the object in front of her in awe, before looking back up the man. "You found it." Her voice came out almost like a prayer.

"I promised both of you I would not return without it. I thought then that my appearance today made my intentions obvious," he affirmed.

She simply nodded gazing back down at the table, when she went to thank the man he was no longer by her side. His leg was resting on the first step of the stair, motionless. He seemed lost in an inner debate. He did not turn as his voice drifted over to her. "You should have let me know of your condition. If you need any assistance, of any kind he knows where to find me."

Quicker than he had liked, he found himself at the top of the stairs the door once again in his way. Before he forced himself to leave, he let the feeling of home wash over him. It was his one compensation. It didn't take long for him to feel her eyes on his back and sense her about to open her mouth and something to him. Something kind, something he didn't deserve not anymore. Before her mind even registered the words, he was gone. Sighing the women turned back to the table were the forbidden wooden stick sat, she felt the magic pulsing from its core hit her right in the chest. She had truly missed that feeling. She didn't realise it at first, but she stood there staring at the spot where he had last been. She had truly missed him too, but what could she do, he was risking his life daily. She could only imagine what he had to have gone through just to get her this silly piece of wood. But alas she though, his grave was one he had dug himself and he was determined to lie in it.

So she did the only thing her mind could think of right then in that moment. She thanked him for the sacrifices he was making from them, she thanked him for the dangers he was putting his life in for their loved ones and she thanked him for giving them hope.

She knew it meant nothing compared to what he had done, but none the less she thanked him as only a sister could. With all her heart, she prayed for him to hear her words...

"Thank you, Ronald."