Matilda Gregorian drew her flannel more tightly around her shoulders. Despite the roaring campfire in front of her, the chill evening air was seeping into her bones. A gust of wind not only worsened the cold but blew a plume of thick smoke into her face. Eyes watering she slid down to the other side of the fallen tree where she was perched. Someone across from her snickered.
She shot a withering look at the long-fingered goblin between the flickering flames that separated them. Griphook bared his pointed teeth in a twisted grin and said, "A girl who flinches at the smell of smoke is not someone you want with you when the fire roars."
Matilda chose not to dignify this comment with a response. Griphook was not exactly subtle with his suggestions of her uselessness and inadequacy since she joined their troop, and arguing with the goblin had only resulted in encouraging him to continue his taunts with increased vigor. Besides, he had a point: Matilda had few real survival skills for someone who was in hiding in the English wilderness.
When she was very young, before she learned that she was a witch, Matilda had been a girl guide with the Muggle girls she at her school. She quit after their first camping trip; she was never a fan of roughing it in the outdoors. Had she known she would be on the run from the Ministry of Magic in the woods for several months, perhaps she would have thought twice about ditching further camping experiences. While she had grown used to stumbling across various kinds of bugs and wildlife in her adventures, she dreaded the frigid nights she spent lying on the ground praying to fall asleep quickly as she shivered beneath a thin blanket. She couldn't deny that she was exhilarated when she met Griphook and fellow Muggle-born Dean Thomas who were also evading the Ministry, Death Eaters, Snatchers, and whoever else persecuted witches and wizards born of non-magic parents; decent company is hard to find when you're on the run. But Griphook's abuse was beginning to wear her down, and Matilda was contemplating going on her own again.
At that moment, Dean materialized from the trees bearing grocery bags from a Muggle shop. While they all could practice magic, magical laws prohibited the materialization of food, so Matilda and Dean took turns shopping at a local supermarket. Griphook would be an odd sight to the Muggles if he stepped foot into town, so he stayed behind at the campsite. While Matilda enjoyed the normalcy of grocery shopping, she held a great deal of anxiety when entering towns and showing her face in public. Though she didn't relish life on the run from the Ministry, she couldn't fathom the devastating fate that would come to her if she were recognized and captured. With He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named back in power, Muggle-born witches and wizards were considered inferior to those born into Pureblood families, and they weren't safe. So the fact that it was Dean's turn to shop in town tonight came as a relief for Matilda, though she regretted putting him in potential danger. The boy was seventeen, barely legally allowed to practice magic on his own and not allowed to complete his final year at Hogwarts. Matilda pitied him and felt a motherly protection toward him, though she was only five years older than he was.
"Eat quickly, guys," Dean said, pulling deli meats, cheeses, and bread out of the plastic bags. They're personal policy was to leave the area once one of them showed their faces in town to restock supplies. They couldn't risk being recognized and consequently reported. They had to keep moving—the life of a fugitive.
Matilda threw a sloppy sandwich together and practically shoved it down her throat. She couldn't remember the last time she had the luxury to sit and enjoy a meal. Griphook and Dean were doing the same, and soon they were extinguishing the fire and packing their bags. Dean shoved the remaining food in his backpack. Any non-magic person watching would wonder how it fit into such a small bag, but they all used Extension Charms to fit their necessary supplies into easily carried packs.
"Be right back," Matilda told them. Before they Apparated and moved on to a new location, Matilda figured she'd relieve herself. She ventured away from her comrades and into the trees. Once she was far enough away from the lads, she started to pull down her jeans.
"Well, isn't this a pretty sight," crooned a thick voice behind her.
Matilda stumbled, hastily yanking up her pants as she saw she was being watched by a gang of rough looking men. Immediately, she knew they were Snatchers—and that she was in deep trouble. The man who spoke was tall and lanky with long brown hair pulled back at his neck. He had hooded brown eyes that flashed dangerously above heavy bags that shone purple, like bruises. Just behind him was a burly man with a deeply scarred, animalistic face that Matilda recognized from horror stories as the werewolf, Fenrir Greyback.
"You finished, love?" the first man continued. He was striding toward her and was clearly the leader of the group. The way he looked her up and down disgusted her. "Wouldn't want to interrupt. But I have to ask… what's your name?"
"Samantha Vettles," Matilda responded automatically. She had rehearsed the name she would provide a thousand times if she ever ran into the authorities. It was the name of a half-blood girl she went to school with years ago at Hogwarts. She hated the way her voice wavered.
"Is that right?" the man said, cocking his head to the side, still approaching her. "That's not what your wanted poster says it is… Matilda."
Matilda resisted the urge to cringe when the man used her real name, but instead held her head high. "I don't know what you're—"
"Don't know what I'm talking about, sure, sure," he interrupted. "Maybe my accent's too thick—you lot never seem to know what I'm talking about, do you? Still, best clear up a few things at the campsite, see if we can't get past this misunderstanding."
The man was very close now, and grinning wickedly. His dark eyes bored into her like a python sizing up its prey, estimating just how wide to open its deadly jaws. She had been hunted by a professional predator, and he was about to go in for the kill. He grabbed her arm, pulling her so that his face was inches from hers, his hot breath smelling noxiously of sherry. "I'm afraid you're coming with me."