Chapter 38: Trapped in mind and body and soul

Disorientated.

That was what Bael felt like, and what he could only think of. With a gross envy to throw up. His guts were contracting so much, it hurt not to obey the commands. His throat constricted for the umpteenth time, it seemed, before the metamorphmagus could regain some form of control over his motions.

Also, Bael felt a searing pain in his leg. It was the first thing and mostly only thing he could register. His head was too heavy to lift from the muddy grass – he barely notice ho disgusting eating the ground was, and his hands were numb. Somehow, Bael realized it was still raining and probably not arranging his situation. The cold was slowly seeping through his clothes.

Dementors must be approaching, thought Bael, lids slowly closing to look for some rest. He couldn't find it in himself to move. Either way, he hoped Pettigrew was facing his own ordeal right now. He dearly hoped the dementors would claw away at the wretched man's soul.

"Witchcraft!"

The cry reached Bael's ears faintly. It had been uttered with such … hatred, Bael had his hair standing on edges. His bun had loosened and his long hair were stuck to his eyes. Along with the mud, Bael made out the green coloring of his hair – which explained the surprise of the man not far from him. He was probably a muggle peasant from the countryside.

Through his tired mind, Bael managed to roll his eyes. He didn't believe in fate, but here he was beginning there was someone out to laugh at him wherever he was.

How did he even come so close to Hogwarts anyway? Wondered Bael, waiting for the Dementor to chase the man away. Pettigrew wasn't that far away – possibly, he had yet to see his body or even hear him. Groggily lifting his head from the ground, the young metamorphmagus wished he hadn't.

Instead of seeing the Hogwarts landscape along with some trees, centaurs and a crazy wizard, stood in front of him a man brandishing a three-pronged pitchfork in a hand. And a torch in his other hand to illuminate the surroundings in the dead of the night.

Night? Already so much time had passed?

Bael stared at the man curiously. Both were frozen on their spots, and not because dementors were lurking. Quite the contrary. It was only the wind making any noise, along with the fire. As if a switch had been turned on, the man suddenly cried out once more.

"Witchcraft!"

Bael had wanted to make a « duh, what are you? Daft or something? » comment. He refrained when he saw the disturbed look the weird man sported. Also, the man was approaching the torch way too close to his body to be normal. With horror, Bael realized the man wanted to burn him. Alive.

A rush of adrenaline had Bael ramping away. His leg was still hurting too much to support his weigh. With a glance, Bael realized a huge stunk of bark had found his way into his thigh, thus the stinging feeling. Bael was hyperventilating. Or at least, he was in the first stages of it. The man, fortunately, seemed old. Or at least, had some kind of trouble standing and was thus unable to give a full chase to him. Although, considering Bael's state, it was enough to scare the young wizard. His anguish must have shown on his face – and Bael had only one regret – his metamorphmagus abilities. They were quick to make the man shout like a very insane person.

"Buuurn! Thou witches art unholy! »

Bael avoided the torch stump very closely, his hair getting in the way – and trying not to think about the witch comment – he would cut his hair next time. The torch had almost grazed his arm when the crazy man had thrown the torch his way. With baited breath, Bael tried to stand and reach for his pocket wand. In situations like these, he couldn't wait for the Aurors to come. He needed to fight back, to hell with the Statute of Secrecy!

Color drained from his face (and hair, definitely the hair too) when he realized he had lost his wand somewhere. Prodding his whole leg trying to find a wand probably didn't help his cause to the crazy man chasing him. Cursing a storm under his breath, Bael could only try to reason the man. Perhaps even persuade him he was seeing things with a bit of Occlumency. That way, when the Aurors would come, there wouldn't be too much hassle.

"Wait!" tried to reason Bael, failing to make eye-contact. The man was awfully guarded, putting a hand in front of his eyes. As if he knew how to guard against Occlumency.

The man – he was missing some serious number of teeth – ignored him and continued his frenzy. This time he tried to beat Bael with his pitchfork.

"Wait!" screamed again the metamorphmagus, avoiding another jab.

« Damned foul beasts! » cried the man with such venom, Bael gulped.

He had landed somewhere not witch-friendly apparently. Definitely not witch-friendly – Bael side-stepped another throw. The man was gaining on him. And given the fact he wielded a weapon while Bael had only found some grass bits on the ground to throw at the man, fate clearly didn't favor the wizard today.

I knew today would suck!

Bael blacked out when the pitchfork hit his face.

Sometime later – or it was what Bael assumed – Bael regained some form of consciousness. Some muffled voices reached his head.

The young metamorphmagus felt his body being dragged through a pavement, the rocks scratching and damaging his already weak knees. He still couldn't move much. He suspected the bark in his thigh to be highly responsible of that issue.

"-anx, Father. »

Dimly, Bael realized the Aurors weren't coming. They were taking too long. Through his vague moments of being conscious, he realized the sun was peaking again. Morn was not as beautiful on the ground as it was perched on a broom.

Bael refrained from groaning. He was thrown to the hard floor unceremoniously. Only thanking the deities from stopping the overtly real-nightmare, Bael opened his eyes. With apprehension, the Gryffindor saw he had been thrown into some kind of cave. Steeling his nerves, Bael turned on his back to stare at the dark ceiling. His breath was showing, and he could bet several galleons the deranged man who had hit him with his pitchfork had left a nasty bruise on his face too.

Not moving seemed like an option. If only he knew what to do.

Here, in the empty cell – for it was a cell, he could only ponder at his situation. Tears threatened to fall down his face. Injured, wandless and lost. It took some more time to realize no one would be coming for him. No one ever had. Ron might have. But … he was no more. Bael choked.

"No one will come for me" repeated Bael, keeping the tears from brushing with his long lashes. "Ah. In the end, I'm alone." The laugh that came out of his throat was anything but nice.

Gulping, trying to look around, Bael only noticed how damaged his leg was. The wound was ugly, blood had seeped from the wound and soaked his perfectly fine pants. The bark was peeking from one side.

Glancing down to his thigh quickly, Bael palped with his hand the bark.

"Shit." He cursed.

That stung.

Taking in a deep breath, he used his right hand to pluck the bark out before his skin had the wondrous idea to heal completely.

"Aah!" he screamed very shortly, trying not to be too loud. He didn't want to risk having some unwanted visitors.

Very quickly, Bael teared a part of his cloak to create a make-shift bandage and stop the unnecessary bleeding. Several ragged breathes later, Bael stared at the wall in front of him. His only thoughts going back to Pettigrew, the crazy man and the ghosts of his friends. Ron was dead. So was Draco.

"I need to leave this crazy place." Whispered to himself Bael, steeling his nerves to make up a plan. "I can't stay here."

He was cold now. So very cold. His fingers felt numb, and even his breath couldn't do much to heat him up. But, somehow, he must have fallen asleep, because Bael was jerked awake by a sickening jab in the ribs. The process repeated a few times, enough to make his eyesight go blurry once again.

Crack

Somebody had kicked him again, this time with enough force to bruise a rib or two. And shackled him, going by the heavy chains on his wrists.

"Evil spawn." Spat whoever had kicked him, amongst other niceties Bael hadn't bothered to register and translate.

The metamorphmagus could only close his eyes as the spit hit him in the face. His anger and fear levels were dangerously high. Also, he was wide awake now. Glaring at the man earned him another jab in the ribs.

"Learn your place, scum." Snarled the warden, smiling evilly at Bael with his rotten teeth, "You''ll soon be no more."

Bael barely got the time to say anything before being taken by the warden, shackled like an Azkaban prisoner and handed to a taller man. The man was wearing a brown cloak, held together by a thin rope. A heavy fur cloak was thrown on his shoulder to keep him warm. He was, Bael gulped, scarier than the warden had been, in that all-knowing kind of face he pulled off.

The day light was beginning to filter through the cave Bael had been thrown. Ushering him to walk faster, despite the obvious gaping wound on his thigh, the man pushed Bael in another room, one full of other men and women, all of them shackled like he was. Muggles, if the fact he couldn't feel a single magic spark around him was anything to go by. He surmised, he was the only one to be as beaten as he was though. He couldn't see anyone nursing wounds.

The warden forced him to stand still in between two demented looking persons – their teeth rotten once again. The recurring theme disgusted Bael.

Muggles have the worst hygiene ever.

He was hit again on the head when his hair shifted.

"Demon!" scowled once again the warden while the other prisoners tried to avoid him, pulling on their shackles.

"Save us!" begged a woman not far from him. She threw herself on the ground at the warden's feet. "I don't want a demon to take me away!" she cried out.

Bael almost cried himself.

That woman … does she think I will ..

Bael never finished the thought. The woman screamed like a banshee when Bael met her gaze. She was thoroughly beaten by the warden for daring screaming.

Bael almost puked.

The woman never got back up. And nobody moved an inch against the warden, all too scared to be the next.

He was trapped, and things seemed to be going down very fast.

"You!"

The warden pointed randomly it seemed at the crowd of prisoners. They were all on their knees, unable to move. The warden stared at a child, perhaps no older than 12. The child whimpered. But he obeyed the warden, eyes clearly lifeless, and followed after the man.

"Hurry" mumbled the warden. The despicable man pulled on the shackle that kept the child's feet trapped. He mercilessly fell on the ground, under the warden's laughs.

Bael closed his eyes. He didn't want to see what would happen next.

He heard it nonetheless.

The cries of the child, the booming laugh of the warden, the clicking of the chains. A pause. And again the warden pointing at somebody in the crowd. Some cries, a laugh, a pause. Repeat.

Amongst the crowd of prisoners, Bael heard some place away a trumpet noise. Somebody was talking but he couldn't be sure. His thoughts were still hazy. With a heavy pang in his heart, Bael tried to avoid the gaze of the other shackled people. Some, Bael saw, were but children younger than the first one had seen. And all of them were resolved to some kind of horrid fate. Their gloom faces said as much. And Bael didn't dare ask what was happening. Nobody would answer him. His clenching heart told him he was about to face his end anyway.

Frantic but quiet, Bael was trying to force the shackles down, trying not to think about how his family would react should they learn he had been captured by muggles of all the things. Their magic-less body was beginning to instill a very deep fear into Bael – one he had felt when he was 5, a time where he needed his mother by his side to recomfort him. How he wished he could simply hear her voice, screeching and ranting against all of the Impures. A few clang noises were heard again. A clamor rose – this time Bael was sure he had heard it. Some more trumpet. And then the warden came back with a smile. Bael stumbled on his restraints – his wrists sore from trying to pull free - too weak to move much. His magic, he could feel, was churning in his side. It was beginning to burn. In this whole mess, his thigh was still burning him. He needed to tend to the wound more seriously before it got infected and-

"Faster!" shouted the warden to a grown man, pushing him, stopping Bael's blurry musing.

Bael watched with detached eyes. Soon, it would be his turn.

Men, adorned in brown wool cloaks would take him to the outside world, where the warden kept coming back from. Someone would talk. People would shout. And it would be his end. The dark oak door separating the prisoners from the rest of the world loomed darkly over Bael's head. Taunting him.

It didn't take too long for the warden to reach him. It was in the elated smile, the sinister way he moved around, almost insane.

"Demons face Purgatory." The warden laughed louder than before. "Your soul will be cleansed."

Grabbing both his arms, Bael was taken in much the same way the man before him had been, bar the plaints. He had never been one for begging, he told himself. Truth was, he was too scared to do anything right now.

It was weird, noticed the metamorphmagus.

He didn't know how he had been able to step out of the oak door, but here he was. The two men that had grabbed his arms had yet to release him, but their strong grips was fading.

He didn't understand what was happening.

He was led outside by two men, to a crowd shouting blue-murder. He didn't understand whatever they were saying. It was only gibberish. But he didn't have to understand their words to realize they were all spiteful. They were throwing rocks. Some reached him, making him stumble, not that it would make any difference. The two men were dragging his sorry behind to a slightly up-standing platform, where a wooden post was erected. Next to it, another man clothed in brown wool cloak stared at him. The same brown all the men he had seen before wore, except for the warden.

Bael could only stare at the huge cross around the man's neck. It was the only article differentiating him from the other men. The cross was oddly detailed, with golden embroideries, rubies and sapphires on the edges. It was glaring back at Bael, it seemed it had a will of its own.

The church … the catholic church. Realized Bael, feeling oddly numb as his warden were attaching his hands together and pulling them forward. Are they … going to burn me alive? Like in the tales? Will they behead me?

The thoughts filtered through his brain at such a speed, Bael wasn't sure he was thinking them. His magic churned again, painfully tugging his guts.

A serene calm washed over the crowd when the cross man talked. Bael listened the beginning of it, but soon, he was fed some awful looking herbs. His eyelids closed against his will, his blurry eyesight only saw the evil grin the cross man sported. Drugs … thought Bael before the deafening cries from the crowd died down and the world went black once again.

The dream-like state, induced by the plants he had been force-fed stopped when a searing pain, a pain so strong, so overwhelming – Bael was sure he was screaming full fledge – took hold of his brain. The pain, in his right arm, repeated thrice and in quick succession. A quick burn followed.

At the same time, Bael felt his magic react. It was automatic. It bursts out, tearing his organs in and out like Apparition could. With a clogged mind, Bael heard silence dawning on his mind. He was gone from the place.

The pain, it was reminiscing.

The tears, though … they were not.

It took time, but Bael realized no help would come. No Aurors, no Na-Dragon and no wizard. Nobody. He was utterly alone. Again.

The tears marring his face didn't look like they would be stopping anytime soon.

Sore, Bael had uncurled and looked at the damage.

The pain in his right arm? Gone.

Because his right arm was gone. In its place, a stump, half healed by his magic. On the ugly and blood soaked stumped, the imprint of the cross the man had held stared back at him, taunting Bael.

Bael didn't know how long he had been staring at it. The rational parts of his mind told him a quick St-mungoose check up would regrow the stump and erase the ugly tattoo-like burn. Another told him, it was the end of the world. That he would die before reaching help. Admist all, he cried some more.

With difficulty, he had hopped onto his feet. Around him, blackened dust settled down. Some trees were seen a few miles away, but either way, nothing was where he was. Walking, crunching sounds were heard. Under the sole of his boots, Bael belatedly saw the red leaves of Autumn.

More tears flew down his cheeks.

"Accidental magic happens all the time." Justified Bael, trying to run out of the dark dust – a side effect of uncontrolled Apparition. No, not Apparition. It was a side-effect of Oscurus – wizards who couldn't control their magic and end up bursting their surroundings. Iddly, horror dawning on his features, Bael looked at some fallen rocks not far from him. Had he blown up people when he had tried to escape? Were the leaves red because of …

"It was not me." He breathed out some more, "I … they tried to kill me!" he shouted to the world.

His screams reverberated into nothingness. He had no one but his mind to apologize to here.

With time, Bael realized his body had walked to the nearest village and hidden in some dark hole. People paid him no heed, which Bael could only thanx them. Pulling his hood up to hide his unruly hair – belatedly, Bael realized he could not attach his long hair, just pull them back with his left hand - and hiding his stump - he had lost all the feelings on that right arm by now - under his cloak, Bael had sat on the hard floor. Like a beggar, he had been thrown some scrap of bread, or rum when a passerby had felt pity. But no one had talked to him.

All Bael could do was stare. Sweet nothings, memories long gone. His calling for house elf had not worked. His friends were gone. His family was gone. His wand was gone. Sometimes, Bael would hear from the strange people in the village rumors about wizards and explosion. It guilt-tripped him so much, Bael couldn't bear to hear it to the end. He would tighten his hold on his bottle and wait.

Snow is falling.

Bael didn't budge.

A part of his brain supplied some answers to the strange people.

Muggle peasants.

Bael shuddered. The peasants, or whatever. The muggles – their lack of magic was proof enough – were clothed with the disturbing middle ages fashion. Bael had flinched to their gazes. Fearing a repeat of the field and the church.

Footsteps were now approaching him. It stopped right at its feet. Bael curled some more on himself, trying to be the smallest possible.

"Purebloods don't bow." Commented the harsh newcomer.

Bael looked up with an eagerness he hadn't thought possible, not even trying to hide his shame. The person in front of him … they were two, actually. A man and a woman. He had a black cloak and scarf while she had some brown rags. Their hair didn't seem to have seen water in a long time. But Bael supposed his neither did.

"What do you want?" Bael's voice was hoarse from lack of talking and from crying.

The man snickered. The woman didn't so much as react. Instead of leaving like Bael expected them to, the man reached into his cloak and retrieved a rock. He threw it to Bael who caught it by reflex with his left hand.

"It is a translation rune, in case you stumble onto too archaic words." Mocked the man.

Bael frowned. How did he know he thought the people around like … uncivilized barbarians.

"Who are you?" croaked out Bael after a long time.

"Not here." Hissed the woman, "We are attracting attention."

The man nodded. He looked briefly at the woman in the eye, exchanging some mental words – and Bael realized they were wizards. Young wizards going by the youthful look of the woman. The man, he couldn't tell with the scarf.

"Come on up, mate." Rushed the man, holding out his hand to help Bael up.

Recoiling at the help, Bael still had to take up the arm to lift himself. His leg was not fully healed yet.

They walked some more, a sort of walk of shame for Bael. He felt so bad. He just wanted to crawl up in a hole and wake up from the nightmare.

"My name is Raoh." Finally whispered the man, "hers is Aeliam."

Bael shrugged. He had no intention to surrender his name. It was the only thing he had left. And he had a strong gut feeling, even if he were to give his name away, nobody would help him on his way home. He didn't want unwanted attention. Perhaps a false name if he requested one.

"You're wizards." Mumbled Bael.

The hold on his arm tightened.

"Not so loud." Stifled the woman. Aeliam, corrected Bael's brain.

"Yes." Said the man, barely louder than the wind, "And so are you."

"No. I'm not. You are mistaken." Blurted out Bael. His heart beating awfully loud in his chest, a sudden panic filling his chest after the misadventures he had suffered. Briefly, he thought about his right arm. He had yet to use his left hand to anything too.

Aeliam and Raoh exchanged another glance. They were talking, Bael just knew it. Occlumency was an art his mother had tried to teach him over the summer so as to not have any repeat of the Chamber of secrets. Bael liked to think he had taken to the art like a fish to water. But his mother had told him in no uncertain terms he sucked at it. But her standards were the Dark Lord, so he wasn't that worried about his apparent inability to use Occlumency.

"What?!" finally snapped Bael, trying to leave Raoh's hold. He was left staggering when the man freed him.

"Listen." Grunted the man, "We're from the resistance." He held a finger up to stop Bael from talking, "You have been victim of the muggles, that much we can see. But, of all the possibilities, you came out lucky." Bael snarled. How dare he? "Stop it!" groaned the man once more, "You could have been handed to the Stars, and then, goodbye dear life."

Bael froze.

"The Stars? Shapeshifters?" asked the metamorphmagus remembering with haggard eyes tales his mother had counted him in his younger days, "You're completely crazy." Decided Bael when he saw the resolute faces of the two people.

"No. We're not." Said Raoh again, "Right now, you're in shock. It's normal. In a few hours, your magic will finish to heal your leg wound - however you got that one – and you will feel depleted. Here," the man handed him a gourd, "It is full of pepper-up potion. That should help you. It's mixed with some strand of unicorn hair to disinfect any other wounds" he looked up Bael's eyebrow.

Bael clenched his jaw when he was the man staring him down. He didn't deserve any of it.

The woman fidgeted. Bael could clearly see she was not alright with this Raoh's decision. Bael would not pass up on the offer though. Even if it killed him to admit it.

"You need to leave the country." Finally pipped up Aeliam. She clarified. "Your burst of magic a few hours ago" Bael hid his surprise at the time lapse, he had thought it had been a few days, "has not gone unnoticed by the Stars. They are on the way. And once they are here, they will track your cross." Bael stiffened with Aeliam pointed look at his hidden arm. "It was enchanted by some Goblins." She answered Bael's question without him speaking. "You need to leave immediately. We will lead them away for a short while. If needed, take to the forests. Fairies will lead you."

Bael frowned. The lady was completely crazy. Fairies stopped existing a long time ago. And fleeing …

"Why should I listen to you?" demanded Bael, "You being in the resistance, or whatever that is, won't make me change my mind. I don't believe in all that Star crap."

"Don't you want to stop feeling useless?" snapped Aeliam – and Bael hated the moment he realized she was reading into his thoughts, "Your friends are gone, dead, your family had abandoned you. You're alone. And we can offer you a chance of escape from the Stars. We can offer you the chance to be someone again."

"It's not my problem. I have done nothing wrong. The Stars won't hurt me" Mumbled Bael.

The two wizards in front of him shifted, seemingly laughing at the prospect.

"Listen there, kid." Began Raoh, ignoring the bristling of Bael, "Stars are in league with the muggles that cut off your arm. That cross is quite infamous here. Should you end up within vicinity of the Stars or the cross that did that to you and doing magic, the imprinted cross will burn red. And alert them that you are an undesirable. Looking at your left hand, and arms of coat, anyone can tell you're a pureblood." Bael stiffened, trying to keep his head high and failing miserably – perhaps skipping his lessons on etiquette had not been such a good idea after all, "That makes it worse. The Stars will suck you dry of your magic and blood."

Aeliam took the lead, "The moment the muggles almost killed you was the moment that whole mess became a part of your problem too. Leave the country, cross France and reach Rome. There, your family should help you."

"I have no family. You said so." Glared Bael. "Why should I risk my life for you? And Rome of all the places." He scoffed.

"Because we have risked ours to find you. Because we risked ours to save your helpless friends." Snapped back Aeliam. "Some of them seemed to be alive." She spat. By now, both the woman and Bael were glaring at each other.

"Listen." Once again Raoh spoke up, stopping a scathing remark from the metamorphmagus. Bael was beginning to hate him with passion too, "If you want to save them too, if you want to help, if you want to survive, follow our instructions. You've already realized it, haven't you? We're at war. Muggles and Stars against wizard. Mistrust hangs in the air, everywhere. Muggles know where we are all the time. We can't expand more, but you need to reach Rome and talk to the Blacks. Don't glare, we know you're a Black, it is obvious. You wear their coat of arms on your ring finger. Convince them to come back. Convince them to rally to the Queen's army once more."

Bael frowned. A sense of purpose filled him – and Bael almost lashed out when he realized magic was at work. The two wizards were compelling him to follow their instructions. How … shrewd.

"The Queen's … army?" he pinched his lips, hating how easily he was falling to the charm.

"That way, you'll be safer. Always on the move. And it would greatly help us. We heard from your friends you were great with words."

"You don't know me. And I don't have any friends. You are mistaken. Good day." Bael tried to leave. Unfortunately, one of the two wizards must have sent a stunner his way because he couldn't move a single muscle.

"Of course, we do know you." Humphed Aeliam, tugging the two toward a deserted alleyway, "Give the Blacks this."

She handed Bael a sealed scroll.

"I never said I agreed." Rasped the boy, voice full of contempt.

"But your eyes did." Whispered back Aeliam, "You can either stay here and literally die, or you could take up on our offer and supply of pepper-up potion to go to Rome and convince the Blacks to come back. Also, you can chose not to fight back against oppression. That's your choice. But you should know your friends, those who come from that Hogwarts place, they have chosen to fight with us." She pulled out a ring with a special coin.

The coin, Bael noticed, was the same he had collected with Neville, Ron and Hermione in the chamber of Secrets. The one emblazoned with a huge H. The one he had used in the ruins to help Ron and Neville out of the tomb. The one that had reappeared in his pocket a few days later.

"This is how we recognize each other. Now, I was led to believe you already had the coin." She whispered, her eyes sharp. "Use it well. This allows you to go to some places in the magical world."

"And a word of advice," cut Raoh, "should you try to sell us to the Stars, the coin will suck you dry to the bone. So don't."

Bael froze. He should have never touched those damn coin. He gulped and bit down hard on his lips, almost drawing unnecessary blood. He hated when people thought they saw through his mind.

"You keep saying you know my friends, but-"

Bael stopped when Aeliam raised her wand and showed him an image of ragged down Gryffindors. They looked like they were laughing, though. Happy.

Bael felt both bitter and relieved. Ron's face was not amongst the people – only Neville, Seamus and Hermione.

Either way, he had taken the scroll and a swig from the gourd. The time it took him to do these very actions, the strangers were gone in a rumbling noise. A promise whispered in the air announced they would meet again.

Damn … I don't even know where I am.

…

Did I come back in time?

The question hung in the air, while Bael viewed some more muggles.

A twitch in his hand was the only clear reaction Bael had.

The rock Raoh had given him worked wonders. Also, it allowed him to speak the same old language of the peasants. Bael fully used it.

Trying to squash down the unpleasant bitterness at the mere sight of muggles – it's their fault, theirs! – Bael walked out of the village bitterly. His right arm throbbing every time he tried to soothe it with his magic. The gourd seemed endless. He wasn't sure, so he had stolen from a sleeping man a few golden coins in case he would need to buy something. Water, if it could be bought.

Rage was still seeping. Fortunately his hood was up and hiding most of his red mane. His eyes, though, Bael wasn't sure. It must have been just as red. Bael sniffed, letting his eyes graze the floor and thus avoiding eye contact with the muggles.

Walking would do him good. He had nothing else to do but ruminate anyway.

Why do I even help people doomed to die. They said they saw my friends … but they will end up ghosts. Like Ron and Draco.

Bael snarled.

He had realized quickly enough that he had come back in time, and so had his whole class. The ghosts he had seen in Hogwarts park? The remnants of his best friend and cousin. They had died in this era, and only their ghosts selves had made it back to the present.

And we will all go down that way

Going back in time was crazy enough. Speeding time back to the present, though? It was crazier. Nobody could pull that off. Not even with Ravenclaw's diadem and its admittedly all-knowing science.

Bael heaved a sigh.

He was alone on the road. And the night was settling. Soon the Stars would be out, and Bael needed a quick way out. With nostalgia, Bael peered up at the sky to look at the lights. The stars, those that shone brightly and soothingly.

"The north is there … I need to go south." He pointed with his left hand the few constellations he knew.

It will take me month to reach the sea.

The days blurred by. When the sun was out, Bael would stop and sleep in a secluded corner. Only at night, when the stars were out and about to guide him, would Bael travel. With the potion, his leg had healed in a couple hours after the first swig. True to Raoh's word, he had felt tired, but he had still enough in him to carry on walking. And the fact huge monsters – or so Bael imagined – were behind him for his hide didn't please Bael in the slightest. The tales of Stars were frightening him. Even more so since his right arm – or what was left of it – had burnt him one night. It had shone a bright red, and Bael had rushed to cover his boiling arm with his tattered cloak. Some natural born instinct had told him to run as fast as he could, and he was very happy to have followed that instinct. Not a minute later, the road he had been on reeked of dark magic, a cloud spewing out of nowhere poisoned its environment. Bael had seen the forest from afar decaying.

The days were bland and cold. Only the pepper-up potion kept him moving – and Bael knew how unhealthy that was. Sometimes, when Bael could see them, he would take some edible unfrozen plants and try and stew them. It tasted awful, and Bael retched the very first times. He was now oddly accustomed to it. Perhaps three weeks had passed.

After several fortnights coddled up in his furred cloak – thank you the heavy traditional clothes of the duel classes -, Bael had reached the coast. Asking for some directions to the nearest port that would take him to France had not been very difficult either. Something to do with Normandie and an English royal there.

Bael had almost sneered at that. Muggles royal families were all intertwined.

His hate for muggles was growing disproportionately, by the day. It was forming an ugly beast, one dictating him to rally to this Queen's army and fight back – or perhaps it was the effect of the spell one of the two wizard had cast on him. For as long as he was moving, things would be fine.

"That will be 57 golden louis." Drawled the seaman willing to take him up on the back of his boat.

Bael felt an ugly urge to strangle the man.

He may have looked poor – and he was poor right now – but even then, he knew when somebody was trying to rob him. And right now, this imposter was doing so.

Tentatively, Bael reached out with his mind. The muggle never saw it coming.

"You will let me on your boat and let me down once in France" muttered Bael.

The sailor had glazed eyes. He repeated the very same words in a droning voice before his eyes cleared.

"Ah. Yes. Come on." He murmured. "let's go before the night falls."

Bael smirked.

Well, he had practiced an awful number of times on unsuspecting night travelers, but the results were very effective. It was not quite like the Impero, because the Occlumency was more like … implanting a false reason into somebody's brain. And then, the victim would agree to whatever request … yes. Bael had been creative.

The boat was dirty. Almost as much as Bael was. But there had been real food there. Even if half rotten, with fish not so fresh. Bael had welcomed the change. His stomach was sturdier, now, but not enough apparently.

"Aye, see-sick lad." Greeted one morning on the sea the sailor. "t'happens."

Bael rolled his eyes at the muggle. He kept his face hunched, in case he would need to throw up again. These days, it felt like throwing up was a constant.

"Lad, France is occupied these days." Said after a few days the sailor, "you sure you want to stay there?"

"I've got family." Grumbled Bael with heavy eyes. He was enveloped by light covers to protect him slightly from the freezing winter wind.

"Aye. Beware of the romans." Finished the sailor, not wanting to speak up much more.

The romans? What … ?!

Bael thought he had swallowed whole a lemon. He hoped he remembered enough of his history lessons to avoid any precarious situations.

Just, when had he come back in time.

In the end, the whole sea travel took 6 days and a night, counted Bael. And they had landed in Bretagne, the west coast of France, in a small fishing village.

Bael had quickly left unnoticed.

In the end, Raoh and Aeliam were right. I'm safer when on the move.

Nobody had followed. Or so Bael thought. It was painfully easy to avoid detection. With a stick to help the walking, one just had to fumble some words to strangers to be let alone.

"Going to Paris to see the new King?"

Bael looked up at the peasant talking. He had an unpleasant ginger moustache, but he was at least somewhat nice to talk to. He had a chariot, transporting goods. Perhaps, with some convincing, he could persuade the man to take him to the south toward the next big city. Lyon. Or Lugdunum in these days. The information Bael had gleaned from his travels were that he had landed in an old era. Whatever it was called these days.

"I heard Hugues Capet wants to tax the romans." Continued the man. "It's gonna be hassle now to go to Lugdunum."

Bael recoiled. Ok, time to persuade the man to lend him the chariot if he couldn't take him himself.

"Aye, Lugdunum? I'm going there too." Had said another merchant behind the ginger peasant, "Hop in, lad."

Bael frowned. Why would they take him …? they were far too trusting, and him, far too paranoid. Idly, he remembered history lessons. French people had been very opened to French only. And thanx to the rock Raoh had given him, he could talk the dreaded old language.

"The Pope declared that new King the legitimate heir." Said the new peasant willing to take in Bael, "'said he had the blood flowing."

Bael frowned. He didn't know much of muggle history. Actually, he knew nothing. Much less about the people here.

Did I time-travel past the XVIII century?

The realization dawned on Bael, as he and Childeri – the peasant's name – went through some villages to the south. The people were hardly the same civilized bunch he had remembered the muggles to be back when his …

Bael blinked back tears. Now was not the time. He had a scroll to give to the Blacks in Rome. He had to somehow convince them to come back to the Queen's army. Yes. That was it. Only that. Nothing else mattered.

Also, did he say Rome was inhabited by that Pope dude? Does that mean … Catholics …

Bael sat upright. The nightmarish cross the clerk that had chopped his arm off had worn was dancing in front of his eyes. He was starting to hyperventilate. Right about now, he was nowhere near ready to face anything that had a remote link to the cross. Why did he have to put up with all the religious folk?