[summary] — Marius/OC [Refugee!AU] He was one of the lucky ones, he knew that. Others hadn't fared so well.

A/N — Okay, so the Refugee!AU thing may be a bit of a stretch, but I write post-apocalypse too much.

Written for the Hogwarts Houses comp with the prompt reading. And thanks to PV (What'dIMiss) for looking through this :)

The lyrics are from the song Dirty Laundry by All Time Low.

[1920]


Dirty laundry is piling in her room

She's got her secrets, yeah I got mine too

.oOo.

He was one of the lucky ones, he knew that. Others hadn't fared so well.

But dwelling on their past wasn't something they did here. This was as close to a fresh start as they could get. It's a safe place for people like him — the unwanted, the abused — where they can seek shelter and maybe a cooked meal before they move on.

He's been here for longer than most. Over a decade, now.

"Marius, isn't it?" a girl calls. He doesn't know her name — he'd stopped asking some time in the first year; it was easier this way — but he recognises her face. "That's what they call you." He nods. It's his real name — he'd been young when he first arrived and it hadn't occurred to him to lie — but she doesn't need to know that. "They said you'd give me a job," she says slowly, looking more unsure with each word. "That I could stay for as long as I helped out?" He nods again, pointing towards the kitchen.

She leaves quickly, scuttling away like she's just been reprimanded after misbehaving in front of a teacher. He pays it no mind — it's a pretty standard reaction to him at this point — and makes his way to his room. It's more of an out-house really — shed is not a word he lets enter his mind — with sheets of metal leant up against what was once the original structure in a half-hearted attempt at keeping out the weather.

He doesn't have a door anymore, just a thin curtain that he has to replace every time the weather gets too bad since someone stole the old tabletop he'd been using before, but it's still more private than most are offered here. He pushes the curtain aside and steps into the dim interior of his room. His bed is just three wooden pallets pushed into the corner and covered in as many old sheets as he could scrounge up over the years, but he can easily remember when he had to sleep on the floor, and many still do.

People call his room the product of favouritism — that because he's been here so long, the Founders give him the first choice in whatever they manage to salvage — but he knows that it is the product of his own hard work. You don't get anything for free, least of all here.

He pulls a battered book out from underneath one of the pallets. He doesn't know what it is — he can't read — but it's mostly pictures anyway, and the story seems to progress through them. Someone had called it a maga once, but he's long forgotten who; just one of the many faces passing through. Whatever it is, it's printed on paper which is rare enough, and most of the pages seem to be there, even if they're dirty and faded and torn.

There's a gentle knock on one of the metal sheets and his entire room shakes from it. The structure's not doing too good, he thinks distantly, but mostly he's just annoyed. Why would someone need to come to his room? It's one of the unwritten rules of the camp: don't disturb other people's space. It's such a rare commodity.

He shoves his book back under the pallets, making sure it's hidden, and snaps: "What?" The girl from before is peeking around the curtain already, and he really hopes she didn't see his book — with such little to go around, no one is above stealing — but her eyes are on her feet so he thinks he might be okay.

"I — I'm sorry," she stutters. "I just — I wanted to see if you needed any help."

"I — what?" he asks. "Why would I need help?"

"Everyone needs help sometimes," she says, gaining more confidence. "I just wanted to know if you needed anything."

"No," he snaps. "Get out."

"Right. I — sorry, it's just that … that everyone came back this time and —"

"What?" he interrupts, standing quickly. "Everyone?" It's a rare occurrence anyone comes back from the scouting missions, so rare that people are usually only sent on them when there's too many people at the camp to feed. The old and the sick sent out to die in a way people can pretend isn't intentional. "Are you sure?"

She nods, swallowing audibly. "Y-yeah, they're uh … they're all at the gates. There's uhm … not enough food." He thinks she might have been about to say something else, but doesn't bother asking.

Instead, he strides past her, leaving her standing just outside his room looking dazed and confused and, underneath it all, mildly irritated.

It's not far from his room to the gates. No one knows what used to be here, but the gates are one of the few things in the camp that's aptly named — wrought iron that's at least two stories high; though whatever wall that used to be attached to them is long gone. Now, the gates just stand tall in the centre of camp. There isn't enough material to waste on a wall. It's not like it would be much use, anyway.

And she had been right. At least, he thinks she had. No one really counts the number of people sent out each month, but a group of at least ten — all elderly or infirm — stand just beneath the gates. They've attracted quite the crowd.

People step aside as the five Founders make their way to the group. In the beginning, it is said there were only four — all long dead now — one for each of the four walls. Marius had always suspected that the camp didn't used to be centred on the gate, but rather contained by the walls it must have once been a part of. But now, the four walls are what they refer to as the four main buildings, each of which is run by one of the Founders, and the fifth Founder runs the entire camp. Marius' room technically falls under the West Wall.

He can't hear what they're saying, but it's clear that they're talking to those who have returned. Marius briefly considers pushing his way to the front, but thinks better of it. He didn't survive this long by drawing unneeded attention to himself.

"I heard you're like me," the girl whispers. She's persistent, he'll give her that. Annoyingly so, but it's a lot more than others have been able to claim. Most people here are just floating through life — sometimes, he thinks he is one of those people — but this girl seems … more engaged somehow. Awkward and unsure, of course, but there's a quiet confidence to her that contradicts a lot of her behaviour.

He doesn't ask about that. Instead, he says: "How so?" He doesn't turn his attention from the Founders.

"Well," she says, "you see more." He allows his eyes to flick quickly in her direction. "You're … different."

"Because I'm old?" he asks, his tone indifferent.

"You're not — you're not old." He wonders at that — where could she possible have come from to think twenty-one wasn't old? most people didn't make it to sixteen — but again, he doesn't ask. He'll allow her to keep her secrets, because he knows he wants to keep his. "I'm … I'm twenty-four," she whispers. He looks at her then, and he's sure the shock is written plainly across his face.

"How?"

"Well, I — where I come from … we have better defences, I guess," she says, shrugging.

"You can't keep them out," he says; his voice is too loud, he knows that, but for once he is struggling to keep his words low, to the point. "They're … different" he parrots her word back at her, unable to think of something better.

"So are we," she whispers, smirking.

"Why are you here?" he asks, well past the point of being able to stop himself. "Why come here if where you were before was so safe?"

"Because," she says, giving him a conspiratorial look as if he has any idea what's going on, "things are changing."

"What did you do?" he asks. "Did you do something? Is this because —"

"There's not enough people." She takes his arm, pulling him away from the crowd. "They're dying out."

"We have been for years," he snaps, "I don't see what that's got to do with anything."

"Not you. Not us," she corrects. "Them. The shadows." He'd heard tales of the shadows — they were a large part of the reason he'd never left the camp since he got here — but no one really believed in those stories. Stories of shadows that sucked a persons soul, leaving them as just a shell of what they once were, unable to do anything — eat, sleep, move — until they eventually died. Stories where death became a mercy, and escape for being trapped in your own body, there but not there. He shakes his head.

"The shadows aren't real."

She smirks. "Do you want to find out? For sure?" No, he really doesn't. Not even a little bit. He says as much and she only laughs. "Well you're going to," she says, "if you stay here."

"If they wanted to come into camp they would have a long time ago," he says, setting his jaw in a stubborn line. "I don't see why that would ever change."

"Because they're hungry." The way she says it shows a little too much joy, a little too much amusement at this situation.

"Wait," he says, struck by a sudden thought, "why are you only telling me? Why not tell the Founders?"

She laughs again, but this time it sounds decidedly cruel. "You're not like them. We're not like them. Muggleborns and Half-bloods who've forgotten what they are." He shakes his head — these words are stranger than the maga the man had once called his book — and waits for an explanation. She doesn't give one. "You must remember where you lived before this." He shakes his head, feeling decidedly stupid. He's not used to being the one unsure. "Oh," she looks sad, almost pitying, "did the shadows come? Is that why you're here?"

"Look," he snaps, "you're clearly insane, so I —"

"They like magic best," she says; he can barely refrain from rolling his eyes, "so we're immune. But the magic's dying out. And it's taking them with it."

"So you're saying —"

"Look," she says, in a way that makes him feel like he's being mocked, "it's a really easy decision. Stay or go. Doesn't matter what I say, does it?"

He takes a moment to think about it, because she's right — certifiably insane as she may be, she's somehow still right — it doesn't matter. He can stay in this monotonous existence, praying that one day he won't have outgrown his use and be sent off to almost certain death. Or …

"They called themselves pure," he says, though he wasn't sure why he was telling her this, adding "my family" at her confused look. "I don't really remember them. It was dark, and when I woke up …"

Or, he can leave of his own free will. Everything he's done up until now has been forced upon him — through fear, necessity or just an inherent need to stay close to what is familiar.

She nods, understanding. And ultimately, it's an easy decision.

.oOo.

I don't care about what you did

Only care about what we do