Thank you to Ada Kensington, my sole reviewer for ch.1!
A/N: Chapter 2. Including a lil bit of background. Now Read On....
Disclaimer: Not mine. JKR's characters, DA Gemmell's concept. I just mashed
them together.
Wolfshead strode away from the room, through the corridors, out of
the mansion and into the woods nearby. Mercifully, he hadn't come across
any of the servants. He'd leave them to raise the alarm. He found his
steeldust gelding tethered by a tree, vaulted into the saddle and rode away.
He was careful to keep in among the trees for as long as possible. That was
what made Wolfshead so fearsome. No-one noticed him arrive, and he
made damn sure they couldn't follow him when he left. It made his life a
whole lot easier, and reduced the amount of blood on his hands.
Of course, there would always be those who wanted him dead. Family of
the deceased, usually, out to avenge their loved one's death. And, although
plenty had his description, no-one knew who he really was. And he kept
moving about, never staying in one place for much longer than a week, two
at most. His silver-blond hair made him easily distinguishable, as did the
double crossbow. And, it had to be said, that the inhabitants of the place he
was staying at breathed a sigh of relief when he left. As to disguising himself, well, there was nothing he could do about the crossbow except keep it hidden as much as possible when he was travelling, but he had considered dying his hair. His natural vanity got in the way of that. He merely made sure his head was covered when he moved now.
After riding for an hour, he arrived at the hut that was his home, at least
for the night. He tethered his horse outside, walked in, and sank down
gratefully onto his chair.
Over. It was all over. He had finally accomplished the task that he'd set
himself all those years ago. Fifteen years, it had taken him, but he'd done it.
He'd avenged the deaths of his family. And, like the others, it had been a
quick killing, despatched before any trouble had started. He himself always
intended to stay alive. That determination always gave him the edge, and
made him so deadly.
And he felt nothing. He'd expected to feel....something. Relief. Relaxed,
maybe, thankful that it was all over. Even shame. Not nothing. Not... empty.
Where had it all started, he mused. He'd been Draco Malfoy, the son of a
Death Eater, widely respected and feared in the wizarding community, in his
last year at Hogwarts. And he'd known about the impending War, and had
been prepared to fight for his father, and for the Dark Side.
And then he had fallen in love. Her name was Ella. He remembered the
first time he'd seen her, on a trip to Hogsmeade. She had been older than
him, working in Hogsmeade in Zonko's. She'd had a wicked sense of humour, and was very beautiful. Draco had fallen in love with her immediately, and was ecstatic when, after only six months of dating, she'd agreed to marry him.
Then, with impeccable timing, the War had started. Ella had been
determined to fight against Voldemort. And Draco would have done anything
for her. Anything. He'd renounced his family name and turned against the
Dark Side. Fought with those he'd despised for so long. He wondered briefly
what had happened to the others. Harry, Ron, the other Gryffindors, all his
new friends. Ella's friends. He hadn't heard from any of them since the Fall,
save from Snape, who'd been the childrens' godfather. But even him, he
hadn't seen since that day fifteen years ago.
After only a year, the War had ended, the Dark Forces triumphant. On
account of his father's name, the Dark Brotherhood had been lenient,
merely banishing Draco, forcing him to live out his life as a humble farmer,
in a remote village away from the town.
But he didn't care. He had Ella. They married in a quiet ceremony
conducted by the village Source priest. Two years later, their son, Gellan,
was born. Two years after that, the girls, Miriel and Krylla.
Then came the massacre. Then he had changed. He was Draco Malfoy no
longer. He was the Wolfshead, merciless assassin. He had hunted down and
killed the twelve men who'd destroyed his happiness, along with a few
others who had been trying to kill him on the way.
The enormity of his deed and the events of the last fifteen years finally
caught up with him. He sank down off the chair onto his knees with a howl
of anguish. He called out Ella's name again and again. And he knew that he
could not go back. He could never be the Draco Malfoy he had been again.
Not properly. For in a way, Draco the farmer had died that day, along with
Ella and the children.
He was destined to forever be Draco, the Wolfshead, feared assassin and
outlaw. Both admired and feared. Hunter and hunted. Shaking, he got up and
staggered to the window, and stared out at the darkening sky.
"Ella!" he whispered. "Ella, what would you think of me now? You'd be proud
of my determination but ashamed that I'd killed so many, wouldn't you? I'm
sorry, Ella. I love you. That's why I did it. I was furious, and upset, and I wanted revenge. I was lost without you. Ella!" The tears came again, and he just stood there, letting them fall in the growing darkness.
A noise outside made him turn, breathing heavily. He felt the onset of
panic rising in his stomach. Calm yourself! he snapped at himself. No-one
knows you are here. No-one could have followed you, you left no tracks.
His panic rose again as he thought of Voldemort. He'd just killed his most
loyal supporter. Voldemort could have used a Search Spell, and sent out
assassins to kill him. Or worse.
He'd been the target of such an attack a few years ago. Creatures sent by
Lucius, as his panic grew. Meld creatures, half human, mostly animal,
ferocious beyond belief.
Draco fought to control his panic, standing motionless for a few seconds
until he felt calm again. You've been triumphant before, there's no reason
why you can't do so again. They couldn't kill you then, they won't be able to
kill you now.
But you're older, now, the treacherous voice in his head whispered. He
ignored it. Just be careful, he told himself. He wiped his face, controlled his
breathing, and picked up his crossbow. His senses sharpened, and he crept
along the wall, listening, watching.
There was definitely something out there. He could hear them moving
around. He shuddered to think what could be out there if Voldemort was
determined to kill him.
Focus! He shook himself, and paused, leaning against the wall. He gripped
the little clay man around his neck. It was his most treasured possession, as
it had been the last thing little Gellan had given him before that dreadful day. He'd had it made into a necklace and wore it as a talisman. And he'd been lucky. So far...
He could hear voices outside, and the sound of hooves. He let go of the
clay man and rested his free hand on the hilt of his sword. The voices were
coming closer.
"Ouch! Hey, the bloody thing bit me!"
"Shut up, you idiot! Do you want him to find us?"
"OK, OK, sorry!" Wolfshead paused, waiting, by the door. He opened it
slowly and stood silently in the frame, watching the two men. One was tall,
with red hair, the other shorter. He thought he recognised them, but couldn't quite make out their features. They hadn't noticed him yet. They were still arguing, making so much noise that a blind man could track them. They were fighting to secure one of the horses, which was quite clearly nervous and kept trying to bolt. Wolfshead frowned. That was strange, animals usually felt calm when they were near him, for despite his reputation among humans, he was quite kindly. Dogs and horses especially. He chuckled to himself. What did that say about him, he wondered, the fact that the only animals that really trusted him were dogs? But there must be something out there. He moved out into the yard.
"Bloody hell!" The two men had finally secured the horse to one of the
trees and had finally noticed him. He must have looked a formidable sight,
he thought. Tall, and muscly, wearing blackened chain mail and leather,
silver hair shining in the moonlight. The two men appeared mesmerised,
and Wolfshead smiled to himself. His eyes flicked across the landscape,
taking in every sight, noting every movement, searching for something
unnatural. He strained his hearing, listening for something other than the
sounds of the night. And then realisation hit him.
The men had unfrozen now, and the smaller one moved towards Wolfshead, grinning.
"Hey! You're..." Wolfshead's arm flashed up, and sent two crossbow
bolts flying through the air.
A/N: Chapter 2. Including a lil bit of background. Now Read On....
Disclaimer: Not mine. JKR's characters, DA Gemmell's concept. I just mashed
them together.
Wolfshead strode away from the room, through the corridors, out of
the mansion and into the woods nearby. Mercifully, he hadn't come across
any of the servants. He'd leave them to raise the alarm. He found his
steeldust gelding tethered by a tree, vaulted into the saddle and rode away.
He was careful to keep in among the trees for as long as possible. That was
what made Wolfshead so fearsome. No-one noticed him arrive, and he
made damn sure they couldn't follow him when he left. It made his life a
whole lot easier, and reduced the amount of blood on his hands.
Of course, there would always be those who wanted him dead. Family of
the deceased, usually, out to avenge their loved one's death. And, although
plenty had his description, no-one knew who he really was. And he kept
moving about, never staying in one place for much longer than a week, two
at most. His silver-blond hair made him easily distinguishable, as did the
double crossbow. And, it had to be said, that the inhabitants of the place he
was staying at breathed a sigh of relief when he left. As to disguising himself, well, there was nothing he could do about the crossbow except keep it hidden as much as possible when he was travelling, but he had considered dying his hair. His natural vanity got in the way of that. He merely made sure his head was covered when he moved now.
After riding for an hour, he arrived at the hut that was his home, at least
for the night. He tethered his horse outside, walked in, and sank down
gratefully onto his chair.
Over. It was all over. He had finally accomplished the task that he'd set
himself all those years ago. Fifteen years, it had taken him, but he'd done it.
He'd avenged the deaths of his family. And, like the others, it had been a
quick killing, despatched before any trouble had started. He himself always
intended to stay alive. That determination always gave him the edge, and
made him so deadly.
And he felt nothing. He'd expected to feel....something. Relief. Relaxed,
maybe, thankful that it was all over. Even shame. Not nothing. Not... empty.
Where had it all started, he mused. He'd been Draco Malfoy, the son of a
Death Eater, widely respected and feared in the wizarding community, in his
last year at Hogwarts. And he'd known about the impending War, and had
been prepared to fight for his father, and for the Dark Side.
And then he had fallen in love. Her name was Ella. He remembered the
first time he'd seen her, on a trip to Hogsmeade. She had been older than
him, working in Hogsmeade in Zonko's. She'd had a wicked sense of humour, and was very beautiful. Draco had fallen in love with her immediately, and was ecstatic when, after only six months of dating, she'd agreed to marry him.
Then, with impeccable timing, the War had started. Ella had been
determined to fight against Voldemort. And Draco would have done anything
for her. Anything. He'd renounced his family name and turned against the
Dark Side. Fought with those he'd despised for so long. He wondered briefly
what had happened to the others. Harry, Ron, the other Gryffindors, all his
new friends. Ella's friends. He hadn't heard from any of them since the Fall,
save from Snape, who'd been the childrens' godfather. But even him, he
hadn't seen since that day fifteen years ago.
After only a year, the War had ended, the Dark Forces triumphant. On
account of his father's name, the Dark Brotherhood had been lenient,
merely banishing Draco, forcing him to live out his life as a humble farmer,
in a remote village away from the town.
But he didn't care. He had Ella. They married in a quiet ceremony
conducted by the village Source priest. Two years later, their son, Gellan,
was born. Two years after that, the girls, Miriel and Krylla.
Then came the massacre. Then he had changed. He was Draco Malfoy no
longer. He was the Wolfshead, merciless assassin. He had hunted down and
killed the twelve men who'd destroyed his happiness, along with a few
others who had been trying to kill him on the way.
The enormity of his deed and the events of the last fifteen years finally
caught up with him. He sank down off the chair onto his knees with a howl
of anguish. He called out Ella's name again and again. And he knew that he
could not go back. He could never be the Draco Malfoy he had been again.
Not properly. For in a way, Draco the farmer had died that day, along with
Ella and the children.
He was destined to forever be Draco, the Wolfshead, feared assassin and
outlaw. Both admired and feared. Hunter and hunted. Shaking, he got up and
staggered to the window, and stared out at the darkening sky.
"Ella!" he whispered. "Ella, what would you think of me now? You'd be proud
of my determination but ashamed that I'd killed so many, wouldn't you? I'm
sorry, Ella. I love you. That's why I did it. I was furious, and upset, and I wanted revenge. I was lost without you. Ella!" The tears came again, and he just stood there, letting them fall in the growing darkness.
A noise outside made him turn, breathing heavily. He felt the onset of
panic rising in his stomach. Calm yourself! he snapped at himself. No-one
knows you are here. No-one could have followed you, you left no tracks.
His panic rose again as he thought of Voldemort. He'd just killed his most
loyal supporter. Voldemort could have used a Search Spell, and sent out
assassins to kill him. Or worse.
He'd been the target of such an attack a few years ago. Creatures sent by
Lucius, as his panic grew. Meld creatures, half human, mostly animal,
ferocious beyond belief.
Draco fought to control his panic, standing motionless for a few seconds
until he felt calm again. You've been triumphant before, there's no reason
why you can't do so again. They couldn't kill you then, they won't be able to
kill you now.
But you're older, now, the treacherous voice in his head whispered. He
ignored it. Just be careful, he told himself. He wiped his face, controlled his
breathing, and picked up his crossbow. His senses sharpened, and he crept
along the wall, listening, watching.
There was definitely something out there. He could hear them moving
around. He shuddered to think what could be out there if Voldemort was
determined to kill him.
Focus! He shook himself, and paused, leaning against the wall. He gripped
the little clay man around his neck. It was his most treasured possession, as
it had been the last thing little Gellan had given him before that dreadful day. He'd had it made into a necklace and wore it as a talisman. And he'd been lucky. So far...
He could hear voices outside, and the sound of hooves. He let go of the
clay man and rested his free hand on the hilt of his sword. The voices were
coming closer.
"Ouch! Hey, the bloody thing bit me!"
"Shut up, you idiot! Do you want him to find us?"
"OK, OK, sorry!" Wolfshead paused, waiting, by the door. He opened it
slowly and stood silently in the frame, watching the two men. One was tall,
with red hair, the other shorter. He thought he recognised them, but couldn't quite make out their features. They hadn't noticed him yet. They were still arguing, making so much noise that a blind man could track them. They were fighting to secure one of the horses, which was quite clearly nervous and kept trying to bolt. Wolfshead frowned. That was strange, animals usually felt calm when they were near him, for despite his reputation among humans, he was quite kindly. Dogs and horses especially. He chuckled to himself. What did that say about him, he wondered, the fact that the only animals that really trusted him were dogs? But there must be something out there. He moved out into the yard.
"Bloody hell!" The two men had finally secured the horse to one of the
trees and had finally noticed him. He must have looked a formidable sight,
he thought. Tall, and muscly, wearing blackened chain mail and leather,
silver hair shining in the moonlight. The two men appeared mesmerised,
and Wolfshead smiled to himself. His eyes flicked across the landscape,
taking in every sight, noting every movement, searching for something
unnatural. He strained his hearing, listening for something other than the
sounds of the night. And then realisation hit him.
The men had unfrozen now, and the smaller one moved towards Wolfshead, grinning.
"Hey! You're..." Wolfshead's arm flashed up, and sent two crossbow
bolts flying through the air.