DISCLAIMER
The characters, locations and concepts within are the property of JK Rowling, not me. I am in no way affiliated with Ms Rowling, Warner Brothers, Bloomsbury, Scholastic or anyone else with rights to the series. No profit is being made.
AUTHOR'S NOTES
This story has been posted as part of an effort to put all my fanfic in once location, for my own piece of mind. Needless to say, if I get a few more reviews out of it, that'd be a bonus too. Run was written in August 2005, and originally posted at FictionAlley under the name sephiel.
RUN
Igor Karkaroff awoke sharply, a rock poking into the small of his back and his face slicked with cold dew. It was early July, and by rights, the mornings shouldn't be so cold, but someone had clearly missed the memo. But then, it wasn't exactly a scratch on Durmstrang's weather, was it?
He sat forward quickly, hands pulling convulsively at the damp cloak he'd been using as a blanket, peering urgently into the low cloud that covered the fields. For a precious, fleeting moment, Igor Karkaroff was alone. Slowly, he began to take a breath. Then--
"Keep your voice down, he'll hear us..."
The breath caught, and Igor staggered to his feet. His body protested dully, refusing to act so soon after sleep, and his back throbbed from where the rock had dug into it. He turned, agonizingly, and he began to run, his sodden cloak landing behind him.
The voices called out, and he heard muddy footfalls as the hunters gave pursuit. Already, his lungs were beginning to burn, his chest cramping as they failed to supply sufficient air to his tired, aging body. A low whine of panic rose in the back of his mind.
I don't want to die - I don't want to die - I don't want to die -
The fields had broken down into a blur of dark green grass, hard soil and grey-white sky; the air felt colder and harsher against his throat than anything he'd ever known. And, apparently ignoring his plight, a craving for cigarettes rose up in him. The comforting weight of it between his fingers, and the dry, bitter taste of the smoke as it passed down into his throat -
He stumbled. For a moment, he thought that it was over. He would fall, the Death Eaters would catch him and it would all be over, they'd kill him, like he'd known they would, he shouldn't have sold them out, he - He had no choice! - Oh my God I'm going to die...
As it turned out, it was that stumble that saved his life. He fell sideways, catching himself at the last moment, and a hex slammed into the ground where he'd been. Grass and muddy earth exploded in a blackish shower, small pebbles and smoking dirt bouncing off his shoulders.
Igor made a noise - half a breathy sob, half a panicked cry - and fired a hex behind him. The leading Death Eater deflected it, and Igor had to jump to avoid getting hit. He kept running.
He could see a farmhouse up ahead - little more than a shack, really - and sped up. The last vestiges of sleep were slowly melting away; his unwashed clothes, already showing the wears of hard living, were soaked through with sweat. He yelped as a hex flew over his shoulder, blasting the door off its hinges, and ran through the shower of splinters into the house.
He'd hoped to find somewhere to hide, a corner to duck around until he could disguise himself or get away. No. NO! There was just a single room, a filthy-looking single bed, a kitchenette and a great many cobwebs.
Igor Karkaroff screamed, a purely animal sound, and ran straight for the opposite wall, as if he could tear his way through it, and to freedom. He never even got that far.
"Avada Kedavra!"
Igor Karkaroff hit the wall with a sickening THUD, sliding down to lay in a heap. A thin trail of blood marked where his nose had hit the wall. Igor Karkaroff would run no longer.