Cormac walked ever deeper into the solitude of the forest. Though wandless, he was still a wizard – an innately magical being, and the Scottish wilderness was one of the most deeply magical places in the wide world. With a little concentration, Cormac could feel it swirling and pulsing all around him, and he allowed it to guide him, following its magnetic pull as best he could. Where it would lead, he could not guess.

And as he ventured farther from the influence of civilization, the mundane slowly began to give way to the magical. Squirrels and foxes became gnomes and nogtails. The trees grew more wild and seemed to watch him as he passed. Enchantments, strange and sinister, gave the forest a will of its own. When night fell, the very air glowed under the light of the mystic moon, as if impregnated with pixie dust. Cormac crouched close to the fire, ever fearful of what lurked beyond; older and fouler things than Death Eaters still dwelt in the dark places of the world.

He ate nuts, berries, seeds, flowers, roots, mushrooms, insects – anything he could find. It was not enough to sustain him, and he knew that starvation was never far off. Starved, cold and alone in the woods: a fitting end to the ever noble Cormac McLaggen, he thought bitterly.

He'd spend his nights staring into the light of the meager fire, too afraid and troubled to sleep. His mind wandered in and out of memories, some pleasant, some painful. Or they were painful now, anyway. He would look back on his days at Hogwarts, or his summers at home, and see how little he had appreciated it all, and how terribly he'd treated people.

His father, his mother, his friends and all those nice, sweet, beautiful girls. Hermione. Her face would not leave his mind. How could he have been so cruel, so uncaring, so horrible to someone so wonderful as her?

Wonderful? he sneered, You hardly knew her. And it was true – he knew almost nothing of her beyond her warm smile, her flowing hair, and the soft curves of her body. He'd lusted after her, nothing more. She was just another girl, just another object to be obtained. But Cormac didn't want to believe that. He wanted - he needed – to believe that she'd meant something to him once, that he'd truly and deeply cared. But now, alone under the judging eyes of the hellish forest, he could not say that was true. His father had been right. Maybe this was what he deserved.

...

It came on a grey morning in August. Cormac had spent over a month wandering, and had all but given up hope. But, at long last, he saw it.

The trees had begun to thin a bit, and there, sitting neatly in a small clearing, was a tiny house. Cormac expected it to be abandoned – it looked quite ancient – but, lo, a chimney protruding out of the thatched roof was smoking merrily.

Cormac approached cautiously. What manner of person would make their home in this place? With a jolt of fear, he remembered tales of evil hags who lived in the forest and snatched children from their beds. He circled the house, for Cormac was far too hungry to heed ghost stories now.

Someone was drawing water from a well. Strangely, it appeared to be no more than an old woman. Not a hag, but a very ordinary old woman; she could have been someone's grandmother. Whether she was Muggle or wizard-kind, he could not tell, and he continued to survey her warily.

Suddenly she spoke. "Well, don't just stand there, lad! Give an old lady a hand, won't you?"

Cormac, dumbfounded, rushed forward and began to haul the bucket up from the well. He didn't know where to begin.

"There's a good boy. Now, when you've finished, come on inside and I'll fix you a meal." The woman hurried off inside before Cormac could compose a single thought.

...

Having drawn several buckets of water from the old stone well, Cormac slowly made his way inside, still thoroughly confused. Just who was this woman? And why was she offering food to a strange boy who'd wandered out of the woods? He could only imagine how he must have looked after so much time in the wilderness…

These questions would have to wait, for, as soon as he'd stepped inside, Cormac was ushered to a wooden table and presented with a large bowl of what appeared to be mushroom soup. Wary though he was of accepting food from mysterious old women, Cormac was not about to pass up his first hot meal in weeks.

Whoever this woman was, one thing was certain: she was an excellent cook. After finishing what had been the most satisfying meal he'd ever eaten, Cormac decided that anyone who could make a stew that wondrous was worthy of his trust (though, he mused, perhaps she was just fattening him up for later).

"So, what brings you so far into these woods, sweetheart?"

"Er…" What should he say? Could this woman really be trusted? "I'm lost." It was true enough.

"Lost? Well, that won't do at all!" exclaimed the woman, sounding every bit the concerned grandmother. "There's a town about a day's journey north. I've seen too many winters to make the trip now, but I'd be glad to give you directions. You'll stay here tonight, rest up, and shove off in the morning."

Cormac, glad to have found someone so seemingly kind and helpful, was still too dazed to form much of a response.

"Er… alright. Thank you so much, Mrs.…"

"Call me Gran, dearie," said the woman, smiling kindly. "And you are?"

Cormac hesitated. His name was not something to give out freely anymore. For all anyone knew, Cormac McLaggen was dead. He could be anyone he wanted. He could start again.

"Brayan."

Good riddance.

"Well, Brayan, glad to have you. Now," said Gran, fetching an axe from the doorway (and greatly startling "Brayan"), "there's a pile of wood out back with your name on it. When you've finished, you can gather some more mushrooms for supper. I'm making venison!"

Standing up from the table, and thinking that this was undoubtedly one of the strangest experiences of his life, Cormac grabbed the axe and walked briskly out the door.