A/N: I'm most likely going to get flak for this chapter but I really don't care. See, this is critical to the plot and the reason as to why Canada's a Slytherin. And, you know, I love making up pasts for people like Blaise. Pasts that will be then explored in later chapters and one-shots! Weeee~

The scent of blood was heavy in the air. It made the atmosphere thick and hard to breath, harder than it normally was in the marshes. It was almost constricting, the way it wormed its way into every haggard breath and clung to the inside of his throat.

A harsh cough racked through Mathew's body, thin and battered and bloodied, but not broken, never broken, and nearly knocked him over. A calloused hand, dark with mud and the dried blood of his soldiers, swung out and grabbed onto a low-hanging branch to steady himself before he toppled.

The hacks didn't let up until a fellow Canadian stopped in his march and placed a hand on his back. It was a soft-touch, mindful of wounds that were no doubt there, but it still hurt; like fire and knives and salt in an open wound.

Mathew's breath caught in his throat, twisted and stuck, before coming out in a jagged rush of air. He cast the soldier, Jeremy Spul, age nineteen, a grateful look and the march continued.

There was no beat to march to, from drums or otherwise, and all that could be heard was the heavy breathing of sick and injured soldiers and the 'thwulp' of botts being pried from mud with every step taken. Pain shot through the blond nations body with each step, shooting up his legs and his spine, travelling out his arms and down into his fingers, yet his pace stayed the same as the rest of the troop.

Right until the 'pitter-patter' of a gun being fire was heard and pain exploded in his chest. No blood ran from him but a soldier in front of him fell to the ground, body quickly being sucked up by the mud that they were hiking through.

More shots were fired, from both sides, and Mathew was right there. Bullets flew and people fell and Mathew felt like his whole chest was on fire because it was his people dieing! Another burst of pain exploded in him, this time in his lower stomache, and this time the blood ran. And it ran and ran and ran and Mathew never stopped shooting even when he was kneeling in the dark brown gunk and his throat was being constircted again because there was just somuchblood-

A loud gasp wrentched itself from Mathew's throat, body jerking up into a half-sitting position. Light violet eyes moved quickly, frantically, as his mind tried to remember where he was. Certaintly not at home or Alfred's or even his Father's or his Papa's.

Several long panic-filled moments were spent trying to remember, remember what he shouldn't have forgotten, before it hit him. Hogwarts. He was at Hogwarts. Slytherin house. A bed in the fifth years boys dormitory, to be completely exact. Knowing that didn't help though. The dark green curtains hanging around his bed were suffocating him, keeping the fresh air out and the stench of blood and decomposing flesh and the swamp in.

Yanking the hangings back, Mathew threw himself out of the bed. Almost instantly the stench lessened but it was still there, faint and really just his mind playing tricks on him, and Mathew knew that just leaving the bed wasn't enough. He needed someone to talk too, even if it was just idle chit-chat, so, with a quick glance to count how many beds were still filled, the blond headed out towards the common room.

Thin arms, wrapped loosely in a long-sleeved black pajama top, wrapped themselves around his middle as he walked down the torch-lit hallway. The flames danced across the stone, creating shadows that almost looked like his fallen people.

Mathew steadfastedly ignored them.

Upon entering the common room, Mathew was greeted by one of the other boys in his year already curled up in one of the plush green chairs. A dark blue blanket was flung over the body, which Mathew instantly recognized as belonging to Blaise Zambini, but it was obvious the other boy was still painfully wide awake.

"It just seems to drag on forever, eh?" Mathew asked, a wry smile settling itself on his face as he sat down in a chair across from Blaise.

Said boy jumped, startled. Limbs flailed and got tangled up in the blankets and, within moments, the dark-skinned boy found himself in a heap on the floor; wide green eyes locked on to Mathew's amused violet ones. Then, taking in the sleep rumpled and sweat-drenched Slytherin across from him, he gave a slow nod. "Yeah, yeah, it does."

Neither spoke after that. Blaise climbed back into his chair, squirming around until he was perfectly comfortable, and then they were both still. There were no questions, no 'what did you dream about's because they were unneeded and unwanted.

And the night stretched on, despite the silent complaints from the two boys it recieved.