Chapter Five

~Draco~

Despite the burns, cuts and whatever other damage, I was numb. Harry Potter, the chosen one, the one who was meant to stop the Dark Lord, was dead. I stared at his ashen, lifeless body, held by a sobbing Hagrid. Around me, there was silence, shock and then the screams of loss. McGonagall's followed by Granger and the Weaslette. The light side had lost. The side I now stood among in the entrance to Hogwarts.

Outrage broke out and I too wanted to scream. Scream at the blood-eyed monster who had won.

"Silence!" His voice cracked off the broken walls, and it was not only me who stilled in fear.

The Dark Lord spoke again now he had our attention, his voice smug, victorious. He had won. It meant we had all lost. The torment would continue, until he grew bored or angry and then we would die. In that moment I wanted to die. Death was better than the fear, the torture, the blood shed.

Longbottom, you stupid fool! I stared at the Gryffindor as he attempted to stand up to the Dark Lord, and was beaten for it, humiliated by the Deatheaters. They'd kill him, they'd kill them all. Beyond the disturbing scene playing out before me, there was a crash and a bellow. Before I could wonder at it, all madness broke loose and the lifeless Harry Potter, who had ended up splayed on the ground, had vanished. Was he alive? A jet of green from a Deatheater's wand soared towards me and I dove sideways and ran back into the castle. I wanted out. Ducking and dodging around spells, terrified without any wand, for Potter had mine and I'd lost mother's in the Fiendfire, I sought safety just like the coward everyone said I was.

The air was tinged with the scent of ash, and blood, and flesh; Heavy with the screams of pain and death. When would it stop? A spell flew my way as my aunt Bellatrix aimed and missed Molly Weasley. I wasn't fast enough, and it sent me staggering, gasping for air when it collided with my chest. I felt blood and panicked, remembering the spell Potter had used on me in sixth year. Stumbling away, I headed for the stairs, taking two at a time. At the top I skidded to a halt, hearing my name from behind.

"Thank Circe, you're alive!" It was my mother. Quickly she ushered me into a classroom and away from the door.

"Mother, where is father?" I don't know why I asked. Foolish loyalty to a man who had caused me nothing but pain these past few years in his beliefs in a madman.

"Trying to get himself killed." She replied darkly, but her wide eyes, terrified as I felt, bellied her true feelings. "You need to run, Draco. No matter who wins, you'll be in danger. If he wins, no matter your skill, your life will be forfeit. If they win, you'll be sent to Azkaban, or worse." Tears were streaming down her cheeks and my throat closed up. My mother had never been like this.

"I can't run from him." I choked out, revealing the mark branded upon my forearm, telling the world I was a Deatheater, that I was magically linked to him.

"What choice do you have?" That was just it. I never had a choice.

"Where would I go and how?" I hissed. Frustrated she would try and force such pitiful hope upon me. She thrust a bag into my hands.

"Everything you need is in there. I've put an undetectable extension charm on it. Then she was opening a small box, revealing a miniaturized racing broom.

"It's a portkey. It will take you to safety." Safety? I couldn't remember what that was.

"What about you?"

"I'll cover for you. Go Draco." There was a crash, the door blasting off its hinges as a fight took place in the hall outside. We both jumped.

"Ah, the Malfoy runt." A familiar voice snarled. Greyback stalked into the room, followed by Rowle.

"May as well do the Dark Lord a favour." His toothless smirk held me rooted to the spot as he raised his wand.

"Not yet, want to see what centuries of pureblood perfection tastes like." Greyback rumbled, moved closer and I stepped back just as a wave of purple light crashed into his chest, throwing him back.

"Run Draco, don't look back!" Mother ordered, forcing the once again closed box into my hand. I ran, skittering around the Werewolf and Deatheater, again dodging wayward spells. I raced up to the third level and kept going, until I couldn't hear anyone chasing after me. There I ripped open the box and grasped onto the miniature broomstick. It grew to its original size, and as I felt the sickening pull of my bellybutton, I instinctively leapt onto the broom, clinging on for dear life as everything spun away.

I gasped, cold rain pounding at me from all directions. Where was I? I could barely control the broom, barely see up from down. The wind twisted the broom in mid-air, nearly unseating me. The air roared and flashes of light through the rain sent fear pounding through me. Was it wand-fire or lightening?

Before I could figure it out, a blast of wind sent the broom I clung desperately onto spiralling downwards. I tried to pull back on the handle, but I couldn't find the strength...

~Ellie~

Breaking glass and a loud crash from the living area had me dropping my glass of water and ripping the biggest knife out of the knife block on the kitchen counter. Outside the storm raged loudly, and I couldn't hear anything more from the living area over the wind and rain.

Holding the knife out and my flashlight in the other, I tiptoed around the kitchen area and into the adjoining lounge space. The only lights I had on were the kitchen rangehood light, and the hallway. I could just make out a shadowy form in a heap upon the floor by the three-seater lounge, and now the storm sounded louder. Breath held, I felt at the wall and flicked on the light.

Shards of glass lay scattered everywhere. Water was beginning to pool on the walnut floorboards around the black heap, which was a guy lying bloodied beside the lounge, soaked through by the storm. I watched, rooted to the spot, save for the knife pointed shakily at the intruder as he tried to rise from the ground with a groan. It was now I wished I carried the Nokia mobile which my parents had bought me for my birthday a week earlier. It was upstairs on my nightstand.

"I've called the police!" I shouted in bluff when the intruder attempted to gather the mass of black material he wore. Was it a giant overcoat? It was a harsh contrast to the terrified, ghostly face which looked up at me, to the knife pointed at him, hoping he'd stay back. His lip had been recently cut, a purpling bruise creeping up to his cheekbone. His eyes darted away from the knife and about the living area, seeming to take in all my belongings. Was he going to rob me? Oh my gosh, did he have a gun?

His eyes snapped back to mine, somehow wider and filled with growing fear. "Stay back!" He yelled, scrambling backwards through the broken glass. I inched forward, knife still extended. "No, stay back, muggle!" His breathing was laboured, coming out in shallow breaths. There was a darkening patch on his once grey shirt which wasn't from the rain. Was he seriously injured? He'd obviously come through the sky-light. I hedged towards him.

"Please, please don't hurt me. I'm sorry!" He cried out, eyes terrified, a shaking hand thrust out to stave off my approach.

"I won't hurt you... if you don't hurt me." I stumbled on something between the couch and coffee table, glass needling through my socks. It was a wooden broom handle. I paused, eyes following the length to its end and the strangely smooth bristles and strange silver stand. It wasn't mine. It was the strangest broom I'd seen. Stepping over it, I crouched down. The guy looked like he was going to pass out.

"Please don't hurt me, I didn't want to do any of it!" He choked out, trying to stand and instead stumbling. I couldn't work out why, but I decided he wasn't a danger to me, maybe because I knew he was injured, and for some strange reason he was petrified. He really believed I would harm him. I leapt back up to my feet and latched onto his arm as he stumbled again, manoeuvring him to collapse on the lounge instead of the floor. "I don't really want to die, please, please don't hurt me." He muttered, pushing me away. His movements were feeble.

"I promise I won't hurt you." I tried soothing, wondering if he was possibly mentally unwell. How had he crashed through my skylight? Had he climbed on the roof... oh my God... a coldness swept through me as I realised exactly what had happened and what his jumbled words meant.

He'd attempted suicide off the apartment building which towered beside my two-level single apartment. He shook violently as I reached out, taking his freezing hand in mine. "Please, no."

"Shh, it's okay you're okay." He stared at me with haunted grey eyes, and I wondered what had brought him to such a brink that he would choose death. For a split second he seemed to calm before he jerked violently and on instinct, I leapt back. An agonized scream tore from his lips and suddenly he was clawing at the loose sleeve of his right arm as if it were on fire.

He tore the sleeve up his arm, revealing a dark tattoo upon his forearm, crying out again, now clawing at the ink mark. "Hey, stop you'll hurt yourself!" I hurried back towards him, grasping his left hand, pushing his right one away before he drew blood.

"No!" He screamed, feebly fighting against me, trying to scratch at the tattoo again.

"Its okay, there's nothing-" The tattoo, it was moving. Writhing... I dropped his wrist and he grasped it in his other hand with choked gasps of pain. It was the body of a snake which writhed from the gaping jaw of a human skull, its fanged mouth gnashing. Although the skull did not move, it now looked to be screaming as the coils bulged and shrank.

"No, no!" He cried out hoarsely, voice failing him. The tattoo or whatever it was now bled black ink, its writhing turning to thrashing. He stilled suddenly, eyes wide, mouth open in a silent scream which sent chills through me. And then he went completely limp, gasping and shaking. I glanced at the tattoo. It was no longer moving, now a washed-out version of what it had originally been.

"Its alright, it's over now." I wasn't trying to convince only him, but myself too. I didn't know what that tattoo thing was, but I knew calling an ambulance or the police to help him was now out of the question until I at least did know what it was.

Carefully I picked up his arm, examining the unnatural but seemingly now dead tattoo. "Its, its stopped." He rasped, gazing at the fading mark upon his pale flesh. "Its, he's gone. He's gone." He went on. I tentatively ran my fingers over the skull and snake, suppressing a shudder. It was some kind of brand, by the raised skin, although it felt more as if it was beneath his skin.

"He's gone, he's gone." He kept whispering those words over and over, as if reassuring himself.

"Yeah, he's gone." I comforted. "You are safe now." He managed a shaky nod, still trembling. I remembered he was still soaked through from the rain and injured from the fall. There was the blood and smaller cuts too, not to mention the ash.

"What's your name?" He didn't answer, only stared at me. "My names Ellie. You are safe here, I promise." My mind was reeling with theories on how he'd came to be in my living area now, what his living brand was. I'd read and watched enough sci-fi, fantasy and supernatural stories, and although they were made up, whatever was going on with his arm was scarily not. He was shaking in earnest now and needed to get dry.

"Can you stand?" He didn't answer but begun struggling from the lounge to his feet. I felt him flinch when I helped, taking his arm. Even slumped, he was quite tall. His breathing was quick and panicky. "You need to get warm and dry." I began manoeuvring him towards the stairs at the other side of the living area. He let me guide him, moving slowly. The stairs were an awkward negotiation, and then I was pulling back the doona and sheet on the spare queen bed and with a defeated sigh, he collapsed onto the sage sheeted mattress.

"I'm going to take off your um coat and shirt, or you'll freeze." He stared at me with those haunted eyes while my shaking hands found and undid the strange clasps on his jet-black cloak. The shirt beneath was more familiar and I easily worked open the buttons. Trembling he began helping, sitting up so I could pull the saturated garments away and toss them on the floor.

I grabbed a spare blanket and pulled it about his shaking shoulders. Now for the bottom half. I moved quickly, pulling off the strange leathery material his sturdy boots were made of. His socks weren't wet like everything else, so I left them. His pants though...

"Can you get your pants off by yourself?" He stared back at me a moment before long fingers fumbled with the buckle of his belt. I pulled the sheet over him, to give him some form of modesty as he shuffled the damp trousers from his hips. He was struggling, exhaustion setting in once more. Reaching for the trouser bottoms I helped, tugging until they too were discarded upon the floor.

He remained silent as I pulled the doona up to his chin and knelt at the right side of the bed, fishing around for the electric blanket switch. I flicked it to the third setting. It wouldn't take long to warm up, I'd have to remember to lower it again within the hour.

He was injured, but there seemed nothing life threatening. He smelt of ash and smoke and there were cuts and burns I had now noticed which needed treatment. He also looked half starved. His body was gaunt, ribs and spine protruding. Wherever he had come from, there was no way he was going back.

"Your safe. Try and rest." He continued watching me. I was certain he was in shock, had been since his brand tattoo thing had died. I felt awkward under his gaze. Was he still afraid? Sitting on the edge of the bed, I reached out, brushing his damp blonde hair from his forehead.

His watchful gaze slowly vanished under weary lashes. I lingered a moment until I was sure he was asleep before shifting off the bed. Scooping up his garments, I ran them down to the laundry, throwing them into the washer. No idea what the coat was made of, but certain the shirt was quite expensive, I set the load to delicate, only just remembering to check pockets.

There was nothing in his trouser pockets, but there was something within the large inner pocket of the strange hooded coat. I pulled out and instantly dropped a mask which sent chills through me. It clattered upon the white tiles, intricate moguls gleaming silver under the bright light.

It looked like it had come from the most sinister horror movie. The half-opened lips were barred, the eye slits soulless. With shaking hands, I picked it up and shoved it up on the bench, throwing a towel over it. It gave me the same nervous feeling the tattoo brand had, although the mask was scarier.

Turning the washer on, I left the laundry and the creepy mask behind. A quick check on my patient slash uninvited guest assured me he slept soundly for now. I didn't want to leave him alone for too long, but I needed to close the up the broken sky-light.

Hurrying back down to the kitchen, I grabbed a bar stool, taking it into the living area and placing it under the falling rain, I clambered up, standing precariously on my tiptoes as I tried avoiding the remaining shards of glass as I reached for the outer shutter and hauled on its rope, bringing it slamming down. More glass rained down on me and I cursed, realising I didn't avoid the glass edges after all, two lines of blood smearing with the rain on my left forearm. Glancing down for a glass free place to jump from the stool, I noticed a black leather satchel lying behind the lounge.

I leapt down safely, hurrying to the kitchen to wash off my bleeding wrist, haphazardly wrapping it in paper towel, before returning for the satchel. It was a shoulder bag really, the type a student would carry, and clearly expensive by the soft leather and two gleaming silver buckles. I brought it into the kitchen, undoing the buckles and peered in, hoping for answers, perhaps a wallet with identification?

It looked empty. Frowning, I reached in to fish about. My hands caught onto two envelopes. Both were heavy papered and bore plain black wax seals which had not been broken.

On one was scrawled, Mr and Mrs Greene. My parents? On the other envelope it simply said, My Son. Certain the second would hold more answers assuming it was addressed to my visitor, I opened it. The parchment, because it sure wasn't paper, was blank. Confused, I held it up to the hallway light, but no words appeared. Strange. Returning it to the envelope, I opened the one which was addressed to my parents, mentally high fiving myself when words appeared on the page. Wait, appeared! I dropped the letter, scooting away from it as row after row of elegant scrawl appeared on what had been blank parchment.

How was it doing that? It must have been light sensitive, or maybe like those 3D Loony Toons Tazos I collected as a kid? Nothing else made sense. Reaching forward, I picked it up and watched in fascination as the elegant black inked scrawl continued until a signature was scrawled upon the bottom. Cissa. Bringing my focus to the beginning of the letter, I began to read.

Dearest Mr and Mrs Greene,

If you are reading this, my son has found safety.

I am unsure if you remember meeting me? I was the young woman, Cissa, you met at Cala Goloritzé, Sardinia, in the Italian summer of 1988. My husband was attending business, and I had taken my then eight-year-old son to a nearby secluded beach where we met you.

You saved my son, when he wandered too far into the ocean and was swept up by the waves. I am still forever grateful to this day. You saved his life when I could not do so myself.

I have kept the address you gave me of your home in Australia, in case we ever wished to visit. It is with heavy heart I now ask of you to help my son again. The world we are from is in peril, his life in grave danger. He is a grown young man of seventeen in the eyes of our society, but in truth he is just a boy. A boy who was forced down a path he could not refuse. Just as I was.

I have sent him here with all the documents and finance he will need to start a new life. He is quite unlike you, but I have learnt as now he too has; we all bleed the same. Please help him find his feet, your world is nothing like he has known. My only wish is he finds peace.

I know he will be safe with you.

Yours

Cissa

I read through the letter five more times, only growing more confused. It now sounded like he had been a part of some terrible cult and his mother had helped him escape. Were there cults in Australia? Where were his so-called credentials? There was nothing else in the bag, and that was all which had been on him.

Was the cult in the building beside mine, had jumping from it been his escape? No, that made no sense because the letter I held was addressed to my parents, which meant he had deliberately come here.

Once upon a time this had been their holiday apartment away from the farm. It was now my batch pad for university, before that it had been my brother's. So, who ever he was, he was kind of sort of meant to be here. It still made absolutely no sense why he'd come through the skylight. Why hadn't he used the door? Why climb the roof? Perhaps he knocked, and I hadn't heard, and because the door was locked, he was trying to find another way in? No, that didn't really make sense either. Who on earth would climb a two-story roof during a thunderstorm? The balcony was closer for a start.

We all bleed the same. That line ran through my mind, over and over as I made my way back into the living area to clean up the broken glass and assess the storm damage. Why would she write that? It was surely a cult he'd left. It almost sounded like an anti-racism quote...

Save for the strange broom, a wet mat and some leaves and sticks, there was nothing else out of the ordinary in the living area once the glass was cleared away. I picked up the broom, studying it. The handle was oddly shaped, an elegant scrawl on its flatter sides read Nimbus 2001. The wood was polished to a gleam, save for dirt and a couple bloodstains now upon it, and three splinters.

The bristles were the strangest. Bound neatly by a silver ring of steel, all moulded to end at a perfect point. The silver stand type contraction reminded me of something you'd use to keep a motorbike upright, except it was much more elegant. Whatever this broom was, it wasn't for sweeping the floor. Maybe it wasn't even a broom?

I propped it up against the wall, out of the way. What else could you use a broom for anyway? Witches used brooms. A voice whispered in my mind. I scoffed quietly to myself for such a crazy thought. It was probably an ornament. A really weird ornament from God knows what century. Dismissing all thought of it, I headed up the stairs. Now he was hopefully warm enough, I could figure out his injuries.

He hadn't moved, but he had stopped shivering as badly. It was a start. I switched the electric blanket down to one, not wanting to roast him under all the blankets. Angling the nightlight so it flooded over him, but kept his face in shadow, I recalled what I'd briefly seen of his injuries.

Making a mental list, I headed back down to the laundry, avoiding the hidden mask as I grabbed clean towels, a couple face washers and my slightly over elaborate first aid kit box. Carrying everything, I headed to the kitchen, flicking on the kettle before grabbing a few Tupperware containers and hauling my loot up to the spare room.

Once the water had boiled, I set the kettle on the towel covered study table I'd converted into a makeshift medical trolley. Everything I should need was laid out, and once I'd discarded the soiled paper-towel around my own wrist and secured a clean bandage around it, I approached the spare bed to see what I was dealing with.

I peeled back the blankets, sheet and doona to his hips, waiting for him to stir, but he didn't. I was glad he was unconscious because what I saw left me shocked. There were burns on his arms, both old and fresh. Nothing third degree, but second at worst. Older burns had been third degree though, from the healing scars. A great mottling bruise spread across his left ribs, and cuts and scratches were dispersed across his chest and torso. A deeper cut which slowly bled stood out just above his heart. What shocked me was all the silvery scars beneath the fresh cuts, grime and bruises.

Some were small and would likely fade one day. Others were deep, long and vicious. They wrapped around his sides and I imagined continued across his back. What had he been through to end up like this? His mother had sent him here with the intentions of my parents helping him. Mum and dad were hours away, but I was certainly capable to do it for them.

I started off trying to wash some of the dirt and ash from his body, arms and face. The scent of smoke clung to him, as it had his tattered and burnt clothes. Where had he come from? How could anyone be in such an abused state, for I was certain most of his injuries, and his scars were no accident. I'd have to wait until he woke up to learn those answers.

Reviews welcome. :)