Survival

Prologue: Of Chases And Hunting

"The sad truth is that the truth is sad."

— Lemony Snicket

05:45 am; 24th December 1997; Lower ranges of the Quantock Hills

The place is different, but the hunt goes on. It always does as long as there is right and wrong and something to fight for.

Muggle-borns are made to be hunted and hexed and chased because they are something different and thieves who steal magic. They are not made to fit anywhere, much like pieces from a long lost puzzle. Before this year they had suffered at the hands of pureblood elitists in the school they studied at and now they are suffering even more. They are running and somehow surviving out there.

The Snatchers attack in the wee hours of the icy morning, sudden and unpredictable like the conniving brutes they are.

The two of them are in the middle of packing up, shrinking their supplies and dismantling their tent when Colin gets hit by the yellow light of a spell on his left shoulder, getting his wand arm paralysed in the process. He spins around to see his assailant running away, presumably to inform the other members of his gang that he has found a pair of mudbloods to hunt. His brother tries to jinx the man but he is out of his range. The crafty yet foolish Snatcher has just given them some time, but it is not enough. There is not much time to pack up their supplies properly.

"Run, Dennis! Go away!" he murmurs desperately as he hears the sounds of the giddy men running towards their direction.

"What, alone? Aren't you coming?"

"No. I can't."

His brother begs him to come with him, cries even as he hastily gathers some of their pots and pans and drops them into their large sack, but Colin Creevey is unflinching in his decision. After all, there is a limit to how much a too old and stolen broom can carry without splitting into two useless pieces. Lord knows their supplies are heavy enough in their un-shrunken, original form and he cannot risk breaking their only means of secure and fast transport.

"Fly away, now! You know what our next stop is. Go there! I'll come for you," he hisses, clutching his paralysed arm.

Dennis looks conflicted and his eyes are red and watery.

"NOW!"

His brother reluctantly disillusions himself and their supplies and sits on the broom, finally taking off when the Snatchers are all assembled around them. He knows that Dennis will be safe; he is good with a broom, unlike him.

Colin whips around to face his enemies, transferring his wand from his currently useless left hand to his right one in the process. All of them are grinning in a most evil fashion, the red armbands on their coat sleeves looking positively devilish.

"Is the ickle mudblood lost?" one of them mocks him. The gang of hooligans is closing on him.

But Colin is only half listening to their mocking jeers. He is more concentrated upon spotting a clear path of escape among the brutes surrounding him. Suddenly, an idea strikes him. Maybe these men could become the first victims of his wicked invention?

Now it is his turn to grin evilly.

He says nothing as he brings out one of the deodorant cans out of his pocket and throws it in front of them. Before anyone can ask what it is and what he is doing, he blasts it open with a shrill cry of 'Bombarda Maxima' and immediately afterwards creates a shield around himself. The broken can releases a yellow-green gas.

Rule One of Survival: Surprise is the key to escaping.

He can see that they are shocked from the loud explosion and mildly curious to know what is coming out of the blasted can and he knows that this is his chance to escape away. He pushes his way out through the men quickly before they can realise what is going on. A few of them have started coughing already.

Good, he thinks. Breathe more of the poisonous chlorine that I just released and die.

The idiots who had been standing behind in the circle come to their senses after a very short while. The idiots who are coughing fall onto the snow covered ground, choking and stuttering.

He runs, his long, multicoloured scarf flapping wildly behind him and he disillusions himself. He listens to the sound of the thundering boots following him closely. His heart is in a tachycardiac mode and he can feel his blood rushing through it. His bones are creaking from the stress.

After thirty minutes of continuous running and dodging curses, he realises that being disillusioned is doing him no good; the Snatchers are still following him because the snow clad ground is aiding them in tracking him by making his footsteps clear. He gives up on that trick and regains his visibility. Remaining invisible had just been draining energy from him, vital energy that he needs to stay alive. So, instead of that, he creates a shield around himself.

He tries moving the fingers of his left hand but they remain as still as stone. He can only manage simple spells like Protego from his right hand. It seems that dueling is not going to be a option for him today.

Colin has always been a fast runner. He recounts the numerous times he had won races at his Muggle school in the small town of Axminister. He remembers the many times he had been faster than his older cousins.

A stream is coming up his way, he can see the rushing water. After the stream he can spot the clearing of the forest and the beginnings of the town of Somerton. They have still not lost him and they are still firing spells with rapid ferocity. They could have ended the chase a long time ago by apparating in front of him but they have not and he can tell that they are throughly enjoying hunting him down.

"Come on, Creevey," he mutters after he briefly glances back at his chasers, "you can do this. It's just a little jump, like those hurdle races back home."

And jump he does.

His feet leave the forest floor with a powerful push and there is this exhilarating feeling of weightlessness for less than a second and then he is back on the ground. Colin lands imperfectly - he has not done this for a long while now - and he stumbles badly. His concentration gets broken and the shield protecting him vanishes.

And then they hit him with something very sharp, like a heated up, two edged sword. It burns through his flesh. He cannot hear the incantation, but it stings and the whole of his back is on fire and he can feel something wet and warm sliding between his skin and his shirt. Blood. The ordeal does not end there though. They hit him with that mysterious, blasted spell again and his legs lose their balance. He falls into the thick layer of the freezing cold snow.

The ice pricks his skin in the most awful of ways and the chilling wind pinches him. He can imagine that an ominous, large, crimson patch is present on his back, ruining the brown pullover his mum had made for him during last winter. Noises of apparition make him close his eyes and be as still as a log. From the number of voices he can guess that two of them have come to check him up.

One of them rolls him over by using his feet. The pointy tip of his boot grinds painfully against his abdomen and Colin bites his tongue to keep himself from wincing.

His head is spinning but he can hear them muttering the words 'mudblood' and 'reward' and 'no'.

And then he knows no more.