The Dark Lord's Playbook of Nefarious Misdeeds

There's No One to Save You but Yourself

Four days after leaving the Burrow...

I had packed everything up relatively confident that I was ready to apparate to London to catch the train. There was no tracking spell upon me, which I found very surprising. Being in the tent on the run again, well all I can say is that I hope never to see the inside of that tent ever again.

It was raining and while mildly protected from the rainfall due to the canopy; I couldn't resist one more peak out at the open fields. I loved thunderstorms. The clouds that hung low in the sky were a dark tumultuous grey and the precipitate that pummelled the ground unfailingly upturned the soil releasing a petrichor to wash over the landscape; giving a renewed vitality to the fields ready to cultivate new life.

It was simplistic — a complete juxtaposition to my own life.

The countryside was darkening, like the HB shaded sky was slowly melting into a pencilled 6B. Moments later, the lightning burst forth, a hot white electrical charge forking an undetermined path, crackling like an exposed live- wire. The photons it emitted were like a momentous camera flash, that blanketed the landscape all at once. A deep rumbling followed, a pause, then the sudden expansion of air clapped so loud that if I were inside a house, the foundations would have shaken.

I looked at my watch, and the time was nearing the departure of the train, I had better get moving; otherwise, I would miss it, and that means another night in the tent.

A prickling sensation at the base of my neck, made me turn because it felt like I was being watched. More lightning flashed in the distance, the light filtered through enough of the forest to illuminate briefly the two figures standing only feet away from me. The roll of thunder must have disguised the crack of apparation. I only recognised one- Rodolphus Lestrange.

My fingers curl around my wand so tightly that I imagined the wood creaking and white bleeding into my knuckles. Fear spikes within me, adrenaline rushing through my veins. My heart beats and pumps like it is actively trying to escape my rib cage. I keep my face as much as I can from showing them how afraid I am because they are sadistic enough to enjoy it.

I am so surprised that I am struggling with keeping a clear head. I want to run; my fight and flight response is screaming run. I apparate quickly, but only end up in another section of the forest. I am out of practice with duelling, and I know I can take on one, but two? I have no chance. I stifle a sniffle- I need to think. A bright pink jet of light strikes just above my head startling me that I stumble back. Only to have another dark blue explode at my feet, making me then jump. Pricks. I nearly lose grip of my wand.

I breathe through my nose harshly turning and start flinging spells not thinking about what it is I am shooting. At this point, it doesn't matter. I don't care.

"You can't run you, little mudblood whore!"

"You corrupted the Dark Lord!"

"He deserves to be tortured alongside you for going against the cause!"

"I'm going to enjoy breaking you, Mudblood bitch."

A multitude of spells was flying around our heads. It lit up the forest, like those multicoloured party lights strung up around a patio. I take a step to the left and nanoseconds later a distinctive jet of green hit the spot where I had just been standing. My adrenaline catapulted ten levels to the point I wanted to vomit. My saliva thickened in my throat and beads of sweat were trickling down the side of my face. I didn't know how much longer I could keep this up. They were relentless. Then again, they had experience in spades compared to me. I kept throwing spells, hexes and some curses- if only the order could see me now. I was fatiguing, the muscles in my arm were protesting under the constant strain of flicking, swishing, jabbing and twirling. But I wasn't going to give up until the very end. It wasn't like I wasn't a match for them. I did get in some things like setting Rodulphus's robes on fire, a few well-placed slicing hexes and my infamous Avis charm, which sent those small birds with razor-sharp beaks at- whom I now knew as Rabastan- at his head.