AN: Quidditch League: Ballycastle Bats Keeper: Write about someone who needs defending; "king"

Your limbs begin twitching. You don't know how long it's been since you curled up, hidden within the growing shadows of someone else's home, but your feet are numb and your hands itch for action. Yet every time you start to believe it is safe enough to move again, the thundering footsteps and cackling voices of the Hunt grow louder again, and you force yourself into an unnatural stillness.

Surviving isn't certain, but you try your best. You don't know how to wield your magic, still barely eleven summers; instead, your magic now wields you. It's exactly what your mother had warned you against, but surviving was surviving. The 'how' didn't matter.

Mother had whispered to you, only the night before, of a village to the South that welcomed Magic. If you could make it there, if the village existed, you would be safer.

Maybe you could find someone who would be willing to teach everything your mother hadn't, but you fear your family magic may be lost, and everything you could once call yours, burned.

"Look what we've got here, lads."

Just as your eyes are blinded by the firelight, you leap out of your corner, tossing a handful of sand in the direction of the flames, and stumble away. Numb feet were barely holding you upright as you trot as fast as you can, hands running against the walls until your vision is restored.

You wish you could throw a few punches – you have always hated running – but there's no way to tell how many men there are, and you can't afford to get caught.

They have taken your mother already. She cast a spell to make sure they couldn't notice you as she was dragged away, but it had wore off hours ago, just as the Hunt had truly begun. You refuse to think about what that meant for your mother's fate.

The feeling of stepping on pins allows you to speed up, because your feet are finally able to feel the ground. You still have no real destination in mind, but you realise that the first step is to flee the village. Everything else will follow, somehow.

You wear the coat of terror like it is your favourite, and your magic thrums beneath your skin. It's ready to slaughter, to protect and defend its host; but wild magic is more dangerous than anything else, and could kill you all the same.

So, you continue running.

You don't know the way out. You don't recognise the streets and houses that pass you. In this moment, you don't think you would recognise your own home if you passed it.

A hand grabs the back of your shirt, but you quickly slip out of it and continue running. There's not a moment for thought, and your body can spare no energy for it either.

Sweat beads down your back as you dive through alleys, avoiding the other searching parties. Your family is clearly not the only one to be burned today.

You run until their footfalls and chants fade into the distance and the air becomes bitterly cold without the heat from their torches. Everything hurts, and the world is becoming fuzzy, but you push on.

The village has left you, but you need to leave the village, too.

The safest place near the village is the forest. No one who went in came out alive, and it is the only place you trust with your safety. All you need is a tall tree and a miracle to survive the night, but you think that's still a better chance than sleeping in the open.

You fall, grazing your knees, and your muscles are too heavy to stand again. So you crawl, your destination in the distance.

A hand lands on your shoulder, and a trickle of magic lashes out. The hand disappears quickly.

"First of all, that hurt. Second, are you trying to kill yourself? Because I'm sure being burned alive is less painful than however you're trying to kill yourself. Who are you?"

"Not dying," you mutter between gritted teeth, still crawling in the direction of the forest.

"Hello, Not Dying, I'm Salazar," the man's deadpan voice replies.

"What do you want? If they catch you with me, they'll burn you too."

You wearily slump into the dust. A moment's pause wouldn't make too much of a difference, even if your eyes were slowly closing anyway. The feeling to being able to do anything begins to fade, and you feel every protesting body part, including the scrapes on your hands and knees.

"I want you to Not Die, and I think it would be easier if I could pick you up without getting shocked."

You squint at the man. "I don't think you would be able to lift me up anyway? You're kind of thin for that?"

"Fine. I just thought that would be more polite to ask," the man, Salazar, retorts as you feel yourself lifted into the air.

It's clearly his doing, and the familiar feeling of becoming invisible overtakes you. Had you been able to cast that spell yourself, escaping the village would have been far easier.

"Why are they not hunting you?"

"For one, I'm certainly smarter than you are at hiding my magic, but amongst the Lords and Ladies, magic is something sacred. The stronger the magic, the better the alliance in the family. Many of the King's advisers have magic, but the King himself does not. He wasn't born with magic, but his family magic is strong."

You notice his fine clothes then. Silks and soft leather, the likes of which you had never dreamt of touching in your lifetime.

"Helga," Salazar calls, knocking at a farmhouse door.

"Another? Merlin, Salazar, where are you picking all of these people up from?" The door swung open, and you are blinded by the bright lights inside. It wasn't firelight, rather an orb that hovered near the ceiling.

"Picked this one off the side of the road. Powerful, barely trained, intelligence still questionable. He called himself 'Not Dying'."

The woman rolls her eyes. "I've yet to meet a person whose intelligence was to your expectations. I have not met Rowena. Lay him down, and we can start on healing the lad. He'll be your brother, having met bandits on his way here and barely escaping with his life."

Both you and Salazar release snorts; yours pained, his frustrated.

"See," Helga replies, smirking. "Blood brothers."