The Match and the Spark

All characters belong to J. K. Rowling.`

Prologue

There was blood trickling warmly down his forehead and over his cheek, and the muscles in his legs burned as he scrambled uphill, hauling himself up over rocky outcrops, and dodging the tree roots that seemed aimed to trip him up. He would not falter now.

His wand—he needed his wand.

He knew he did not have it. It was lying somewhere amongst the debris of Hogwarts. He swore viciously at himself for the umpteenth time—he would not be able to Apparate now.

The climb continued upwards, but he would not give up. He was without his wand, but all was not lost. He knew exactly where he could go. How he would get there, he was unsure. He supposed he could keep an eye out for some unsuspecting Muggle that might come along in one of those car things. First, though, he would need to find a road.

Every muscle in his body seemed to be protesting now, and he slumped against a rock, breathing deeply. A moment's rest, he could allow himself that. He dared to look behind him, and there, across the valley, looming out of the side of the mountain, were the smoking turrets of Hogwarts.

He felt like laughing—they would never catch him now. It would probably be a while before they even noticed he was not amongst the dead or captured, and by the time they did, he would be long gone. He will have escaped the net—one of the very few to do so. He had fled past many of his fallen comrades during his flight from the stricken castle that he had to wonder if he would be the only one to do so.

He pushed himself to his feet, wiping the blood off his cheek with his sleeve. He needed his wand. There was no time to fret over it now. The fact that he'd lost his wand might, in time, work in his favour, and besides, no doubt he could get his hands on another one soon.

He struggled on mercilessly, and eventually the terrain, to his relief, began to flatten. He paused once more and rubbed his blistered hands on his robes, taking several exhausted breaths. He was in an area of woodland now, and he moved carefully between the trees until he stood looking over a verge with a clear view of what lay before him. He was not filled with relief. The prospect was miles and miles of jagged, bleak mountains. He scanned the horizon helplessly; which direction to choose? Would it matter?

He needed to find the nearest Muggle settlement. It was ironic, but they would provide his cover for the time being.

But who knew how far away safety lay? And with darkness descending…

Winding through the valley below, he noticed, was the railway line. That, at least, would be a path to follow, for now.

There was nothing for it other than to give up there and then. He took to his heels once more and headed onwards. The Dark Lord might be defeated, but he would not be.

It was all working out in his head, already. His plan—his deception. He just needed some shelter.

He smiled as he ran. It would all be so terribly easy.

AN: Another re-post of an old story, therefore it is complete!