Somewhere Out There: Prologue

I escaped.

As Voldemort's clutches gripped the land of Britain, my homeland, I had watched people change from loving, defiant individuals to frightened, guarded souls. I, along with them, took the dizzying spiral down into despair, fear, and agony. I frantically fought in the final battle alongside the few people I trusted with my life and they died. All of them died. They had claimed it was to save me; to give themselves one last chance against the powers of the Dark Lord. They were wrong. There were no funerals, but only death. Burned corpses laid beside the living, the Death Eaters preferring to let them rot beside their friends rather than to kill and bury them. I did nothing but watch them die. I was frightened. I was scared.

I ran.

I fled to America, their over-populated cities encrusted with all of their pristine skyscrapers, the gleaming metal thrusting into the sky as a bastion against the dark forces comforted me. Yet, even in the sea of people, I felt alone. I found adapting to the Muggle world that I had come from much harder than I expected, little comfort after Hogwarts was destroyed, my parents murdered, and all of my friends imprisoned, dead, or worse.

So I fled even from those gleaming towers of protection towards the farmlands of the Midwest, breathing the clean air, hoping inside it might cleanse my soul from the blood I still imagined dripping from my hands. With what meager savings I had, I found work as a cook, waitress, and maid for an older woman at a bed-and-breakfast she owned in a small city buried within the cornfields of the American land. I didn't really explain my past to her, just telling her what I had to in order to convince her to let me stay. I didn't even tell her my name. Instead, she called me Nell, saying I needed to cure the darkness that slept inside of me. Never once did she throw me out when I woke screaming in the night, visions of the war and death plaguing my sleep. She merely moved me away from the frequently used guest rooms to a little corner of my own, gave me a doctor's name and a phone, and left me to deal with it myself.

I cried.

I never called. I burned the paper in the fire later that night when she was bringing in tea, but merely pursed her lips and motioned for me to sit. She wanted to know. I gazed into the fire, lips closed and eyes lost in memory, the cup trembling in my hands. The cup left my hands without my notice and only her hand on mine startled me back into present day. Felicia, as she told me to call her months ago, smiled sadly, but told me that she understood if I didn't want to say anything about it just yet. Some wounds, she said, take a long time to heal, some our whole lives. I cried myself to sleep that night, wondering how this world could lie so untouched by the horrors of truth and I was meant to suffer in silence.

In the morning, I awoke to find a cup of coffee already steaming in my place, a small milk pot left beside it for me, an embossed shiny wallet with a pearl clasp, and a cursive, handwritten note next to it, obviously written by Felicia earlier that morning.

"Nell,

After all these months, I have come to love you like the daughter I never could have. I have talked with you, eaten with you, shared my life with you, yet you were and are unable to do the same with me. I have tried to respect your silence, but I can do so no longer. You will always be welcome here, but I want you to find another life; one with meaning and desire, not one of plain content. In the wallet you will find eight hundred dollars and a slip of paper with a name and phone number on it. He knows what to do and will explain it to you on the way. Please, find a life of happiness for yourself, not sorrow.

All my heart,

Felicia"

With tears burning in my eyes, I opened the wallet. My mouth dropped open as eight neatly pressed bills fell out along with a faded yellow slip of paper. Not trusting myself to do anything else, I steeled myself against all that I knew was wrong, put the money back in the wallet, and ran to the phone. Quickly dialing the number, I listened to the phone ring once, twice, three times. On the fourth ring, a deep male voice answered, asking who it was.

"Sir…," I stammered. "This is Nell Johnson. I'm a…friend of Felicia's. She gave me your number…and told me to call you." I winced, waiting for his answer.

"Nell, this is your lucky day," the man replied. "Be ready in an hour."

I held the phone until the dial tone blared in my ear, signaling the man had hung up. Absently, I set the phone back on the receiver and tucked an errant curl behind my ear. I guess it was time to pack.

I had hope.

I sat on the front step almost forty minutes later, gazing out at the freshly mown grass, perfectly white sidewalk, and paved street beyond. The streetlight changed from red to green and back again while I sat in the brisk spring day, running through my thoughts like pictures as snippets came back to me from months ago. I was reminded of the first day I showed up on this same step months prior, except this was in the autumn. October, I think, because of the pumpkins, bright and orange, prime for the festival that was advertised to be in a few days. All I knew at that moment was the chill of the near winter wind and the small warmth of my fading, lightweight coat.

Felicia had been shocked, eyes widening slightly as she took in my pale skin, near blue lips, tired eyes, and thin form. Immediately she had ushered me inside her kitchen, rushing me through the front hall to the warmth of freshly baked bread and tea. After the bitter tea had warmed me and I had picked at a piece of bread, she had asked me my name. I had merely shaken my head, not willing to tell her even that. At that point, she forced me to eat the bread and offered me a job. I was astounded, but narrowed my eyes, trying to find reason and logic behind her offer. I couldn't find any. I was weak, tired, and all but condemned. Fate had led me here, I decided, so I accepted. I told myself it was in weakness that I caved, but the truth was I had nothing left to live for. Felicia had offered me a purpose and I had taken it.

Over the next few months, I had grown to love the woman who reminded me so much of my own mother. She had taught me the in-and-outs of the business she ran, the who's, when's, why's, and most importantly, the how's. Of course, I was eager to learn since it kept my mind off of England, my home, and my past. It was never a question of how fast I learned, because I made many mistakes my first few weeks, but that I was learning. Felicia seemed to like teaching me the things that I had once known, but forgotten the art of after the war. It changed me a little, melting through the edges of my now-hardened heart with a burning fire that burned away the most resilient metal. I had my life back.

Now, I realized, as the wind blew my hair into my amber-colored eyes and across my pale cheeks, that Felicia had comforted me without question, without agenda, and without fear, all without expecting anything of me. I opened the wallet again where I had tucked Felicia's letter inside, folded with crisp, faint lines now in the paper, and smiled. I guess this was her way of thanking me somehow. I couldn't see how throwing me out into some unknown man's waiting arms helped me at all, but I still had a little bit of hope. After all, I was Gryffindor for a reason. Waving my fist in the air, I chanted inwardly at my bravery.

A slight cough brought me back to reality as I saw myself gazing at muddy boots. Actually, they were very muddy boots and as I drew my gaze up, belonged to an older gentleman with a rightful scowl on his face. My eyes widened and I apologized profusely, stumbling over my many words as I tried to right whatever wrong I had already committed. I was verily surprised, then, when his scowl turned upwards with speed and a huge grin broke out on his face. His arm moved, showing a weathered head outstretched to me in offering. Warmly, I took it, grasping it as a small smile broke out on my face as well.

"Hello, Mr…" I stated as I realized I didn't even know his name.

He saw my fumbling and smoothly said, "Name's Mick. That your only bag?" he stated, pointing towards my one fading suitcase. I nodded, afraid to say anything else. He lifted it easily, placing it in the back of his beat up two-door truck with care, strapping it down so it wouldn't roll around for the ride. I walked behind him, unsure of what to do. He finished, getting around to the driver's side, jumping in with a lightness to his step that I couldn't quite place to him, turned the key in the ignition, and started up the truck. The truck spluttered and coughed for a minute, then chugged a little louder than a normal truck should. My hand on my heart and eyes wide after my five foot jump in the air from surprise, I glanced inside the truck to see him motioning to me to get in. Hurriedly, I did so, snapping the seat belt secure and tight, my white knuckles gripping the belt so hard they cracked.

"I think I should have warned you about the noise," he chuckled when he turned to me. "She's quite a loud one, but she settles down once you get her goin'. I'll explain about what Felicia told me when we get on our way. Betsy here likes the open field and air a lot more than this city nicety. Give her dirt and manure any day."

As he sped off into the streets of Deer Creek, I looked back at the small, two-story house that had become my home. The newly painted sign hung from the new chains off the pole on the front porch, the lovely, muted rose color in contrast to the stark white of the house. I noticed the street sign perched on the corner and made a vow that someday I would return to that little house. It had been my saving grace on that corner of Keller and Winston, and one day, I'd show her just how far her little Nell had gotten. With a satisfied smile, I turned towards the unknown and hoped that a new life for me wasn't too far behind. England was long gone, my homeland in shambles, but I had this little spark of hope left for America, my last outpost before the hells of evil.

END PROLOGUE