Black Roses

A Freakish Display

This time, when I woke up, I wasn't alone. Stood a few metres away, watching me intently, was a grey-haired man. He was leaning on a long, gnarled walking stick and appeared to be deep in thought.

I sat up, my right hand instinctively moving to my hip, where my wand was tucked into my robes, ready and waiting. Men who watched strange girls as they slept where probably not to be trusted.

The man in question cocked his head to one side and shot me a quizzical look. I felt as if I were a particularly freakish display in a museum, and this man had paid good money to ponder my existence.

Eventually, I decided to break the strange silence we were caught in, and I stood up. Unsure of what to do next, I extended my left hand to the man, making sure to keep my right alert at my side.

With a slight chuckle as if this ridiculous turn of events amused him, the man shook my hand warmly. I felt even more awkward, and decided that it was best to introduce myself - it was either that or run screaming into the woods behind me, but that was hardly going to make my situation any easier.

"Morwenna," I stated with a calmness I did not feel. This whole thing was silly. I had just woken up in a field to find a man studying me, and I was now exchanging pleasantries?

He did not give his name in return, but nodded his acknowledgement and then leaned back on his stick, scrutinising me. I suddenly felt like a gangly fifteen-year-old being studied by Filch, searching for contraband.

After a while, the man spoke.

"So, wha' do we 'ave 'ere than?"

His accent was coarse and rough, but had a certain country charm to it. It sounded Irish. I fought back the memories of a similar voice that started clamouring in my mind.

"I'm Morwenna Black," I replied quietly.

"I di'nt mean thaat. I mean wha' you doin', so far from 'ome?"

I started. "Wha - what are you talking about?"

He shook his head, exasperated. "Noo one aroond 'ere speaks wit' an accent loike yours, m'dear. So, I'll say i' again - wha' you doin' 'ere?"

I decided it was probably best to tell the truth to this perceptive old man - or at least, the bits that weren't magical. He had to be a muggle, or he would have recognised my auror robes a long time ago.

"I'm lost," I admitted. "I don't know where I am, or how I got here, or where to go next - I'm... I'm lost."

The enormity of it hit me, as if saying it out loud made it more real. I was lost. I couldn't go back - I was afraid - but I couldn't go forward either - I didn't know how. A jagged lump materialised in my throat, and I let out a strange guttural sound.

"Oo, come on now, m'dear, i' can't be that bad, can i'?'

The man placed a kind hand on my shoulder, and a little glow of comfort started somewhere in my soul. I tried to speak, but couldn't, so I focussed on breathing.

In... and out.

In... and out.

In... and out.

Soon enough, I felt in control again, and I turned my face up to the man's. He was smiling sympathetically, and his eyes looked gentle. I felt more at ease instantly.

"Tha - thank you," I stuttered.

"Think noothing of i'," the man replied. "Would'a done i' for any poor soul tha' came wand'ring out'a those woods, if yer take ma meanin'." He gestured pointedly towards the forest in the distance.

In spite of myself, I smiled weakly. But I still had nowhere to go, nowhere to stay. I was still lost.

My worried eyes must have given my thoughts away, because the man immediately spoke.

"Why don' yer stay wit ma wife and me tonigh'? 'Til yer get back in yet feet? Yer look in a bad way."

Thankfully, I nodded, and the man began to lead the way across the field, presumably towards his home, with me tagging along behind, battered, bruised, and anxious.

Every so often, I would glance behind me, just to make sure that nothing was following us. Following me.