Into the Wild: Karkaroff's Story

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Chapter 1: Into the Wild

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He sat alone in his cabin, twirling his goatee. His sitting room was thinly draped with furs, most of them black. The wind, chilled by the water in the lake, managed to find its way through the woodwork of the ship to his cabin. He shivered and pulled the furs closer around him.

He had no one to go to - most of his old friends he betrayed, the rest trusted him less than he trusted Rita Skeeter. His face searched blankly around his cabin for an answer, any answer. Perhaps he might find it at the bottom of the flagon he was holding. He took a long draft of mead, and hugged his knees to his chest. He was alone.

Something formidable smacked against the side of the boat, waking him from his introspective reverie. 'I cannot wait to get away from this god-awful squid,' he said to himself, throwing a pillow at the wall. 'Away from this school, away from that pompous, muggle-loving fool, and away from -' Mid-thought and without warning, he suddenly clutched his left forearm to his body, dropping the flagon of mead onto the wooden floor of the ship. It rolled away under his desk, and he collapsed, writhing from the pain emanating from his upper forearm. He let out a cry that reverberated across the Hogwarts grounds. Slowly, slowly, the pain subsided, leaving him whimpering on the floor.

On the other side of the grounds, in the stands of the old Quidditch pitch now hidden beneath a maze, one teacher looked up at the cry. One teacher alone knew from whence it came, for he felt it also. Snape gingerly touched the searing pain on his forearm, but his face betrayed nothing of the agony he felt. His deep black eyes were wells of determination and courage. He remained impassive.

Back on the ancient ship, Karkaroff struggled to a sitting position, and carefully, slowly, scared of what he would see, pulled his robe up past his elbow. It was blacker than he ever remembered it. The sight made him nauseous.

His thin frame slumped back onto the floor, pulling the furs wet with mead around him, seeking comfort. He did not know what to do. He had no one to go to. He had nowhere to hide. He was old, alone, and broken.

He heard ungainly, clomping steps make their way down his corridor. His door creaked as it was pushed open by a boy with chubby, clumsy fingers.

"Ychitel, c Vami vce v poretkiy?" the boy asked uncaringly, a vacant look in his deep-set eyes.

"Poliakoff? Uydi ot suida! Get OUT! Out, I say!"

Karkaroff slammed the door in Poliakoff's face and grabbed his wand from the desk, stabbing a shaking hand at his trunk. It shuddered on the floor and then flung itself open. He ran frantically about the room, haphazardly launching the shiniest and most expensive things into his trunk with his wand.

Leaving his cabin and prodding his heavy trunk in front of him, he scurried up the narrow passageways of the ship, knocking another student, Mihaylova, back into her cabin.

"Uff! Profesor! Chto proizoshlo? Profesor?"

He did not answer her, but instead continued his rampage, bumping into walls, until he was out on the deck of the Durmstrang ship. Without looking back at the small group of very confused students on the deck, he strode off across the grounds, past the Whomping Willow, and into the Forbidden Forest.

Karkaroff's arrogant and angry footfalls reverberated off the black, looming trees around him. They quickly quieted down as he drew deeper into the forest. He became timid and scared, fearful of what his noisy rampage might attract, and what sort of meal would be made of him for that which he attracted. The distant yells and screams emanating from the Quidditch pitch soon died out, and the only sounds he heard were ones he tried desperately to ignore. His eyes darted around; he was startled by every shadow. He kept glancing behind him, fearful of what he would see, fearful of not knowing, chanting the lumos spell almost unceasingly.

Soon enough, the panic started to take him. He could not bear the fear of the unknown that surrounded him indefinitely; it gnawed at his sanity. The terror finally seized him, and he began to run. He did not have the slightest idea of where he was going except away; he did not know what direction that was except straight in front of him as fast as he could. His trunk, floating somewhere behind him extremely haphazardly, careened into a tree, split open, and spilled its contents everywhere. He did not stop for it, though. He kept on running, desperate to get away.

His thin frame, not equipped for this, soon began to submit its various vetoes on what was happening. His legs were searing with pain, and his lungs were seizing up. The physical reality soon overpowered the mental anxiety of his fear - he could not run forever.

So he walked. He walked until it was light, then after it was light, he walked on until it was dark again. He had no idea where to find food, or what was edible, so he just kept walking. He couldn't find a river or stream, so he just kept walking. His vision and mind started to lose focus, but his legs kept moving, one in front of the other.

He knew that if he did not find food, water, or sleep soon, he might as well have turned his own wand on himself with Avada Kedavra and been done with the whole business.

That was why he was out here, was it not? To escape those he betrayed. To escape Lord Voldemort. To escape death.

Escape, yes. Great escape plan, he thought to himself. It's much better to die out here, exhausted as all hell, dirty like a little mudblood, and pine needles poking him in all sorts of inappropriate places, yes, much better than clean, as dignified as possible, and in his best furs. You know, Igor, he said to himself, that's what I like about you. Always thinking.

He knew his situation was getting desperate. His mouth, long since dried out, was filled with his swollen, useless, dry tongue. His legs shook beneath him, exhausted. Strange colors, not native to the forest surrounding him, began to dance before his eyes.

He tried to lick his lips, but found that his tongue had turned into a block of wood. He glanced down at his legs, only to discover that they were gone and had been replaced by clouds and rainbows.

He did not notice when he collapsed on the cool forest floor.

Starbursts of color made him squint his already-closed eyes. "Oh, boy," he mumbled to himself, falling into oblivion.

He swam in blackness, overcome by exhaustion and hunger. Then his eyes opened, feeling like rusty tin cans, to the strangest scene he'd ever seen.

The trees in the forest had been replaced by walls that were once white, but had turned an aged yellow. He was now lying on a hard bed, the sheets tucked so tightly around him that he could not move. His arms lay outside of the sheet, but when he looked at the crook of his left elbow, a wave of nausea threatened to overtake him, and he nearly retched. There it was, black and disgusting as ever, still throbbing intermittently. The spot that wouldn't wash off. But that alone wouldn't have been enough to shake the nerves that Igor thought to be made of steel. Protruding from his arm was a particularly nasty-looking yellow hose. Indeed, this object was embedded in his skin, inexplicably. He wanted to reach over and pull it out.

A woman wearing a white dress rounded the curtain surrounding his bed, and he called to her.

"Woman, get this thing -" But he stopped, mid-sentence, for it dawned on him that she and everyone else around him were muggles. Muggles! What did they think they were doing to him? What sort of imprisonment was this?

Dropping the thought of her from his mind, he struggled into a seated position, and, gritting his teeth, started to remove the offending hose himself.

Strong, authoritative, yet feminine hands restrained him, and he struggled against them.

"What do you think you are doing?" They both asked each other in unison.

"I need to get out of here. Now!" he said, mustering up his old authority.

"You need to do no such thing, sir. Now just sit back, and relax, and we'll get you fixed up in no time. You need your rest," said the stoic woman, pushing him back into the bed.

"No, you don't understand! I need to go!"

"And where exactly do you plan to go, in this state?" She gestured to the bandages scattered about his thin frame, which he had not noticed before.

"I need to get back! Back to my... I need to get back to my... my people..."

Uncertainty and doubt took hold of him. Where did he have to go? To whom did he have to get back? There was a great number of people who wanted to see him, but he was sure that he did not return the feeling. In neither Diagon Alley nor Knockturn Alley would he find a friend.

The woman was right. He had nowhere to be, but right there. He slumped back onto the foreign bed, exhausted and defeated.

"Oh, it's not so bad," she chirped, "we'll take good care of you."

The next volley of thoughts that went through Karkaroff's head did so very slowly for the sake of his sanity.

Yes, maybe they would take care of him, in their childlike, fumbling manner. But he was basically unharmed, and once rested, would be able to face the future. He had already surmised that he would find no protection in the wizarding world... and though stupid, the Muggles seemed friendly enough. Maybe they would take care of him, in many more ways than the woman ever meant. Yes, they could - they could hide him - no one would ever imagine that Karkaroff would ever hide there. He could blend into the muggle world, living safe and peacefully until the whole storm blew over. Then, a triumphant return! How, he had not yet devised, but there was time.... there was time.

He smiled to himself and let the woman tuck his sheets back in around him. He would wait.