The Wicked Cry Alone

Additions to Disclaimer: The title comes from the song 'No One Mourns the Wicked' from the Broadway musical, Wicked. No copyright infringement intended.

Notes: This story is essentially a pagan sort of AU: e.g. still magical, but not the sort we've come to expect from the HP verse. Also, at the time of writing, this was my first ever R/S piece.

Warnings: Some descriptions of violence, witch hunting, somewhat vague sexual situations, OC deaths. This truly isn't as dark as it sounds. Written for the 2012 R/S Games on LiveJournal.

Prompt: "Fear isn't so difficult to understand. After all, weren't we all frightened as children? Nothing has changed since Little Red Riding Hood faced the big bad wolf. What frightens us today is exactly the same sort of thing that frightened us yesterday. It's just a different wolf. This fright complex is rooted in every individual." -Alfred Hitchcock

Prologue

Sharp screams pierce the night sky, accompanied by the whip crack of thunder off in the near distance. They only get quieter and less lively over the next minute; an eternity for anyone who had to live through the last half hour frozen in fear.

The gurgling sounds behind the now half-hearted cries make his stomach roll and coil in on itself. He doesn't know what they're doing to them, only that he needs to keep hiding.

'Please --' a voice, weak and defeated, pleads.

Eyes that were once so filled with laughter and tinged the colour of honeybush tea are clouded over with fear; blown open until only black engulfs the warmth and laughter. He's too young to understand it now, but one day when he's old enough, he'll realise that this was the defining moment of his life. This one night in a long line of many would leave him orphaned and damaged seemingly beyond repair.

'PLEASE!' One final cry. And then nothing. Only the sound of his own hitched breath and the feel of his hammering heart just under the surface of his skin.

A half hour turns into an hour, two, half a day. It's only when nighttime melts into daylight that he lets himself crawl back up the passageway barely large enough for a child his age. He was always thinner than the other kids anyway.

Eerie silence clings to the stale air. Something heavy falls on the palate of his mouth and he can't stop the cough. Fear nearly paralyses him. A hand shoots up to cover the sound and he stops dead in his tracks, worried that maybe he'd been heard. That maybe they were coming for him now. Terrified glances to the left, right, swivelling back around and front again. Nothing. His hand slowly lowers and he inches forward, bare feet lifting only a few inches off of the floorboards.

More like wooden planks packed over dirt, but his mother never complained about the finer points. Not when they at least had a roof over their heads.

His mother. Wisps of tawny hair are visible now, just around the corner. In the rising sunlight, they look golden and glowing: ethereal, really. He knows about angels and faeries and spirit folk. His mum read all of those things to him since he could first remember her voice. Da would always tell him tales of sea monsters and creatures that dominated the sky, but Mum would describe the golden beauty of these beings, instilling in him a sense of awe and appreciation for her soft, almost reverent whisper as she told those stories.

Hope springs forth in his chest and he forgets himself. His feet pound the rest of the way, turning the corner, only to stop once again, hand gripping tightly onto the nearest surface.

'Mummy --?' he says gently, fearfully. The knots come back full force and he's staring with wide eyes. The air is making them dry, but he can't even blink.

Streaks of harsh red cascade over the side of her face, trailing down into her tattered clothing, once white and clean. The red has oxidised into an earthy brick colour, like old rust that clings to the kettle in the cupboard. One of his hands shakily reaches out to touch the hair that glowed bright just a moment ago. It feels brittle and limp against the tips of his fingers. He quickly pulls them back into his chest and breathes a little sharper, catches the bitter tang of blood heavy on the air, chokes a little at the sensation. His eyes are watering now, but the tears don't fall yet.

From the corner of his left eye, he can see what appears as a disembodied foot. Another corner to round, breath held, feet steady.

More dirty red. His father, eyes staring up into nothing, face gruesome, disfigured, and hands held out, as if in prayer. Off-red all over the walls, painting a horrific picture and spelling out words he'd rather forget.

Monster.

Heathens.

Devil spawn.

He knows these words, if only vaguely. He's not sure who they mean, but he knows who wrote them. He had heard the loud whispers behind his and his parents' backs. As long as he could remember, he knew that they would be surrounded by people cupping their mouths and leaning in to trade secrets with their neighbours. He didn't question it anymore, not after his mother assured him that they were ignorant people who didn't want to know any better. Just old wives spreading unfounded rumours.

He never asked what those rumours were. His parents were the pillars of truth and goodness in his eyes; he didn't need to know what anyone else thought about them. John and Lilith Lupin were his best friends.

Were.

He's much too young to understand the full depth of this situation. Eight is such a tender age. Impressionable, dependent, trusting.

Suddenly the quiet of the room is interrupted by shouting voices. Fear creeps into his chest again and takes hold, forcing his feet to move. An acrid smell fills his nostrils and he has to breathe shallowly as he slinks around the rooms, grabbing for his parents' hands and trying desperately to pull.

He doesn't know exactly what's wrong, but a voice at the back of his mind tells him that they aren't coming back. This thing he occasionally heard about, death, the voice tells him that it's taken hold of John and Lilith. That they're never coming back, not like he's used to. Mummy's voice won't tell him beautiful stories anymore. Da's weary but laughing face won't greet him at the door after another hard day at work.

Still he tries to drag their lifeless bodies along, as if his eight-year-old frame could ever carry the burden.

The smoke is becoming too thick to see through, and he's barely managed two feet with his mum or dad. Tears pool in the corners of his eyes and he roughly swipes at them, leaving behind a streak of ash high on his cheeks. The little boy in him longs to cry for his lost parents, but the steadying voice, so familiar yet too distant for him to place, guides him along, telling him to take anything he can and run. Quickly, into the copse of trees surrounding the cosy one-storey.

He doesn't question, he just acts, gathers whatever he can. One final, longing look is thrown over the still figures of his parents before he turns and scrambles out of the sitting room window.

The small bag on his back bounces with its meagre contents and his pockets are heavy with food that will barely last for a week. But he runs faster than he's ever run before. He blocks out the voices and the roaring of a fire consuming all of his childhood memories.

The only thing his tunnel vision focuses on is the path he's carving through the trees. Branches lash at his bare forearms, tearing at the linen of his clothing, but he doesn't stop, doesn't once look back.