Gryffindor Grit
A black dog stood in the shadows of a cliff face. At the top of the cliff stood a tall dark tower. In front of the dog was only crashing waves and jagged rocks. The sky above was dark with the death of the day, the clouds heavy.
The dog itself was half-starved, its fur matted, with fear clouding its eyes. He was hugging close to the sheer rock, as if scared of being seen, and yet its tail gave a slight wag every now and then.
As the moon disappeared behind a thick, black cloud, the dog was thrown into blackness and saw its chance. Running towards the water at a speed it would have seemed incapable of, the dog dived in suddenly. The icy cold of the water froze the dog for a few moments, weak as he was, and it seemed as though the dog would not be able to continue his journey. But the dog found its determination, and continued onwards.
The dog began to swim, away from the island, towards the vast expanse of open water in front of it. It was tossed around, but its pace did not relent.
The dog seemed unaware how long the journey was taking or how far he was travelling. The further out he swam, the larger the waves became, crashing over the dog and burying the poor creature within its icy depths at every opportunity, as if desperate to call it their own.
After a couple of hours, the dog began to tire. Its pace began to slow, but the dog did not relent. The dog swam through day and night, waiting for the sign of land that would prove it was travelling in the right direction, that it was nearly there.
After four days of unrelenting sameness, the dog caught sign of a cliff face in the distance. With all the energy left in its body, its speed picked up once more, heading for the coast.
As the dogs' feet first touched the soft sand beneath the water, it disappeared. Miraculously, there was now a man in his placed, as emancipated and matted as the dog had been. He let out a weak grown, his muscles shaking violently as he scrambled naked and fell over the rocks, desperate to be away from the water. His face was tinged blue, his fingers and feet swollen and wrinkled, as a salty sheen clung to his skin.
He scraped and scratched himself on the rocks, leaving open wounds that stung on contact with the water and ran pink as his blood mixed with the sea water. With enormous effort he pulled himself up to stand. He took a deep breath and looked at the sky above him, taking in the view of the coast of his homeland. He smiled before staggering forward, to where the undergrowth began in the rolling dunes, and collapsed to the sand where he was shaded from sight.
He fell into a much needed sleep almost immediately.
He awoke to an intense headache and a desperate urge to find food and clean water. His muscles were stiff and cried out in pain with every move. They did not want to move, torn and grossly overused as they were, but he did not have a choice. If he did not stand and find what he sorely needed, food and water, this Scottish beach would be his grave.
He did not have time to consider where he had been, or where he was going. He would have time for that later. His instincts were baser, primal.
He stumbled forward, to where the ground beneath his feet was more solid, swaying as his body tried to slip back into unconsciousness. He fought the light that crept into his line of vision, the whiteness that threatened to consume him.
He heard a stream and tottered towards it, briefly wondering how far inland he would have to walk before the salt was long behind him. When he saw its cool, rippling depths, he decided it did not matter. His need outweighed the risk.
He crashed to his knees at its bank and sunk his hands in, bringing them up to meet his face. He drank his fill again and again, feeling more human with every mouthful. His stomach protested, too empty, and so he stopped drinking before his thirst was quenched, willing his stomach to retain its contents.
Now, food. The man knew what he must do to obtain sustenance.
The man was no longer there, and the dog was stood in his place. Its ears stood upright, alert, while his eyes narrowed, his muzzle working to catch a whiff of the scent of dinner.
At least partially satiated, the man fell asleep once more, the intense recovery not yet over. He awoke many hours later, and found the pain lessened. His muscles were beginning to repair themselves; his headache was beginning to ease of. His mind was able to focus once more, and he found three thoughts danced for his undying attention.
Innocent.
That place, that prison, was never supposed to be his home. He had never betrayed his friends. he had been betrayed.
Betrayal.
Peter Pettigrew was not the man he had pretended to be, and vengeance would be his.
Freedom.
Freedom was now his once more, and he vowed to relish every second of it.
With those three thoughts, he knew his journey was not yet done; his story was not yet complete. There was only one place he needed to be, and he was in a rush to arrive there. It was the only place he'd ever truly considered his home, after all.