Shouldering a burden -open-

Tristan walked down the streets of London on his way home from the Muggle Senior center he volunteered at. He was wearing blue jean pants and a black top, he was deeply troubled by what one of the elderly people had said to him. He kept replaying it over and over in his head.

"I knew your Mother Tristan she was a great woman and unbelievably kind to everyone. You have her eyes and her smile." The woman had said to him when he was changing her bed sheets. "You are very much like her you know. You are also some what like your father. Brave and stubborn, sometimes not knowing one's family is the greatest burden of all."

The elderly lady had fallen asleep after she had told him that and didn't wake until he had put her back into her bed. She simply smiled at him then drifted back off to sleep, Tristan had left after that. He began trying to get his thoughts straight and tried to understand what the woman had meant by what she had said.

Amadora was feeling down once again. She could feel some wolfish tendencies coming through and she cursed herself for being so stupid as to go out during a full moon. She didn't know about werewolves then and her mother certainly hadn't said anything. She would have had the affliction if it wasn't for her father who had got to her just in time. However the scars still littered her body as if she'd been whipped repeatedly and scratched to near death then left so the wounds could heal the Muggle way.

Dora was thankful for Glamour Charms but now, without them she felt beyond vulnerable and she could feel the tears rushing down her cheeks. No doubt the Muggles had heard her screams from down the road. The Alleyway magnified the sound but no one came to help her. The memory relapses made her magic drain until it built back up again - it made the Glamour’s disappear.

She continued to walk in anguish until she bumped into someone - unintentionally of course but looking up at him she couldn't help but thank the fates for making her walk into someone. Sure it was her clumsiness but she was awed by the Adonis before her. He was... well, beautiful.

"S-sorry." Dora mumbled. "I've had an awful day and I wasn't watching where I was going.."

She trailed off and tried to wipe some of her tears away. She knew she looked awful - it was the truth. That was why no guy - werewolf or not, would look her way. She was human with the scars to prove she was stronger and braver than those around her even as a child. But even the werewolves that she tried to befriend looked down on her with contempt and disgust. That was what she was - disgusting, a creature that should have never existed.

Tristan felt someone bump into her and he saw the young girl. His heart stopped as he saw her tears, he ran after her and took her hand softly. "Miss are you alright? Are you hurt?" He asked looking at her. His eyebrows were pushed together in a worry line and his eyes were full of worry. Tristan didn't like seeing people hurt and seeing her hurt like that made his heart ache with pain.

Dora tried her best to avoid any light in the area, so he wouldn't see her face or her neck. She was one great big scar or at least a canvas baring them. She was ashamed of herself. She looked like a piece of dirt compared to the Adonis in front of her that seemingly cared about her welfare. She doubted it highly. Dora knew the top of her chest was even worse for scars. The white lace top with thin straps she was wearing showed a huge scratch that dipped down over her breasts and around her back in a curling motion to the top of her jeans. Only a pale purple cardigan kept her arms from being on show.

“I’m fine.” she sobbed, brokenly. She cursed herself once more - that wasn’t what she wanted him to hear. She was distraught and her anguish overrode every other possible emotion that could enter her system. The tears were still streaming down her cheeks and she felt completely dead, like she was in black and white with her deep red hair being the only source of colour in her life. She wanted to bury her head in his chest and cry - a move which she wouldn’t even think about doing. She just wanted to hide from the world and never see a friendly face again - not that anyone was. No one cared for the orphan; no one.

Tristan saw her scar on her chest and swore in his head. "There is something that's troubling you. I would like to help if you will allow me to." He said looking at her with a look of worry still upon his face. He put a hand on her shoulder wondering if she would push him away and scream at him. "I don't mean to intrude in your life but i am very concerned for you."

Dora wrapped her arms around herself and exhaled. Her breathing was laboured more so than she thought it could ever be. She'd lost her balance when the relapse happened so perhaps she'd hit the floor harder than she'd thought. She knew it was cold and everything was wet when she'd woken up signalling a light shower of rain but perhaps she'd broken a few ribs.

"I-I..." Dora couldn't think of anything to say. She didn't know what to. She couldn't very well say she needed a medi-witch. Damnit she knew she did but she never went to those damn Healers because they always wanted to contact her parents. She'd left her wand at home as far as she knew or it was in a pocket somewhere in her jeans but even if she did have it she lacked the knowledge of how to heal her bones. She'd need potions.

Dora sank down to the floor so she was on her knees. She could feel the cold London street through her jeans but she didn’t care. She was broken up and didn’t know what to do. He wanted to help but she was obsolete and useless. Dora could feel people watching her, glancing at her with contempt as they walked by - hurrying their children along or glaring and stopping for a few moments before moving on.

“There’s nothing you can do.” she said quietly.

Tristan was kneeling at her side as he looked at her. He wanted to help her more than anything, so he picked her up in his arms. He began walking down the street to his apartment to get her out of the cold and see if he could help her. "Oh by the way, My name's Tristan. Tristan Michaels." He said as he reached his apartment building, he walked in and towards his apartment on the first floor. "It's gonna be okay, i promise you that." He said softly.

Dora wasn't sure what she thought but being encased in his warm arms comforted her more than anything in the world. She laid her head on his shoulder but kept her own arms around herself in case she fell apart - it was an irrational and foolish fear but its what she felt; she felt as if she'd snap in two and that no part of magic could heal that.

"Amadora." she mumbled, "Amadora Lunel."

She knew promises were usually empty but she had a strange feeling that he was being sincere, like he was serious and genuinely thought she was going to be alright. No, it would always be the same. A Muggle or a wizard finding a redhead in Diagon Alley or London. They'd take her home and fix her wounds - they'd try to make her well again. But it would be the same always. She'd go back to Hogwarts and it would all happen again - a memory relapse and her Apparition to London, then another... back to square one again.

Tristan opened his apartment door and carried her in. "It's nice to meet you Amadora." He shut the door and laid her on his couch and went over to the kitchen putting the kettle on the stove. He walked back into the living room and sat beside her on the couch. "Amadora can you tell me what hurts please?"

Dora liked Tristan’s house a lot. It had a homey sort of feel and she could tell that everything was picked out by him and the way it was all designed signalled that he’d thought about it for a while before finally completing it. It was simple but nice. However Dora could feel another presence in the apartment. A roommate perhaps? No, guys that beautiful were always married or were at least tied down and engaged. However, Dora saw no ring which meant he was dating someone. He couldn’t just be single - there was no way.

Dora felt better when Tristan came back. His presence was calming and it soothed her immensely. She couldn’t tell him a lot. She couldn’t tell him that she constantly hurt all over due to mental and physical anxiety. She could tell him what was really wrong with her at that moment in time. She knew a few of the old wounds had opened up, they always did, and then her ribs - she was also fairly sure she’d broken her ankle.

“My legs and stomach.” she mumbled. “The scars are open. Ribs broke and ankle.”