He was running, running, endlessly and without pause. He knew not where he was running to, not where his final destination was, not where he was at present, not where the Aurors were positioned and waiting to catch him . . . soon, he figured, he would not even know his name. But nothing really mattered to him in that moment anyway, and certainly not something as trivial as his name; for really, what had his name ever done for him? What had anyone ever done for him? What had life ever done for him, even? Strange how disjointed and yet how clear the senses and mind were at the height of adrenaline.
He ventured on, running wildly through the thickets and trees. His head was clouded, and yet his thoughts were strong as they popped out at him; his muscles ached from not being used like this in so long, and yet he could not feel the burn; his throat was parched, and yet he did not want to drink; his breathing came out in short, haggard spurts, and yet he did not stop, could not stop . . .
They were looking for him, he knew it. Not just him, all the Death Eaters. Sure, there would be trials held at the Ministry, but what in the world could he possibly say in his defense? He was guilty of the crimes, he did not regret his actions . . . all he regretted was . . . but no, he would not think of her, not now, not ever again.
The battle was over; Potter had triumphed over the Dark Lord. The thing that Rodolphus Lestrange had dreaded and feared for years, the death of his master, had finally happened. So why did he find that he did not care one whit, why was it that the penetrating hurt deep within him came not over the Dark Lord’s demise, but over someone else’s? Because it shouldn’t, he knew, it shouldn’t . . . but it did. Terribly. Wretchedly. But, no, he would not remember her, he did not need her, and even if he did, it didn’t matter, there was nothing he could do anymore . . . still, his eyes stung with bitter tears for the first time in many years as he thought of her yet again.
I always needed time on my own
I never thought I'd need you there when I cry
He did not know how long he was running for, did not care how long he ran, though this was not saying much seeing as he did not care about anything more . . . but eventually, he reached a destination, a destination he knew very well. And though he had not planned to, he went inside.
The house was just as it always was: dark, impressive, grand. He should know: it was his very own house, after all. But it felt different, somehow, knowing that it was just his house now, and not theirs.
He knew it was stupid to stay here. This would most likely be the first place the Ministry looked for him, after all. But he found that, just like everything else now in his life, he did not care if they found him or not. Would life really be so much better on the run than it would be in Azkaban? Might as well just stop here for a bit, get a few hours sleep. So he went up the stairs, his stairs, and fell onto the bed, his bed, pulling the covers around him. The singular possessive of the items made him feel strangely hollow again, and his eyes stung irritably once more. He wiped them with the back of his hand roughly, rolled over, and somehow managed to fall asleep despite his heavy thoughts. Well, he was very tired: servants of the Dark Lord did not have the most regular sleep patterns.
Continued 
