Nil Carborundum Illegitimi

He slumped onto the counterpane of his bed and carefully removed his black boots with their silver heels. Like all Elves, he was burned by steel and iron. All of his metal fastenings on his robes, his clothing and his footwear were of silver. Sartorially, he looked extremely stylish through no fault of his own. It just happened that Elves could dress amazingly well. This summer, when coming up from the Summer Lands, the fashionable Elf-about-town was wearing almost the same as Arwarn, but with a little bit of tartan and a couple of silver safety pins. Elves had gone awfully punk.

Arwarn slid out his robes, leaving them in a crumpled black heap on the floor, and unfastened the bone buttons of the black, slightly fitted cotton shirt. It joined the heap of robe on the stone flags.

Naked except for his jeans, he stretched, the pain in his back slicing into the nerves and making him bite his lip in agony. Fighting off the wave of nausea that overtook his stomach, he unclasped the cross around his neck and held it to the dancing candlelight. Carved from burnished silver, it took the form of the traditional cross and setting sun design shown in Celtic artwork. Sunk into its ancient, rune-covered surface, stripes of emerald and tiger's eye flashed in the drab room. They were the symbol of the tribe that he belonged to and had to serve. They also reminded him of his mother; her lavender smell, her satin hair, the way she spoke. Sighing, he pressed it to his lips and refastened it safety around his white throat.

A rustle of silk and a long finger running down and caressing his spine made him start, hands grasping the sheets. Tracing almost lovingly upwards, as the finger encountered the long, fresh burn that curled from his ribs, diagonally across his back to just below his opposite shoulder blade, the nail was brought into play. It was dragged, slicing into tender scorched flesh. He gave a sob of distress, pain flaring, while the drawling Malfoy voice whispered in his ear.

"My handiwork, I think," he gloated, as the nail bit into Arwarn' lower back. A crescent of greenish, copper-based Elf blood bloomed under Malfoy's finger, and his laugh was so low and husky that it came out as more of a breath than a giggle. "I never knew iron coat hangers could be used for such...immoral purposes."

"Why don't you leave me alone, Malfoy?" The words came out as a plea rather than a question.

"Because I don't like you, Arwarn, and when I don't like someone they know about it. I don't like you as you are a disgusting creature that should never have left the pit in which it was dragged up." Malfoy's hand dug deep into the scanty flesh of his thin shoulder. A day later there would be fingermarks standing out lividly from the pale skin.

Arwarn shrugged off the pinching hand and stalked over to the window, opening it wide so to breathe the clean, sharp air of the outside world. Lighting a cigarette, the one Muggle vice he allowed himself, he took a drag and stared onto the wild moors in the distance. He liked to sit on the wide stone windowsill and think himself home in the palace of the Queen. While he leaned here, blowing smoke out of the narrow arch, Malfoy couldn't see the anguish on his face. Without turning he sensed that his enemy was standing at his shoulder. "What? What do you want of me now?"

Mortis, inheritor of the Malfoy wealth and proud eldest son of an ancient family, grinned like the Death Eater his father always wanted him to be. "I want to brand you, Arwarn Sandinista. I want to mark you as mine, like a shepherd marks his flock, I will brand you for being the animal that belongs to me." Taking a small pair of pliers from his pocket, Malfoy skilfully and rapidly transformed the thin length of steel wire he held.

Arwarn backed as far into the thick window ledge as he possibly could. "Touch me with that, and I'm warning you!" he shrieked. Malfoy's reply was to call out to his cronies who came lumbering into the room, dragged the screaming boy from his hiding place, and held him forcibly down on his bed. The smoky glasses fell to the floor and smashed into slivers. Emerald eyes wide with terror and lips drawn back in a snarl from white teeth, he struggled and writhed to free himself from their tight grip. He had no chance.

"Where you gonna do it, Malfoy?" asked one of the thugs. A small smile pursed the narrow, bloodless lips, and his fingers closed on the zip of the tight black jeans. Arwarn, yelling and shaking his head, redoubled his efforts of escape.

"I'll do there another time," laughed Malfoy. "His arm, I think." Malfoy's friends held the now sobbing Arwarn by the wrist, elbow and shoulder, while Mortis advanced towards him, the smile growing wider at each step until Arwarn thought unaccountably of a Muggle comic strip character called The Joker, who was as evil and twisted as Malfoy. The metal, roughly twisted into the shape of a the Chinese symbol for death, sparked and glowed blue as it placed closer and closer to the pristine pale flesh of the boy.

As Malfoy pressed the now white hot steel onto Arwarn's flesh, a bright spark flared against his puckering, scorching skin, then the glowing metal faded to dull grey. The pale boy poked his victim, but the green eyes were closed, while the now grey face was pinched and haggard with the agony and st of of his ordeal. Dropping the twist to the floor, Malfoy examined his work on his oblivious prey with relish. It had worked far better than he had expected. High on the very point his left arm joined his shoulder, Arwarn now had singed into the living skin a tattoo that would never fade and would always remind him for the rest of his life of Mortis Malfoy.

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It was the loss of Aurella that finally defeated Arwarn. While she, and to some extent Remus, were present in the school, he felt a little less different. Her leaving at the end of his first year was traumatic and hurt Arwarn more than he could ever admit.

He was sitting in the same compartment of the Hogwarts express with her, when Aurella asked to hear the truth about the scar on his arm. Arwarn whitened. He had said that the burn was caused by an accident, horseplay, and it didn't matter.

"Tell me, Arwarn. I am not going to be here next year, so you may as well say the truth to me while you can."

"It was Malfoy," he whispered. "He did it on purpose. Because he doesn't like me. He says I am repellent and horrible and disgusting and he can't see any reason for me to live, he she says I should go back where I belong and stop pretending to be human." Behind the spare dark glasses that he had to wear, he started to cry. Aurella was shocked at the defeat in his voice. To her, Arwarn had always been strong about the problems that they both had to endure. In fact, he had helped her a little by talking everything through with her. Aurella had thought this tough seeming boy could cope, but she had not expected that he had been wilfully tortured and viciously abused. She had known his status as half-human would have created friction, but this was worse than she had ever seen with Lupin.

"Do you know why they do this," she asked gently. He shook his black and silver head. "They are scared of you, because they don't know who you are. They think that all Elves are violent and bloodthirsty. Malfoy and his lot are terrified that if they don't subdue you, you will be as your forefathers were to humans."

He looked at her over the tops of his glasses; eyes bright with unshed liquid, while a small smile raised the corners of his lips. "What my forefathers did? Don't you mean what my people do?"

She returned his weak smile. "Look, if you need to tell someone, write to me. I will always be there for you. I may not be able to stop this going on, but at least you will be able to discuss it."

He looked at her, the blinding flash in his brain shocking him into realising that he loved her as he had never loved another person before.

"Are you all right, you looked decidedly white just then?" Her voice was concerned. He sm and and slipped his hand into hers. "I was just thinking about you," he murmured. "About how much I love you."

He did not see the look on Aurella's face, for she looked out of the window at the passing countryside. Her visage showed a mixture of surprise, a tinge of pride, but more of apprehension. Aurella had issues she was confronting without having to worry about a schoolboy crush. Except she knew that the passion the young boy had for her was going to affect her. The intensity and fervour of both revelation and Arwarn in general was frightening to behold.