Hi everyone!
With the nature of the last chapter, I made sure this one came out quickly.
Thank you so much for your reviews, they mean the world to me. The last chapter was incredibly difficult to write, and I agonised over it for ages, but I was happy with the result, and I'm glad you were too.
I hope you enjoy this one - I found it interesting to write.
Please let me know what you think
Thank you!
After that night was over, and the tears stopped falling, Harry was not sad. He was angry.
Harry dispelled the charm that tied him to her necklace. The last thing he wanted to know anything more about was Tonks' thoughts.
It all seemed so pointless to him then. The days and hours he wasted hoping - hoping that Tonks could've possibly loved him. How totally naive he was to think someone like her could ever care for a person like him. It made all of it feel pointless.
He wasn't going to do it anymore. Going to Hogsmeade, going to the library to see Hermione or Neville. None of it was worthwhile. No-one was ever really going to be there for him, so what was the point?
And the worst part? He already knew that.
It was not some great revelation for him. Before he even knew what magic was, he knew that. The Dursleys taught him that lesson. They taught him that no-one could ever love him. That not even his parents could be there for him. That he wasn't worthy of love, or care or compassion. But the magical world managed to erode that knowledge.
Bit by bit, by showing him magic that made him feel awe and wonder for the world. If an eagle could be created out of nothing, surely it was possible that someone could love him.
And Dumbledore, with his apparent worry and his compassion, impregnated his belief, and filled his mind with thoughts of love. Fed him the notion that he could possibly find people that would care for him. Dumbledore, who lied to him, and made him go into the world and get hurt. But Tonks showed him the truth. Or rather, she reminded him of it.
In this life, the only thing you could rely on was yourself, and your magic. And that was what Harry did.
Endlessly, he poured over his notes on the Northern Magics. He became fascinated by their view of fire, though this time it was not the passive aspect, but the active. The chaotic and the destructive. The wrathful.
The great thing about fire is that, provided it's hot enough, it will burn anything.
The art that Harry drew. The clothes that he wore that smelled faintly of her. The metal casing of a necklace. All of it was destroyed eventually. The only thing that a fire couldn't burn away was the memory of it all. No flame could remove that. No flame could take away the happiness he once felt; a happiness turned bitter by reality. And that was not for a lack of trying, for Harry more so than most.
One of those texts stuck out in particular. It was the story of Brand, a respected Thane to a High King. A powerful mage and fierce warrior; he led his men on hundreds of raids up and down the coasts of Northern Europe. He was strong and unwavering, his thirst for victory and glory unparalleled. He loved his men, and his men loved him, as well as the four sons that fought alongside him.
One day, his King ordered him to raid upon a neighbouring kingdom. Brand, being a loyal man to his King, did as he bid. He and his men attacked at the shores of this kingdom's city. Brand, the fierce warrior that he was, made quick work of this city's defenses, breaking through its castle walls in a matter of hours, killing their warriors to a man, and taking his spoils of victory.
What Brand did not know was that it was a trap.
Their defenses were weakened in a gambit, and their men only enough to ensure that Brand did not question it. And, on the night after their supposed victory, as Brand and his men supped at their foes mead, the true attack began.
Their foe waited until they were good and drunk. And then they burned them alive.
The enemy king ignited the castle, fires of dark magic burning through the structure's foundations and scorching them as they stood. Only Brand survived, but not before having his arm burned away, and watching his four sons perish.
After the ordeal, Brand fell to madness, and he planned his vengeance. For months, Brand secluded himself from the world, grief and pain and magic his only companions. But he knew he would gain his revenge.
For Brand was learned in the Northern Magics, and his brush with the fire had taught him the value of flame. The value of destruction, and the price its victim paid. He simply wished to hurt those that took his sons away from him. And hurt he did.
Brand unleashed a firestorm the likes of which had never been seen before or since. It was thought that the Aesir themselves could not unleash such devastation; that Brand's grief had allowed him to transcend the limits the Gods placed upon men, and become something more.
The fire tore through the kingdom that claimed his sons, rendering it little more than ash in the winds of change. No man, woman or child lived through his fury. Their entire world snuffed out without a single question or moment of deliberation by Brand. He felt no remorse, or regret. They suffered as he did.
And Brand was never to be seen again.
Some thought he died in its casting. Some thought he ascended into Valhalla upon which he became the God of fire; some even prayed to him for warmth in times of cold. Some thought he sat in Asgard even now, beside Odin and Thor, sipping mead and eating golden apples. But no-one knew.
Harry though knew one thing. He wanted what Brand had; to know destruction. He wanted to know the element so completely that such a feat was possible. To know all aspects of his own magic, not simply the beautiful and the kind. To know oneself was to know one's worst aspects, and Harry sought after that. He sought to truly know himself. To know his own nature. Other people would come and go like the wind, but there was strength and power in knowing one's self. And if you knew yourself, other people could never hurt you again.
Harry himself was blessed by his brush with the Horntail, for he felt its fire personally. He tasted the magical force of that dragon; the utter domination that poured from its being. It was fire personified; the unstoppable force, the unquenchable rage, the indomitable spirit.
But Harry dominated the Horntail. He dominated that fire. And he wanted to show the world his own fire - his own pain.
The classroom he once called home no longer seemed appropriate. It was too small, too personal and had too many memories. Memories that could not be burned away.
So Harry went walking.
A notable aspect of the grounds of Hogwarts is that they were far vaster than anyone realised. The peaks in the far distance did not belong to the land that muggles could see, but instead to the castle grounds, so Harry walked to them. They were only two miles or so away from the castle, but they lied beyond the forbidden forest, and few people ever thought to look beyond such an imposing place.
The cold was biting, the snow heavy and unfailing, the paths untouched for hundreds of years, but Harry didn't care. He just wanted to reach the top. He was immovable in the cold, unfailing in his efforts.
Because fire is not cooled by the frost; it burns it away.
And as Harry reached the peak, he did not feel the cold. The frost did not bite at his skin. The chilling winds did not buffet him at all; his flame stood unmoved by the breeze. The snow was too light to even think about.
He closed his eyes, and brought forth the memory of the Horntail's flame. The heat of it; the pure destruction it could cause, and yet he overcame that. He possessed the greater spirit; the greater fire. He called forth this spirit into his mind; his indomitable will. And if the Horntail was the greatest being of fire this realm could create, then Harry's flame was to be beyond this realm.
With this spirit, he longed to bring forth the pain that he felt. He wanted to rid himself of that pain - to burn it from his being, and to cauterise the wounds of his broken heart.
He raised his wand at the top of that peak, and spoke.
"Logi Brand Aldrnari."
And from the Elder Wand, his spirit came; fierce and indomitable and unwavering spirit came personified within the Godly force of his flame. From within him, there came pain and chaos and power, and a storm of fire was born from his magic.
Swirling torrents of flame billowed out from his hand, hotter than anything the world had known in millennia. A primordial flame was resurrected in the Scottish wilderness that day, the likes of which unparalleled by anything else. There was not a single thing in this world that could withstand Harry's force.
The air atop that peak became thick with magic, vast volumes of oxygen pulled in to the rampaging inferno, the pressure of the storm throwing the world into disarray. Any being that would step near his inferno would discover only agony, as the flame violently scorched its way through the world.
Harry brought wave after wave of focused, dominant power into the sky, his fire ascending so that the tip of his flaming tempest reached into the clouds. With prodigious control, he maintained this storm. It would never outgrow his influence; he possessed the flame, it did not possess him. The tip of his wand was a pure white; it was only his utter mastery of the Helian magics that prevent his being from being taken into the fire.
And, as the world around him bowed to his magic, and the flames ascended the skies and tore through the atmosphere, the pure focus of the flame allowed Harry a blessed moment of clarity. Gone was the pain, gone was the struggles that his life had. He knew no pain in that moment. All he knew was his own power. His own spirit.
The feeling was addictive. To have peace, to strip away the pain and have only the power, was addictive - in that moment more than most. He had wished to burn away the memories, and he knew that all he would have to do was give into his towering inferno and he would get his wish.
The flames seemed to whisper to him then, telling seductive lies of how the flame would be his salvation. That all he needed to do was give in to the fire, and he would know true peace. But Harry knew better.
There was never going to be any salvation. Life did not have a salvation. Life was pain and it was suffering, and it hurt you more than anything else ever could. Life was not kind, and life did not want peace. Life sowed chaos and agony to make its survivors stronger. And, beyond anything else, Harry was strong.
He was not a victim of the fire's seduction like Brand was. He was more than just a conduit of the flame.
He was the wielder of the fire's power.
And the pain and the suffering that his life held only made his fire all the stronger.
The firestorm metamorphosed then. The flames transformed - from a bright red to a glowing, ethereal white like a shimmering beacon of light and hope from the sky to the ground. The storm was hotter than ever, but he was not hurt. Rather the opposite - he felt stronger than he ever had.
Harry felt the white flames drape themselves around his body like a second skin. It was not the flaming cloak that the Nordic warriors wore to protect their people - it was not fueled by thoughts of safety, but of destruction. It protected its wearer, but it would tear through all else if given the chance.
And as his flame gracefully covered his body, the storm that he birthed became one with him once more, the fire now residing within his spirit. From where there was once a monument to Harry's force, now there was just the wind. It left only the glowing white flame that Harry wore like a cloak, and a quiet strength that had come upon Harry, and would not fade.
Harry stood still - alone on top of the peak. Wind passed through the air around him quickly after the storm disappeared, bringing with it the winter chill. But Harry was not affected. The world could not hurt him then, and the cold could not touch him.
On the night of Harry's storm, Harry decided that he would not return to the castle until he needed to. The quiet solitude of his peak was a welcome refuge from everything else in his world. He knew that he could survive until the beginning of the next term without food, having performed a similar feat before he came to Hogwarts, and with the fire that grew within him, he knew that he would never grow cold. He had his notes for the Northern Magics in his jacket - he had everything he needed. And the world around him provided the myriad of ways to keep his thoughts from straying toward what had happened.
That night, Harry wished to forge a fire on the peak, the winter darkness falling quickly. He did not need the heat, truthfully, but rather something to look at. Something to stare into, and lose himself in. The Northern Magics spoke of a way of making a fire without even needing a wand, and he was eager to try it out.
It was, in essence, the reverse of the passive magic of the hearth. Then, you drew the magic of the hearth into yourself, whereas in order to create a fire, one had to pass their magic into the world with thoughts of warmth and heat and home, and a fire was born. It did not warm you quite as a home's fire would, but it stopped the cold from snapping away your life. It was far safer than simply creating a campfire as well, as it did not require firewood; simply burning its own essence for days on end.
Harry closed his eyes, his palm outstretched, and he allowed his magic to flow through his hand, and pushing it out into the world. He did not think of the library's fire as he did, or any of Hogwarts' fires. Instead, he cast his mind back to the feeling of the firestorm he created, the unbelievable heat he himself could conjure, and he allowed that thought to fuel his fire.
If one thought of home as a place, or another person, all you could expect was pain. A building could burn down, and a bad memory could poison the safety one once felt there. And people - people always leave.
But, if one thought of their own selves as their home, or their magic as their home, one would always be at home. The only person that would never leave, and the only person you could ever really rely on to care for you was yourself. And that was what home meant.
Harry opened his eyes, and before him now stood a roaring fire. Rather oddly though, the fire was not red, but a dark, jade green. None of his notes had mentioned any altering of the colour of the fire, but Harry suspected its colour was in conjunction with the thoughts of the wizard casting. Perhaps, much like bluebell flames and fiendfyre, it was just another curiosity of magical fire.
Nonetheless, the dancing of the flames before his eyes was fascinating to Harry. The gentle swaying as the wind was soft, the frantic movements as a strong breeze passed overhead. The fire stood, buffeted by the wind, but it did not move, and it was not extinguished, no matter the strength of the wind.
Soon though, Harry found himself in desperate need for water, the scorching heat of his magic serving to dehydrate him deeply. The ascent to the peak was not a spectacularly steep one, and so it was not difficult to descend in search of a stream or a spring. He had a passing thought to use the water charm, or to call forth a torrent using the Helian magics, but decided against it. Harry found that the water conjured through magical means tasted peculiar, and God only knows what the effects of drinking something as heavily magical as the Northern Magics would be.
He followed along the path that brought him to the peak to begin with, his wand acting as his torch. It was an old, gravel path that carved through the hills and grasslands between Hogwarts and a settlement beyond the peak that had long since moved to assimilate with Hogsmeade; the path being the last memory of it ever existing in the first place. However, for all he could follow the path, the terrain itself was deeply unfamiliar, and Harry was forced to rely on chance rather than knowledge to find water.
Harry was close to giving in, and waiting until the sun came up to search once more to look for a stream, but he stopped himself as he saw something come alight before his very eyes.
Along the path, in the darkened distance, were two glowing lights brighter than the stars in the night sky. They shined through the wilderness, and seemed to call to Harry, wishing him to come toward them. Harry knew that he ought to have been wary, but there was an innate purity to the light that Harry couldn't help but trust.
Slowly, with his wand extended in front of him, Harry walked toward the lights. He had no idea of what it was, but he was curious. Could it be another person, or was it just his imagination?
He didn't know, but he wanted to.
With every step, the lights grew more and more bright and clear to his eyes. And as he reached the edge of the path, he discovered exactly what it was.
It was a deer.
A buck, in particular. It was young deer - a fallow deer, if Harry recalled correctly - not quite in its full maturity, but it looked to have a winter or two in its lifetime. Its antlers were large and looked strong, its coat chestnut. But its most striking feature were its eyes; they were a deep, magnificent blue. The buck had eyes that held the purest blue Harry had ever seen.
However, as Harry approached the deer, he realised that the deer was not simply standing on the path. He was sat at the top of an oak tree, its legs entangled within its branches. Harry had absolutely no idea how he managed to get up there, or why he was there in the first place, but there he was, eating upon the few sparse leaves that had not shed in the winter.
"Do you want to get down?" Harry asked, though he felt a fool for doing so. The deer held his eyes though, and Harry might have imagined it, but the buck seemed to incline its head ever-so-slightly. Harry sighed, and raised his wand, hoping that this was not the night he felt what it was like to be kicked by a deer.
"Wingardium Leviosa," Harry cast, his voice soft and level, and the deer was raised from the tree in an instant, and Harry carefully floated him to the ground. "There you go."
The deer's eyes were wide as his hooves touched the ground, but it did not bolt away from Harry as he imagined that the buck would. Instead the buck inclined its head ever so slightly, and Harry knew he did not imagine it that time, before slowly walking out into the woods, walking as though he wished for Harry to follow.
Fascinated, Harry followed him.
And he was glad that he did, for it was not very long before the deer stopped, and Harry happened upon the clearest stream of water that he had ever seen, and he guessed perhaps the world had ever known. The water was so unfathomably clear that Harry first thought it was magical, or that he was simply imagining things.
The buck dipped its head and drank from the water, its tongue lapping at the stream. Harry conjured a goblet, and filled it from the water, and took a drink as well. The water was as crisp as the night air around them.
Harry was almost ready to turn and walk back to his fire at the peak, when he realised that the buck was looking at him again, almost expectantly. And as Harry began to find the path that would lead him to his camp, the deer followed his footsteps.
Harry stopped where he stood. "Shouldn't you be getting back to your family?" he asked the deer. "I'm sure they would worry if they didn't see you," Harry pointed out to the woods. "Why don't you go back and find your family?"
The deer looked down to the ground, and he didn't follow Harry as he walked back up the path to the peak. Harry was glad; the deer was special, and his mum was probably worried about him.
And, as Harry reached his fire and found its green flames still burning ever-brightly, he hoped the deer found its way home.
The next morning, Harry woke with a sore neck, and his fire still burning as brightly as ever.
Amazingly though, he was not cold. Frost had fallen overnight and the land that surrounded him was frozen, but he did not feel the frost on his skin. The fire billowed out heat incredibly; so much so, that a circle formed around the fire that held no sign of the cold. Even the goblet of water from last night had not frozen over.
His stomach growled out its hunger, but Harry did not pay it any mind. It was only discomfort, after all.
Harry retrieved his notes from his jacket and, as he often did, he read over them once more. Filling one's mind with knowledge was a far better alternative than letting his own thoughts fester.
He had with him both the original inscriptions and his own translations; his own translation for clarity, and the original as sentiment was often lost in translation. As Harry read more and more on his beloved subject, and the more Old Norse that he understood, the finer his understanding of his love became.
However, the point of interest he found himself analysing then was their concept of understanding. Vit, as they knew it. Before, as Harry had only used his own translation, he knew not what they meant by that. In his mind, to understand magic was to use it, and to comprehend its concepts.
As he learned to read their scripts, he truly learned what they meant by Vit. Within the Northern Magics, to hold a true understanding of their magic, one did only have to accept its concepts, but live within them. It was not alike the Transfigurations that were prevalent within the modern world, where the user only had to accept what was happening and allow the magic to simply percolate through the mind.
A master of the Northern Magic must live within the magics. One had to become part of the nature, and not force oneself onto nature. To allow magic to exist, and to not to wish it to alter it in the search of your own gain. To accept the beauty of nature, and never destroy it. To understand the balance the world must live in, and never wish to tip the balance in your own favour. But above all, to understand one's self; your own nature, and belief, and position within the world.
Only then could one understand, and master the Northern Magics. And through that understanding, almost anything was possible, provided you had the will to achieve it.
But just as soon as Harry lost himself in his thoughts, was he distracted by a voice from behind him.
"So, this is where you've gotten to." Albus Dumbledore said, appearing from thin air, though Harry was not acutely aware of his surroundings, so focused was he on the text before him.
"You might have thought if I went so far away from the castle, I might not have wanted any company." Harry said, his eyes not leaving the parchment in his hands.
"True though that may be, often we receive things we do not want, that help us anyway," Dumbledore replied, taking a seat next to Harry's fire. "It was not difficult to find you. Firestorms that stretch into the sky are not inconspicuous."
"Why are you here, Professor?" Harry asked, abruptly. "I just wanted to be alone, and to have some peace, and you're preventing that."
"I'm here because you are a student at my school, and you may be unsafe out here," Dumbledore said softly. "And I worry for you, Harry."
"It seems your duty of care is quite selective, Headmaster," Harry said, whispering into the wind. "You weren't quite as worried when I was selected when the Goblet chose me, or when Neville ran in to fight a basilisk, or when Quirrell ran about the school for a year as Voldemort's agent. And yet you're here, worrying over my safety."
Dumbledore sighed, taken aback. "I'm incredibly sorry that you're in the tournament. As with the other events, you know as well as I do that those things were beyond my control, and had I thought it the best course of action, I would've solved them immediately," he said. "I thought you understood that our world was best served if Neville had the chance to be its protector."
"As I think on it, I'm not so sure now," Harry said, looking directly into Dumbledore's eyes, challenging. "I struggle now to see a world that is best served by a child being its protector. Perhaps you could enlighten me?"
"Because when I'm gone, the world will need another person to look toward, and Neville will be that person." Dumbledore said, his voice heavy.
"But you aren't gone yet, and you have shunted a great deal of responsibility on the shoulders of a person too young to even apparate by themselves." Harry said, his voice rising.
"Had I not thought it necessary, or if Neville did not wish for the challenge, I wouldn't have done it." Dumbledore reasoned.
"But he doesn't wish for it, does he?" Harry asked, his jaw clenching. "I spoke to him about it, you know. He hardly seemed thrilled with his lot in life. You should see him this year with me being in the tournament; how happy he is now. He's literally Hermione's equal in lessons this year. And it's all because he doesn't have the weight of the world on his shoulders."
"He may not like it, but within himself he realises that he has a position within our world that is his duty to fulfill," Dumbledore said, before sighing. He outstretched his palms. "Harry, I understand that you have gone through pain recently-"
"You understand nothing!" Harry said, interrupting, the fire before them flaring. "Don't condescend me, and don't pretend that this is all just me lashing out because I'm hurt. It's not. You're playing a game that you ought not to be, Dumbledore."
Dumbledore stood. "I'm going to leave you be," Dumbledore said. "Nothing good comes of a conversation born from anger."
"Thank you for leaving." Harry said, before returning to his text, his hands clenched around the parchment.
That night, Harry walked once more in search of the river from before, this time more to soothe his body of the cramp he'd began to feel after sitting still reading before the fire for so long, and because the agitation he'd felt after Dumbledore's visit had not left him, and he wished to try and walk it off.
However, he couldn't find the river. He didn't know how; he followed the way he'd taken the night before, but it just did not seem to be there. It did not make any sense to Harry.
Yet again, just as he was about to give in and inspect the issue the following morning, the glowing blue eyes of the buck appeared before him. This time, he was not stuck upon an oak tree; instead, he was standing in the middle of the path. He almost seemed to be waiting for Harry.
Just as he did last night, the buck led Harry to the stream. It was just as clear and as beautiful as it was before, and the water was just as crisp and delicious.
"Are you the keeper of this stream?" Harry asked the deer, quite seriously. Nothing else seemed to add up. "Because if you are, I'm happy that you're letting me drink from your water. It's very kind of you."
The deer just looked at him then, its huge, innocent blue eyes staring up into Harry's jaded green eyes. It was unlike staring into the eyes of any other animal that Harry had ever known.
There was an undoubtable intelligence to his eyes. But more than that, there was understanding. He looked at Harry, and he understood. It was almost unnerving to see in a deer.
For reasons beyond Harry's understanding, he felt compelled to speak to the buck.
"You know, in one of the myths that I read about, there's a story about a deer like you," Harry said, sitting next to the buck, talking directly to the deer. "In Norse myth, there's a story of this deer that sits on top of Valhalla. You know what he does?" Harry asked, feeling ever-so-slightly ridiculous at asking a deer a question it couldn't possibly answer. This deer felt different, though. "He sits on top of Valhalla, and he eats at the leaves of a tree that grows in Valhalla called Laerad, and his antlers glow a vibrant blue, and they produce the dew that fills the world's rivers."
Harry took a sip from the beautiful water in his goblet.
"I think his name translates to something like Oak-Thorny or something equally terrible, so if you are that deer I'm sorry about your name," Harry said, his head looking skyward as he tried to remember the deer's actual name. The buck that sat next to him began lapping at the stream. "Eikthyrnir! That's its name!" Harry looked at the buck again. "Or your name, rather. Much cooler in Norse."
Harry stood up, once again preparing to walk to his fire, and to read his notes and see if he remembered the story correctly.
But again, the buck sat up with him, and began following him up the path to the peak.
Harry turned and faced the deer, who sat down upon the path. "You can't come with me, Eikthyrnir," he said, looking into his innocent eyes. "I'm sorry, but I'm probably not the person you want to be hanging around with. Most people tend not to want to stick around very long."
The deer just blinked up at him.
"And I'm sure your family is worried about you, and they want to hang around with you," Harry continued, running a hand through his hair. "I bet all your loved ones want to see you, and your mum would want to see you again. Why don't you go and see them instead?"
Harry left, and the deer stayed where it sat.
Days after Harry first lit the fire, and it still burned as brightly as when it first formed.
Harry was surprised; most accounts spoke of the fire lasting for a night, not for several. Harry wondered perhaps if it was his storm that allowed it to happen; his understanding of the element expanded by it, and allowed him to forge such a long-living fire.
Nonetheless, as Harry woke up, and found himself still warm, all he could feel was gratitude toward his magic.
Through the night, he'd not been able to shake the thought of the stream that the buck had shown him. He'd dreamed of it, and of the deer and his eyes looking up to him, and he couldn't stop thinking about it.
In an attempt to scratch the mental itch that he'd incurred, Harry read through the thoughts that the Northern Magics had toward water.
Water, in almost every aspect, was a force of rejuvenation. It healed. It protected. It was incredibly rarely thought of as a force of damage, and the only offensive spell that he had come across using water was the spell that he'd used to subdue the Horntail's fire.
Harry wondered if, just as one took the essence of a fire and allowed its magic to soothe themselves, one could take in the essence of water and allow that to soothe you. There was no evidence to suggest any method that it could be used, but Harry was almost sure that it could be done.
Most of the magic that the mages of the Northern Magics used regarding water was in the building of barriers, and other protections. Usually, water was used simply to mitigate fire, and its devastation. While travelling by sea, mages would raise the water around them to surround the boat and to protect them from the elements. Mages would surround castles with barriers of water thick enough to stop the arrows from flying in, or for anyone to pass into the castle without considerable effort.
Indeed, water as a fluid was not a oft-used conduit for damage. Ice was.
Before the vikings, under Harald Hardrada, stormed England in The Battle of Stamford Bridge, his first mage developed a spell that mimicked a volley of arrows. Though instead of wood and metal, the projectiles were ice. It was said that, when used, spears of ice rained down from the sky, and turned the sky white.
Unfortunately for Hardrada, the mage responsible died before they even reached England's shores, or Harry may very well have been reading Norwegian on his peak.
Harry decided that he was going to the river and attempt to mimic the passive magic of fire, with water as the element. However, as he stood up, and began to along the path, he caught the scent of something in the air. A scent that made his heart pound, and his chest feel heavy. His body tightened at the scent.
Nonetheless, Harry still walked along the path, convinced that it was a mistake of his olfactory system. But it wasn't.
The further and further along he walked the path, the stronger the scent seemed to get, until he stopped in his tracks.
And there she was.
Anxiety filled Harry at the sight of Tonks; fear and worry and stress tearing at him.
He wanted to run. To just flee from the sight of her and the memory of the pain that she caused him. Even just at the sight of her, his chest hurt and his face burned, his breath coming out weak and shaky.
Tonks' eyes looked up, and Harry was trapped before her. All he could think of was that night, and what she said, and how truly pathetic he felt as she did.
"Dumbledore said I'd be able to find you here," Tonks said, her voice quiet but still carrying over the distance to him. "The old codger's a prick but at least he told me that."
Harry swallowed the deepest breath he could muster.
"What are you doing here, Tonks?" He asked, his voice weak and horrible, even to his own ears.
"I was worried about you, Harry," Tonks said, and Harry almost believed her. Her eyes were so, so soft. "If someone you care about runs off to the woods, you tend to worry."
And the way she said someone you care about ripped Harry to shreds all over again.
"Well, I'm fine." Harry breathed out, his voice straining.
Tonks took a step forward. "Look Harry, I'm sorry," she said, taking another step toward him. "I didn't mean to hurt you. If I could go back in time, I'd make sure it never happened."
"But what did you expect to happen?" Harry said, his voice louder, his eyes wide. "When you did what you did for me, what did you expect to happen?"
Tonks looked down to the ground. "I thought you'd be my friend, Harry," she said, not even looking at him. There the word was again. Friend. "You have to know that I didn't want you to get hurt. You're my best friend, you mean so much to me."
"But how could you have thought that?" Harry asked, his voice thick with emotion. "When you showed me your life and cared so much and you were so, so beautiful, how couldn't I fall in love with you?"
Silence rang through the air.
"I just didn't think you'd feel that way." Tonks said, her eyes not once meeting his.
"But you had to know," Harry insisted, his voice rising and erratic. "I wasn't subtle about it. I wasn't very good at hiding at, either. Everyone else saw it, but why didn't you?"
Tonks pulled in a wracked breath. "I guess I was just hoping you didn't feel that way," she said. "You're just not like anyone else I know. Being with you is so fun, and easy, and you're so wonderful, I just hoped that'd never change, because I really hoped I'd never lose you in my life."
"But you've got to have more than hope, Tonks," Harry said. His eyes stung. "You hurt me more than anyone else ever has, and you did it because you hoped I didn't feel the way I did. How selfish could you be?"
Tonks looked to the sky, tears falling from her eyes. "I know, and I'm sorry," she said, her voice verging on a wail. Harry fought the urge to comfort her. "I know I should've thought about it more, but I didn't because I'm stupid and I didn't think. I'm so stupid sometimes."
"Well, you ought to think about that before the next person comes along and you hurt them." Harry said, his voice scratchy, his jaw clenching.
"Do you really think there's a next person?" Tonks asked. "Harry, you are so special to me. Nobody knows the things you know about me, and about my life. There's never going to be anyone else like you for me. You mean so much, and what I did hurts me just as much as it hurts you."
"Well, you have a strange way of showing how much you care." Harry said, folding his arms across his chest.
Tonks' body began to shake softly as she cried. "What do I have to say to make you believe me?" Tonks pleaded.
"It's not about what you say, Tonks, it's about what you do," Harry said, his anger making him strong. "I know you didn't mean to hurt me, but if you could stop and think for just one second about what you might have done to me, I might be able to believe that you care."
"So what, because of this one thing, all of a sudden I don't care about you?" Tonks asked, her voice rising. "Harry, I did things for you that I've never done for anyone. I've worked overtime to help you, I've taken you to Wandworthy, I've brought you to my home. I've watched Die Hard with you. And all of that's wiped away because of this?"
"No it's not," Harry said, shaking his head. His chest hurt. "It just makes everything hurt more. Because the days we spent together were the happiest in my life, and they're all ruined because you never cared for me the way I cared for you."
Tonks swallowed. "Look Harry, this could never have worked out," she said, a hand going through her hair. "To begin with, it's illegal; I know that doesn't change how you feel, but it is. I would lose my job for it. And those moments aren't ruined because I couldn't love you the way you love me. They can still be happy times, even though you're hurt now."
"It doesn't feel that way."
"I hope that one day it does," Tonks said, meeting his eyes. "And I hope one day soon we can be friends. I don't want to lose my best friend over this."
Harry knew they'd never, ever be friends.
Silence fell, as the pair of them breathed erratically, their emotions climbing beyond their control.
"So, is this it?" Tonks asked. "For the time being."
Harry nodded. "This is it."
Tonks stopped herself. "What about Occulemency, and my mum?" she asked.
"Just tell her that Dumbledore's helping me," Harry said. "It's not a lie. He did give me a book."
"And what about the rest of the Snape stuff?" Tonks asked desperately.
"Just drop it," Harry responded. "We were never going to get him fired, anyway. It was just a fantasy of mine."
Tonks nodded, but an odd light formed in her eye, green swirling within it momentarily, before disappearing.
"So, this is goodbye then?" Tonks asked, sadly. Harry nodded.
"Goodbye."
"Goodbye."
There it is.
I hope you enjoyed that chapter - it was very difficult to write, mostly because I care a lot about the characterisation of Harry, and I wanted this chapter to be accurate to him. I hope I did him justice.
Let me know what you thought.
Until next time!