Howzit! I can't thank you all enough for your stellar feedback and near overwhelming support. Wild Magic currently has 10,000+views, 500+ follows, 300+ favorites and 30 reviews! To me, that is just incredible. Never would have imagined that sort of response for this story. With my humble gratitude, here is the next chapter in my story. Thank you all!
- KSK
Previously:
"Damn bastards nearly gave me a heart attack," the grumpy one-legged man griped, mentally stomping down the small smile that threatened to break the near permanent scowl upon his face. Bastards they may be, but they were just as equally cute. He had just nearly turned away when his magical eye flicked, of its own volition, to the smallest of the knot, the one that glowed just a slightly different green than the rest. A green that sent a shiver down his spine, as it was the very same green he'd see fly across the battlefield in the great wizarding war against Lord Voldemort. Had frog number three decided to stay put, he would have glanced right over it. Now, he would never look away.
Two brilliant, Avada Kedavra green eyes blinked at him, and in place of the black, slit-like pupils of a normal frog sat a pair of stunningly humanoid ones, locked eye for eye with his own.
"Croak."
Chapter 3: Wild Child
"Croak."
"Don't do anything rash, Alastor."
Moody growled. "Like what? Do you even know what I'm looking at?"
Newt bit down a sarcastic retort. Telling the obviously ruffled man that he was looking at a tree frog would benefit no one, despite how funny he might find it. Besides, this species of frog's eyes were normally bright red. Not bright green.
"Do I know? Not for certain, though I can hazard a guess," he said gently, lowering his wand and walking up to the frond and its mysterious, amphibious occupant. The rest of the army croaked in panic as they leaped into the surrounding foliage and disappeared into the night. The frog of interest, however, didn't budge, outside of shuffling to stare at the well-traveled magizoologist.
"Then guess. I'm running out of patience," the fiery auror barked, refusing to even blink as he glared at the small amazon native.
The creature croaked once more, this time directed at the elder Scamander, before returning to its staring contest with the man with a stuffed raven on his head.
Moody pressed his wand forward, the tip glowing a foot away from the frog's wet nose.
Unnervingly green eyes crossed as it eyed the tip, readjusting its pumpkin-orange feet so that it sat up a little taller.
"Reveal yourself ya little bastard, 'fore I make you."
"Alastor, please-"
Newt didn't get a chance to plead before he was cut off.
"No, Newt. This little blighter's got to be the culprit, or at least connected to 'em somehow," he rolled on, ignoring the scientist's words. This was why he was here, and why Amelia had sent her best Auror on the force on this goose chase.
With a jab of his wand, a faint blue light whistled from his dragon-heartstring wand, closing the short distance like a muggle bullet and smacking the frog on the forehead.
Newt recognized the spell immediately. It was an animagus reversal spell, a counter-spell to undo one of transfiguration's most complicated bit of magic. The animagus transformation was an exceptionally difficult bit of self-transfiguration that connected a wizard to their "inner animal," or the mundane animal that's demeanor was most similar to the wizard's own, allowing a witch or wizard to transform into that animal themselves windlessly and without incantation. Not many people were capable, nor skilled enough to become one, though it was common enough for the Ministry to require you to register your form. Not surprising, as the Ministry required the registration of nearly everything. Newt himself was a basset hound, a rather harmless and dopey muggle pet canine. His dear friend Albus, known around the world as one of the greatest wizards in history, was a toggenburg goat.
Moody's strategy was smart, and certainly a reasonable 'step one' in an auror's repertoire. It was a safe bit of mental magic, having zero effect on any non-animagus. It was relatively straight forward as well, having no incantation or wand movement. It could be used to either break the animagus transformation, or stop it from occurring for a period of time relative to the castor's strength of spell. Normally, this is nonviolent technique is one that Newt would have been happy with, had their target been an animagus in the first place.
Moody's spell pierced the frog straight in the head, causing it to blink. Green eyes opened once more, and in a manner that was far too human to be purely frog, glared at the trigger happy auror.
"Croak," it went again, before shuffling on its feet and leaping away.
Newt nearly tripped as he leapt after the escaping critter. "Dammit Mad-eye! Don't let it get away! We won't learn anything if it gets away!"
"Stupefy!" yelled Moody as an orange jet of light plowed forwards, stunning the frog mid-air, and the trees blew, a gentle, ghostlike breeze that rustled to the west.
The Lord Scamander forced himself to ignore the strange gust as he lunged forward with arms outstretched, grabbing the comatose amphibian as it careened downwards into the forest floor. With practiced ease, he took to his knees and dropped his bag, snapping out his wand and flicking it out. A small rustling sounded from within the canvas satchel, and a glass jar was spat out the top, landing in the scientist's hands.
The jar's lid popped off, allowing him to lower their unconscious captive down gently into its opening. With a flick of his wood-and-mother-of-pearl wand, the jar was sealed.
After ensuring that the creature could still breath by poking a hole in the lid with a pocketknife, a quite angry Newton Scamander whirled around in a blur of tweed trench coats and wet gray hair.
"Must you ignore me at every chance you get!" he shouted, foregoing their silence in favor of expressing his displeasure at the man's paranoid and impulsive actions. He respected the grizzled auror. He did, truly, but he would not let the man run rampant over his operation.
"You are here to assist me, Alastor Moody, not the other way around! Madam Bones, your Director and superior, requested that I, because of my increasing age, have a bodyguard, should we come into contact with anything I alone am not equipped to deal with. You are not here to cast spells willy-nilly at constructs that fall under my expertise!"
Moody growled right back.
"I was sent to protect you from dangers outside of your control, Newton," he began with injured pride and suppressed anger. He continued, jabbing a finger at the now occupied jar in the man's hand, "From threats, those we can and cannot see."
Newt couldn't help but scoff at his guard's words. "Threats? Moody, this 'threat' is a tree frog! Surely your CoMC grade wasn't that abysmal? That your training is so specialized you have failed to recognize the difference between this and an Acromantula? Why, it's entirely harmless to anything larger than a fly! And now look! We've lost our only clue as to finding out why we're here in the first place!"
Newt finished his outburst with another swaying of his wand, more snappy and vicious than before, tracing the same series of patterns as he had earlier, casting their little watershed aglow with magical lights.
Like before, bursts of colors splashed into view, highlighting the faintest traces of magic left behind. Trees were a mix of forest greens and muddy browns, splotched with mossy greens. The soil was still reminiscent of the night sky, and the stream was still alight with a turquoise glow. Everything, it seemed, was still the same. Everything, with the exception of their sufficiently comatose captive.
The frog that had once glowed a green so eerily similar to that of the Killing Curse was now a simple emerald, mixed with the fading wisps of orange from the auror's stunner. Once brilliant green eyes were now their natural scarlet red. Its belly rose as it inhaled, the only sign that it was still alive. Had Newt shaken the jar, he would have seen the vibrant hylid flop around without so much as a twitch. He didn't, though. He was a compassionate man.
"It's gone."
Moody harrumphed, hobbling over best his sodden peg-leg would allow.
"What'd you mean it's gone?" he asked, yanking the jar away and whirling his magical eye across the limp Amazonian amphibian. And then he saw it, or rather, he saw the lack of it. He saw a frog, no different from those that had leapt from frond to forest not three minutes ago.
"Blast," was the auror's reply, quickly steamrolling past the scientist's earlier rant. He realized that had been hasty, likely costing them their objective. His actions would not sit well with him and were due for a good analysis.
Damn paranoid bastard I've become, he chidden himself, though he knew not to dwell on failures during an active mission. It would lead to distractions, and in his experience, distractions kill. Despite their differences, there was no way he'd let Newt come to harm under his protection. The man was too genuine, too good, to suffer for the rash decisions of a war-ravaged auror.
"D'you know this magic, Newt?"
The question was polite and soft, a tone and manner that Newt was unaccustomed to hearing from his dour companion. He may not be the best with people, but he recognized an apology when he heard it. It will not do to divide us now. There is still time, and with time, there is hope.
Gently retrieving the makeshift vivarium and grasping his wand with his teeth, the Lord Scamander withdrew a leather-bound journal from his belt-fastened mokeskin pouch.
"I believe so," he said equally softly, thumbing through old parchment scribbled with notes of an elegant hand. "It's an old divination ritual, or at least a variation on one. Like many of its kind, it has long been forgotten by the majority of the magical world. Why use the unpredictability of animals to do your spying when a well-placed rune, ward, or spell can do it completely to your demand?"
He continued to thumb through pages, every ten or so sticking his thumb in the moist ground to wet the fingertips as he continued to peruse.
"Ah! Here. The Beast Sense Ritual. Essentially, it allows the user to see through the eyes of a creature, to see what they see, to hear what they hear. Your senses blur with their own, though you have no control over what that creature does."
He paused now, grey eyes shuffling as if debating something within his head, before smirking playfully and continuing: "It used to be used on a family pet to spy on spouses and the like, but as you know, house dogs have a tendency to lick parts of themselves that you very much do not want to taste, but due to the ritual…"
At this, Alastor barked a sharp laugh. "You taste what they taste. Bah! That's good, Fido. That's good."
Newt shared in the joyful laugh, a happy respite in the midst of their dreary search for a killer. He had known that he and Alastor would have their differences, as the two came from entirely different walks of life. Moody was a battle-hardened warrior whose daily life had him fighting dark wizards and keeping evil at bay. Newt, despite being no slouch with a wand, spent his days observing the patterns and behaviors of magical creatures. For over 80 years he's done it, and he would do so until he died. He'd had his experience fighting against Grindelwald with Albus, and had no desire to do so again. He had sat out much of the recent war with Voldemort, only offering his political support for Dumbledore and his team, as well as temporary bases in his various preserves and wilderness zones.
The two wizards were fundamentally different, so it was a pleasant relief for both of them to discover that they could get over their disputes without much effort.
What's done is done. We must continue our search until we find another lead.
It was a scant hope that Newt clung to, the hope that this was just a minor setback, and their next lead was just around the corner, but he clung to it all the same. As it turns out, he was right.
GONG
The dull sound echoed in the woods ominously, a red light pulsing like ripples across an invisible dome above them. The wave pattern pointed to an origin at their west. Both men drew their wands faster than they could blink.
"The Sensory Ward's been tripped!" Moody called out, cycling through a variety of spell behind his chipped and yellowing teeth. Cutter at the legs for an acromantula, stunner for a wild cat, bludgeoner for the owlbear.
Newt, having quickly tucked the glass jar into his pocket alongside his journal, tossed the last of is handful of Prism stones at the sensor's area of origin. The glowing stones sailed through the air in arcs of rainbow, half of them splattered unceremoniously into the wet decomposing foliage. The other half smacked into a large figure hulking in the shadows, highlighting a large sharp beak, wide, yellow eyes, and beautiful plumage.
The red light of a bludgeoning curse ripped form the Auror's wand in an instant, with the Scamander Lord's Locomotor Mortis following soon after. The bludgeoner smashed clean into the shoulder of the now rushing beast, shoving it a scant three inches left before it continued its silent charge, large taloned paws gouging furrows in soil. The leg-locker curse was equally ineffective, failing to even halt the approaching creature's approach, let alone bind its legs together as intended.
Moody, the trained combatant that he was, quickly leapt into leftwards roll, dropping his bag and fashionable hat as he rolled upwards, shouting "Depulso!" into the night.
Depulso, or the banishing charm, was different from a bludgeoner in a few minute ways. A bludgeoner was a curse that required no verbal component, nor did it require a wand movement outside of pointing it at the target. The user simply hurls a force of pressure at the target, impacting them as if there were an invisible wall or cannonball. A Depulso, in contrast, wrapped the target in magic and banishes it away from the angle of impact. If you had two clay pots, a bludgeoner would shatter the pot on impact, while the Banishment charm would send it off flying, letting the resulting impact do the damage.
Owlbears, like many magical creatures Newt had studied, were resistant to many magics. They had to be, as a product of their competing species were utilizing magics to avoid or attack themselves. The owlbear, was no different. Newt recognized the instincts of his companion and applauded them. His first instinct is to knock it away, and his second was to banish it. Moody, having recognized the dangers of letting this creature up close, was trying to keep space between them, as a wand was next to useless in a close quarters fight. The rune-enhanced claws of a massive predatory bear? Much more useful up close and personal.
It was a good plan, but like before, the magic did little to impede the now very immediate threat. The charms hold was that of lotioned fingers on melted butter. Having slipped through the hold of the banisher, the beast continued its charge. The hulking mass was astonishingly quick. Within a second Moody's roll had him standing within a short distance of its right flank, a good step and swipe away from an early grave. Newt didn't have the capacity to heal such a wound, and there was no way to apparate or portkey out of this deep of woods. The magical interference of the ancient trees would likely send them splinched and careening towards a quick death, if not splatter them against their broad trunks first.
Think, Newt!
Running through a list of options and spells, the magizoologist came up with a plan of attack. Their body's may be resilient, but an owlbear was not invincible. He sourced a weak point easily exploitable in the dark depths of the Amazon. The eyes.
Quickly deciding against a conjunctivitis curse, as in its blinded rage it would likely take a chunk out of Moody, Newt pointed the tip of his mother-of-pearl accented wand at the charging beast, squinted his eyes, and yelled "Lumos Sphaera Maxima!"
Light brighter than the sun on a full summer's day erupted from the tip in a radiant glare, illuminating their stream-side nook and likely the next 10 meters in near blinding radiance.
Moody, having registered the words, rolled his magical eye into the back of his yead and slammed the other shut, carefully creating distance between himself and the beast. As he backed away, wand still trained before him, large, yellow eyes the size of hands were revealed, with pupils dilated thrice the size of golf balls. The sudden light cause these pupils to constrict so very vast, and the bear screached.
It was a haunting mix of a bears guttural growl and the eerie hoot of an owl. The call echoed in the woods as the winds once more blew, this time harder, though the two wizards once more ignored the change in its direction.
It cried again, staggering, as both Moody and Newt conjured ropes and spelled them to tie the hulking beast down. The conjured braids whipped around trunk, stone, and fallen branch, having looped around the blinded beaked mammal's neck and paws.
"Newt! We have to take it out now. I don't know much of these damned monstrosities, but I know bears and owls are excellent trackers. If we let it go, or leave it tied up, we're goners. We aren't making it out of the deep woods before it frees itself."
Newt felt sweat race down the base of his neck, though he refused to bow in just yet. The creature tried to stand, and the ropes stretched and creaked with the pressure.
"We can stun it! It just needs to be stunned long enough for us to disguise our scents and be on our way! I do not wish to put down such a magnificent beast. I will not be part of this creature's demise, not if there are other possibilities!"
Moody conjured more ropes as they snapped, the pure strength of the owlbear greater than what their ropes could conjure. He'd make thicker ones, but the knots wouldn't be as tight. "Newt! We don't have a lot of options here! I know you don't want to put it down but I – GAH!"
He was cut of fast the creature, with a mighty roar, leapt to its hind feet and snapped the ropes, stepping the few steps towards moody that it was allowed and slamming a paw down, aimed right at the junction between his neck and shoulders.
Moody was too close to cast and Newt to slow on the draw as the talons came down, calling for blood. Newt watched the final moments of his friend's life in slow motion. The rain fell, slow enough that he could count the droplets that burst across his friend's creased forehead. He could see the wet mud that glistened beneath razor claws in the bright spell light. He could see as Moody's magical eye, the one that fluttered about constantly, still as it traced the path of the head-sized paw, rough pads a mere foot away from impact. How Moody's one good eye closed in acceptance as the stress melted off his face.
He watched these fractions of a second for what felt like an hour. The sinking hole in his stomach grew ever deeper, and the guild settled in his heart like a lead coffin. His friend was dead. Mere inches separated talon from jugular, death from life. The moment had come. The hammer had fallen.
And then it hadn't.
-Break-
I know you. I've seen you here before.
A boy sat atop his perch in the trees, clutching to his chest the branch of a young sapling. He sat in the crook between three boughs, and he sat with legs crossed, both hands gently cradling the stick in a calm reverence. These hands were wrapped in a stained cloth in a style similar to that of a fighter before a match. He was near bare from the waist up, with only a small leather satchel tossed over his shoulder. The satchel was well worn and patchy, a sentiment that was carried over to the boy's ripped, patchy, and loose set of what may have once been shorts. It was night, and much of the boy's body was obscured. Only the faint traces of light of the moon outlined his figure, but what could be clearly seen was a pair of two, hauntingly green eyes that glowed like stars, wide open, with nothing in them.
Currently, he was seeing through the eyes of Grimy, a tree frog he had run into on a few occasions. It was strange, existing as if he were a frog, embedded within its mind and its magic, hearing what it hears, seeing what it sees. He'd been first made aware of the duo of humans long ago, when they had first entered the deep-woods. The trees had told him so, and the wind had guided him. As had the birds. And a monkey. Hel liked the monkey.
Focus. Observe.
He stilled his mind, focusing on what Grimy could sense.
"Don't do anything rash, Alastor"
Alastor, what a funny name.
He'd recognized the elderly man. He was a newt, or he was named Newt. It was also a funny name, but he'd known the man before he knew the name, so it was less strange. He also liked newts. It was therefore a strange name, but a fitting name. The boy had watched closely as the man that was a newt, or the man that was Newt, was here before, though at the time he wasn't in the deep woods. He was looking at a family of fireslugs, something the boy also found interesting. This man Newt was good to the fiery gastropods. He didn't hurt them, and he had treated their home with respect and care. It was much more than the boy had seen many others do.
There were those men in Black cloaks and silver masks. They were not good men. They hurt many things, many creatures that were the boy's friends, and so the boy asked The Forest for help. They had sent Bruno, an owlbear from the north that had been poached and trafficked through the Amazon, only to have been overcome by tree whose' roots thirsted for blood. Bruno made quick work of them, but he boy was not at all happy with death. It reminded him of his parents he'd never known, and he would wonder if these bad men had people that loved them. He knew that they were bad, but they were still people. He knew that if his uncle and cousin had died, he would not feel sad for their death, but for the pain their friends were in. His uncle's friends were innocent, and maybe, so were the bad-men's families. Each time they would die, the boy would ask the forest to help him, and help him they did. The wind would ruffle his long shaggy hair and he would feel the pulling in his gut he had experienced for the first time long ago. He would pop away with their bodies, leave them somewhere where he knew a patrol of humans would find them, and the forest would call him home.
These men, however, were not those bad men, and even though the one with the funny eye had pointed a wand at Grimy, he'd known that he wasn't a bad man. Not like the others, at least. He certainly didn't think that the two had deserved to be killed by Bruno, who was now walking ever closer to the duo, immensely dissatisfied with the Tapir that had fizzled out of existence when he had finally sunk his beak into its flesh.
Please be quiet, Alastor and Newt. Do not draw Bruno's attention.
His silent plea was for naught. The man, Alastor, had pointed his want at him again, and he heard yelling. Withdrawing his sight from Grimy's, the boy felt his magic return to him. The gentle rustling of the upper canopy reentered his own ears, and he felt where a bird had dropped a nut on his thigh. He flicked it away. An outsider would watch as the sold green light would fade, revealing a standard white sclera and similar green iris. A single pupil returned to each eye as the connection waned, and soon enough all the boy was back.
I will save Newt from Bruno. He is a nice man, not deserving of Bruno's anger. I will observe the one known as Alastor, though he would appear to be uncomfortable here. As was I, when I'd first arrived.
He stood to his full height, a rather unimpressive height for a boy his age, but he had no one to compare it too. His smaller stature allowed him to slink around easier, so he wasn't bothered. He stretched, arching his frail, thin frame with a groan of comfort. Sitting still that long always made him stiff.
Returning to his mission at hand, the boy swirled his wooden stick daintily as he looked to the sky, eye closing.
"Show me Alastor and Newt, so that I may save them from harm."
The leaves of his tree rustled, a scant few leaving their place atop the forest and spilling in an elegant cascade, taken with the wind,
Go. Follow.
He felt the words rattle in his bones, as they had many times before. Glowing emerald eyes opened as the boy nodded his head in thanks. He propped the stick against the smooth bark of his kapok tree. Undoing the sole remaining clasp at the bottom of his leather satchel, the boy reached in and removed a small hoop of vine, still supple and green.
I love this part.
The boy latched the clasp once more, strapped his stick across his back beneath the strap of his bag, and scrambled up to the tallest tree branch. His careful, quite steps danced from foothold to foothold as he climbed higher. He passed a few sleeping birds, nested amongst the seven-sectioned leaves. A few rustled and eyed him wearily, but his gentle shushing and reassurances had them settled back down.
Continuing to follow the light breeze, he stepped up to the edge of the large limb, bare toes wrapping around the sound surface. He took one look down and grinned madly, moonlight glinting off clean white teeth. He unraveled the vine just enough to still ache a good grip on it, and he stepped off the ledge.
"Wahhhhh hooooo!"
Wind whipped through raven locks, flapping his tattered clothing and jostling his bag as the speed of his decent increased. He plunged through a small hole in the green sea of trees and whipped his hand upwards, the single loop of vine elongating into a great whip that grasped another sturdy limb, constricting much like a boa would.
His downward momentum stressed the vine, though it refused to snap, pulling him forward like a pendulum and flinging himself back into the air. As the swing reached its crest, he let go, thrusting an empty hand into the rushing air. Another vine snaked its way upwards, against gravity, to meet the boy's outstretched hands. Fingers grasped, and he plummeted once more, leaping vine to vine, branch to branch into the woods. Leaves rustled before him, marking his path.
-Break-
Large talons glinted in the remnants of magical light, Newt's Lumos Sphaera Maxima still blinding in the deep wet darkness of the Amazon Rainforest. A sharp beak chittered somewhere between a cub's snarl and an owls squawk, anger filling large yellow eyes as his prey remained unbloodied.
Moody braced for the blow to fall, for the owlbear's meaty paw to lop off his head and send it rolling like a dropped quaffle, but when a second passed and his round head remined firmly stuck to his shoulders, he opened his eyes again, staring in confusion at what was to be the instrument of his doom.
The large claw, as broad as his face, was wrapped at the wrist by wriggling green vine that snaked its way further up the beast's front right limb. A flick of the eyes right revealed another wrapped tightly around shoulder and throat, threatening to pull it over its hind legs.
"RUN!"
A voice cried in the darkness, unfamiliar to the wizards. It was a voice, touched deeply by youth, though Moody hardly noticed as he obeyed the order, hobbling out of reach as fast as his sopping wet wooden leg would carry him.
Damn near shat me pants.
Safely out of reach of the struggling behemoth and reacquainted with his friend, the Newt and Moody had time trace the path of the curious vines. They were taught and shook violently, but their straight rigididty was easy to place in the chaos of the forest. They reached upwards at a backwards slant, coming together at a point where they wrapped around a girthy trunk and its surrounding branches. Atop one of these branches, was a figure.
"I said RUN!" the figure yelled at the two, before grabbing some sort of stick from its back and leaping atop the slanting vines, using them much like a zipline.
The two British wizards watched in awe and fear as a child sped towards the known killer, wearing nothing but a torn pair of old grey trousers and a leather satchel that dangled in the wind. The boy had black hair, but the angle they had prevented them from seeing his front. His back, thin and kissed with sun, was covered in what looked like old scars, though they couldn't be sure as he was moving far too fast.
The boy ignored the two as they refused to budge, focusing on the task at hand. He couldn't afford distractions when dealing with a furious Bruno.
Halfway down his descent he felt a jostling, and quickly released a hand from its hold on the stick. He dropped, not a second later, the vines holding the bear snapped, releasing their prisoner.
Momentum carried the boy forwards still, but he dropped smoothly into a roll, hopping quickly to his feet, and swinging the stick like a bat. The stick swung through empty air, as he was nowhere near the bear, but midway through its arc a deep, base-like thumm pounded the air, as a near invisible ball of force shot outwards, tossing leaves and rustling undergrowth as it ripped forwards. The force pounded on the shoulder of the now quadrupedal predator, causing it to buckle slightly, else risk toppling over.
As it stumbled, the boy dug a hand deep into his satchel, promptly pulling small bundle of grasses and other vegetation wrapped in a banana leaf. He let the parcel fly, and as it smacked into the face of the hybrid, it burst into a purple have that smelled slightly of lavender. The creature went to cry again, but as it inhaled a lung full of the purple powder, it huffed, tripping like a drunk.
The two wizards snapped from their daze and quickly followed with a pair of bright orange stunners jetted into the beast, promptly followed by another cry of "Stupefy!"
Wide yellow orbs blinked as the first pair of spells hit their target, and they blinked slower at the second.
The boy, having zero clue as to what the wizards had done, turned to face them instead.
"No! Do not hurt him! Leave Bruno to me!" he shouted, stamping the butt of his staff into the dirt, ignoring the very slight tremble as he did so. He didn't dally to long, quickly raising the stick above his head, clasped in both hands tightly.
"Mighty Forest, hear my plea and give me strength!"
His youthful voice sounded older than he appeared as he chanted, the upper tip of his stick now glowing a bright mossy green.
Winds whistled and leaves quaked as the green glow grew brighter, seeming to condense around the boy in a twister of wind, rain, and decaying plant matter. As the glow transitioned from bright to blinding, he swung it forward, aiming the tip right at the recovering Bruno.
"SLEEP"
The words came boomed from the boy, but they echoed in the woods, as if they themselves had made the order.
The light of the staff burst, like a stone in water, and the roaring of wind ceased in an instant. All was silent in the forest, save the soft pitter-patter of rain on palms. Then there was a thud, as the owl bear fell to the floor, not moving save the faint rise in its large chest. A gentle hoo accompanied each exhale, but it remained silent otherwise.
The boy simply shook his head, taking an unsteady, tired step forward towards the sleeping beast. And another. And another. Soon, he was an arm's length away from the feather-and-fur covered creature. He reached out an unsteady hand, cares into it's shoulder plumage gently before plopping soflty onto his behind, leaning against its snoring bell.
The two wizards stood in shock as a boy no older than ten had done what they had failed to do in less than a minute. They stood in shock at his display of magic. They stood in shock at the boy's figure.
Newt was amazed.
A staff user!
They were practically unheard of in the age of wands, having long been abandoned in favor of the smaller, more precise magical foci. He knew of only one wizard that still used a staff, and he'd have likely been born at a time where staves were only uncommon.
I can't wait to tell Nicholas! He thought, eyes drifting from the boy to the sleeping owlbear beneath him. What was once terrifying was now quite cute, but he couldn't fathom why this boy would dare risk using it as a pillow.
Moody was a different story. He was confused. The vision of a boy before him made no sense. He was small, looking no older than nine or ten, though he had no proper frame of reference. He was the Head auror of Magical Britain. He didn't deal with children very often.
The panting, sweaty child was propped up against the beast, content to watch them with his frighteningly green glowing eyes, which now that he could sit and wait, Alastor could take in his appearance properly.
The boy's bare feet were dirty, calloused, and wrapped around the arches with cloth or gauze dressings, similar to many martial fighters. Bare, lithe calves went up to ripped pants of some kind. They were filled with holes and patched poorly with large stitches. Through the few remaining beltloops was a length of vine, tied in a large knot to his left side, where a knife sheath rested. In the sheath was a small five-inch blade. The boy was shirtless entirely, his thin-undernourished torso caked in rainwater, dirt, and shredded leaves. There was an old leather satchel at his side, also in poor condition and also patched with stitchwork. His arms were thin but muscular, like the rest of his frame. Youthful hands were wrapped similarly to his feet, the wrapping splitting between his fingers and protecting his knuckles.
A fighter then… Good. The world isn't safe, especially for little boys lost in the woods.
In his right hand, the staff was lazily balanced on long fingers, the tip no longer glowing. The staff resembled a simple branch, tapering slightly from top to bottom. It was fairly straight and balanced, but certainly had a few natural curves and knots within the wood itself. The top of the staff, where it had once glowed, sat a small clear stone cradled by a spiralized, wooden cage.
Moody's magical Eye traced the boy's body, catching magical auras as it went. The boy seemed mostly untouched, though once in a while he would catch a faint swirl of light that would dance across the boy's skin.
Something to look into…
The eye continued its way upwards, stopping at the soft spot of his neck, where collarbone met collarbone. Stretching up from the jugular notch was a pair of runes, one a mirror image of the other. Moody didn't recognize them at first, as it wasn't one that he encountered daily. He was more familiar with runes that meant 'blast,' 'poison,' or 'death.' His nonmagical eye noted that the rune resembled a tattoo, standing a stark black against his slightly tanned skin. The right most one was a series of three line strokes. One upwards, and from the top of this stroke was one at a downwards 45 degree angle, much like half an arrow. Beneath the down-and-right line was another of the same degree and direction. This rune was mirrored across the boy's neck, cradling the voice box and nestled between the muscles that strained when turning his head.
Moving onwards, the auror studied his jaw. It was sharp and defined, through it was hard to tell if this was genetics or due to starvation. The boy's gaunt, shallow cheeks were a telltale sign of long periods of hunger. He had a noblewoman' cheekbones; sharp and defined. Above them were more marks he also did not know. The boy's lower eyelids were decorated with a dot of ink, surrounded by a thin skin break and outlined in a delicate circle of black. Below this were two more dots of progressively smaller sizes, stacked atop one another. These marks, like those on the boy's throat, glowed slightly as his magical eye passed over them.
Leaving the marks behind, Moody locked eyes with the boy and took in his appearance completely, stomping down the shiver that threatened to run down his spine. Eyes greener than spring leaves. A noble, chiseled face. Black, unruly hair that ran in gentle waves across the thin shoulders of a boy no older than ten. And there, just under a tuft or raven locks, was a faint, pink, zig-zag scar of a boy lost half a decade ago.
"Potter…"
The words fell through his lips without thought. He saw, behind the visage of an amazon wildchild, the face of James Potter, a talented auror during the war against the Dark Lord, and a friend of the grizzled Captain, many years ago. Within the face of his late friend were eyes one cold step away from those of James' wife Lily, a formidable witch in her own right.
This boy killed the Dark Lord.
"Potter? What do you mean, Alastor?"
Newt's question was quiet, almost lost in the rain as he two studied the boy, taking note of his uncaring attitude and strange marks. He knew the name, as well as the noble history of the most recent Potter family. Two heroes, sacrificing their lives to stand against the Dark Lord, and their child, barely a year old, who did the impossible and cast him way forever.
He never knew them personally, but Albus always praised the late Lily and James Potter for their kind souls. The Hogwarts Headmaster told him of their child, the Boy-Who-Lived, vanquisher of the Dark Lord Voldemort. He told him how he had hidden the boy away to keep him safe, away from the remaining Death Eaters, away from those who would do him harm. It was Albus who had shown up at his door one night, tears streaming down his face, in a darker mood than Newt had ever seen him before. Not even the night they'd taken down Grindelwald, had Dumbledore looked so despondent. No, on that day, five years ago, Albus had come to tell him that he'd failed. The Potter boy was lost. Gone, without a trace, and yet, here Newt stood, not ten feet away from the boy with a lightning scar.
"Harry. Oh my, You're Harry Potter."
The boy tensed, hands gripping the staff tighter than before. Eerie green eyes narrowed, flicking between the two with unveiled suspicion.
"How do you know that?"
It was Alastor who stepped forward then, trying to appear as non-threatening as possible. He too had been made to believe the boy lost, dead or otherwise. He had been preparing, same as Albus had been, for the year the world expected Harry Potter to receive his letter, and the disaster that would follow when the boy failed to arrive at Hogwart's great gates.
"I knew yer parents, lad. James was a good man, and your mother a fine lass. Fiery, she was, but fine all the same."
Suspicion faded, replaced with a child's curiosity. It was hard to imagine the figure before them as a child, but at the mention of his parents, stone-hard eyes shined like stars. Grime, stress, and distrust washed away to reveal the face of boy alone.
"You did?"
"Aye. I'm an auror, a Law-Keeper. Long ago, before you were born, I taught your father how to fight. He was an auror like me, protecting the innocent from evil wizards and terrifying creatures," Moody told, casually eying the dozing carnivore that as Harry's pillow.
"You knew my parents?"
The young wizard asked again, dazedly, as he tracked the movement, freeing a hand to ruffle the fur-feather coat of his friend.
"I'm sorry about Bruno," he interjected, unable to process the fact thatthese strangers knew his parents. He felt the beat of the owlbear's heart thump with strength. He continued, "he's had a bad history with people like you. You, with fancy sticks and silver masks are always trying to hurt him. After you hurt Grimy, the forest said you were bad too. Bruno doesn't like bad people."
He looked at the two again, a look of confusion on his face.
"I wasn't sure if that was true. You," he stated, pointing a nimble finger at the silent Scamander Lord, "were always good. You come here all the time, but you never hurt anything. You've always been nice. You even tried to stop him from hurting Grimy. Grimy is my friend."
It was Newt who responded, tucking away the bits about a talking forest and silver masks for later. Now was not the time for questioning.
"I try to avoid bringing harm to any place I wander to, Harry. May I call you Harry?"
Clearing a small spot on the floor, the elder scientist sat himself on the floor, groaning as he did so. At the boy's hallow nod, he continued.
"I've dedicated my entire life traveling the world, studying the many beautiful creatures that inhabit it. I have done this out of a love I have for creatures of all shapes and sizes, creatures like Bruno, creatures like those I'm sure surround us at this very moment. I am surprised that you've seen me, as I have never seen you, but it warms my old heart to see that you say these nice things."
Newt shifted in his seat, story my grey meeting glowing green.
"I would like to apologize for our treatment of your friends. Bruno is a scary creature, but one I see now can be quite tame. I apologize as well for our harming of Grimy, though I'm afraid I'm not quite sure who you mean."
The boy pointed a finger at the man, before flicking his head at Moody.
"Alastor hurt him with his magic stick. He's in your pocket."
In my pocket? The frog!
As Newt quickly patted pockets in search of the glass jar, Moody too took a seat on the muddy floor.
"How do you know my name, lad?"
Green eyes met Moody's own gaze, impressing the man. Not many would care to stare upon his scarred face and magical eye. The boy was brave. Or naïve.
"Grimy heard Newt call you that, so I heard you call him that. Before you hurt Grimy."
I was right! Grr… not the time..
"It may have looked like I hurt your friend, lad, but It was just a stunner. He's just asleep, same as Bruno is. I can wake him up, soon as Newt finds him."
Harry's eyes narrowed as he pondered the man's words, wondering if he was being duped or not.
"Ah-ha! Found him! Now, Alastor, if you would please—oh my!"
Whatever Newt was going to say was lost as he sat, mouth agape, watching as the jar zipped from his hand into the boy's two outstretched palms, his staff sitting unimpressively between the crook of his knees and torso.
Wandless magic! The two wondered with awe. Their list of questions continued to grow.
The boy ignored the two men's stares as he popped the lid from the jar, dumping the still snoozing tree frog into his hands. He narrowed his eyes at it, catching its chest expand and collapse, nodding to himself in satisfaction Thrusting his hands forward, Grimy in palms, the boy looked imploringly at the Auror.
"Fix him."
Moody held back a roll of his eyes.
"Aye, laddie," he grumbled, drawing his wand and pointing it at the bely of the frog. With a small upwards flick and a whispered "Rennervate," the trio watched as bright red eyes snapped open, the small creature turning in the boy's hand into a sitting position.
"Grimy! You're alive!"
"Croak!" it responded, long young snapping out of his small mouth and cleaning the sleep from its eyes. It turned slightly, leaping atop the boy's head and settling into the wild nest of raven hair.
"Thank you."
"Croak."
"Grimy says thank you too."
Newt's eyebrows rose, crinkling his already creased forehead.
"You can understand him? Speak with him?"
The boy, and subsequently the frog, turned towards the man with a thoughtfully confused expression on his youthful face. Grimy's expression was blank.
"Kind of. I can talk to him, and Grimy sends me pictures. Kind of like echoes. He doesn't actually talk back. Most creatures can't talk. Can you speak to them, Mr. Newt?"
A small sigh passed through the man's lips as he dreamed the possibilities of such a gift, though he knew not to wish to deeply. His life was good. He was content.
"Unfortunately, Harry, I haven't the gifts you do. I wish I had, as it would make running my sanctuaries so much easier, but I don't. I manage just fine, however."
This caused the boy to perk up.
"You run a sanctuary? Like the ones on the magazines and tellies?"
A chuckle.
"Yes, young Potter. Likely grander than any you've seen before." He wasn't usually one to brag, but he was more proud of his sanctuaries than he was anything else in his life.
The boy frowned though now out of anger or anything. It was a sad frown. The frown of an old man with a lifetime of regrets. It did not rest well on a child's face.
"I've never been before. My aunt took Dudley to the Zoo all the time, but I never got to go. They said I wasn't worth the price of the ticket. Dudley always got to take his friends though. I wish I could have gone."
Moody and Newt locked eyes, Moody's own limited Legilimency probe brushing delicate feathers across Newt's defenses. Scamander let the probe in, knowing that there was a conversation to be had.
'Newt, this is our chance to take the boy back to Britain. We let him go now, we lose him to the woods forever' the auror urged.
'I can't just take the boy, Alastor. Not if he doesn't want to leave," Newt protested. He was not going to just take the child, no matter how important he might have been.
'We can't leave him. He's too important.'
'What would we even do with him? Force him to stay with some foster family until Hogwarts, and then give him a couch to sleep on during holiday? Do you know how many of Voldemort's supporters will pay to "adopt" the boy?'
'I know exactly who would want the damn child, but that's not our problem right now. Albus will sort that out later. We just need to get him out of this damn forest, and we can't apparate or portkey until the forest thins. We have to convince him.'
'Fine, but I'll let you be the one to deal with the fallout.'
Newt broke the eye contact, turning to the boy and plastering the sincerest smile he could muster across his wrinkled face.
"If you'd like, Harry, Alastor and I can take you to visit. There are quite a few people I know would love to see you, and some wonderful creatures I'd love to show you. I'm sure some of these folks have wonderful tales of your parents, if you'd care to hear them."
"They do. Albus, an old friend of ours, taught your folks when they were in school. He and his fellow professors all did. They'd love to see you. You were a wee babe when they saw you last," Moody chimed in, trying his best to be convincing. He wasn't the best with kids, unless they needed punishing. For this reason, Madam Bones refused to stick him with the new recruits.
The young Potter's thin face scrunched up as he pondered the request.
"I don't know. I haven't left here since I was little, when I left the place where they talked like you. After I left the Dursley's. The forest said I wasn't ready yet."
"The forest said that?" Newt inquired, hoping to gain an understanding of the strange life the boy has lived thus far.
"Mhmm" was the reply. Harry took to his feet, pacing around the still snoozing Bruno. His feet fell like leaves, leaving traces of tracks in their silent wake. He spun the staff haphazardly, like one would a quarterstaff or cheerleader's baton, twirling it between fingers and around wrists.
Newt pressed again. "How does the forest speak to you? Can you speak back?"
At this the boy paused long enough to nod, formulating an answer.
"It talks. Not like you or Grimy though. It talks in here," he explained, tapping his head with the upper end of the staff. The stone, now shone to be a clear crystal of some sort, refused to rattle in its wooden cage. "And in here," he continued, this time thumping his chest with gusto.
He continued his silent pacing, occasionally brushing a hand across a vine or frond and petting it like a cat or dog.
"I can talk to it, too. I can talk to anything. Sometimes I just talk, hoping for it to respond, but unless I'm asking questions, or the Forest wishes to speak to me, It doesn't say much."
"It did teach me how to do this though!" the boy exclaimed, leaping over the massive avian-mammal hybrid on the floor, a height of over three feet and distance of at least five. He did so with ease, landing softly in the sodden soil and scurrying to a small shrub behind the two wizards.
The duo watched as the boy placed a hand above a small bud, tensing his fingers and twisting his staff. The small crystal glowed, a mossy green, and the small bud blossomed into a beautifully ornate flower.
"Bromeliads," Scamander whispered. He tried growing some for Porpentina, once upon a time, though his affinity with animals did not transfer into a green thumb. He stuffed down the sour memories of his ex-wife, in favor of watching the flowers bloom. Gray eyes were wide with curiosity.
Such strange magic.
Moody eyed the now beautiful orange blossom with his magical eye, watching the faint traces of magic danced from the boy's fingers into the plant. He found it interesting, though he cared little for the act itself. The plant was inconsequential, in his mind. It was the ability that intrigued him.
When Moody would watch a normal witch or wizard cast magic, he would see a vague cloud of magical energy flow lazily towards the castor's wand, where it would concentrate into a usable spell. This was because magical humans were terribly inefficient at harnessing their own magic, but possessed the mind and ability to harness what they could and transform that into spells. All sorts of magical creatures and magical races were far better at focusing their magic than wizards were, though many of those beings couldn't create spells. There were precious few that throttled the line between the two. Those few, like veela and half-humans, would instead have arcing pathways of magic that spread throughout their bodies, giving them their natural magical abilities, not unlike those of a magical creature. It's likely why the Ministry classified these beings as "creatures," despite being quite human and quite capable of reproducing with them. Moody chalked that up to bigotry.
When one of these beings would cast magic, he would see the magic pass through these passageways, less like a cloud and more like a stream, where it would twist and turn but ultimately gather in one place. Once this magic met the wand, it would concentrate further, into whatever spell the user desired. It was because of these pathways that these ministry-labeled "creatures" were best adept at casting without a focus. Only a few traditionally-defined wizards and witches could cast magic without their wands, Including the infamous Grindelwald, and his old friend Albus Dumbledore.
When he watched Harry Potter cast magic, he watched as arcs of energy flew into his system, gathering in his chest, supplemented by a surge of energy traveling from his staff and into the glowing pool of the boys torso, before crackling like lighting both across and through his arms into his fingers. He cast magic like no one he'd seen before. It was like the boy was some hybrid of wizard, creature, and something else entirely.
I'm not leaving these woods without that boy.
"Fancy bit of magic there, lad. I've never seen anything like it."
The complement that fell from the auror's lips was not a lie. He hadn't. That's why he needed to get the boy back to Britain.
"Really? I can do a bunch more stuff too!" the boy chimed in excitedly, happy to show off his years of learning under the Great Forest. "Watch this. I can-"
"Hold on there, laddie," Alastor interrupted, begrudgingly. He was very interested in this boy's strange magic, but the mission had priority. Despite the youth's control over this so called 'Bruno,' he was not comfortable remaining this close to a sleeping bear. He was close enough to poke it, and you know what they say about poking a sleeping bear...
"You mentioned earlier that the forest said you weren't ready. You also said that you can talk to it. You think ye could you ask if it's okay to come with us? We aren't going to hurt you. In fact, we really want to help you. We just want to bring you home."
-Break-
"—bring you home."
Home.
It was a strange word. One Harry wasn't quite sure he knew the meaning of. Home, as it was explained to him in school, was the house that you lived in. It was where you felt safe.
At the time, Harry was living with his aunt, uncle, and cousin. It was the house he lived in, if only in the cupboard, but he lived there. But he certainly wasn't safe. He still carried a few lingering scars across his back from when his hair had grown back after Petunia had shaved it.
No, that wasn't home.
He thought of the Great Forest, where he had been for so many years. Where he had learned his magic, where he had met so many friends. But that didn't feel right either. There was no house here. He slept in trees and small huts of leaves. He loved it here, but he knew he wasn't safe. The Forest told him so. The Forest would teach him many things, but when he was not learning, he was no more than another creature in Its gaze. He was taught to fend for himself. No, the forest was not home either.
Home.
He though even harder, scrunching up his eyes and face tight, as if to squeeze a memory from his brain. And squeeze he did.
At the very edges of his memory, he felt it. It was the warmth of the sun. The cool crispness of a spring. There was laughter. Voices he didn't recognize but felt like he knew. Red hair, like a fire, but soft. Safe. There was a black blur, not as soft as the red hair but emanated the same sense of safety that the fire had. A bark. More laughter. A smile, like his own, though it was rounder. It was well fed. Happy. Homely
That was home. He felt it in his bones. That was what he wanted. And so he nodded, sitting in the way he had been taught. He crossed his legs, tucking each foot atop an opposing thigh. It was called the lotus position, but he wasn't sure what a lotus was. They did not grow in his forest.
With his mind made up, Harry grasped his staff with two hands, closed his eyes, planting the base in the soil firmly, mimicking the great towering trees around him. He reached out with his magic, as he had been taught, sending it from his chest into his staff, into the dirt, where it mingled and met with the magics of the rooted giants around him. He felt the winds blow through his leaves, the rains splatter on his fronds. There were nesting birds, leaping frogs and a monkey swinging in his branches. He was part of the forest. His eyes, unknowingly to him, snapped open, the shutters on pools of green luminescence. There was no iris, no pupil, no sclera. Just green.
I wish to find my home. To find the place that I have seen, so long ago. I am ready to make the journey. To go out and seek my own lands to grow in. To become one in.
Winds blew gently, leaves rustled. The stream trickled ever more, a tearful whisper in his mind.
What you seek has long since past. You seek a yesterday, child, when you should seek tomorrows. You will hurt, seeking this life already lived.
I know, yet I seek it all the same.
He answered strongly, pushing all his will into his thoughts. His prayer. His plea.
Your life will change, child. You will stumble into a world that will seek to do you harm, a future where your own is clouded, so you will need to be strong.
I am strong. Muscles tensed. Magic pulsed.
There, you will face doubt. Inadequacy. Scorn. Many will spite you for what you are, as you will find no one like you. You will be alone, so you must be brave.
I am brave. Chest filled. Chest emptied. Steady breaths and steady hands.
You will need to learn, as well as teach. The yesterdays you have lived will never be like those tomorrows you dream. You will not find your soft fire. You will find strangers, and you will teach them many things, but you must be ready to learn from them as well. You must be ready.
I am ready. Muscles relaxed. Breathing settled. Magic stilled.
Then you will go. The Forest has never held you captive. It is not the Wild's Way. You were always free, here. It was your own doubts that held you here. They are now gone, hence you are now free.
Will I see you again? May I seek your guidance, be welcomed in the place that I have lived for so long?
Despite his desire to go, to find his place in the world, he feared leaving what was familiar. The Forest had been there for him, his only friend in his short life. The Forest had freed him from his relatives, the dreaded Dursleys. He feared being alone again, alone as he had once been, locked in a cupboard beneath the staircase of Number 4, Privet drive.
Your path is now your own. You may go wherever you wish, but The Forest shall never send you away. You are always welcome, child, so long as you hold true to the Wild's Way. With The Forest in your heart, and our magic in your being, you will always be welcome here.
Relief flooded his mind, settling the broiling doubt and fear. Resolve soon followed, cool and calm.
Then I will go, and I will remember. Everything. Thank you.
The winds died down. The leaves fell still. The stream strickled onwards, but the rains stopped.
Farewell, Harry James Potter. May fate bless the grounds that The Forest does not shade.
Glowing eyes shuttered close again, blinking open to reveal his normal eyes, green as a killing curse, two round, dimly lit candles in dark halls.
He stood, walking before the two men in an uneasy cadence.
"I'll go. But You can't keep me there. I want to come visit Bruno," the boy declared. "And Grimy. And all my other friends."
Said frog was still perched atop his head, content to bask in the boy's hair and observe the goings-on. It blinked dazedly as one of the two-legs stepped forward. This was not the one that pointed their mean-stick at him. He croaked, and remained atop the young Potter.
Newt hobbled over, old bones stiff and creaky. His face was kind as he kneeled before the boy, putting a weathered, calloused hand atop the boy's bare shoulder.
"Of course, Harry. This is your place. I will take you with me every time I go, and I'll happily let you come without me, as well."
"Newt, you can't just let him come back without supervision. What if he runs off? We can't lose him again" Moody barked quietly in protest of the elderly man's reassurances.
Albus might just croak if the kid disappeared again.
Newt glared at the auror, a storm that left no room for argument.
"Then he leaves, Alastor. He's done quite well for himself so far. He'll only be better prepared the older he gets. I'm not going to chain him to Britain like a dog to a post."
Moody went to protest further, but saw the stony resolution in the man's eyes.
"Fine, but you can tell Albus. I ain't doing it."
"Very well," Newt signed, turning back to the boy. It may have been the light, but a flicker of something passed through the ten-year-old's gaze.
Gratitude? Giddyness? I haven't a clue.
"Well then, Harry. Is there anything we can help you gather or prepare before we depart?" he asked gently, observing the wild child and his belongings.
Harry shook his head in denial.
"Nope. I've got everything I own on me," he said, thumping the flap of his satchel subconsciously and twisting his staff slightly. "I should probably wake Bruno. He's napped enough. And let Grimy go."
Turning from the men, the youth gently grasped his scalp-sitting companion and placed him on an out reaching large leaf.
"Bye, Grimy. Don't get eaten by a snake. And keep an eye on Bruno. He can get into trouble."
"Croak," and to the astonishment of the two wizards, the frog nodded, rocking his whole body and leaping from the frond, across the dirt,and atop of the owlbear's feathered head.
Giggling, Harry walked quietly through the mud and lowered the tip of his staff to tap on the beak of the snoozing alpha predator.
"Wakey wakey, Bruno. You've napped long enough."
Large yellow orbs snapped open, before slowly drooping as the beast rolled over. The noise as it grunted was somewhere between a "coo" and a "unghhh."
Harry giggled again.
"Guess not."
Spinning, Harry near skipped the two awe-struck British-born wizards.
"Let's go. Bruno is grumpy when he wakes up after a long nap. I can't get out of here without you, and I don't think he," he said, pointing to the one-legged auror, "can afford to lose another limb."
With a final wave to his two animal friends and a solemn, deep breath, Harry Potter, The-Boy-Who-Lived, vanquisher of the Dark Lord Voldemort, skipped into the woods, whistling a cheery tune that was unfamiliar to the wizards that followed. The song carried its way through thicket and groves. In the distance, perching birds took up the happy melody, though their perches were atop great trees and the songs did not fall deep enough to harmonize with Harry's.
He walked familiar paths, each step one he'd taken before, but the destination all together new. Jittery anxiousness threatened to bubble from his mouth in the forms of questions and long parables that the Forest had ingrained in his mind, but he stomped it down. He didn't want to act a child, not in front of people he still didn't know. He was surrounded in uncertainty. People with unknown intentions, places he was not familiar with, and a dream that he had barely remembered.
Despite all the uncertainty coiling in his mind like a snake, it took no more than a deep breath of humid earthiness to sooth it. He focused on the new feelings. Feelings of soft fire, of happy laughter and barking black blurs. He focused on the feelings he'd long left in his cupboard under the stairs. He focused on home.
I'm going home.