In between copious amounts of letter-writing on Harry's behalf, he and his new friendly acquaintances found time for some interesting chats. New Year's Eve, Harry soon learned from Draco, was commonly celebrated as Hogmanay by British wizards, and was more symbolic than simply the dawn of the new year. It had ties to both the winter solstice and Samhain, he was boldly informed, and was therefore a "much more traditional celebration for wizards than all these modern Christian customs – which are nevertheless an important addition to wizarding culture", or so he was told with authority.

"So it's just New Year's Eve, but by a different name?" Harry asked.

"Of course not!" Draco had strong opinions about wizarding culture and its proper appreciation. "I mean, the feasting and drinking and gift-giving and all that is very nice, but unlike Christmas, Hogmanay connects us to the magic of the land. It connects the people to their place and – of course, brings luck."

"Of course," Harry echoed blankly.

Draco rolled his eyes. "It's the first-footing, you muggle." The insult was less blistering than it could have been. "Visiting begins after midnight, and you gift symbols of salt for friendship, or coal for warmth, spirits for good cheer, et cetera, et cetera, and get food in return. It's all very symbolic and meaningful. The saining is also...You know what? Find yourself another book from the library; I can't be held responsible for telling you everything."

Although it took him a while, being otherwise obsessed about getting to his Pensieve without notice, Harry eventually realised that Hogmanay may be his chance to retrieve his treasure. Once the thought struck, he found his way to the library for a quiet, solitary read. What were these traditions, after all? It took him a little time to find the right section, but eventually a hefty red book was tipped off the shelf and lay heavy in his lap. Dust billowed out when Harry cautiously cracked the spine and the slightest grey film coated his fingertips as he ran an eager finger down the index. He parsed the yellowed pages eagerly. This might be it; his way out.

Diagon Alley probably wasn't open at midnight, of course, but this visiting thing that happened afterwards sounded like it might go on for a while, and so the Floo connections from pub to pub might be open all night too. Using them, Harry could get to London and back as the shops first opened, unnoticed. Assuming he could get out of Hogwarts.

Of course, Harry pursed his lips, even in his Invisibility Cloak Draco could find him once he opened the Fat Lady's portrait. He never knew how early Draco would be there waiting. So, Harry reasoned, he had to get out and back again while making it look like he'd just slept in.

Without making use of the Fat Lady's portrait, Harry couldn't use any of the secret passages. Harry tapped the tome thoughtfully. There must be a way out of the tower without them. He was a descendant of the Marauders, after all. Surely all it would take was motivation. Currently, that was Harry's greatest strength.

Nerves tingling, easily distracted, and again with that strange pressure in his chest, Harry waited for Hogmanay to begin, and began to plan his way away from supervision.

He was going to pick up his Pensieve. Harry was sure that his arms were trembling, even though it didn't look it. There was a thrumming tension travelling through his nerves. Almost. Almost.

It was six thirty when Harry got up on January first, which was well before Scotland's true dawn. Frankly it felt like a perfect start to his plan, but Harry had discovered that motivation was not enough to get him out of the tower after all: he needed creativity too. Unsurprisingly, it turned out, previous generations of students – he wondered briefly if one of them had been his father – had already attempted to sneak out of the dormitory windows using broomsticks, and teachers had obviously made attempts to stop them.

There were spells, Harry had discovered, that stopped things flying out of the tower. He cracked open the catch slightly and forced the frame as far open as it would go. He could poke a finger out with no problem and even his head, but the small pebble he tossed at the gap in the glass bounced off invisible barriers and hit Harry's shoe with a smug kind of rattle.

Harry promptly tried climbing onto the window ledge himself to tip his whole body out, but as he hitched his other knee up onto the windowsill, Harry found his forehead pressed against something stretchy but solid. It wasn't entirely unpleasant, Harry pondered, as his head pushed forward and was then repelled back gently. It felt a little bit like being stuck in Aunt Petunia's plastic wrap stuff: cool, soft, a little bit stretchy. But it did stop him getting out of the dorm.

Harry huffed. He dropped back off the windowsill with heavy footsteps and took a large step away from the wall. Then Harry stared around the familiar room with critical eyes: he'd never tried anything unusual in this room before, and the familiar space looked a little unfamiliar as he looked at it from a different perspective. Larger and smaller, cluttered, beloved, more magical than his everyday life in it implied.

After a moment, Harry spun his wand. "Occuluseo."

He had to do it very carefully, because Mr Weasley had warned him about the magic ambient in Hogwarts proper, and the spell blossomed in his eyes and bloomed slowly stronger as Harry carefully adjusted its strength. Then he promptly wondered if Mr Weasley was supposed to teach him occuluseo at all, because when he looked at Hogwarts herself for the first time through its lens, the weave of the magic revealed every spell that had been cast on the room.

Light radiated.

Hogwarts was awash with magic, layers and layers of the most delicate weave. Colours shimmered, others glowed. More flickered with a light barely there. Hogwarts Castle, Harry realised, thrummed with living magic that seeped through her every pore. Delicate tracings of colours illuminated the walls, arced through the stonework. The bare stone of the boys' dorm was the most beautiful thing Harry had ever seen.

He took a moment to catch his breath with sheer delight.

When a moment passed, Harry remembered to breathe and redirect his eyes to the high gothic windows. Unlike the stone walls, which were enchanted with slow, steady magics and enduring enchantments, the wards fizzled and hissed like a living thing – it was probably the wards, Harry rationalised, rather than the glass itself. Magic pooled around the window ledges like spilt milk, but the glass itself was covered in weaves like spiderwebs, snowflakes, and gossamer.

Poking at the translucent barrier slightly with his wand, the magic wavering in his sight, Harry figured that with a little bit of focus he could probably break the charm on the window and be free to leave.

It was becoming easier to use the seeing-spell, Harry realised mildly, especially after casting it on so many presents.

But there was a new kind of tendril woven into the weave, and blue kind of magic that Harry wondered might be an alarm. He decided to avoid it. Just to be safe.

Then he huffed, because what point was marvelling at the magnificence of a window charm if he still couldn't break it to sneak out?

Harry backed away from the window and scowled in frustration.

There must be a secret way out of the dorm. He wished for a moment that he could access the Room of Requirement from here, but the passageways could only open if you started from the seventh floor.

He rolled his eyes. It was easy to have ideas around here, but somehow he still struggled with implementing his plans.

When he happened to look up, the occuluseo still active, a smallish bright glow at the highest point of the wall caught his eye. Harry blinked. A much smaller window was embedded in the stone, barely a window if you were cataloguing them.

It was a tiny circle, not even a foot in diameter. He had never before spared it a thought.

But, Harry recalled to his own surprise, this was the owl window for post in the dorm – a special little gap in the walls that post owls could fly through. Not uncharmed, he noticed, the colours still bright on his eyes, but barely charmed, which might be good enough.

Harry gazed up with a squint while he contemplated the tiny little window. The cold draft from the window in front of him ruffled his hair and Harry smelled the fresh scent of pine and snow and dawn. He shivered. His mind felt alert.

The owl window, Harry noticed thoughtfully, was nowhere near large enough for a student to pass through. In fact, from where Harry stood a few feet away from the base of the wall, he couldn't even see the sky through the stone frame, it was that small. Owls had to retract their wings through it. It was practically invisible to student eyes. It was easily overlooked, and that was probably why it was far less protected.

Harry stepped over beneath the promising little gap and craned his head to look up. Unlike the other windows in the room, this one was way out of reach. It was not made for light, but for entry.

He pursed his lips.

Taking stock of his current accoutrements, Harry glanced down at himself thoughtfully. In one hand he held the smooth, warm wood of his broomstick handle to travel with, and in the other his holly wand. The trusty little school trunk was already bobbing obediently behind Harry's back, but with his new plan the sizes wouldn't work.

He took a moment to reorganise himself busily. Things went into the trunk to stay behind, certain things came out. Then, Harry licked his lips once and carefully raised his wand.

He fixed his eyes on the little window, eyebrows scrunched and focussed very, very carefully.

He'd never before attempted full-body transfiguration at all, even at such a simple charm as this. A frisson of tension tingled down his spine.

Harry breathed in once, deeply. Slowly, gently, he huffed the air out, shoulders sinking, tension relaxing; "Reducio," Harry murmured, and he felt his body begin to shrink. There was a moment of the expected pain in his shoulders and hips.

Then colours surged across his vision in waves and tilted like the world was a kaleidoscopic and Harry was tumbling in it. Layers of reds and blues and golds washed across his eyes. Harry was drowning in a torrent of pure magic.

A riot of colour and magic danced across his pupils; Hogwarts walls flared with magic, but Harry's eyes were sinking in the colours of his own power: closer, living, vibrant, and surging through his brain. Magic roared across his eyeballs, pooled in his mind, washed and stretched and raged across his sight.

Something changed behind his eyelids; a small stretch somewhere that Harry didn't think was normally stretchable. His heartbeat thundered in his ears. Throat tight. Palms suddenly sweaty.

There was a disjunction with his bodily sensation: limbs shorter, the expected pain, but something more... Harry realised, dismayed: he'd cast magic on himself while the occuluseo spell was still active.

Arthur Weasley's warning echoed in his ear: medi-witches can't do much for blindness caused by magic itself.

Deathly cold fingers ran down his spine; Harry froze. Colours flared. He saw spots in hues and shades he couldn't recognise.

A little voice inside; stopstopstopstopstop.

His wand twitched and with another surge, a maelstrom of magical colour the likes of which he had never imagined, the shrinking stopped.

Gasping, Harry felt his heartbeat thundering in his ears, every bit as urgent as it had been when he faced the giant snake. His chest heaved in short, gasping breaths. Pain stabbed through his forehead. He blinked in a daze, vision wavering in and out: sometimes all he could see were the bright weaves of magic, sometimes cold stone, sometimes nothing.

Harry closed his eyes and waited for the dizziness to pass. He fought his way back towards that still pool of Occlumency, of silence and peace. His body resisted, magical surges still racing around his body. Harry seemed hypersensitive to them, like little shocks or sparks or waves that pushed against the inside of his skin.

Something tingled above his lip. Still blind, Harry dabbed it with the back of his hand. Tasted like salt and rust: smelled like blood. He was dizzy.

His brain felt tired. There was an overstretched feeling that seemed vaguely familiar.

Harry still fought for his centre; grasping, he reached the inside of himself and quietened. His magic calmed, settled. His panic slowed, stilled, stopped.

Harry waited, eyes closed, as the surging feeling of being lost at sea faded, as the drip of blood from his nose slowed and stopped, as flashes of light and darkness rushed across the back of his eyelids and then faded into the usual soft darkness of his own skin. The roaring in his head calmed. Gasping breath slowed, softened. Harry's heartbeat returned to its usual pace. The ringing in his head became manageable.

The ground was firm beneath his feet.

Cautiously, Harry blinked open one eye and glanced down at his body and the wand in his hand.

There was light. Normal light, of the Hogwarts' lamps and early morning grey.

Through the headache, Harry catalogued his body. He could still see, that was a good sign. He had shrunk, that was also quite good news: the spells had done what he'd meant them to. With smaller hands, the broomstick in his left felt slightly rougher than before, with larger grains in its handle.

Harry opened his other eye.

He paused, breathed.

He was fine.

After the fuss and the panic, Harry stumbled backwards to his bed and had to perch there for a moment and feel the rough blankets with his fingertips. His feet sat firmly on the floor, grounding him. The familiar smell of his own scent on his blankets, the dust in his bed hangings, the scent morning snow and his own sweat drifted around him, and slowly Harry began to have faith in his own body again. Then he sniffed. Once more he dragged a hand under his nose and it came back streaked rusty brown; had his blood-nose stopped? He sniffed experimentally again: nothing seemed broken, at any rate. He seemed, Harry dared hope, fine. With a roll of his shoulders, he forced himself to breathe tension out and relax.

Despite all that, it took Harry a moment longer to gather his nerves. Feeling his way physically with his palms, Harry leaned over to help himself to a chocolate frog and patted himself down before the tremors in his hands stopped.

But the Pensieve, the plan, must go on.

When he levered himself up to his feet, muscles still soft and protesting the movement, Harry compared himself briefly to the broom in his hand. It stood firm at his left, pressing strongly against the floor like a walking stick. Its warm wood seemed to stabilise Harry in the unpredictable world. Standing next to it, leaning his weight on the broomsticks' familiar form, Harry noted that he had diminished precisely as much as he'd meant to. He recentred his posture, leaning away from the solidity of the broomstick to stand on his own two feet once more. The floor no longer heaved like he was on a boat at sea. Harry was glad: with his legs feeling as soft as they currently did, he couldn't really handle much of a challenge. Then he shrugged his shoulders firmly – once, twice, thrice – as he took up a stance below the small window once again.

He was short on time, and he'd been called stubborn before.

Then with one more quick glance up to take measure of the owl entrance, Harry extended the shrinking charm a little bit more, this time with his eyes closed and no other spells active. His hypersensitive body felt the magic wash through him and Harry fought for more control he'd ever before needed. Slower, he told himself, and his magic unfurled with more finesse than ever, exactly as much as was needed and not one iota more. The surging, tingling pain within his muscles slowed, the burning pain of hypersensitivity diminished until a reasonable level of intensity was reached. Harry held on for one more long moment while his muscles contracted and bones folded in on themselves millimetre at a time...

Ending the spell with a silent twist of his wrist, Harry recast the occuluseo and climbed up on his suddenly oversize broomstick to rise slowly, gently to the height of the exit. Despite his heart racing, everything was fine; it was only Harry's overactive mind that now made him feel off balance. It was only the sudden normalcy in the wake of such stormy magic that left him reeling.

His feet lifted slowly off the ground; Harry found his balance on his broom; his many years of practice bringing his mind further back into balance, following the balance of his body. Harry settled his weight evenly into the cushioning charms and drifted slowly upwards, not an inch out of place. The little window glowed and beckoned above. He reached it quickly, body bobbing not far from the dormitory's ceiling. There were a few spiders up here, Harry noted absently, dark spots against the magic of the walls. Then he drifted forward on the broomstick, as light as a feather, until one small hand could reach forward to pat the shimmer in the window.

The occuluseo showed him precisely which charms had been cast in a gentle weave of yellows and oranges, and there was nothing at all to stop a small human from passing.

Harry inched forward carefully, slowly, delicately, his feet lifted behind him and curled up, torso tilted forward so he could duck through the small frame. With barely a whisper, his tail-twigs scraped by the window boundary and Harry's sight-spell could finally be finished as he sat up.

One quick engorgio later, and a normal-sized Harry was breezing down towards Hogsmeade to join in the early morning revellers, his head clearing rapidly.

Dozens of bodies would be jostling in and around the pubs and bars; one more would hardly stand out. Hopefully he'd make it before Draco missed him, but either way, no eyes would know where he'd gone.

Harry had made the trip from Hogwarts to Hogsmeade village more times than he could count, but sneaking out alone on New Year's day on a broomstick before seven o'clock in the morning was a new one.

The weather, fortunately for him, had settled down from the overwhelming snowstorm that had washed the castle in white for the past fortnight. Instead, as Harry flew through the morning air, a calm post-storm peace shrouded the highlands. His jitters settled down as the adrenaline of before washed away, just like it always did when Harry was on his broom. Instead, Harry became aware of his nose as it began to throb in the cold. Harry rubbed it with gloved hands as he flew silently through the Hogwarts main gate and turned down the hill to fly down the main road, towards the train station and in the direction of Hogsmeade.

The wind was unsurprisingly chilly, and it didn't take long for the rest of Harry's body heat to be stripped away in the morning temperatures. He spared a moment to wish he'd put on his quidditch gear before getting on his broom. Wizarding winterwear and heavy cloaks were all well and good until a blast of chilly air breezed down your robe collar and all the way down.

He slowed his pace, taking his time to regain his equilibrium and for his body to acclimatise.

In the dawn, Harry's eyes drifted. While the shade of the forest loomed over the road, the drifts of snow were banked up under low branches. Above them, sprinkled like a blanket, snow coated the trees. Snow also lay over the road, unblemished by footsteps or carriage-wheels, and it promised pristine white when the sun rose.

Until then, Harry's path was rather dim in the early morning. Despite the sky gradually greying and a few early birds calling out in the dawn, down near the forest the shadows lay heavy and dark. Harry flew through it like a silent shadow, absorbing the peace, breathing the calm.

The Great Lake, Harry knew, was a body of water much longer than it was wide, and the opposite sides of one end were bracketed by Hogwarts castle and the village below it. As he flew towards it, he could see flashes of dark water between trees when they thinned out a little. Snatches of dull silver streaked on the lake where the deep waters were catching the promise of light. Closer to Harry, the glimpses of lake became darker and still. The ice on the shoreline made barely a crackle as the temperature rose gradually with the coming day.

Harry enjoyed the surreal feel the cold, empty air.

He soon flew past the dark train station with no one the wiser, and shortly thereafter found himself alighting in the shadow of a Hogsmeade house on the fringe of the village. It was, by all accounts, the private residence of someone he didn't know, and Harry had never planned to start walking when barely in the town.

But, to his astonishment – although he shouldn't be surprised, really – many of the buildings were lit up with cheerful brightness, and the snowy road had many footprints already trekked into its surface. The early morning peace was broken by cheerful voices and snatches of song.

"The first-footing," Harry recalled with surprise. And possibly the saining too, if the noises from a street or two over were any indication.

Pulling his hood up to warm up his freezing ears, Harry stepped quickly in the direction of his goal.

It was but a few minutes work to squeeze past early morning revellers, who greeted him raucously and indiscriminately from their little huddles on the streets. He passed groups of people in warm robes making their way into houses, others merely grouping under the gaslights and warming themselves with alcohol and mirth.

Pushing past them, Harry made his way quickly to the Three Broomsticks, where to his astonishment a bunch of senior students were partying in the light and the warmth. In the alcoholic haze and scent of woodfire there were others that Harry didn't recognise, but many he did. A smattering of people were outside; at least one of the figures smoking a pipe was a student that Harry could see.

But more seniors were inside with their tankards and smiles and cheer.

Harry quickly stepped into the shadow of the fireplace and tugged his hood closer around his head. Some of these people would certainly know he was not supposed to be here.

Yep; that dark-haired boy with the – was that fire whiskey? – was definitely the Head Boy. Next to him was one of the Ravenclaw Prefects and – Harry glanced quickly around the throng of people near the bar while his nose defrosted and fingers began to thaw – that seemed like half the Kettleburn Club by the dartboard. They were clearly having a party with more alcohol that their professors would approve of. Harry wondered what Bill Weasley had got up to in school, that his mother was never aware of.

Harry was highly amused.

There was a raucous burst of laughter from somewhere deeper into the room, and Harry swore he heard the nasal voice of that Pritchard guy guffawing pretentiously with some friends.

It took Harry only a moment to throw down some Floo powder and step out of the hearth at Tom's Leaky Cauldron.

Harry stepped out of the green flames with a nod and smile to Tom, who barely had time to notice him through the throng of people meeting and mingling in his pub. Hogmanay greetings were also happening in the Leaky, although this revel seemed less of a traditional practice and more of an excuse for alcohol to Harry's untrained eye. He forced his way through the smokey room and out to the brick wall beyond to make his way to the Alley just before shops opened at seven.

Diagon Alley proper was really rather quiet, the usual pedestrians and early morning workers being more-or-less otherwise occupied with all-night parties apparently still rocking on with some energy.

His footsteps were crisp as he broke the new snow with his strides. One or two wrapped up figures were out on the street by their shop doors, sweeping away the snow and clearing the cobblestones, but Harry strode past them without stopping. He only wanted one thing, after all.

Harry found himself outside Wisacre's Wizarding Equipment shop ten minutes before the store opened. He had to cross his arms and stamped to stay warm while the dark figure inside shuffled around, presumably setting the store up for opening. Harry waited impatiently, often breathing into his hands, until the dingy little doorway was unlocked with a click. Fortunately, his warm winter cloak had kept most of the snow off him, and when he'd previously pulled his deep hood up he'd also managed to conceal his face.

"Morning!" the little old shopkeeper nodded, his nose a merry red, as Harry walked through the door shaking snow off his shoes as he did so. "What can I do for you today, sir?"

"I'm here to pick up my Pensieve," Harry stated. "I got your letter a while back saying it had come in."

"Pensieve?" the old man stared as the door swing shut with merely a cheery tinkle of bells. He peered towards Harry's hood with a squint. "Are you Mr Potter then? You're looking a bit different to when I saw you last. What's been happening to you, eh?"

"Mr Potter," Harry agreed. "It's been a busy couple of years." He sniffed curiously at a strange smell that drifted through the shop floor. The cluttered shop floor had the faint and unusual scent of juniper-scented smoke that lingered in the air. The…saining, Harry wondered? Or some other part of Hogmanay rituals?

"You're looking very dapper," the shopkeeper continued. "And you're sure you're not related to Harry Potter, you say? You look the right age, now I look at you closely."

"Nope," Harry answered a bit too quickly. He stepped backwards and tugged his hood further forward nervously. "I know I'm a bit short, but I'm nineteen, I promise." He wasn't lying, Harry reassured himself. He was mentally nineteen even if his body was younger.

He smiled at the man with more confidence: he really didn't want to face a Boy-Who-Lived fan this early in the day.

"Hrmm…" the man raised an eyebrow, but then thankfully changed the subject. Harry wondered if perhaps the little old man had also been at a Hogmanay gathering and had come back to work a little drunk. "Yes, well, your little beauty arrived in some time ago. I thought you'd be here earlier. Just let me go fetch it."

He pottered off into a back room for a moment, then returned with his hands full with a hefty burden.

"Here we go." He gently eased the weight down onto the countertop and unwrapped the brown paper with a breathy sigh of wonder. "Ahhhh. There you are. Exquisite. Just look at that runework, the polish, the shine! This is a masterwork, I tell you, and no mistake."

"Huh," Harry breathed, and leaned over to eye his new purchase greedily. The pale stone gleamed in the low light of the shop, and he reached out one trembling finger to glide it softly down the smooth, perfect curve. "It's beautiful." His eyes lingered on the perfection of the bowl; it held such fascination and promise and possibility...

The man nodded wisely. "Perfect for every sweet memory cherished. We at Wiseacre's Wizarding Equipment exist to satisfy your every equipmental need. Telescopes, scales, orreries – "

"Yes, thanks," interrupted Harry, having heard the spiel before. It didn't work.

" – and phials, furniture or mirrors, sickles or knives, and baskets, and bookshelves, and Pensieves and more!" the man concluded with triumph.

The spiel had evolved, Harry discovered.

"How much do I owe you?"

"After your deposit? One hundred and eight galleons, fourteen sickles, and three knuts remaining, including the international delivery fee."

"Right." Harry counted out the money from his mokeskin pouch and placed it in piles on the counter.

"Now, how are you getting this beauty back home?" the man inquired genially.

Harry tugged forward a pouch spelled with an undetectable extension charm and pulled the neck of the pouch open with a flex of his muscles. It was but a brief moment, while the old shopkeeper looked on nosily, but he manoeuvred the Pensieve in without any help and settled it securely in the enchanted space. All he needed now was to transfer it back into his trunk, and he'd be free and easy.

Harry couldn't wait.

"You obviously know how to use it, of course," the man nattered cheerfully, just as Harry was turned to leave. "Couldn't help you at all with that myself, o'course."

Harry's eye twitched. His footsteps halted.

"…Of course?"

"Of course y'do." The little old shopkeeper leaned unsteadily against his shop counter and absurdly tapped one finger against the side of his nose. "Of course y'do."

Harry's eyes flickered. "That's right. Of course I do. I know all about them. The err…the spell for memory extraction…?"

"Ooh, it's a spell, is it? Well, what d'you know. It'd be bloody awful trying to find someone how to tell you how t'use these things, if you didn't already know. Damn rare, they are. Lucky you're all sorted then, aye?"

"Yeah," Harry nodded blankly. "Right. Of course." He left the shop with a strange solid feeling in his stomach and a tightness in his chest.

Harry walked back through Hogsmeade around daybreak, or so he assumed, since the sun could not be seen from behind the clouds. Either way, it was light enough and bright enough for the locals to be out on the streets for more than just partying, and so the roads were busier and shop doors were ringing with custom.

As he paced quickly on, Harry wasn't quite sure what his mood was. After all, he'd been waiting for months on end for his Pensieve to be delivered.

Only now, finally, could he really compare both his timelines and make more educated decisions. He could see what was coming. He also rather hoped that he could cut back on the amount of revision he needed – if he reviewed what facts he'd already been taught, and went over the books he'd already read. The anticipation was incredible.

But at the same time, Harry had to admit as he left the Three Broomsticks again through its busy door, perhaps the Pensieve wasn't going to be the cure-all he had hoped for.

That familiar cold feeling in his stomach had settled in; the solid, hard lump of rock resting in his gut promised bad things would come. Harry clutched his left hand protectively over his belly as he walked through the crowd, wavering between optimism and pessimism.

Was it worry he was struggling with? Was it foreboding? Mere uncertainty? Harry wasn't quite sure.

He was quite caught up in his thoughts until he reached end of the main street near the Great Lake. The party of Hogwarts students had splintered up apparently, and this lot had moved their group. Now a bunch of them were standing near the shoreline throwing rocks in to break up the ice.

They were dumb, Harry thought fondly as he walked towards them and envied their carelessness. No worries of war or of prophecy or death for them.

Their loud, cheerful voices carried clearly on the wind, and all of a sudden, Harry was intensely jealous of their joyous oblivion. Hadn't their parents ever told them that Voldemort might return? Didn't they know there were orphans out there with no parents, and clinging on to hope? Why could they do dumb things for fun, when Harry was stuck using his holidays to plan to save Britain? When was the last time he laughed with that much innocence?

Harry stamped his feet and fought off the thoughts. It wasn't their fault they were sheltered.

Determinedly cheerful, Harry took out his gloved hands and cupped them before his mouth. A few puffs of warm air would help warm them, he hoped. Draco would be back in the castle whining for him, if he was up yet. There would be good food and cheerful house-elves in the kitchens. There was no reason to be slow. It was cold out, after all, and the faster he got back to Hogwarts the faster he'd be warm. His grand plans were waiting.

He stamped his legs and strode quickly.

Harry needed a hot bath. Possibly three. All his hopes for his plans could finally come together.