The first thing he was aware of was the heat. The kind of heat that should only belong in a sauna.
Then the sounds: birds chirping, trilling, squawking. Leaves rustling. Other sounds he couldn't identify.
'Do I have to wake up?' He thought.
'Yes.' He answered himself.
He was fairly certain a bug had just crawled over his hand.
'You sure?'
'Stop stalling.'
He opened his eyes, and the light hit him.
When his eyes cleared, he saw foliage high above, trees arcing upwards with vines twisting their way around them. He also saw movement; Birds flittering from here to there, some fuzzy animal making it's way up a tree. The sky beyond was just lightening with dawn. It didn't seem to be a magical forest, which was probably a good thing. One tended to come across interesting creatures in them.
He stirred and groaned, his hand going to his stomach; The hand that was attached to the uninjured arm.
Gritting his teeth he managed to stand, clutching a nearby tree. Looking around he noticed that there was no sign the wizards. No sign of their camp. No sign that anything human had ever been here.
"Bloody hell."
He was willing to bet that his backpack was also gone.
He took inventory. He still had his wand, and some spare potions. Unfortunately the numbing potion had shattered. Which meant that what he was about to do would hurt.
He sat back down and drunk one of his few remaining potions. Then he put a hand over the bullet hole in his arm. He concentrated. The arm started to burn. With a grunt the bullet shot out of his arm into his hand.
He held on to it a moment, waiting for the pain to die down a bit; Then he tossed it away.
He repeated the process with his stomach. Hopefully he hadn't lost too much blood –that's what the potion he drank was supposed to help with. He took out his wand and murmured a healing spell.
He felt unconsciousness pulling at his mind. He quickly drank another potion and started to concentrate. He knew that it would be bad for his enemies to find him in this condition. If his suspicions were correct, Voldemort would be alive right now –and he really didn't want him to find him.
Soon a cobra lay where he had previously been seated. If he'd tried that with the bullets still within him, he might not have survived the transformation.
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An old witch stood exactly where the portal had been, her eyes closed. One arm was at her side; The other clasped a staff, which was held out vertically in front of her. The blue stone that rested ontop of the staff seemed to shimmer slightly, though no one was looking at it.
Several members of the Order milled about looking for clues. They had not found much. Someone had been here, injured and losing blood. Whoever it was, they were gone now.
A falcon flew through the jungle towards the group, and landed. Soon it was no longer a falcon, but a man with blond hair and dark blue eyes. He announced, "A dozen Death Eaters -at least, headed our way."
A man with an eye that seems to whirl about on it's own frowned. "Why would they send that many?"
"Doesn't matter. They won't find anymore then we did."
"We should get some Aurors and take them down." As there were only five of them, this idea had merit.
The old woman opened her eyes at last. "Albus sent us to find out what happened and report back."
"We didn't find anything, so why not make this outing worthwhile?"
"We found more than you think, or rather, I did." She waved away their inquiries and asked if they were all ready to apparate. "-I'm too old for this Merlin forsaken heat.
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I'm betting you've figured out what's going on at this point :)
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Harry left Dean and Neville in the common room, where they had been working on a project. He figured now would be a good time to accomplish a few things.
It seemed like he always had something to do nowadays.
Harry found who he was looking for in the Quidditch stands. The boy had come to Hogwarts a month after the schoolterm started, as a third year. He was an American who had lost his father to a Death Eater attack –one of the only ones in that country. In fact, it had likely been targeted for his father. His mother had already been dead for years, from some illness.
The young Hufflepuff's grades were understandably awful. One of the Hufflepuff prefects had asked Harry to talk to him. Apparently, she had had a muggle friend who committed suicide, and was worried that the boy might do the same.
Harry sat down beside him and the boy cast a furtive look at him. "You're that Head Boy, aren't you?"
"Yep. It's nice to sit here, isn't it, quiet."
The boy nodded.
Harry asked, "What's your name?" He did, of course, already know.
A quiet, "Mark."
"Harry," he offered in return.
Hesitantly, the boy spoke. "Why are you here?"
"To talk to you."
The boy knew it had to be about his grades are something. "I miss my father." Even as he said it he wondered why he did. He hadn't spoken to many people since –well, in a while.
"I know," he said, already having decided what angle to take the conversation. Make him pity me more.
"But, aren't you Harry Potter? Your parents died before you knew them right?"
"Yeah, but that just makes it worse."
"You trying to make me feel sorry for you?"
Curse all perceptive thirteen-year-olds. "Yep."
"Your saying I should be happy for the time I had."
That was easy. "Yep."
The boy sighed. "He shouldn't have died. My mother shouldn't have died."
"Just don't lose yourself Mark. Keep going. For them. For you. For –if need be- the hope of vengeance. There are things to live for -friends you can make. Friends are worth it."
"I hear you."
"It helps if you have something to work towards," Harry said and looked expectantly at Mark.
The boy hesitated. "Teaching. I want to be a teacher -which is really weird considering I don't pay any attention to mine…"
Harry grinned, "Well, you'll just have to be more interesting."
The boy smiled back breifly, then asked, "What are you working towards?"
Harry's automatally thought, the freedom for my and my friends to live our lives in peace… Harry stood. "If you ever want to talk, you know I'm here, right?."
"Okay."
Harry silently handed the blond boy a small, colorful box. "Some friends asked me to handle the distribution of these."
The boy cautiously looked it over then smiled slightly, "Aren't these on Filch's list?"
"Yes, well, I have an arrangement with the -what does he call them now?"
"Generally, it's 'The Bloody Miscreants.'"
Harry left the stands and headed back towards the school. After he was out of hearing distance, he exhaled. It had seemed to go alright.
Now to the next task of the day.
