First Steps

by: Whomping Willow ~

Disclaimer: I still don't own any part of Harry Potter or his magic world.

***

Chapter six: Have you seen this boy ~


It was dark and cold encircled him, embraced him. Wondering for a moment why he hadn't shut the window on such a raw evening, Harry succumbed to unconsciousness again.

Vague sensations of pain nagged Harry into consciousness next. He struggled to recall what rule he had broken to incite his uncle into such a thorough punishment. He was becoming more aware of how badly his body was aching and he felt so cold. Perhaps his fat cousin had failed his exam once more. Uncle Vernon had taken the day off – again, so he could be there when Dudley passed his test. It wouldn't be the first time his uncle had punished Harry for something Dudley had done. Wasting his uncle's day off was a punishable offence – or perhaps it was the toaster . . . he thought for a minute and then realized why that couldn't be.

His mind went from zero to sixty in two seconds, thoughts washing over then threatening to drown him. He tried to sit up, but felt tied into place. That thought sent a whole new kind of panic through him. Death Eaters – the attack . . . Harry dreaded the cold numbing his limbs may be that of a dungeon. Green eyes flew open struggling to focus on the confusing myriad of images before him.

***

Number twelve Grimmauld Place was beginning to resemble a bed-n-breakfast. Exhausted Order members filtered in and out of the kitchen in shifts seeking hot tea but little in the way of nourishment. There was a feeling of stillness that the room's occupants seemed unwilling to break and their stomachs were too nervous to hold down anything as substantial as Molly Weasley was serving.

The lack of progress in the search was disheartening, and the children were the ones most affected. Hermione was so consumed by the thoughts of what should have been that she could scarcely focus on her book. She was researching Location Charms despite the fact that Dumbledore had assured her Harry was not susceptible to such charms. If she had only been able to alert the Order sooner . . . she thought dejectedly.

Ginny sensing her distress came to sit beside her, after all there was only so much she could do to help her mother in the kitchen without getting underfoot. They shared a brief smile. Even without words her presence was a comfort.

Ron was brooding upstairs. He had caught enough of the morning's conversations to realize things weren't going well. He worried about his best friend. He knew Harry had held his own in some really bad situations, but Harry was alone and there were dementors searching for him. He looked at the small package sitting wrapped on his bedside table. He had bought Harry's birthday present just days ago and now looking at it caused a feeling of emptiness he was almost afraid to acknowledge.

He wondered for a moment if Pig would be able to find Harry wherever he was. After all, Hedwig had reached Sirius when he was on the run, even when Harry had no idea where he was hiding. What a stroke of genius, he could hardly believe Hermione hadn't thought of it already. That thought in mind, Ron picked up some parchment and a quill and scratched off a quick note to Harry hoping it would make it to his lost friend. He considered telling someone what he was planning before he did it, but couldn't bear the thought of them attempting to dissuade him.

Wrapping the note tight to the leg of the tiny owl, he opened the bedroom window and sent it on its way. He watched as it disappeared into the distance and hoped for the best.

***

Albus Dumbledore had little rest during the night. After a few silent cups of tea the Headmaster had retired to a private parlor with the Potions Master to discuss the attack in further detail. The stoic man had been hesitant to describe the condition of the Dursley home upon their arrival, especially the small bedroom with the bare walls. It had all the comfort and warmth of a prison cell and paired with the images from their Occlumency lessons, Snape felt that description was disturbingly accurate.

Severus explained that the attack had been planned with the combined effort of the Dark Lord and Wormtail. That information was easily acquired due to Wormtail's incessant gloating. The rat had somehow discovered Potter's location and told his master in hopes of gaining his favor. Due to the failure of the attack the plan backfired and now it was not certain whether the Animagus would even live.

Unfortunately the account of the day's events gave no hint as to if or how Harry had known about the attack, long enough before hand to already be hiding when they arrived. It troubled Albus to hear that Voldemort had recognized the small room as Harry's immediately upon entry. Had his two orphaned students shared so much similar history, despite his efforts to prevent it, that he could see evidence of Harry's suffering and know to whom it belonged?

Despite their similarities, Voldemort was far from compassionate, quite the opposite actually. He was disgusted that the boy had allowed Muggles to torment him for so long and had told Severus so.

***

Harry tried to sit up after adjusting his filthy spectacles from where they sat askew on his nose, the world tilting precariously as it came into focus. He was half sitting in a muddy puddle in a small clearing, surrounded by towering oak trees and low brush. He breathed a sigh of relief. He was cold and filthy. When he shifted his weight, the pain that ripped through him confirmed that his arm was most definitely broken, but he was alive and there was no sign of Death Eaters or dungeons. It was indeed a strange time to celebrate, but the sight of his Firebolt whole and undamaged drew a whoop of delight from the pathetic crumpled heap that was Harry Potter.

Further inspection proved that his cloak was also in better condition than Harry could have hoped, or even was himself. He realized when he bothered to look, that the trees had left his body scraped and bruised. It certainly explained the terrible ache that seized his boy as he shivered. He thought that for perhaps the first time in his life he may actually miss Privet Drive.

Waves of nausea distracted him from his reverie. He needed to get moving. Harry knew he had been lying there for a few hours at least, and he couldn't tell how long he'd be safe. He hoped that by walking he would warm up and get some idea as to where he was. He didn't dare risk his broom in daylight without knowing if there was anyone about to see him, and he wasn't quite sure he felt up to another flight just yet.

Looking around, Harry couldn't be sure which direction the train tracks were. He had been thrashed around by the trees and now he was so turned around it all looked the same. He knew he had heard something about which side of the tree the moss grew on telling the direction, but he couldn't remember how it went.

He looked to the sky feeling the sun warm on his face, and was glad that yesterday's clouds had burned off. He supposed that it was before noon, so if he put the sun to his right that should mean he'd be facing north, then he'd just need to put it to his left after noon. It was highly imprecise, but it gave him something to work with instead of aimlessly wandering till nightfall.

Gathering his cloak and broom, he did his best to wrap up tight, invisible to the eyes of anything that chose to exist in these woods. With the sun to his right he walked north. He was nervous, walking as silently as possible while trying to stay in the sunny spots to warm his chilled bones.

When he was a little boy, in the cupboard under the stairs, he learned not to be afraid of the dark or spiders like Ron. In the time since he discovered he was a wizard, Harry had learned there was a lot more to fear than he ever realized before. Night or day there was more to fear in the world than Uncle Vernon.

***

THE BOY WHO LIVED, MISSING


In a brief statement on Monday evening, Minister of Magic Cornelius Fudge confirmed reports that Harry Potter also known as the Boy Who Lived is missing after an attack on his home.

"It is with great sorrow I must inform you that sometime early this morning Death Eaters attacked and destroyed the home Harry Potter has been residing in with his Muggle relatives. We are all thankful that there were no fatalities and are doing everything in our power to ensure Mr. Potter's safe return."

The Muggle home was attacked and destroyed by supporters of You-Know-Who sometime in the early morning hours. According to an unknown witness, the Boy Who Lived escaped the home shortly after the Death Eaters attacked. At this time no fatalities have been reported. It is rumored that the Muggles were not at home at the time of the attack, but were unavailable for comment.

The attack has also been linked with the presence of dementors in the area surrounding Diagon Alley. It is believed that He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named has ordered the dementors to search likely locations for the Boy Who Lived.

In another official statement Minister Fudge said, "We are all saddened by the events of this day. The Ministry in coordination with Albus Dumbledore, Headmaster of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry etc., is focusing its efforts on finding Mr. Potter and returning him to his family and friends safely. We are asking the public to please get involved in the search."

This attack is reminiscent of the attack on Godric's Hollow nearly fifteen years ago that resulted in the deaths of James and lily Potter, and brought about the temporary downfall of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named.

For more on this and other related stories see page 6.

***

As expected the Daily Prophet had stirred up quite a commotion in the wizard world. Owls arrived frequently, bearing offers of assistance as well as supposed sightings. All reported sightings were being taken seriously, but it was an exercise in futility. It seemed that every bespectacled brunette Wizard and Muggle alike was being reported as the missing teen.

There were unfortunately Howlers as well raving about the irresponsibility of Dumbledore and the Ministry to leave the Boy Who Lived in the care of a bunch of helpless Muggles. The Howlers of course woke those unfortunate enough to attempt to catch some sleep upstairs and sent the portrait of Mrs. Black into fits of screeching insults loud enough to wake the dead.

Although Professor Snape had assured the Order that there were very few Death Eaters in good enough health to search for Harry Potter, many persisted in the idea that Voldemort's minions would be swarming the streets and the public should be warned. Instead the warning had gone out about the very real threat of dementors, specifically in the areas surrounding Diagon Alley.

Along with the story about the attack, the Daily Prophet had printed photos of Harry taken in his fourth-year, for the Triwizard tournament and reprinted a guide to defending yourself from dementors.

When Dumbledore saw the front-page, he hoped that Harry would live to see it, even though he would be appalled that he'd made the papers again. He couldn't help but blame himself. If he hadn't sent the boy back to those miserable people . . . but now was not the time for second guesses, there was some positive news at last.

Professor Snape had given him the results of the tests he had been running on the muddy parchment. It proved the mud did in fact come from a wooded area not far from the Dursleys' home. That must mean it had to have been sent after Harry's escape and gave them a new location to search, as well as the hope that Harry was indeed on his way.

***

The sun had passed overhead and was now warming Harry's left as he continued his journey north. He kept his steps quiet and his ears trained for the slightest disturbance. Mice danced in the leaf litter and birds sang in the trees, but what he was listening for most was running water.

He'd been so thirsty when he woke that he licked the raindrops off leaves that hung on the low tree branches, and that was enough for a while. Now he longed for a real drink from a stream or a pond. It wasn't like he'd never been thirsty before, he'd spent many a day in his cupboard longing for a drink, but somehow knowing the tap was in the next room made it more bearable.

***

Another doorbell rang, and another sickeningly pleasant housewife answered the door.

"Good day Mam, I was wondering if you could take a moment to look at a few pictures and let me know if you've seen this boy? He ran away from home yesterday and his family is terribly worried about him." Tonks lied smoothly and handed a few nonmoving photographs to the friendly woman.

After looking them over briefly she handed them back with an apology, "I'm sorry I haven't seen him, such a good-looking boy I'm sure I'd have remembered if I had."

Tonks nodded and thanked the woman for her cooperation before walking off toward the next house. She hated going door to door, but if it helped them to find Harry it would be worth it.

***

The Ministry was far from immune to Howlers. For every one of the scarlet envelopes that tracked down Dumbledore at Grimmauld Place, three arrived on the desk of Minister Fudge, at least that is what Minister Fudge had claimed. They both diplomatically avoided laying blame during their fire chats, but the Headmaster knew if Fudge came under fire politically he would abandon their new found peace in favor of keeping his job.

Things had been far from quiet at the Ministry since June, and Minister Fudge had made backpedaling an art form. He had not been alone in witnessing Voldemort's presence in the Ministry of Magic, and there had been no way left for him to deny the Dark Lord's reappearance. He had refused to accept Voldemort's return for over a year, publically laying blame on anyone who got in his way. Unfortunately that had made Harry Potter the Ministry's whipping boy. When the truth came out, Fudge struggled to avoid being forced out of office for his mistakes. Now with Harry Potter missing things were heating up once again and Dumbledore knew it wouldn't be long before Fudge chose his next scapegoat.

***

Stomach rumbling and muscles on fire, Harry wove his way through the dense underbrush. It was more like the Forbidden Forest than he liked to contemplate although not near so dark. He had found a small brook at some point and drank his fill before washing some of the dried blood and dirt off his face and hands. It was almost too tempting to stay there, but he knew that where there was water there would likely be animals and the sound of the brook would conceal the sound of danger approaching.

The more he walked the more he hurt. It seemed no matter how still he tried to keep his arm it would shift slightly with his steps, causing spots to dance before his eyes. He found himself clinging to the occasional tree till he regained his senses.

Thoughts kept wandering to food, not that he didn't know better. After all those days locked in his cupboard without a bite he ought to know better than to dwell on what he couldn't have, but he was supposed to be stuffed with tea and biscuits by now. He needed a distraction. Something less torturous to think about perhaps . . . nothing coming to mind, he decided to at least follow a more productive line of thought.

Perhaps it was time to ponder some of the unanswered questions that had been swimming in his head, such as, how did Voldemort find him? He was supposed to be safe, Dumbledore said so. He chewed his lip wondering whether or not Mrs. Figg had been telling him everything . . . if she didn't want to upset him, she might have kept something from him . . . that could explain how Voldemort got past the wards – What if Dumbledore had been . . . killed . . .

A dull ache filled his chest. He knew he wasn't exactly thinking clearly, but he couldn't think of any other way . . . Dumbledore had always protected him, in his way. He didn't lie so much as keep him from the truth, sheltering him. He told him he had done it because he cared – please gods no . . . not someone else who cared, dead?

Fatigued, his mind quickly settled upon the sad conclusion that he was now one more step closer to being alone in the world. It was becoming clear, the killing wouldn't stop until he found a way to kill Voldemort.

The Prophesy said he must kill him. "With a power the Dark Lord knows not" . . . Harry chuckled mirthlessly, 'power Voldemort knows not?' It would have helped if the Headmaster had been a bit more specific. He had no idea what Dumbledore meant, but he did know that in killing Voldemort he'd become a murderer as well. Would it have been better if he'd just stayed there in the cupboard and waited . . . to die . . . yes, but to die innocent . . . and to be with Sirius.

Harry shook himself hard out of those morbid thoughts . . . No, can't let Voldemort win. He'd been through too much to give up now. It was time to fight.

A bit more confidence showed in Harry's step as he proceeded, weaving along through the forest. The decision to fight and not give in showed in every stride. Something caught his attention out of the corner of his eye and his foot slipped on a moss-covered root. He spilled onto the ground jarring his broken arm painfully and tearing open his knee. He bit his lip hard to avoid cursing loudly. He readjusted his cloak and stood up trying to see what caught his eye. It was that moment that Pig nearly collided with his head, fluttering frantically around him.

Harry sat back down as the pain made his head spin. He parted his cloak, coming into view and tried to coax the whirling ball of feathers to land. The tiny owl finally settled down on his good knee. It took a bit of work to get the note off without the use of his broken arm, but he managed. Unfolding the parchment, he found what looked like a hastily scribbled note. He immediately recognized Ron's messy writing.

Harry – We've all heard about what happened at the Dursleys' and we're worried about you. I've got Hedwig here and she's safe, now stop being a git and let us know you're okay. I told Pig to wait for a reply.

Ron

Harry looked at the note and at Pig and asked aloud, "and what do you expect me to write with?" Pig merely blinked at him. That answered his question of whether or not they knew about the attack. He was glad to hear from Ron and knew a response would make them all feel better, but he wished Ron had the foresight to send a quill and ink. He decided some food wouldn't have hurt either. He thought hard about what would be safe to write, would fit on the small note and even what to write with. Just then he got an idea and scrawled as carefully as he could with his left forefinger on the back of the parchment.

Pig allowed Harry to secure the note and accepted his apologies for not having any owl treats, then went on its way. Harry envied the way the quick little owl easily slipped between the branches. If he had been able to do that he wouldn't still be here. It might not be safe here any longer if anyone was watching the tiny owl, so Harry stood up stiffly, readjusted his cloak and continued cautiously north.

It was getting late in the day and Harry was looking forward to giving his feet a break as soon as the sun set. Perhaps then he could get a better idea about where he was and even find some more water. He hoped the tracks hadn't turned. He really didn't want to have been wandering all day in the wrong direction.

***

When Hermione came upstairs to tell Ron that supper was ready he was still brooding in his room. She knocked on the door and then pushed it open after hearing his murmur to come in. He looked as bad as Ginny, she decided as she sat on the bed beside him. They shared a hug.

"Your mom said you've been up here all day, and wants you to come down to supper. She's awfully worried about you."

"Not hungry," Ron muttered into her shoulder.

"Now I'm worried," she added half teasing.

Ron shrugged in response, pulling away.

"Where's Pig?" Hermione asked, after noticing Hedwig alone on the perch.

Ron bit his lip glancing at the floor.

"Ron," Hermione said sternly, "what did you do?"

Ron glanced up sheepishly not really meeting her eye. "I sent off a note to Harry."

"You what?! Ronald Weasley how irresponsible . . . what if it was followed – or captured?"

Ron's mouth worked wordlessly before he decided on, "at least I didn't send Hedwig . . ."

"Did you at least think to send him something to write with along with it?"

Ron smacked his head, cursing quietly.

"Ron, we have to tell Dumbledore. Harry could be in danger . . ."

Ron looked green as he caught her serious expression. He stood up hesitantly then headed down stairs to talk to the Headmaster and push some food around a plate of dinner.

Hermione all but pushed Ron through the door into the kitchen. "Professor," Hermione called over his shoulder. "Ron has something to tell you."

Ron was beginning to rethink his choice of friends as he shot her a glare. "Erm – I sent a note to Harry . . . with Pig."

The Headmaster didn't even have the opportunity to speak before Ron's mother started in. "Ronald Weasley, how can you be so irresponsible . . ."

Ron ducked his head to avoid the stares of those already seated at the table, but he couldn't help but notice how much his mother and Hermione sounded alike.

"I know you are worried about Harry, but that is a very dangerous thing you did," Dumbledore stated disapprovingly.

"If you were going to take that kind of risk you might as well have included a Portkey . . ." chided Ginny.

". . . and if Voldemort got to it first he could replace it with his own. Harry doesn't need another reminder of the third task right now," corrected the Headmaster.

Before anything more was said, the fluttering ball of feathers flew through the room crashing into Ron's chest. He let out a small 'oof' and scrambled to get the note off the excited owl.

"It doesn't look like Pig found him, or maybe he didn't write anything," Ron stated sadly seeing the note wrapped around the leg much the same as he had left it. It wasn't till it was free of the bird that he noticed one messy word.

"Blasted git," Ron declared, "does he think that is reassuring?"

He handed the note to Dumbledore who also frowned at the message. One solitary word was written in blood . . .

ALIVE

"Well, with what you gave him to write with what do you expect," chided Hermione. "With nothing but a small scrap of paper, his finger and some wet mud Harry couldn't fit much."

"Actually 'Mione, I think it's blood."

"Maybe we should've sent a Portkey," she whimpered.

***

tbc . . .

~Whomping Willow ~