First Steps

by: Whomping Willow ~

Disclaimer: Just a reminder, I don't own any part of Harry Potter. He is the wonderful creation of J. K. Rowling.

***

Chapter seven: Lost and Found ~


Harry Potter ambled through the woods feeling more alone than he had ever felt at Privet Drive, even while mourning the loss of his godfather. Although the woods seemed to thrum with unseen life, it left him feeling even more isolated. He had been totally unprepared for the long hours of walking through the unfamiliar hills, but he feared staying put and risking discovery. With little other choice, he continued to walk in hopes of avoiding anything dangerous.

As he wandered onward through the maze of undergrowth, he thought of Professor Sprout and the one thing her Herbology classes lacked most . . . they didn't cover edible wild plants. He looked longingly at the prolific mushrooms growing wild near a rotting tree. Although bland, he thought they would fill his growling stomach adequately, but he knew some were poisonous. Harry hadn't escaped death at his relative's home just to die of food poisoning now. He wouldn't give Voldemort the satisfaction of such an easy victory.

Harry realized he had too much left to fight for to start taking stupid risks that could get him killed. One thing that was still nagging at him was the note he had sent back to Ron, but he'd really had little choice. Harry had thought carefully over his options while Pig fluttered around excitedly. He knew he couldn't send back the eager owl with an unanswered message, they would surely have feared the worst, but if he gave away his location or destination he would be putting himself at too great a risk. He'd wanted to reassure his friends as much as he wanted to ask them for assistance, but he knew anything he told them could easily fall into the wrong hands.

He'd also had nothing to write with and Ron hadn't thought to include anything either. So he had done what he thought was best and took a chance, hoping that someone would realize it wasn't a sign of peril but merely an act of necessity, and wrote a simple assurance in his only option, blood. It had most likely been delivered by now, and Harry hoped that they had understood.

Time was dragging on and exhaustion fogged his mind blurring the events of the past few days. If Voldemort found Harry now, he would likely scoff at his pathetic state, call it a waste of magic to kill him. Along with his broken arm, he was bleeding from scratches on his arms and legs due to the sharp thorned vines that grew thick in some places. They somehow managed to inflict their wounds without shredding the thin fabric, leaving faint patches of red stiffening the dark cloth as the only outward sign of injury. He wanted to make sure to tidy up before contacting anyone in town or he may never be allowed into the Three Broomsticks again.

When the sun finally sank below the horizon, he felt safe enough to attempt another flight. It wasn't that he felt he'd be much more stable on his broom than his feet, but it was about the only way to make it if he was ever going to reach Hogsmeade.

A small clearing was the one thing he needed for an easy takeoff, and it only took a few minutes to settle on a spot. There was a patch of woods where the trees were smaller and would be easier to negotiate.

Harry mounted his broom, grasping the handle with his good arm, and kicked off. He noticed the difference immediately. The broom which had so often felt like it was a part of him suddenly felt foreign. The awkward grip in conjunction with the unnatural way his body leaned to one side cradling his injury, reduced his chance of remaining airborne. The tension in his body made it ache all the more.

Gritting his teeth against the pain, Harry scanned the ground for the tracks that had led him this far. The parallel lines stood out sharp against the smooth natural curves of the country. It was a beautiful sight. His grimace turned to a smile for just a moment before the pain tore through him once again.

Although it was a blissfully clear night, it was still cold with the wind tugging at his cloak. Harry didn't dare fly too low and risk a repeat of his previous nights landing, but his body was protesting the flight nearly as loudly at it protested the walking. Harry's clothes were stiff from the drenching with mud, sweat, and blood. It made his position on the broom far less comfortable than in Quidditch robes.

He really needed to find more water. Food he was sure he could live without a little longer, but the thirst was a constant companion.

The stars were bright in the near cloudless sky and gave Harry something to distract him from his thirst and the tedium of scanning the dark horizon and undulating hills below. In the dark of night there was no sense of speed or distance. Faint lights of far-off cities occasionally appeared and disappeared from view, leaving Harry wondering how far he had come. There was no real way for him to judge. He could guess by the size and location of the cluster of lights, but they were just that, guesses. In the daylight he could perhaps recognize the scenery, but at night through scratched lenses it was all a blur.

A small break in the trees caught Harry's eye, drawing his attention to the patch of glittering light below. The smooth reflective surface he'd been dreaming of, a beautiful pond, waited for him. He circled searching the area for signs of habitation before descending to land along the wooded shore. He was infinitely grateful for the more precise landing.

It was a secluded pond, tucked in a marshy valley of beech and willow trees just a little west of the tracks. The ground was covered in lush mosses and toadstools. It had a look of magic that Harry had never known outside of Hogwarts. The stars even seemed brighter from the forest floor than they had from his broom. Enchanted, Harry thought, as he scanned the area. In his mind's eye he could picture unicorns playing in the shallow water along the shore, so it came as little surprise when a fairy appeared and skimmed low across the water before disappearing among the weeds.

The moonlight played on the glassy surface and Harry hurried to the shore dropping his broom along the way. He sank to his knees and plunged his uninjured left hand beneath the surface repeatedly scooping handfuls of water to his parched lips. He drank greedily unsure how long he might have to wait till his next opportunity to drink. The cool water was running down his neck soaking his shirt collar, and stinging in the shallow scratches on his arms and face. Despite the faint smell of stagnation, he thought water had never tasted so good.

Once his thirst was sated, he repeated his earlier efforts of rinsing off the worst of the blood and dirt. He had barely noticed that his wounded knee had reopened when he unceremoniously knelt at the water's edge, but it was now a bloody mess. His attention was focused on his wounds more than the water now that his belly was so full it sloshed when he moved.

A cloud drifted across the moon obscuring its light leaving Harry crouched in the darkness. He felt relieved when the sky cleared allowing the moonlight to once again flood the valley. It was when Harry leaned over the glassy surface that he first noticed his reflection. His eyes widened with disbelief. He knew his hair would be in disarray and his face scratched, but his reflection proved he truly was a sight.

He reached up with his left hand, touching his cheek, but the reflection scarcely showed his outstretched hand. He dropped it to the surface, momentarily confused until long fingers grasped his hand pulling it beneath the water's surface. He realized too late, as his body lurched forward, that the image in the water was not entirely his own, but a combination of his reflection and the face lurking beneath the murky water.

Thrown off balance, Harry fell forward into the shallow water. He tried, unsuccessfully, to draw a quick breath before his face was plunged beneath the surface. Arching his back, his head rose above water allowing for a few gasping breaths, but more long fingers entwined in his hair as he choked and spluttered. A painful grip was followed by a sharp tug on his broken arm, the bones shifting grotesquely causing spots to dance before his eyes. He fought against the darkness encroaching at the edge of his vision as he fought the hands holding him. Sharp teeth cut into his flesh as he struggled desperately to free himself.

The hands and teeth held tight as Harry struggled. This was not his first experience with grindylows, but this time he didn't have the benefit of magic to aid him. Knowing the long fingers holding him were brittle, Harry rolled and twisted hoping to break them. He tried to protect his throbbing arm from further attack, defending himself with his feet and anything he could grab with his other arm. His foot contacted one and sent it flying toward the far end of the pond, as the crunch of bone assured him his struggles weren't in vain.

It had been foolish to drop his guard so thoroughly. The uneventful day of walking had lulled him into a false sense of security, underestimating the potential danger of the forest's creatures. Harry had no idea how many of the water demons there were as he sent another one flying into the weeds. They had somehow seemed like little more than a nuisance when Professor Lupin introduced them in Harry's third-year and again in his fourth when he could use magic to defend against them. Now injured and exhausted it took more energy than he thought he had to fight them from his prone position.

To magic the water demons away would end his Hogwarts career and potentially alert even more unsavory creatures to his distress. Unwilling to take those risks, Harry grabbed the nearest stick. He remembered Oliver Wood saying once that he'd make a 'fair Beater', and decided to get in a bit of overdue practice. Swinging with all his might at one of the green creatures, Harry tried to picture it as a Bludger and barely contained a whoop of delight when it sailed through the air to the other side of the clearing.

More teeth punctured his flesh unwilling to give up their hold without a fight, and a fight was what Harry gave them.

When his release was announced with a final satisfying crunch of brittle fingers, Harry dropped his impromptu weapon and dragged himself away from the water's edge. His stomach churned as his left arm clutched his own broken limb close. Once his heaving stomach calmed down Harry gave in to the dizziness and lay down by his broom. Exhausted and in pain from the struggle he had no chance to fight for consciousness. Fairy lights danced over his head before darkness took him.

***

At Grimmauld place, there had been much discussion over the short note Pig delivered. It had been unanimously decided that Ron had taken a terrible risk that couldn't be repeated, despite their desire for answers. It hadn't even been decided if the note was really from Harry. Although Ron trusted Pig to have delivered the note properly, the handwriting bore little resemblance to the other notes he had sent over the summer.

It was decided to keep the Ministry ignorant of the note till more was known. It was, after all, not a proven fact that they'd had contact with Harry, it could be a Death Eater trick. If the Ministry knew of the note, they may be encouraged into a similarly dangerous action. What they needed was proof, and the Headmaster hoped that Professor Snape would be able to prove whose blood was on the note, if nothing else.

The Potions Master examined the note, confirming that the blood sample was adequate, being both large and fresh enough to test. He questioned those present about who had handled the note before and since its delivery. He wanted them prepared for the possibility that the tests would prove inconclusive due to its over handling.

Even if he had all the ingredients at hand it would still take several hours for the Potions Master to prepare the potion they required. There was only one potion known to identify the source of blood by name and it was rare. It would mean visiting the otherwise vacant school to access his lab and ingredient stores. To Snape it was the perfect location, considering Hogwarts was the one place he could work without fear of interruption.

Dumbledore wished Professor Snape luck and asked him to let them know the moment he got the results. Snape gave his word that the Order would be alerted the moment he had any answers, before he tucked the note safely away and left.

Molly Weasley ordered the children to bed despite their protests. There was really nothing that could be done until the blood could be identified either way. They were all worn out from too little sleep and more stress than children that age should have to handle. Molly still held firm in her opinion that the Order was no place for children.

She hoped the note wouldn't be another dead end like the last one had been. The Order had organized a more thorough search of the wooded areas and parks around the location tests proved the mud had come from, but there was no sign of Harry – not the slightest sign that he had ever been there. Was it possible Harry was skilled enough to hide the signs of his passing or was there an easier answer, perhaps even that Hedwig somehow dropped the note along the way?

Molly hoped the day would come soon when Harry could answer all their questions. She remembered the boggart from last summer, or more truthfully she couldn't forget it. Every time the image of Harry lying on the floor body bloody and broken passed through her memory, she feared it was one step closer to the truth.

***

The first thing Harry became aware of when he drifted into consciousness was the fact that he was not alone. He had no idea how much time had passed, but it had been long enough that something had come to investigate. He could hear footsteps softly padding over dead leaves on the damp ground nearby and loud breathing. It wasn't till he felt something nudge his side that Harry's eyes shot open. He was too shocked to be afraid although he instinctively jerked back from the large black beast that was hungrily lapping at the fresh blood seeping through his shirt.

They appear even more imposing from this angle, he realized. His eyes followed a path up the long skeletal legs, noting how its black coat did nothing to hide the bones beneath. The dark dragonish head was punctuated by blank pupil-less eyes and one look at its fangs was enough to inspire movement. He tried to right himself quickly, feeling far too vulnerable lying prone at the thestral's feet. As Harry stood, his body pitched and swayed causing him to take a few staggered steps away from the large steed. The thestral followed lapping at the more heavily stained cloth reminding him painfully of his injuries and knocking him off balance again. He grabbed at its thin frame in order to steady himself.

Harry's mind was as weary as his body, he knew without a doubt that he was in no condition to fly his broom the rest of the way to Hogsmeade, but the thestral's presence must mean he was closer than he thought, it also meant he was in worse shape than he thought. He had hoped after his flight to the Ministry of Magic on one of these beasts that he would never have to mount one again, but now was not a time to look a gift horse – er- thestral in the mouth.

Harry began to speak to the imposing beast in the hopes it would be as tame as the last. He picked up his broom, ears rushing loudly when he righted himself, and checked to make sure his cloak still hung around his neck, although it no longer concealed him. He was no more confident that he'd be able to mount it than he was that he could fly his broom. His body felt weak and sore to the point where standing was difficult enough.

Harry asked if it would allow him to ride as it stretched its great bat-like wings, and even he wasn't sure if he was now barmy enough to expect an answer. Standing on a small rock he managed to hang onto his broom and successfully swing his leg over, scrambling onto its back. He vaguely remembered how to hang on securely with his knees clamped near the wings and hoped he had strength enough for the trip. He clutched his broom tight under his good arm before he grabbed a handful of mane and spoke in its ear, "Take me to Hogsmeade."

They rocketed into the air at a steep angle, gaining altitude with amazing speed and Harry hunkered low to the bony body. The shifting of wings and body below him made pain shoot through him at regular intervals and it took all his concentration to remember to hang on. The wind was tearing at him worse than when he was on his broom, and the world blurred forcing him to close his eyes or risk getting sick.

The flight brought back terrible memories for Harry, memories of pain and death. He was surprised how easy it was to banish the painful memories though by focusing instead on the more persistent and physical pain he was experiencing. He had to trust the magical beast to deliver him to safety, because he knew he couldn't make this journey alone any longer.

Any attempt at focusing on their location resulted in waves of nausea and it was far warmer to lay his body flat on the boney back. With one arm clutching both broom and mane the other was allowed to rest between the two bodies in an attempt to minimize the jarring.

A sudden change of direction forced Harry to adjust his position, and allow him a more secure hold. The moment he felt the handle of his broom shift, he knew it was too late to save. Any attempt to recover his precious broom would surely cost him his life and he hadn't fought so hard to give up now. He murmured a quick apology to Sirius for not being to save it and refocused his efforts to ensure he wouldn't be next.

The next time the thestral shifted it was into a steep dive causing him to shift slightly forward on its back. He was relieved to be descending and was looking forward to being back on solid ground. He always had and always would prefer a broom.

Feeling the body beneath him stop, Harry opened his eyes. His eyelids felt heavier than he'd ever known as he summoned the strength to fall off the beast with only as much grace as necessary. The ground welcomed him as Harry dry heaved, wishing he'd had something in his stomach for the simple satisfaction of emptying it again.

When the spasms surrendered their hold on his body enough to focus, Harry realized he was not in Hogsmeade. He was instead crumpled on the front steps of Hogwarts itself. Harry felt the need to chastise the animal despite the fact that it brought him to where he'd most like to be in the whole world, but the words were unintelligible even to him.

He struggled to his feet once again, wondering why he bothered. The school was empty during the summer holidays and would surely be locked, but he needed to try considering he lacked the resources to attempt anything else. The thestral wandered off in the direction of the Forbidden Forest, perhaps in search of a meal more suitable than himself.

Standing on shaky legs, Harry approached the door. If somehow the door opened, he could find something to patch himself up with, if he could make it to the hospital wing, hardly a reassuring thought. He gripped the cool handle in his good hand, made a wish and turned the knob. The door swung open with a loud creak that lent an eerie feeling to the castle, but it did nothing to dissuade Harry from stumbling through the doorway.

The door closed with a loud thud and Harry leaned back against the rough wood for support. The distant stairway seemed to shift despite the fact there was no one else here to notice, and he didn't have the strength left to do any more than watch. He hoped Peeves was otherwise occupied, for there was no strength left in him for a battle of insults with the poltergeist.

He felt cold and his whole body seemed to shudder. He knew he needed to do something, but his thoughts seemed as thick as his limbs were heavy. Standing there was doing nothing to help the situation, but before he had a chance to move he sensed that once again he was not alone.

His eyes flitted from one dark corner to the next trying to focus, trying to see who or what was watching him. His knees nearly buckled when the voice rang out from the direction of the dungeon stair.

"Well, what do we have here? If it isn't Harry Potter – the prodigal son . . . do tell me Mr. Potter – why is it you persist in the notion that you are too good to ride the train with the rest of Hogwarts populous?" Snape sneered as he stepped out from the shadows across the room. He was livid, how dare the boy waste their time – his time – wizards everywhere are searching for the boy-who-lived and now he strolls into Hogwarts like he owns it. "Just what kind of game do you think you've been playing? Always so short sighted . . . What's the matter Potter, have you nothing to say for yourself?"

Harry wanted to speak, to explain, but his head was spinning and the world was tilting precariously, words simply wouldn't come out. He was unaware that the shadows hid all evidence of his battered state, that his identity had been confirmed by nothing more than his stature and the reflection of his glasses.

Snape was even less pleased by Harry's lack of response. "Fine, if you do not wish to speak with me you shall accompany me to the Headmaster's office. We will use the fire there to contact Dumbledore. I am sure he would like to have a word with you."

Snape turned sharply and headed toward the Headmaster's office. He was going to floo the Order and let them know exactly what their golden-boy is up to.

Did he say, 'Dumbledore?' Harry thought blankly, his thoughts too muddy to catch the meaning of his professor's words.

Harry pushed off from the door in an attempt to follow Snape. He may not be his favorite person in the world and he may be in very big trouble, but at least the professor would be able to contact the Order and maybe get him a potion to keep the world from tilting so terribly.

He was aware he was shuffling his feet and Snape was little more than a fuzzy black shape walking away from him. He wondered idly how they managed to keep the school so cold in the summer as he stumbled on behind his professor.

The Potions Master was stalking out of the entrance hall toward his goal. He looked forward to making a fool of Harry Potter just as Potter had always made a fool of him. Snape's anger made his memories of Harry's home recede, the conclusions he'd come to from what he'd seen washed away in a sea of renewed animosity. The boy looked a bit tired, he noted, and the cadence of his footsteps hinted at the presence of a limp, but it was obvious to him that Potter had been worrying his friends and the Order for nothing.

His musings were interrupted by an unusual sound behind him, "Potter?!" Snape called out without turning, but there was no response.

Snape whirled around to see what trouble the boy was causing now. What he saw froze him in his tracks.

Harry Potter lay in a crumpled heap on the floor. A trail of blood clearly defined his staggered path from the front door to where he now lay unmoving on the cool stone.

"Bloody Hell!"

***


tbc . . .

~Whomping Willow~