"Lumos." Harry's wand sprang to light in the dark confines of the house.
It really wasn't anything at all like he had expected it to be.
Well, what did you expect it to be?Harry didn't know. More…more something. Perhaps the ruins would have a sense of dread power hanging over them. Maybe he would meet a Death Eater there, and duel him. Maybe he would find the place where his mother had stood and tried to fend off the Dark Lord before she died.
He found nothing like that. Just a house that no one had lived in for years, and that no one had tried to repair. Harry could see the scorch marks from what he assumed were spells, and the sagging frames of doors. He did note what he thought were the remains of a staircase, but when he put a foot on the steps, they sagged noticeably, and he quickly pulled back.
He lingered with one hand on the nearest doorframe, tracing random patterns in the ash. He wondered if he should have read accounts of the Dark Lord's defeat before coming here. Then he snorted. What else could they say that he didn't already know? He'd never heard any explanation for why he'd managed to defeat the Dark Lord, unless his mother's love and the prophecy could be counted as explanations.
None of the accounts probably have anything about her screams. I know more than they do.
Harry pushed himself restlessly away from the door and wandered among the rubble, stirring stones with his foot. The falcon in the dreams had searched for something. Perhaps he would overturn a bit of rubble and find it.
An ultra-powerful wand? He touched a moldering black lump that squished and smelled bad when he prodded it. Harry wrinkled his nose and wandered on a zigzag course to bits of broken wood in a corner.
Another prophecy? He shuddered and kicked at the wood. It ascended in a powdery cloud, then fell back down around him, causing him to sneeze. He shook his head and wandered further into the house, face tilted back as he stared at the half-consumed wooden floor above him.
An egg?He was still snickering at that when the prickle of talons on his shoulders came again. Harry drew his wand and backed up, setting his spine on a wall that probably wouldn't collapse at once. The gray falcon twisted its head to look at him, then launched itself silently at the second floor.
Harry stood still. From what he could see of the floor by the light of the full moon and the charm on his wand, it was far too dangerous to walk on. The falcon could investigate all it liked, but he would stay safely on the ground.
He wondered, briefly, when he had become so rational, and then forgot about it as something small and gray spiraled steadily down from the floor towards him.
He walked forward, palm extended. He would have missed the gray thing, but it fluttered against the wind and towards him, settling in his hand. Harry shivered, and held the object close to his face.
It was a feather, he saw, a small gray feather edged with white. He felt the edges, smoothed it out, even tasted it, and yet could feel no tingling aura of magic around it. He held it up in the light of the wand again, the first taste of irritation leaking past the calm he had maintained so far.
Is this what the damn dreams brought me here for? Something so small and useless—Then a bird coalesced around the feather.
Harry yelped and swung his hand down. The bird vanished at once. Only then did he realize that he'd felt no touch of claws on his hand, none of the weight that could be expected by a bird suddenly appearing on his wrist. He held the feather up again, and this time didn't move when the bird reappeared around it. Instead, he studied the vision by the light of the Lumos charm.
It was a gray falcon, ash-gray, smoke-gray, gray as the waters of the Hogwarts lake. The eyes were brilliant green and pitiless. The image faced him with talons raised, as if in flight, and Harry could easily see the pale white breast and the small red mark on it. He leaned closer, wondering if the mark was a drop of blood, and then decided that it wasn't; it was too brilliant a crimson, and round.
The mark taunted him, teased him, and bothered him until he realized that he had seen something like it, once before: Mars, shining red in the sky. Symbol of war, he thought, recalling the Divination classes with Firenze last year. War was coming.
This bird was made to fight in wars.
Once the shiver of revelation had passed, Harry wondered what to do about it. Obviously the falcon had brought him here for a reason. He would never have thought to come back to Godric's Hollow if not for the dreams, and even if he had visited for some reason of memory or loss, he wouldn't have searched for the feather. And coming on his birthday had some significance, didn't it?
Not that he could see.
He waited for the prickle of talons on his shoulders again, or the gray shape darting from the floor overhead. Nothing happened. Whatever the falcon wanted, it seemed to have become satisfied when Harry saw the feather. Harry stood there and waved the feather several times, but that didn't induce the falcon to respond, either.
This is ridiculous, he decided abruptly, and turned back towards the entrance to the house. The Order's probably found out I've escaped by now, and they'll be acting as if I went to fucking Azkaban. I have to get back.
The feather clung to his fingers. Irritated, Harry swiped it along the shoulder of his jumper, trying to get it off.
It clung there, too.
And then magic overtook Harry in a dizzying rush, and he sagged to his knees, gasping. The world grew brighter and sharper. The ground shifted under him. He felt a tug behind his navel that was like a Portkey's pull, but the shifting, blazing colors around him spun him through a journey that took him nowhere.
His wand dropped next to him.
Harry grabbed for it instinctively, thinking that this must be one of Voldemort's traps after all, and he had just done the most stupid thing imaginable and walked into it. Then he stopped as he saw that feathers rather than fingers had grabbed at the wand.
He brought the wing around in a slow sweep, and stared at it in the steady light.
I'm a falcon. A bird. Aren't I?One way to find out.
Harry spread his wings and rose into the sky.
(Imping is the process used to graft feathers on a trained falcon. It's also a verb meaning "to furnish with wings.")