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"I heard he went to live with the giants. They allowed him to stay after he helped them battle a huge dragon!"

"You're completely bonkers. Everybody knows he's fighting vampires in Transylvania, the Aurors there are useless."

"Vampires? Are you sure?"

"Course! My aunt said so, and she works for the Prophet."

"The Prophet? They write rubbish."

"Take that back!"

"It's the truth. My dad says so."

"Well, then your dad is stupid."

"Excuse me," Hermione interrupted the two students sitting next to her at the Gryffindor table. "Who are you talking about?"

She had heard stories like that and even more absurd earlier that day on the train ride to Hogwarts too, but couldn't make head nor tail of it.

Some stories sounded like they were about a young boy who ran away from home, others like they were about a dragon-riding, vampire-staking hero who had to be at least a hundred years old, taking into account all his supposed achievements.

The two older boys, probably second or third years, Hermione thought, looked startled.

"Who are we talking about?" One repeated slowly as if he couldn't believe she'd even asked that question.

Hermione hid a wince and nodded. She hated not knowing something, especially if everybody else seemed to possess said knowledge already.

"Why, Harry Potter, of course."

"Harry Potter?"

Her brain flittered through everything she connected with that name at the speed of light.

There was Harry James Potter, the Boy Who Lived, defeater of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, wizard, and hero.

Then there was Harry Potter from Surrey. A boy about her age who'd disappeared a few weeks ago. He was a muggle, a normal boy; or so the papers had said.

Muggle papers, stupid. She scolded herself. Of course, they wouldn't say he's a wizard.

"Don't tell me you haven't heard of him," the second boy said. "Muggleborn, right? Well no matter, we'll get you up to speed. He's the Boy-Who-Lived, he-"

"I know who he is," Hermione said. "I read all about him. I just didn't know he went missing."

"Oi! He's not missing. That's just the cover story. In reality, he's fighting vampires, my aunt-"

"Oh shut up. Nobody is interested in-"

Hermione left the two upper years to their squabbles and took a big gulp from her goblet. She grimaced. Pumpkin juice really needed some getting used to. She returned her concentration to her fellow first years. They too were talking about him and his adventures now, and hardly ever mentioned his name, probably assuming that everybody knew whom they were talking about anyway. Well, now she knew too.

.

Oh, there! A rustling noise! Harry froze, even held his breath, and pricked his ears. Yes, there it was again. Now he was sure. Something was moving over there, right behind a withered bush of dog roses.

Harry turned towards the bush, moving in slow motion, careful to avoid making any noise that could startle the animal. He closed his left eye and focussed his right one on his target – a few, still rustling branches. Then he slowly pulled the bowstring back with the arrow he was holding in the sweaty fingers of his right hand and simultaneously raised the bow. Al had made him practice this move at least a hundred, if not a thousand times until he was somewhat satisfied with the result.

The arrow, or more accurately Harry's hand, was shaking slightly, even though there was no wind blowing. Harry started breathing deeply to relax his body. He was going to do this. He could do this. He wasn't a small child anymore, he was eleven already!

Another deep breath.

He had to do this today. This was his third time alone in the woods, and the last two times he had had to return unsuccessfully. Not this time. Not only because it would disappoint Al, but also because Harry really wanted to eat meat again. Al hadn't given him any for the last two weeks because he said that Harry was old enough to contribute to their meat stock too. As long as Harry didn't go hunting, he didn't get any meat, and only eating the vegetables Al grew in the garden became boring fast. They didn't even have noodles or rice, only the bread Al baked, which didn't taste too great, in Harry's opinion.

The breathing exercises were helping. Harry's heartbeat calmed down and his hand stopped shaking. He pulled the arrow back further and was about to let it fly when he remembered that he'd completely forgotten to check his stance.

Keeping his left eye shut, Harry squinted down to his feet with his right eye as inconspicuously as possible. Al would scold him for only thinking of checking his shooting stance so late. He shifted his left leg a bit, until his feet were shoulder-width apart, his weight evenly distributed on both of them. Perfect.

The twigs rustled once more, and this time, Harry was ready. He let his arrow fly and watched with big eyes as it whistled through the air and disappeared in the dog roses. Suddenly Harry heard a soft squeak and immediately dropped his bow in surprise. He hadn't expected to hit something for real this time. Not after all those futile attempts, where he'd even had a better view of his target most of the time.

Slowly Harry walked towards the bushes. His knees were trembling; from excitement or shock, he didn't know.

Oh god. He'd really hit something. On the small patch of grass behind the bush was a rabbit. It wasn't dead yet but seriously injured. Harry's arrow had hit it at the side of its belly. Blood was flowing out of the wound and colouring the green grass red.

Harry wanted to close his eyes, turn around and run away. He couldn't believe that he was the cause of this. He was to blame for this rabbit's death.

"Get a grip," Harry said. His voice sounded too loud to his ears as if it was disturbing the silence of the woods. Disturbing it like his actions were disturbing the life in the woods.

"Get a grip," he said again, quieter this time.

It shouldn't matter if he was shooting the animal himself or if Al was doing it for him. The result was the same.

While he kept staring at the rabbit – he just couldn't look away, no matter how much he wanted – Harry fumbled for the piece of wood Al had given him for situations like this. It was as thick as a broomstick and as long as Harry's forearm.

His hands were too warm and a bit slippery, which made it difficult to get a good grip. Harry wiped his sweaty hand on his pants and tried again.

With his left hand, he reached for the rabbit.

Hold it by its hind legs.

"You can do this. You can do this. You can do this," Harry muttered again and again. Yes, he could, but he didn't want to, damn it!

Harry cursed Al and his stupid aversion to supermarkets. Things would be so much easier if they could just go to the next village and buy packaged, maybe even spiced meat…

Harry grabbed the rabbit by its hind legs and lifted it up. It struggled a bit, but not much. It had already lost a lot of blood.

Harry stared at the rabbit in his hand. The arrow was hanging out of the wound in its belly, swaying back and forth. Maybe he should have gotten rid of it before picking the animal up?

He gripped the wooden stick tightly and felt for the right place to hit the rabbit.

Right behind the ears.

Al had even shown this part to Harry, but he'd only watched half-heartedly. He hadn't wanted to see an animal die then, and he didn't want to now.

When he found the right place, Harry held his breath, raised the wooden stick, and hit the spot right behind the ears with as much force as he could muster.

The rabbit twitched in his hand for one last time. Then blood started trickling out of its mouth and ears.

Harry gazed at the gruesome picture. The eyes of the rabbit were bulging out; its fur was sticky with blood. An intense smell of copper was in the air and Harry tried to breathe as shallowly as possible. He felt sick to the stomach and couldn't imagine eating this rabbit for anything in the world.

He picked up his bow and walked home slowly. Al would be proud, he knew, but at the moment Harry just couldn't bring up any joy for finally receiving the much longed-for recognition. Not when he was carrying a rabbit, whose blood-smeared head was swinging against his trousers every few steps, staining them red.

Al was working in the garden and he laughed out loud when he saw Harry approaching.

"Finally! I knew you had it in you."

Harry didn't say anything. He wordlessly held out the rabbit to Al.

"Oh no. You're not done yet. It needs skinning and cleaning. We can't just eat it like that."

"I don't want to," Harry said and lowered his head. He didn't want to disappoint Al, but he liked the idea of drawing off that bloody rabbit's fur even less.

Al took the rabbit and put it on a table. Then he knelt down and put one hand on Harry's shoulder. With his other hand, he reached for Harry's chin and lifted it up until Harry looked right into his eyes.

"You were great today, Harry. You don't have to feel bad or ashamed for anything. This is nature. The stronger ones inevitably triumph over the weaker ones. If you hadn't shot the rabbit, then maybe a fox or another animal would have caught it. Rabbits are prey, that's their natural place in the food chain. You're a wizard, and today you saw that you're on top of the food chain, as you should be. Millions of muggles, wizards, and witches eat meat daily. They buy it ready for usage and think nothing of it because somebody else does the killing for them. Killing that rabbit yourself doesn't make you a worse person."

Harry looked at Al in wonder. This was probably the nicest and most sensitive thing Al had ever said to him. It seemed Al realized that too. The next second he cleared his throat somewhat embarrassed and stood.

"Come on, boy. Now you get a chance to show me how much attention you paid when I showed you how to skin a rabbit."

Harry looked down at his hands, then at Al. Could he do this? Could he skin a rabbit?

"Come on, Harry. A man only shoots his first animal once. Are you really going to chicken out now, when you've already come this far?"

Harry tried not to smile. He knew that Al only said all of this stuff to convince him, but in a way, Al was right too. This was the first time he'd returned from hunting successfully and it had been hard work to get here.

He had trained with his bow and arrow for weeks and had wandered through the woods for endless hours. He should be allowed to feel proud. He remembered feeling like an Indian in an old western the first time he tried out his bow and arrow, and suddenly that feeling returned. He was a stealthy Indian hunting for buffaloes. Or Robin Hood! Hunting for whatever Robin Hood liked to eat. They probably skinned the animals they hunted themselves too.

Finally, Harry looked up and nodded. He could do this. He was already eleven, after all.

.

The search was coming to an end. A few volunteers as well as Albus himself still investigated all alleged sightings of Harry Potter, but those claims became fewer every week.

Some of his old friends and acquaintances had lost hope already. If even Albus Dumbledore's magic couldn't find the boy, then he had to be dead, right?

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