The moment Harry opened his eyes, he knew something was wrong. He was wrapped tightly in his cloak and the fire was surprisingly still burning rather well, but it felt as though his bones had been hollowed out and filled with ice. His body trembled and his breathing stuttered through his tight, rattling chest. Shite. . .

The night before, Harry had been gathering more wood for his fire, lost in thought as was common these past few weeks, when the storm hit out of nowhere and he was soaked to the bone before he'd even reached the shelter he had found for himself in another—deeper—cave. Harry had hurried to make a fire in the dark and as soon as it was lit, he stripped down and grabbed his cloak—which thankfully he hadn't worn out and was still dry.

He sat closer to the fire, ate more cooked meat than usual, and drifted off to sleep as early as he could, hoping it would be enough. Apparently not, he thought bitterly as he pushed off the ground weakly and sought out his clothes. They were mostly dry and would have to do for now. He put them back on, wrapped his cloak tighter around his shivering form, and tended to the fire once more.

The earth beyond the mouth of the cave was wet from the showers, cold under the thickly-clouded sky, and utterly unforgiving. He could tell already that the chill wouldn't be lifting that day.

Staring into the flames as they danced with lividity, Harry pulled up his knees and wrapped his arms around them tightly. Dark fingers of fear coiled around his heart as he lost himself in the crackling and charring wood. He can't get sick, not now. Not while he was stranded in the woods, without medicine or a wand. Not when he had so much relying on him. . .

He was then reminded of how completely alone he was. He had no one to call out for, to help him protect what was most precious to him. No one to fuss over him as his already fair pallor blanched and beaded with sweat or feed him healthy food and potions alike to build up his strength.

Getting sick at home wouldn't be a big deal, but out here. . . Out here, if Harry was ill and unable to take care of his daily needs like set traps and hunt for food, or continuously go out for fire wood it could be a steep and devastating downfall. Not to mention that illness would also weaken his already strained core and he wouldn't be able to work any spells. No spells, meant no water and no fire if it went out—which it just might because it was raining again, he could hardly stand, and any wood he might have collected would be soaked through. Harry might be able to survive a few days of sickness, without much water (except what he could cup in his hands from the rain if it continued to fall) and without a fire, but . . . but . . . Harry wasn't scared for himself. . .

In this impossible situation, without any curses flying his way out here, without a wand at his throat, he still had to face the reality that his child might not survive. And . . . and there wasn't anything he could do about it. . .

The only people who knew he existed wanted him dead and cold in the street, body ripped open like a bloody and visceral package to ensure that nothing inside him survived.

He had no parents.

No friends.

No allies.

Hell, the father of his child didn't even exist anymore!

He had no one . . . no one but his child, and unfortunately, his baby also had no one but him. . .

As the heavy sheets of rain picked up once more and the wood was flooded with bleakness. As the harsh smoke of the fire scratched at his eyes and lungs, Harry's lips trembled for a reason other than the fever undoubtedly spreading through his body. Sucking in a deep, shuddering breath he felt a great tension swelling inside of him that he didn't know was there until it was threatening to crash over him. He gritted his teeth against it and tilted his head back but he knew it was too late and he was about to be dragged along by the undertow.

A trembling hand pressed to the barest swell of his stomach before curling into a tight fist around the fabric of his shirt. His lungs flooded with helplessness. And it was almost like he could feel the heartbeat, a fluttering little thing weaker than the brush of a moth's wings and quick as a hummingbird. His Hummingbird. How horribly, morbidly easy it might stutter to a stop, the small flame of a candle snuffed by a gentle breath.

I can't lose you. . .

. . . please. . .

Weeks of fear and pain and isolation had built up slowly in his lungs and arteries like hot, black tar. And now it needed to be purged and bled from him before he could take another step. . . He just . . . he wasn't sure if he could get it all out before it broke him.

Situated so close to the mouth of the cave, head still tilted back, he could see the sky from there. The clouds raged and poured out its icy rain, crying out at the earth with the distant rolling thunder that seemed to shake the towering evergreens and mountains alike. Fixating on the sky as cold tears rolled down his clammy face, completely ignored by the wizard. Harry shifted onto his knees and released a roar of his own. It was broken and angry, crackling roughly through his already raw throat. The sound echoed off the trees but was muted by the rain.

Dragging in a labored breath, Harry shouted again and again, body trembling with the force of it. His tears fell like rain, his breath a harrowing gale. He pulled in another breath to bellow his rage once more, but instead his chest constricted with a sob and he slouched back onto his heels. Clutching onto the fabric of his shirt and rocking slightly, the boy sobbed brokenly into the grim dark morning. He was consumed by his fear and his sorrow and he just wanted help!

He had only turned eighteen a few weeks ago. He hadn't felt like a kid in a long time, but right then, he wanted to be one again. He wanted someone to come save him and protect him. He wanted someone to look at him with only kindness in their heart and to tenderly wipe way his tears, to hold him until he stopped crying and then to make him all better.

But, in the cold harsh reality, as rain battered the earth and the frigid stone under him began to numb his legs, he was forced to abandon those useless hopes. He cried in mourning for what he had lost, the fact that he had missed his chance to finally be taken in by a loving family and cared for. Now he was the adult who had to swallow the pain and turn himself into an impenetrable shield to protect his little one. He had been building his walls for a long time, but it was time to mold them around his mind and let go of the scared, neglected child trying to take the reins in his head when things became too much.

He might lose the single most important thing to him for as long as he lived, he might be fighting a losing battle, but he would not give up until the sun finally set and there was truly no further for him to go.

It took a long time, but Harry slowly cried his eyes dry, pouring everything inside of him out through his sobs and clenching fingers until his chest felt as hollow as a drum. It was only when he was fully quiet, fully still, that he began to slowly rebuild his wits from the ashes and mud left in the wake of his breakdown. He carefully picked up his fears and inlaid them in the walls around his mind to keep them from devouring him, but also to use them to make himself stronger.

When awareness began to trickle back into his mind and he took stock of himself once more, his head felt less cluttered, more organized, less dark. Perhaps he was in denial of how truly bad the situation was and blinding himself to what he really stood to lose. However, the quiet vacancies of his mind were easier to face than the rage, grief, and fear.

Even if he was cracking around the edges, he had to keep going. He had further to go still.

However, things did not improve from there on out.

The rain didn't let up until the night had already fallen—confining the sick wizard to the cave—and by then Harry could barely keep his eyes open, bone-deep chills wreaking havoc on his aching body. He managed to seek out a meager amount of damp wood in the dark surrounding the cave. The fire did not burn high due to the wet wood, though, and it was no surprise when Harry woke up the next morning to find the fire had long since gone out and the cold seemed endless.

He knew that, throughout the following day that it wasn't actually that cold, but Harry felt like he was one the edge of a harsh winter and that was far more concerning than the real temperature. He didn't want to move at all, everything inexplicably sore and a fatigue like he'd never felt before had settled over him. He was so tired that being awake hurt.

He eventually unwillingly gave into his body, hoping that the risen temperature of the day would keep him from freezing without a fire, Harry gave into his exhaustion by noon. He woke up as the sun was setting and felt a heavy blanket of dread settle over him when the first thing he saw when he opened his eyes was yet another downpour. He was able to weakly stumble over to the cave's edge, hold his hands out to the rain and capture a few shallow sips of rain water to drink. His stomach clenched painfully around his hunger, but he could only wait for it to pass.

That was the first night since entering the woods nearly three weeks ago that Harry went without a fire at night. His hunger, cold, and fear kept him up for a few hours, but eventually he had to succumb to the demands of his body and fell asleep again.

True to his deepest fears, on the third day, Harry woke up feeling even worse than the previous morning and he knew he was not getting better. His hope was crumpling like paper birds between his desperate hands, but his determination filled the empty spaces it left inside him. The rain had finally dissipated, which meant he could freely leave the cave, but it also meant that his meager source of drinkable water was gone. Harry wouldn't last much longer. His only chance was to get up and keep moving and pray to any god that might hear him that he find some form of civilization—preferably muggle.

On weak and trembling legs, body betraying him, Harry shuffled out of his cave and began moving again. All of his attention was devoted completely to putting one foot in front of the other. His strength drained away pathetically fast, but he kept moving based solely on his own will. He only took breaks when he became too dizzy to know which way was up and risked collapsing.

The trees were never-ending. They all looked the same. Each trill from a distant songbird turned into a screech. The humidity settling amongst the trees left his already feverish body flushed and practically dripping in sweat. The world around him kept tilting violently, causing him to dry heave several times as he leaned up against the side of a tree or rock face. Each breath dragged abrasively down his throat as if he were choking on the dry bark under his hands every time he gripped a trunk for support. He felt delirious, his mind melting with each agonizing step.

The only thing pulling him through the fog was when he mumbled under his breath something like:

"Please, little hummingbird, please stay with me a little longer. . ."

Sometimes his eyes closed involuntarily and he tripped, falling painfully and jarringly to his knees. Each time, he slowly pushed up off of the ground, hardly blinking at his torn jeans or the bright red smear of blood over his bruising kneecaps. . . And then, Harry fell back onto his battered knees again but this time he couldn't get up again. He pushed, grabbed trees and plants for support, but he never got more than a step before his legs gave out again. There was no strength left in his body, his limbs refused his desperate commands.

Grunting, Harry dragged himself a few feet over so he could lean against the trunk of a tree. If he laid down, he didn't trust himself to be able to get back up.

He just . . . he just needed to regain his strength, is all. Harry dropped his head back against the bark the heady fog of unconsciousness already clouding his mind and vision as he silently promised himself he would only rest for a moment.

The dull edge of panic was not enough to fight against the encroaching darkness.

"Oh my!"

Harry jerked awake at the started voice—the first voice he's heard that wasn't his own in weeks—pale green eyes looking around wildly in his delirium before they caught on a stout, older woman standing over him. The woman looked surprised, and ultimately concerned about the haggard-looking boy before her.

Harry blinked lethargically as the white noise in his mind was still too loud to hear any other thoughts clearly. His vision swam and he had to give his head a little shake to clear some of the clouds from behind his eyes.

The woman before him was dressed what looked like typical muggle hiking gear. A few chestnut-brown and mottled silver fly-away's slipping carelessly from her short ponytail. She also had a round, slightly lined, face with clear blue eyes and a dimple in her plump cheek as she crouched down and offered him a tentative, worried smile.

"Are you alright, dear?" the ring of her Welsh accent brought his drifting mind back to focus and Harry could only shake his head feebly.

The woman gave a troubled sigh and looked around them, as if hoping Harry had a companion somewhere that would appear and help the poor lad before her. Of course, none showed up and the woman found herself in the position to take care of the dire situation all on her own.

Harry blinked and felt the soft, cool press of her little hand against his forehead, followed by a disapproving cluck of her tongue.

"Oh child! Let's get you some place warm and dry." She carefully helped Harry to his feet, pausing a moment when he listed a bit, before pulling his arm over her small shoulders and allowing him to put quite a lot of his weight on her as they slowly began to walk. The woman was at least a head shorter than Harry and couldn't have been under the age of fifty, but she was surprisingly strong.

"Come on, dear, it's just through the trees. I have a cabin here that I visit in the summer. You're lucky I decided to walk this trail today, I usually don't, as it's a bit more challenging than the others and can be hard on the joints." She murmured as they kept walking.

Now that she mentioned it, Harry looked down and, indeed, they were following a thin trail that could barely be seen through the foliage. As alertness slowly dripped back into his tired mind, Harry realized what must have happened. He must have finally passed the wards around the forest and entered an area not protected against muggles—as that was certainly what this woman was. He might be too weak to use his magic, but he could feel that there wasn't a drop of magical blood inside the woman currently lugging him towards her cabin.

Harry could hardly comprehend how damn lucky he was in that moment but all he could do was silently thank Merlin that he had been found, that his baby now had a chance.

Harry didn't know how long they walked for, sometimes he lost snippets of time—one minute they were carefully shuffling their way down a decline, and then in a blink they were halfway across a clearing. Eventually, though, Harry spotted a quaint wood cabin through the trees and heaved a sigh of relief when they grew nearer. Before he could even fully process his surroundings, he was gently sat in a plush armchair in the small living room of the cabin.

The chair—with comfy red suede upholstery—was pulled up to a round wooden table that was covered in a lacy tablecloth with pastel flowers and birds all over. There was a softly crackling fire place next to him and the sweet scent of roses and wildflowers all around him. The room was packed with years-worth of decorations, quilts, miss-matched furniture, and knick-knacks.

Harry was staring dazedly at a vintage cat-clock on the wall when the woman—he vaguely remembers her telling him her name, but can't recall what it was for the life of him—fluttered back in with a fresh pot of tea and a plate of biscuits. Had he really been sitting there long enough for her to make tea? Harry thought with a frown, hoping his mind would stop turning over on itself so much.

"Here you go. It isn't much, but I'll need a bit more time to make something more substantial for you." She spoke clearly, looking into his eyes to be sure he heard her. The woman heaved another worried sigh as she gazed at him before gently petting his hair, as Molly Weasley sometimes did during his Hogwarts years. Maternal and concerned.

"I don't know what happened to you out there or how you came to be alone so far out in the woods, but I do know that you'll need rest. First, though, we should get you something to eat and maybe some medicine for that nasty fever you got there." At this point, it seemed she was speaking aloud to herself more than she was to Harry, as the wizard hardly gave more than a nod or shake of his head when asked something.

"Will you be alright on your own for a moment while I go heat up some stew?" she asked slowly, waiting until he gave a shallow nod of his head before smiling and leaving him once more. She stepped through a door to what he assumed was the kitchen and Harry turned his attention away. Feeling the pressing heat from the fireplace, Harry unclasped the cloak from around his shoulders. He would have just let it fall back against the chair, but then he paused, realizing that he was in the presence of a muggle and a cloak was not typical muggle wear, so instead he stuffed the cloak into his expanded pocket. Harry sighed, settling back in the chair and reaching forward to wrap his painfully cold fingers around the steaming, thin-porcelain cup.

His cognition was slowly picking up the pace the longer he spent in the comfortable, warm room, away from endless trees and muggy air. Harry tightened his fingers around the cup in his hands. He wanted to gulp down the sweet and herbal smelling tea immediately, but just the thought had his throat closing up and clenching painfully. He hadn't had anything to eat and hardly a thing to drink in days and it would take a while to work up enough of an appetite that he didn't throw it back up a moment later.

Swallowing around his tight throat, Harry decided a sip wouldn't hurt and brought the cup up to his lips and was about to drink when an odd sound caught his attention. It was muffled, probably a room or two away—this cabin must be bigger than it looked—but he recognized it quite well. It was the whooshing sound of a fire starting suddenly. Which in and of itself wouldn't be very noteworthy, except that a moment later he heard the rustle of hushed voices whispering back and forth. Harry froze.

He might not know where exactly he was, but he knew that the cabin was still in a very remote place, there was no way a phone line had been connected all the way out here and he didn't hear the telling static of radio frequencies. The only explanation for him to hear two distinct voices was . . . floo.

But . . . she was a muggle! He had felt it, she didn't have any ma- . . . unless . . . unless she was a squib. . .

Feeling his body flood with adrenaline and alertness, Harry tensed and carefully set his cup down on the tablecloth and slipped silently from his chair. Opening the front door with a soft click Harry slipped out and was just about to close the door when he heard the distinct sound of someone stepping through the flood and he highly doubted the squib had left.

Harry closed the door, spun and ran. He didn't know where he was going but he just needed to get away. He was running through the trees but he was still just barely close enough to hear the front door to the cabin slam open. Fuck. He had a head start, but Harry was still sick and though he had healed quite a bit in the past few weeks, it was the first time he had ran since his last encounter with the Order and he could feel the weakness of his calf and shoulder muscles almost immediately.

He couldn't think of that now, though, he had to focus on doing his damnedest to get away. He was suddenly glad he'd taken off his cloak earlier, though it was quite cold out he knew that the blasted thing would have gotten caught on all of the branches and underbrush.

Harry pushed his body to run faster, ignoring the weakness in his limbs and willing himself not to trip on anything. Though, the further he went, the more treacherous the landscape became. Sudden drops, cliff faces, crevasses, boulders, uprooted trees, and unstable ground everywhere that slipped, crumbled, and gave way under his feet. It all served to slow him down and block him in with dead ends.

The first curse soared past his head and Harry flinched away, weaving through the trees and taking on a shift of direction, hoping it got him out of sight from his pursuers. His heart was a heavy drum in his chest, battering his ribs and resonating through his body. He needed to lose them, seeing as he couldn't outrun them or fight them off. Unfortunately, instead of the forest opening up, it only became narrower with sheer walls of jagged black stone and dirt rising up around him. A winding maze of split earth, deep natural trenches that seemed to have been cut by the gods.

Harry was skidding around a bend when somewhere behind him he heard a deep splintering of rotted wood and a few heavy thumps followed by cursing. It had bought him only a few moments, but he would certainly take it. Harry slipped behind a large boulder, the space between it and the cliff behind it was barely large enough for him to squeeze through. The rock was cold and wet but he pushed all thoughts besides getting out of sight from his head as he moved further. He just needed to hide behind the rock until they ran past and then he could slide out and run the other way.

His whole body was shaking quite violently now, sweat at his temples and a horrid ache in his bones. Fear, an old and familiar companion, had once again sank into his mind, feasting on the vulnerable grey matter and scraping its claws against the inside of his skull. He heard running footsteps as the wizards seemed to have pulled themselves from whatever debacle that had held them up. He held his breath and watched the opening of where he'd climbed through, waiting for someone to appear in the sliver of space.

A small shadow passed overhead and he heard the hoarse caw of a crow. Looking up, his eyes landed on the large bird perched on the top of the boulder. Its head flicked to the side a bit, but its glossy black eyes remained on Harry. There was a spark in his chest and he feared for a moment that the bird would cry out again and pull the attention of the wizards probably still in the area. However, a moment later, the crow emitted a strange warbled clucking noise in the back of its throat and flew off.

Sighing, Harry leaned back against the cliff but was startled by the open air behind him. Suppressing a small yelp, Harry craned his neck to look over his shoulder and sure enough, there was a narrow crevasse leading deeper into the stone. It was fairly small, and it was easy to see how he hadn't seen it before. The little tunnel was completely covered by the boulder in front of him. Most adults would not have been able to even squeeze through the tunnel. Harry, though . . . Harry was naturally shorter and had always been very thin.

He looked back at the gap leading out of the space he was currently in. He had planned on running as soon as he had the chance, but . . . if he had a better hiding place it might be better to just hide instead. He could see the exit to the tunnel behind him and that it opened up to some grassy area. Perhaps it would lead him to a better way out of the vicinity. Making up his mind, Harry took a deep breath before turning to the side and slowly slipping into the tunnel. The space was so narrow that he had to shuffle sideways and crouch a bit, but other than the involuntary panic at the enclosed tight space, he was able to wedge his way through without getting scraped up too badly and his stomach—what was most important—had enough room to not be squeezed between the rock.

On the other side, Harry was dismayed to find that there weren't any other tunnels or paths leading him to safety. Instead, he stood in a small clearing—only a few meters in diameter with a vertical climb of stone at least twenty-thirty feet up before you reached more grass and assumedly flat land. The only things in the space were, the thick overgrown grass under his shoes, a few large rocks that seemed to have fallen from the natural stone around him, and—most notably—a huge stone archway.

"What the. . ."

Harry blinked at the sight before him, wondering just what the hell he was looking at—imminent danger momentarily forgotten. It was at least twelve feet tall, standing dead center in the clearing and leading to absolutely nothing. The stones comprising the archway were big and uneven: like they'd been carved by hand from the wall of rock itself and then slowly eroded away at by centuries of rain. The stones were covered in both thick verdant moss and an unidentified crusted-on residue from so much time sat there, exposed to the elements.

Stepping closer, Harry realized that there were also symbols etched into some of the stones—again, probably by hand. They weren't the runes he had learned in school, but they none the less seemed to hold a power of their own. This place clearly held magic, but it felt . . . different. . . It wasn't just there as most magical places or objects were, it felt like he could reach out and touch it. He swore it was just like a live current running through the air, and the moment he made contact it would surge through him.

There was something distinctly alluring about it, but also something overwhelming and it made him feel cautious. Harry stumbled back a step, snapping out of it and remembering his current situation. He turned around, ready to slip back out of the clearing and make a break for it as he'd originally intended, but in that moment, he heard several sets of thundering footfalls just on the other side of the boulder.

"Oi! I think there's something back here!"

The shout came from so close to the mouth of the tunnel that Harry felt his blood freeze in his veins. Shite! Whirling around, Harry looked for something to hide behind, but the only thing big enough to cover him was the stacks of stones that made up each side of the archway. Mentally cursing himself, Harry dove through the arch so he could hide behind the pillar to his left.

However.

The moment Harry met the air inside the archway, it was like hitting a wall of molasses. He came to a complete stop and felt his whole front pressed against something warm that was slowly swallowing his form, even if the air before him appeared empty. Harry could pull away, couldn't move, couldn't breathe. His vision filled with white as he sank further into it and the almost-hot viscous sensation curled around his back until he was fully submerged. Faintly, he heard the shout of someone behind him but in a second it was muted completely as what felt like syrup flooded his ears, nose, and mouth. It filled his stomach and drowned his lungs and he wanted to cough or wretch but he was paralyzed to it.

He felt like this was his end, that he was going to die here all because he wanted to hide. But even if he hadn't he would have died anyway at the end of a former ally's wand. He just wished he'd lived long enough to birth his child and give them a chance at life.

He couldn't even feel ground under the soles of his shoes, he was suspended in whatever this was. His skin was humming with electricity and the substance that had invaded his body seemed to soak into the soft tissues and spread outward in a wave. It wasn't until it concentrated on something that Harry realized it had even been looking for something in particular in the first place.

It took an agonizing moment to understand what it was. Nestled in his chest, right beside his heart, it curled around his core. Never had he been so aware of it inside him, like a cold stone that had been hollowed out to hold his magic. It was nearly empty at this point. It filled with time and rest, the core never overflowing and never completely emptying. For a moment, he feared whatever strange magic was inside him was going to crush his core, make him pay the price for messing with the unknown.

But it didn't turn into a crushing force inside his chest, rather . . . it soothed, it curled around his core and slowly permeated the unyielding stone shell. His core felt odd inside his chest, like the hard planes were becoming warmer, softer. As if the magic surrounding it was saturating it, dissolving it until it was thin, pliable. In the matter of moments, his core was no more than a thin, wet membrane to hold his magic. All it took was a little nudge for it to split like the skin of a grape and Harry's body was flooded with magic—his own magic—like his core had been a container, a binding to dictate how much he could hold and without it to gage how much came in and left his body, it flowed in unrestrained.

If he could breathe, surely, he would have gasped at the sensation.

Like a gas released from its vessel, the magic filled the space of its new container—his body—and he had never felt so much inside him at once.

It was only then that the foreign magic began to pull back from where it had invaded him, collecting in his stomach and lungs before lazily making their way back up and out of his nose and mouth. Frigid air touched his lips, like he was breaching the surface of still waters and he immediately sucked in a harsh, ragged breath as he continued to be pushed through.

Just as it had sucked him in, the magic peeled back from his form at a snail's pace until finally it released him and he was stumbling forward and crashing to his knees. His vision swam, it felt like there was a thick film over his eyes and Harry kept trying to blink it away as he dragged in air into his desperate lungs. What he caught glimpses of through the haze was darkness and oh god, was he blind?

It took nearly a full minute for the blurriness to fade from his sight and when it did, he gathered that, no, he wasn't blind, it was just night. Frowning, Harry turned to take in his surroundings. He was in the forest, with only the pale sheen of moonlight above to make vague shapes out of their towering forms. He was no longer in the clearing, in fact, there wasn't even a stone archway around to indicate it had brought him somewhere else.

But he was . . . somewhere else, that is.

It was night, even though sunset should be hours away. The air was bitingly cold, enough so that thick white vaporous clouds puffed from between his chapped lips. There were even sections of forest floor not far from him carpeted in white. It should be August, and yet it felt like the dead of winter. The trees, from what he could see, were also different. Instead of thicker trees with wrinkled dark bark and crowded canopies of bright green leaves, these were thinner, but undoubtedly much taller. They also sported dark green needles high up instead of leaves. Harry could feel the dead needles under his palms.

Even the air seemed different! Not only crisper in the late months, but fresher . . . sweeter? He probably would not have noticed if he had not just spent nearly a month in the same forest with nothing to occupy himself with but familiarizing himself with his surroundings. Because of that, he could confidently say that this place didn't seem to match anything he'd seen in the other forest.

Perhaps one of the most important things to note though, after getting over the shock in the sudden change of setting, was the utter silence of the forest around him. No Aurors running towards him. No snapping and hissing of spells flying through the air. No other wizards appearing out of thin air after entering the archway as well. He knew that they had been only a step behind him when he had entered it, if they had been able to go through as well, wouldn't they have arrived already?

Harry didn't know for sure, but in that moment, he was overwhelmed with relief. Clutching a hand to the little mound under his stomach, still so tiny, Harry pitched forward and held himself up on his other hand, nearly weeping in joy. He didn't know how, and he didn't know why, but he'd gotten away. It didn't matter where he was, it didn't matter if he never seemed to escape the forest again, all that mattered was that he'd somehow escaped.

As his relief settled and his mind cleared, a violent shiver wracked his haggard form and he was reminded of just how cold the air around him was. At least he had his cloak still. Still on his knees, Harry slipped a hand into his pocket to pull out the cloak he had shed earlier in the cabin. His head felt clearer than before, sharper, and the foggy fatigue of sickness seemed to have at least abated. He hoped that whatever had happened to him when he crossed under the archway, it had somehow eradicated his illness.

Harry paused as his fingers wrapped around a material thicker and smoother than his cloak. Frowning, he pulled it free from his pocket and gaped at the familiar pouch. Disbelieving, he shook his head. 'It couldn't be. . .' he thought, 'I searched my pockets thoroughly, I even washed them in the river, there's no way. . .'

And yet, there it was; the pouch he had lost somewhere in the wreckage at Diagon Alley. The bottomless pouch that had held all of his most precious and urgent possessions for when he thought he was leaving England forever. Snapping out of his shock, he pulled the leather pouch open and immediately began pulling items out.

His torn, dirty cloak that had protected him and kept him warm for the last few weeks. His expanded bag of galleons. The cool, watery material of his invisibility cloak. A shrunken trunk that held his clothes, sentimental tokens, and a whole bunch of books he felt he would need to keep to either teach his child magic later, or to help himself remain as independent from the magical community as possible. There were a few other items he felt would either be useful—Peruvian instant darkness powder, extendable ears, and a few other miscellaneous things he'd collected over the years.

There was also a coat he didn't recognize inside. It was pretty long, would likely reach Harry's mid-calf. The outside was a coarse-black fabric he couldn't identify, while the inside was lined with soft fur. The hood of the coat was lined with the thickest and longest fur, it was also black and was curled around the hem of the fabric to stick out and assumedly protect his face from rain or snow. Immediately, the freezing wizard shrugged on the coat and slipped the closures together over his chest. It was a good coat, loose enough to not impede his movements and would still fit him for quite a while during his pregnancy.

Harry reached back into the bag and finally pulled out the last—and one of the direst to him right now—item.

"Thank Morgana!" Harry sighed as his thin fingers wrapped around the rough handle of the Elder Wand.

Unlike the other times he had held the wand, the moment he gripped it purposefully, his magic did not surge up from his core, but instead burst from every part of his person. The brown needles around him rippled away by an unseen wave of magic. His breath stuttered in his chest and he was overwhelmed by how much raw power was coursing through him. That's new. Something deep in his gut told him it had to do with the archway and whatever it had done to his core.

Shaking the rushing thoughts from his head, Harry set the wand down and quickly shoved all the other items back into the expanded pouch before slipping it into a pocket on the inside of his coat. There were so many incredibly useful items in there, but there hadn't been a spec of food. Which meant he would have to go find some. Harry combed his tangled black curls out of his eyes, for his hair had become overgrown and wild. It was then that Harry noticed his glasses were gone. However, instead of being blind as a bat, he could see quite clearly. Perplexed, Harry prodded under his eyes as if that would give him any answers. It didn't. Huh. Perhaps he'd gotten more from the magic under the archway than he'd thought.

Harry picked his wand back up and pushed up onto his tired feet. He had no idea where he was, so he couldn't exactly apparate. For all he knew, he could be on the other side of the world, if he tried to think of any place he knew well enough to apparate safely, he might seriously harm himself if the place he tried to go was too far away. And, actually, being as far from Britain as possible would be a good thing for him right now. Now that he has a wand, though, Harry wasn't nearly so helpless.

Case in point. . .

Harry rested the Elder Wand in the center of his palm.

"Point me, food." Harry incanted, watching as his wand listed to the side before snapping into place in the other direction, pointing him towards food like the needle of a compass. Smiling, Harry began walking. Where ever he was, he hoped it wasn't too remote, as he really didn't feel like hunting for his food anymore and he didn't want to be walking for days to find another person either. Speaking of . . . where was he?