Chapter Five
Soooo… this chapter's pretty long overdue. Yikes. This message is also super late, but thank you for all expressions of interest for betaing, I got more responses than I hoped thought but unfortunately I can't have all of you!
Anyway, this chapter was betaed by the lovely Nothinglikeyou.
"Ugh," said Ron, picking at the peeling skin on his nose and flicking a flake away. "Ugh. 'Mione, it's happened again."
"We've got to keep moving," Hermione said, exasperatedly pointing her wand at the musty old handkerchief they had been following. It froze where it hovered and she turned on her heel, heading back to meet him a few paces behind where she and Harry had been waiting.
"Not my fault I'm the colour of an albino Grindylow's belly," Ron said sharply. "Complain all you want, but nobody's suffering more than me."
Harry rolled his eyes, taking the opportunity to drain his water bottle into his mouth while Hermione healed Ron's recurring case of sunburn. Each of them was applying sunscreen at regular intervals, all the while wearing gigantic broad-brimmed hats that looked ridiculous and long-sleeve flannel shirts to minimise sun exposure (not even to mention the assortment of charms Hermione had cast on them), but Ron was simply too white. Harry and Hermione, both of darker skin tones, were having far fewer issues and neither were nearly as sympathetic as Ron would have liked.
"Oh, you shouldn't have picked it," Hermione bemoaned, evaluating Ron's erythematous face. "I've told you about a dozen times already…"
"It's itchy," Ron said defensively, then added quickly, "You can still heal it, yeah?"
"Of course I can, it's just unsightly," said Hermione briskly, fishing her wand out of her pocket. "Tempus revelio."
A few long ribbons shot out from the end of her wand, fashioning themselves into a set of numbers. She evaluated the numbers with a furrowed brow, her lips pursed.
"C'mon, Hermione," chided Ron. "It's already past noon, we need to take a break at some point."
"But it's so open out here," she said, casting a wary eye about them. "I'm not comfortable with this."
"So cast a few enchantments if you're nervous." He was already lowering himself down on a rock, letting out a grateful moan as he did so, dumping his pack on the ground next to him. "Maybe it hasn't registered in your brilliant mind yet, but we're in the middle of nowhere. Merlin, I despise this place."
"We're a week's trek from Alice Springs," said Hermione scathingly.
"Like I said." Ron rifled through his pack and pulled out a parcel of wrapped sandwiches. "The middle of nowhere."
"We do need to eat at some point," Harry reasoned when Hermione cast him a look.
"Hear, hear," said Ron.
"Fine." Hermione raised her hands in surrender. "Fine."
She stalked off to perform some protective enchantments on the surrounding area, though not before throwing Ron a disdainful glance as he dug into their lunch.
"You know," he remarked to Harry around a mouthful of ham and chicken sandwich, "I don't actually despise this place. It's just the heat I can't deal with. Tanzania was alright, actually, but I didn't like Vicky… it's just that the further north we go, the more I resemble–"
"A tomato frog?" Harry suggested, cracking a smile and accepting the sandwich Ron passed him. It was refreshingly cold, having been kept fresh by several cooling charms.
As soon as they had entered the state of Victoria about a month ago, Ron had taken an immediate disliking to it – possibly because it reminded him of a certain Bulgarian wizard.
Hermione joined them, and, having overheard the conversation, immediately said, "It's not Tanzania – that's an entirely different country. It's Tasmania, and the reason it's hotter up here is because we're nearer the equator. It's all got to do with the sun's slant angles and–"
"Can you heal my burn now?" Ron asked.
Looking increasingly annoyed, Hermione tapped his face and said, "Episkey!"
Harry focussed on his food, having seen her heal a sunburn many times already. He waited for the additional, "Pellis praesidio," which followed a few seconds later.
"Now," said Hermione, wiping her hands clean and helping herself to their lunch. "My tracking spell estimates that we have another day of walking before we reach our destination, whatever that may be."
At her words, Harry glanced over his shoulder at the handkerchief, dangling there as if attached to invisible strings and flittering in a non-existent breeze. It was a manky old thing and he refused to touch it for fear of contracting a disease from it. Back in its heyday it had surely been quite fine, crisp white with delicate embroidery around the border and the initials P.R.L. sewn in. It was a miracle they had even found so much.
With the assistance of the about the author page at the end of Tales from Beyond, they had made their way into Fjord's then-hometown, Portland. After interrogating the residents (alongside no small about of bribery in the form of money), they finally narrowed in on a small, rundown house in Portland where they were told Hardwin Fjord once lived. Since it was their only lead, Hermione had cast a tracking spell on it to find its owner and they followed it like puppies of varying faithfulness.
"Besides," Hermione had said that day, "Even if it doesn't belong to Fjord, it might lead us to someone who knows where he is."
Harry had nothing to say to that. So far, the hunt for the author of Tales from Beyond proved to be futile, an impossible quest. They may as well have been searching for a ghost for all the luck that they had. He privately thought that they would be lucky if he was dead. Ron was much more vocal about the matter, and he was saying so now.
"But it was only published five or so years ago," Hermione insisted, tugging the brim of her hat lower to shield her eyes from the sun. "Fjord can't be far away."
"A lot can happen in five years," said Harry quietly. "Especially these past five years. Wasn't that book released only months before Volde– for Merlin's sake, Ron – before You-Know-Who returned? Maybe You-Know-Who abducted him, like Ollivander. He'd be a valuable asset, after all."
"I maintain that death would be kinder to the bloke," Ron piped up. "Anyway, we've been searching for weeks. Dead end after dead end, and what've we got from it? All we've found to prove that a Hardwin Fjord ever did once live is a handkerchief that may or may not have belonged to him."
Hermione sat in silence for a long moment, a furrow between her eyebrows. A bird shrieked somewhere overhead, drawing her back into the moment and she scowled.
"We've been sitting still for too long. Let's go."
"It's been five minutes!" Ron protested.
"I don't care, we're practically sitting ducks," Hermione snapped back, throwing herself to her feet and storming away. She jabbed her wand at the handkerchief and it gave a little shiver, shaking itself off before continuing on its merry way.
Without a backwards glance, she followed at its heel.
"She's in a real mood today," muttered Ron, heaving his pack onto his back and waiting for Harry to do the same. "She just doesn't want to admit that we're right."
As they trekked through the red earth, kicking up clouds of dust in their wake and wiping sweat off their foreheads, Harry remained silent. Truth be told, he didn't want them to be right either. If Fjord truly was gone, then that left them to return to Horcrux hunting, and Harry had already proved his worth in that field.
The following days were uneventful. Hermione became more taciturn than usual. When she wasn't doggedly following that manky piece of cloth with Harry and Ron in tow, she was settled a small distance from them, her face stuck in Tales from Beyond despite having read it at least five times, occasionally throwing worried glances skyward. It was clear she was expecting Voldemort's Death Eaters to descend upon them at any given time.
When Harry closed his eyes, however briefly, even during broad daylight, he could envision them starting as flittering dots, framed by the sun. They would then gradually develop from insignificant sand flies to large black smears, each an individual finger on a hand leaping down to cage them between talons.
It was worse at night when there was no sun to give them forewarning.
Yet there remained not even a whisper that their location had been leaked. It was all too still, too quiet. The calm before a storm.
Harry had come to rely on Ron's constant commentary, his wisecracks, and quips, to keep his mood elevated (at least above its default state, which wasn't a difficult task), but after the drag of several long, dull weeks it was finally setting in – even for Ron – what a truly epic journey this was.
All words shrivelled up and died, save Ron's occasional complaint about sunburn, and the three of them trekked in silence, fear of what awaited them at the end of the line looming over them.
If nothing else, it gave Harry all the time in the world with the thoughts in his head. Memories of their expedition flicked back and forth, a poor parody of those cheap, cheesy travel montages slapped together in some tween girl's scrapbook.
It was over a month ago that Hermione first pushed Tales from Beyond into Harry's hands and he read it through over breakfast, lunch, dinner and deep into the night. He found it to be a ridiculous read, exactly what its title claimed it to be – a tale, and a fanciful one at that.
It dabbled with the mysterious matter of time.
Fixed timelines, dynamic timelines, alternate timelines, paradoxes. Harry didn't understand half of what was written, it was so backwards and convoluted and impossible to tell which way was right side up.
Despite being written like an academic text and its critical acclaim, even the readership saw it for what it was. Entirely fictitious, theoretical at best.
But Hermione was for one a believer, Harry and Ron the sceptics trailing behind. How the tables had turned. She was so certain if they could find the author, perhaps he could explain things to them and reveal the mystery behind his greatest work. Perhaps they could fix this fucked up timeline so it was never meant to be.
It was a fantasy Harry could indulge in, at least until the dream was shattered at the end of the journey.
It was too great a risk to attempt to sneak through the International Floo Network into the borders of Australia and too great a distance to Apparate, even if any of them were familiar with the country on the other side of the world. In the end, it had been easy enough a job to intercept and Stun several Muggles in the nearest airport, taking their passports – Giles Herman, Poppy Walmsley, and Frank Butler were the unfortunate three – and a handful of hairs for the Polyjuice Potion, proceeding to steal their places on the flight from London to Sydney. Easy a job but less easy on the conscience – Hermione and Ron made the Muggles as comfortable as possible in the airport bathrooms, and Harry left each with as many Galleons as he dared to spare, hoping they'd be able to exchange the gold for the stolen flight money.
Under the guise of Giles, Poppy and Frank, Harry, Hermione and Ron snuck across the border between the two countries and had not looked back since.
Travelling about took much longer than someone like Ron was accustomed to. Growing up in Muggle households meant that Harry and Hermione were familiar with Muggle cars and buses, or simply travelling on foot where it was necessary since Apparition was impossible in unfamiliar territory. None of them were willing to step foot into the wizarding world either, beyond Hermione gingerly entering a wizards' currency exchange centre to trade in a handful of Galleons, Sickles and Knuts for Muggle cash.
"It's safer in the long run," she reasoned against Harry and Ron's protests. "If we make it so that we can live in the Muggle world, we'll leave fewer traces in systems You-Know-Who may be tracking. Besides, he doesn't seem to have gotten his claws into the Australian ministry yet, so if I just dip in quickly now…"
It was true. Australia seemed completely untouched – at least, from what Harry observed from the outside. Whenever they moved through populated areas he would watch civilians from beneath his Invisibility Cloak, one eye ensuring he didn't lose his companions and the other focused on his surroundings.
The communities here were sunny and cheerful. Harry caught sight of witches and wizards mingling with the Muggles without a care in the world, distinguishing them due to the cloaks they wore and the quiet words that were exchanged on street corners and behind hands. If it weren't for these words he overheard, Harry could almost have passed off the events back home as the memory of a childhood nightmare, melting away beneath the warm Australian sun.
"Sounds like a repeat of the First Wizarding War."
"Reckon it'll reach us this time?"
"Maybe. Rumour has it we'll start conscripting over seventeens to head over and intercept at this rate."
"That's a suicide mission."
When he overheard such whispers, the warmth leeched from Harry's bones and he shivered, clutching the Invisibility Cloak around him as if it could provide him some comfort. If Hermione and Ron were listening too, they gave no sign.
The trail of breadcrumbs was finally leading to an end.
With sundown upon them, Hermione wearily took her wand out and pointed it at the handkerchief, which was significantly less perky than it had been a few days ago.
Jerking her head at its droopy state, she said, "I think we're going to find its owner sometime tomorrow."
"Yeah, a gravestone," said Ron.
Hermione glared at him, then sighed.
"Gravestone or not," she said, "this is it."
"Unless that handkerchief was never Fjord's to begin with."
"Please, Ronald."
"Look, I'm sorry." He ran an exasperated hand through his hair, his face glowing with sweat against the golden sky. "I just don't want you to be disappointed if we don't, you know, find what you think we will."
The irritation pulling the lines of Hermione's face taut vanished, and her features collapsed momentarily before she yanked back on the mask of a stiff upper lip.
"I apologise if you're waiting for me to lose hope," she said coldly, "but there's plenty of time for that later."
She whirled around stalked off, setting about with casting the enchantments around them.
"I didn't… mean that…" Ron watched her leave helplessly. After a moment, he set his jaw and made to follow her.
"Leave it," Harry said, parking himself beneath the charred corpse of a tree nearby.
"But–"
"You know perfectly well that she needs to cool off before you can talk or she'll take everything as an offense."
Ron stared at Harry for a long few seconds, the latter's face set in shadow, before sighing and joining him beneath the tree, dragging the hat off his head. They watched Hermione as she paused in the distance and held up her wand. She was far out of earshot but Harry could imagine the spells she was casting – he'd heard them so often.
Once it was obvious Ron would not be starting them on their dinner, Harry pulled his pack onto his lap and took out another set of sandwiches. He silently handed some across to Ron, who accepted them with only a small grimace. Any food was better than no food, even if they had been living on stale sandwiches for weeks on end.
"'Mione," Harry called out and held up the sandwiches when she turned. She gave a nod, returning to finish her job.
Ron took a lacklustre bite of his sandwich, then chuckled a little.
"Corned beef," he said. "That takes me back."
They both chewed in silence for another drawn-out moment, the only noise was the chirruping of crickets, a sorrowful birdcall in the far off distance.
"What was it like?" Ron asked suddenly, abruptly, startling Harry from his thoughts.
"What?"
"You know." Ron stared down at the ground, the tips of his ears looking suspiciously red. "Back in 1940."
"1944, 1945."
"Yeah. Then." He took another bite, passed a cautious sideways glance at Harry when all he received was silence. "You don't have to tell me if it brings back bad memories. Figured there's a reason why you guys have never told me anything much."
"It's just weird to talk about," Harry said finally, twisting his scarred fingers around. "It doesn't seem like something we can talk about. You know that feeling when you wake up in the morning after a real exciting night, or after you did something wild or unexpected? Then when you open your eyes the next morning, you're back in your bed and it's quiet and still, as if nothing at all happened in the world? And even if you talk about it with anyone, it feels distant somehow, and you know that from then on it'll only ever really live on in your memories, you know that it's been lost in the sands of time? That's why we don't speak about it."
Ron didn't say anything, considering Harry's words, when an unbidden, soft smile touched upon Harry's mouth.
"It wasn't a walk in the park," he said, meeting Ron's gaze straight on, "but it wasn't all bad memories either."
"I'm glad," Ron said quietly.
"What's this?" asked Hermione, settling across from them, the solemn atmosphere having apparently broken her stony mood.
"Say, Hermione," Harry said, struck by an idea. "What's your happiest memory from back in the day?"
"Back in the day?" The meaning behind the question was clear and she huffed. Her face was sweaty and smeared with red earth, her exhaustion palpable. Far from the right mood to play along with this game.
Please, Harry pleaded silently, urging it to show in his eyes. One night is all I ask.
Hermione alternated her eyes from Harry's sad gaze to Ron's eager one, an expression he was attempting to hide poorly. With a sigh, she tugged the broad-rimmed hat off her head and stuffed it onto the ground by her side, contemplating the question for a short while.
She would indulge him this once.
"It's hard to say," she said finally.
A slow grin spread across Ron's face, evidently amazed he would be hearing some of their stories at last. He shuffled across to sit closer to her, Harry also moving forward to complete the circlet they made.
"It's not much," Hermione began, furrowing her brow as she thought, "but maybe that time you fed Umbridge false information about – what was it again – the Smokescreen Spell, I think? She seemed so devoted to you, too."
"Umbridge?" Ron choked on a laugh. "You met Umbridge?"
"Yeah, she was in her first year." Harry scowled at Hermione without any real malice. "I'm surprised. You proceeded to immediately reveal me to her, if I do recall correctly. In fact, every single time I did something to her you reprimanded me like a problem child!"
She shrugged.
"Because you were acting like a problem child. But with hindsight, it's hilarious."
"Why would you reprimand him for pranking the toad with the pink bow?" asked Ron incredulously. "Merlin, if I'd been there…"
"You'd have had my back, I know," said Harry, bumping their shoulders together and they grinned at each other, a semblance of the old days.
Hermione smiled at them softly before turning her face skyward. The cognac-coloured sky, the shimmer of the sinking butter-yellow sun shone out from her eyes.
"But I don't suppose that's a happy memory per se." She drew in a deep breath, her gaze glazed over momentarily, staring into the realm of the past. When she spoke again, her voice was quiet. "The day leading up to the Christmas party. I asked that you spend it with me, and I'll forever remain gad for those hours we spent together. I truly believe that was the last time I ever spent with you before you became his."
Harry swallowed, a shallow noise in his ears.
"I was never his," he whispered. "Never really."
Hermione looked down at her hands and did not respond. Something shimmered in the corners of her eyes, but when she looked back up, they were gone.
"How about you, then?" she asked, a valiant attempt to steer the conversation elsewhere. "What's your happiest memory?"
Harry's heart stuttered a beat. His happiest memory was from the same day as Hermione's, but it was not the same one. When she smiled at him gently, Harry knew that she had seen it in his eyes but would not break his silence.
No. Each and every story in the world was told for a different person, a different audience. The memories he shared with Tom Riddle were not tales meant for this gathering.
Forcing a laugh, Harry inclined his head towards Ron.
"I don't know about happiest, but this one's half decent. On our first day of classes, Hermione threw down the gauntlet in front of You-Know-Who. Challenged him for his position as top Potions student."
It wasn't hard for Hermione to miss his referral to Tom as You-Know-Who – she flickered a glance in his direction as he said the words, but he ignored it. It was easier this way.
Ron missed the brief exchange, his jaw dropping almost comically as he swivelled to stare at Hermione, examining her as if he had never seen her before. To her credit, she barely squirmed beneath the intense gaze despite being clearly flustered.
"You– how– why– absolutely brilliant," he managed around his unhinged jaw. "Completely bonkers, of course, but brilliant nonetheless…"
"Thank you, Ronald," she said in a dignified tone.
"Merlin's floppy ball sack, I've got myself a real fighter," Ron pondered aloud, then went bright red, stammering out, "Did you hear that? I wasn't meant to say that – not that there's anything wrong with saying it, it's completely true, I mean! You're obviously a fighter, but challenging You-Know-Who takes extra guts and obviously you're also terribly smart and sometimes I wonder how you put up with a dimwit like me and you've also got nice skin and I don't know why I'm still talking."
The babbling abruptly cut short, leaving only a mortified silence.
Harry couldn't bear to remove the hand clapped over his eyes.
"Oh my goodness," said Hermione, and somehow her voice was blushing as much as her face surely was.
"Kiss and make up," Harry offered blindly into the dark cover of his palm and fingers.
"Don't be ridiculous." He heard Hermione standing up, all in a flurry. "There's no need to make up or… or kiss, Harry, I'm just going to go read over here."
Only once the clomp of boots on dirt faded out of earshot did Harry un-blindfold himself and face Ron, who looked as if he'd rather eat a Flobberworm then meet Harry's eye.
"Solid attempt, mate," Harry said.
"Please don't talk to me."
"I'm serious, it was solid." He commended himself for sniggering only a little. "Have you even asked her out yet?"
"Oh yeah, definitely," said Ron. "I've definitely nipped in a request for her hand in marriage between trekking through this hellhole and trying to prevent my face from burning clean off."
Harry's smirk grew only wider.
"I don't recall ever saying anything about her hand in marriage."
Ron jumped to his feet, simultaneously throwing his hat to the ground.
"Fuck!"
Harry climbed to his feet, put his hands on Ron's shoulders, lowered his eyelashes and purred, "You've got nice skin."
Ron shoved him back but at least he was laughing now.
It was, in Harry's honest opinion, not a bad way to spend their last night.
It was only midday when the handkerchief with the lettering P.R.L. dropped itself on the doorstep of a ramshackle tin shack in the shade of a ghostly gum.
The sun was beating down, a million sharp daggers on Harry's skin despite the protective layers he wore, and never in his life had he been gladder to see proper shade.
They all paused a distance from the shack, watching the grimy smear of handkerchief from where they stood. The shack did not implode, no one made to exit it. There was a single window visible, curtains shuttering the interior from view. Not a soul stirred. It was impossible to tell whether the place was still inhabited.
The tin walls were coated with rust and grime. There was a rickety rotary clothesline outside, its hinges creaking as it swayed into the lightest of breezes. It had not been used in many years. The garden, if that wasn't too generous a term to use, was nothing but dry brown grass, choking in weeds.
It was a sorry state.
"At least the handkerchief looks like it belongs there," remarked Ron after the three of them had stood there for a short while, regarding the rundown state of the property in dismay.
Harry snorted.
"Don't be rude," Hermione hissed. "Someone probably lives here. Now, Polyjuice, and Harry, your cloak."
He was loath to put on another layer in this sweltering heat but did so obediently, vanishing from view as Hermione and Ron took swigs of Polyjuice Potion from their respective flasks, shuddering as they morphed into Poppy Walmsley and Frank Butler, a middle-aged woman with a hooked nose and a curly-haired youth of no more than their own age.
"You let me do the talking," Hermione ordered Ron in an undertone. "Pretend I'm your mother if asked, and Harry, stay close but do not reveal yourself. In fact, take some of your Polyjuice too, just in case."
"I don't need both," Harry snapped back.
"On your own head," she quipped back, taking Tales from Beyond out of her pack and tucking it under an arm. "Now follow my lead."
She was trembling with barely contained anticipation as they advanced upon the door and it almost would have been funny if Harry's own heart hadn't been pounding like a drum in his ears, beating this-is-it, this-is-it, this-is-it on repeat.
The door was also tin. It had once been painted green, but the colour had been abraded off in most places. It didn't match the rest of the tin shack. A mismatched jigsaw piece in an otherwise complete puzzle.
Hermione raised a fist and rapped on the door smartly.
His pulse rushing in his head, Harry strained his ears for any movement on the other side of the door. But to no avail.
Seconds ticked by. His heart rate slowed, his senses no longer overwhelmed.
"There's no one here," he murmured, heart leaden, and began to tug the Invisibility Cloak off.
The green tin door squeaked open a fraction.
Hermione made a noise in the back of her throat, Ron flinched, Harry floundered to cover himself up again.
"What do you want?" a deep voice rumbled through the door, held barely ajar.
"Um." Hermione, thrown off kilter, took a full second to attempt to pull her act together again. When she spoke again, her words still did not match that of a mature-aged woman. "Um, are you Hardwin Fjord, sir?"
Harry cringed. The voice of a schoolgirl.
A pause.
"Who's asking?" It was a rough sort of voice, husky with age, and it occurred to Harry for a split second that this voice reminded him of someone. He was filled with the strangest sense of je ne sais quoi, and it threatened to take his breath away with the intensity of it.
"My name is Her– Poppy, Mr. Fjord," Hermione jabbered, the thrill evident in her voice despite her slip-up. "This is my son, uh…"
"Frank," Ron offered, much cleaner in his act than she was. "It's an honour to meet you, sir."
If they could even call this a meeting – Hermione and Ron talking through the crack in the door.
"Hoppy, eh," said Fjord, the crack widening a smidgeon more. His voice was significantly less belligerent than before, a note of curiosity to be heard.
"Hoppy, sir?" repeated Hermione in bewilderment.
"Your name." The writer's tone made it clear he was questioning her sanity. "I believe you stated your name to be Hoppy. Interesting name."
Ron's shoulders were trembling stiffly, as if he was withholding a sneeze.
"Oh yes, Hoppy," said Hermione faintly. "Yes, that's me."
"Sounds more as though it belongs to a house-elf."
Those words immediately grounded Hermione and her back straightened, her voice becoming iron.
"House-elves are misunderstood creatures deserving of so much more than the cards they have been dealt," she blazoned, "and there is no dishonour in bearing the name of one."
"Hm, right," said Fjord, a smirk evident in his voice, and this time he opened the door entirely. His expression was one of a cat who had got the cream. "Two birds with one stone there – you're wizarding folk and you're not on the Dark side. So what exactly do you want from me?"
Hardwin Fjord must have been at least seventy years old. Beneath the lines of age and the drooping skin were hints of past beauty, and while his shoulder-length hair was mostly a grisly grey, there were still threads of auburn shot through.
He was dressed luxuriously in fluttery navy blue robes and he held his willowy form with grace. He looked extraordinarily like royalty for a person living in squalor, but upon glimpsing the inside of the shack over his shoulder, Harry immediately understood that the exterior of the house served as nothing more than the illusion of poverty.
This was a mansion in disguise. A long, marbled corridor sat behind the old writer, well-lit with golden candles mounted on the walls. A royal-blue Persian rug with tassels stretched down the length of the corridor, and a cool breeze swept outwards, touching Harry's face, damp with sweat.
"We only wish to ask you a few questions, Mr. Fjord, if you're open to that," said Hermione, and she held up Tales from Beyond.
Fjord stared at the cover for a very long moment. The hint of amusement he had worn on his face moments ago slid off and his black, black eyes shuttered. A chord struck in Harry's heart, a chord that whispered the promise of 'this is a man you once knew'.
"I never should have written that book," Fjord said, something akin to grief creeping into his voice. "It has brought nothing but misfortune to my doorstep."
"But… it's wonderful." Hermione lowered the book, her head cocked questioningly to the side. "It's critically acclaimed, it's on its way to becoming a household name among the greats like A History of Magic and–"
"You wouldn't understand." Fjord's voice trembled with emotion, he braced himself against the doorframe to support his weight. "You couldn't understand, you're far too young to have seen enough of the world."
"But I'm fifty-six," said Hermione, not in the least bit convincing.
Fjord shook his head but there was no anger drawn into the lines of his face when he said, "Don't take me as a fool. I am capable of recognizing a person uncomfortable in the skin granted to them by Polyjuice Potion. Now, I would ask you how you found me all the way from England, but I'd rather you leave me in peace."
It was a dismissal if ever Harry had heard one.
"Please, we just want to know–"
"We're not leaving until you–"
Hermione and Ron spoke rapidly in unison, all too aware that the elusive Hardwin Fjord was slipping through their fingers like smoke. But the more they tried to grab hold, the faster he slipped away, and it felt as though Harry's lungs were filling with water.
"I am tired of entertaining you," he said, retreating into his lavish home and starting to close the door once more. "Kindly remove yourselves from my property."
"Please," Hermione begged.
Taken aback by her plea, Fjord's gaze flickered back up.
When they did, they seemed to latch onto Harry's for a minute moment in time, green into black and black into green, eyes as dark as sin.
His lungs recoiled, no longer drowning in water, and it was as though he was drifting, weightless, the chords in his heart strumming the immortal words 'at last'.
As if in a dream, Harry's fingers loosened around the Invisibility Cloak, releasing it, letting it slip and slide like silk, pooling in a glistening pond around his feet.
Fjord was frozen in the doorway, gaze locked onto Harry's, his face was a mask of ice.
Hermione let loose a horrified squeak. Ron moved as if to leap in front of Harry, but Harry was already gliding past them and towards the wide-open doorway, that deliciously cool breeze from inside washing over him and drawing him a few steps closer home.
He flicked his wand at the ground idly, lazily, trapped in this slow-moving world. The handkerchief that had been their guide leapt to attention and, without breaking eye contact, Harry directed it to hover above their heads. The embroidered letters P.R.L. hung above them, an unapologetic banner of the past.
The old man before him drew in a shaky breath, his eyes glossy and bright.
"Hardwin?" he asked, and his voice broke halfway through.
Gently, as if handling finely spun ice, Harry reached out a single hand to cradle his dear friend's cheek.
"Peregrine," he said.
I should probably officially warn you that the updates from here on are going to be super irregular. Like, super irregular. :( But life calls, man.