Author's Notes: A big thank you to wemyss at FictionAlley and FreeDaChickens at Perfect Imagination for looking over this chapter. All remaining errors are my own.
4
It was impossible not to remember the time they had stepped into the Great Hall during the break in the final battle: dead bodies lined up in the middle of the floor, staring, unseeing, towards the clear starry night projected across the enchanted ceiling ... Fred surrounded by family, Lupin and Tonks placed side by side, Oliver Wood carrying the small form of Colin Creevey...
Harry knew his friends remembered too; he could feel Hermione stiffen next to him, her hand clenched over his wrist, tight and painful. He smiled weakly at her and Ron as they walked on slowly.
The Hall was no fuller than it had ever been at the start of term, despite the extra year group: the casualties from the height of the war had served to stem any growth in population. Harry glanced over at the four House tables; Ravenclaw's was busier than usual, Slytherin's noticeably less so. Malfoy, Bulstrode and Zabini were there, but no Pansy Parkinson, no Goyle, and of course, no Crabbe.
He met Malfoy's eyes for a moment and was unsurprised to see that the blond looked terrible. He had not gained any of the weight lost during the last year, and his skin looked pale and clammy. He sat at the far corner of the table, ignoring his housemates. Harry did not dwell on this for long.
Ron and Hermione had already sat down opposite Dean and Seamus at Gryffindor's table. Harry took the seat next to Dean, so that his back was turned from the rest of the Hall and he was facing the window. A few places up from him, Neville was talking to Ginny. Harry smiled at Neville but received no reaction; his friend must not have seen him.
Silence fell across the Hall as the new first years were called to line up at the front, and the Sorting began. It was Slughorn who read their names: McGonagall sat at the centre of the teacher's table, formidable as ever. On the far left of the table, Hagrid beamed at him. Harry smiled and gave a short wave to the half-giant before turning away.
The Sorting Ceremony seemed to pass with torturous slowness, and Harry applauded half-heartedly with the rest. Next came McGonagall's speech: she said little about the events of last year and focussed mainly on timetabling difficulties resulting from the new term's different year groups. Since so many people were taking different exams at different times and since individuals had to repeat different amounts of different classes, it was vital that everyone see their Heads of House and discuss their studies thoroughly.
It occurred to Harry that he did not even know who had taken over the role for Gryffindor, though this was quickly remedied: as soon as McGonagall's speech had ended, she introduced the new staff. Professor Aubrey, a weedy, greying man, would be taking them for Defence Against the Dark Arts, while Gryffindor House would be in the clutches of a strict-looking Russian woman named Asya Petrova.
Harry cast an appraising look over Professor Petrova, from her thin lips to her short black hair to her dark, blazing eyes. If he had previously thought that nobody could match up to the austerity of Professor McGonagall, it seemed he was mistaken.
Professor Petrova saw him watching her. He smiled politely and noticed with a hint of foreboding that she did not smile back.
The Hall was awash with chatter now, and as the serving dishes became laden, students heaped rich foods onto their plates. Harry allowed his mind to go blank for the first time in as long as he could remember. He ate his fill in roast beef and potatoes and turned the conversation to Quidditch: Did Seamus think he'd be eligible for team captain, for Seeker still, or would the seventh years get first call in that regard, since they too would be leaving in July?
'It's not like they're going to say no if you ask,' cut in Dean, shaking his head in amusement. 'Me, on the other hand...'
'They'd be idiots not to let you play. You're four times better than Fletcher.' It was a lie, but a white one, Harry thought.
'Are you going to try out, Ron?' asked Hermione. 'You too, Seamus?'
The Irishman shook his head, but offered no explanation. Ron, on the other hand, said he might do, yes, it wasn't a bad idea ... and with that, he left them mid-sentence to go and discuss it with Ginny.
Hermione took this opportunity to steer the discussion in the direction of schoolwork. She was terribly excited, she said, to be getting back into the swing of things. Of course she had worked as much as she could over the holidays, but it just wasn't the same, was it? Without the guidance of Hogwarts professors, how were you to know if you'd fully understood? You might make a simple mistake and compound your errors.
Harry was about to point out that the chance of Hermione making errors was slim to none when something caught his eye and threw his train of thought off balance. For a moment then – but no – it couldn't have been. It must have been a trick of the light – nothing more.
He tore his gaze from the window, breathing heavily.
'Harry, are you all right?' Hermione was staring at him, eyes round.
'You've turned white as a ghost, mate.' Dean's eyebrows were furrowed. He placed a hand on Harry's shoulder, tilted his head to the right to peer at him in concern.
'I'm fine.' Harry twisted from Dean's hold, watched his friend's hand drop to the table. 'I'm fine, really.'
But Harry's heart was thudding loudly and his hands were clammy with sweat. He wiped them on his trousers.
'What were you saying?'
He barely heard Hermione's response. All he could think about was that figure he had just seen through the window: long hair, pale face, hook nose...
It was impossible.
He could not possibly have just looked straight into the eyes of Severus Snape.
Harry excused himself as soon as he could and made his way straight upstairs to the dormitories in Gryffindor Tower. He was alone, at least for now: later, Neville, Dean, and Seamus would join him, and he would rather be without company for the time being.
His trunk was sitting at the foot of the second bed on the right in his new room. He went over to it immediately and fished out his Invisibility Cloak, which he stuffed under his pillow, and the old Marauder's Map, which he put in the pocket of his robes. Then he pulled the curtains around him and fell into a light doze.
He woke exactly four minutes before his alarm went off – a habit that he had somehow acquired over the years. In retrospect, both the alarm spell and the silencing charm had been pointless: even when unconscious, his body seemed to know what to do.
It was almost midnight. Quietly, so as not to disturb anyone, Harry grabbed his Invisibility Cloak and wand and crept through the gap of the curtains into the moonlit dormitory. He tiptoed out of the room, wrapped his Invisibility Cloak around him, and stepped down into the common room and out into the corridor.
Frequent glances at the map told him that nobody was up and about at this time of night. He moved on quickly, weaving his way through passages and down staircases with practiced ease. He had one destination in mind and no obstacle to get in his way. Within five minutes, he had pulled open the door in the Entrance Hall and was hurrying down the steps onto the vast, cold grounds.
It was with grim determination that he attempted to recall that path he had taken in the final battle – when he had walked past Ginny and on, knowing that with every step he was closer to his own demise. To look at the grounds as they were, bathed in light from the moon above, Harry thought a visitor would never know they had hosted so much destruction just four months earlier. It had taken twenty-two days and a team of a hundred and fifty wizards to restore the castle during May: Harry himself had stayed here before moving on to the Weasleys, though his work was confined to the corridor outside the Room of Requirement. He had made sure to arrange it that way, for there were parts of the castle that he was all too happy to avoid.
He continued walking briskly, arms wrapped round himself under the cloak to fend against the cold. He was near Hagrid's cabin now – he could just make out the sound of Fang's snoring from inside – but he swerved to the right rather than continue straight and swiftly reached the edge of the Forbidden Forest.
Here, the path was trickier; he recalled the stone had fallen in the clearing of Aragog's old lair, but none of the trails through the trees looked familiar to him. Even with Lumos cast, he could only see a few yards ahead of him; the branches canopied above blocked most of the moonlight. He walked for what seemed like forever over crisp fallen leaves, brittle twigs, and broken roots that snapped under his feet. And then, quite suddenly, he stopped.
He had heard something.
Harry held his breath: the footsteps were getting louder. Foliage crackled and crunched on the ground nearby. He fought against his instinct to call out, simply gripping his wand tight and waiting. Under the cover of his Invisibility Cloak, he held the advantage.
And then a person stepped into the small clearing, his path lit by a Lumos charm. The glow from the tip cast a brief illumination of his features: pale skin, high cheekbones, thin lips, eyes wide with fear.
'Oh, it's just you.' And Harry pulled off his cloak to reveal himself to Malfoy.
'Jesus – Potter.' Malfoy took a step back, and Harry watched relief wash over the Slytherin's face. 'You were making a right racket. I thought you were a centaur.' He lowered his wand, and then seemed to reconsider that manoeuvre. With more of a bite to his tone, he said, 'What are you doing out here?'
'What are you doing, Malfoy? Don't you know it's dangerous in the forest? You might get killed, or better.'
Malfoy ignored the taunt. 'It's none of your business,' he said coldly, his eyes narrowed to slits. 'I suggest we just go our separate ways. I'm feeling the rather pressing urge not to talk to you, and I can't see it subsiding any time soon.'
Harry snorted. 'Would have thought you could do with the company. After all, no one else is talking to you, are they? And why would they want to?'
'Shut up, Potter.'
'That's it, isn't it, Malfoy? Came out here to mope alone, all alone. I expect you wanted to run into something like a centaur, have it put you out of your misery –'
But Malfoy only laughed, low and without any trace of humour. 'Nice to see you've matured since last year, Potter. Never would have thought it.'
He swung around and stalked back into the forest before Harry could reply.
Unconcerned, Harry carried on in his original direction. It was around here somewhere: he could see that the trees were thinner here, the gaps between them widened over the years by the road-runs of Mr. Weasley's battered old car. He held his wand high above him, peering in its glow. Only a few feet further, he saw it – a piece of enormous spider's web, its threads glistening like gold.
Swallowing down the bile that rose to his throat, he pushed recklessly through the foliage. As soon as he reached the clearing, he dropped to his knees.
The search took him deep into the night and through the small hours of the morning. Using Accio did not cross his mind: he knew better than to hope that such an item would yield to simple magic.
His method was frantic and wearying: he started at points he thought he recognized, but after a while, everything started to look the same – and in consequence, his efforts became randomized. By half past two, his right shoulder was aching badly, and he was sure his knees were bleeding. The stone was the size of his thumbnail, the clearing the size of a large house. He knew the odds were against him finding it, yet this did not stop him; it drove him to look harder, faster, his desperation rising with each minute that ticked by.
Darkness gave way to twilight and still Harry searched. His hands were red and raw and scratched from scraping at the earth. He stood up and used his feet, sifted through leaves and twigs, pausing, peering, praying he would somehow come across it. A half hour passed, and then another. Light filtered in around him; the sun was starting to rise.
His body felt stiff when he stretched and looked at his wristwatch: it was ten past six. He could not stay out here much longer; his housemates would be getting up in just under an hour.
Battered, defeated, he stumbled away from the clearing. His knee gave a horrid crack, and he leant against a tall oak tree for support.
And that was when he saw it. A foot off the ground, resting innocently on the bark of a large tree root. Hiding in plain sight.
Harry sunk to the ground. Trembling, he reached over and picked up the Resurrection Stone.
It was not quite as he remembered it: though still cracked, the stone had a greyish tinge, as if it had been out in the sun too long. It still felt the same, though: light, yet somehow heavy; cold, yet somehow warm.
A smile crept across his face as he closed his eyes and let his head rest against the tree bark. His body was exhausted, but his mind, he thought, had never been more alive.
Slowly, surely, with deliberate care, he turned the stone over four times.