Chapter 7
A.P.
As was usually the case these days, Harry awoke with a pounding headache. The pressure in his head was even greater than usual, and it took a while to recall why.
A sudden frenzy of joyous celebration had infected Hogwarts after last night's announcement. Liza, making good use of her cloak and Map, had done the noble task of sneaking in an assortment of wine and whisky from Hogsmeade, which was promptly distributed among all four houses. The teachers must have been feeling generous indeed, or perhaps otherwise engaged in their own celebrations, for there was no missing the party that took place later in the Slytherin Common Room.
The festive spirit, however, did not come easy to Harry. Just a single sip of Ogden's Firewhisky had brought back unpleasant memories of flying in the dark of night, of the roaring of a motorbike and terrified yells, of Mad-Eye Moody and Hedwig, bodies limp as they fell through the clouds… That was the night he had tasted firewhisky last, and its events would forever be associated with the searing sensation of the liquid in his throat. Quite unfortunate, for it was exactly the kind of memory he'd wished the drink would wash out, at least temporarily.
Still, perhaps it was more successful than he expected in that endeavor, for he struggled to piece together everything that happened after just a handful of shots.
The reason for his premature rousing was immediately made apparent by the dryness of his lips and the prickle in his throat. He groaned, fished for his spectacles, and stumbled from his bed, dragging himself to the water fountain while resisting the urge to throw up all of last night's feast.
Once sufficiently hydrated, he made a quick visit to the bathroom before plopping back down on his bed. Their only view to the outside world was provided by a wood-rimmed circular window, which now displayed the pitch black waters of the Great Lake.
It was still very early in the morning, then. He could attempt to go back to sleep, though he knew it would be futile at best and painful at worst. It would probably do him well to somehow find a way to soothe the raging riot in his skull first. A visit to the kitchens would do. He didn't know of any magical remedies for hangovers, but the house-elves probably did, and he could tend to the rumbles in his stomach besides. After raiding the kitchen, he could make a quick detour to the Forbidden Forest, where he could finally embark on his wand-making journey proper with a most riveting first step: collecting wood.
So it was that Harry exited his dorm room with the bearing of a wounded soldier and the determination of a hungry dragon, about ten minutes after waking up. Just as he creaked the door shut behind him, muffling the echoes of Crabbe's snores, it occurred to him that he had a perfectly good Cloak of Invisibility just begging to be used. Sod it, he thought as he trod down the stairs. No one's awake at this ungodly hour anyway. Probably.
The main interior of the Slytherin Common Room had the shape of a tall treasure chest, with the ceiling made entirely of glass. Fuzzy outlines of luminescent fish gleamed at him from above, like shooting stars in a moonless night. Tiers of mezzanines, each hosting sleeping quarters and various other side-rooms, overlooked the ground floor. Seventh years had the privilege of claiming the topmost level, well shielded from the racket of inconsiderate lower years.
More than once he gripped the railings to prevent a most embarrassing fall, his spinning vision exacerbating the dangers of the enveloping darkness and rickety stairs. He grimaced when he finally reached the ground floor; the attacks on his head had gained ferocity with every move he made, and the prospect of going back to bed suddenly seemed much more appealing. He continued forward anyway.
An array of green chandeliers of increasing heights hung from the ceiling, providing a soft contrast to the rough, flagrant glare of the crackling hearth. Rows of secluded alcoves lined the walls, all overlooking the waters beyond. The fireplace was wrapped by lush couches and sofas, and it was there that Harry spotted a moving figure. Shit.
"Potter?"
Perched on the seat nearest to the hearth was Daphne Greengrass. Her appearance showed no indication of the early hours, nor last night's frantic celebrations; her light blonde hair was curled into an elegant bun, her night robes sleek and tidy, and she sat with surprising grace given the lack of audience. What a contrast they must've been. His own hair was a war-torn mess, his attire a profane combination of haphazardly chosen robes.
"Greengrass?" he said, voice hoarse. "Why the hell aren't you cocooned in your blankets like the rest of us?"
"I could ask you the same question, Potter."
He could only groan in reply, rubbing his forehead.
Greengrass cackled. "Had fun last night?"
"Did you?"
"I did enjoy the Superior Red your cousin brought us," she asked. "But I happen to have something which most here seem to lack: self-restraint."
"Ah," he said, leaning his hand against the back of a sofa for support, not quite awake enough to summon a retort. "Wait, you work for the Hospital Wing — you wouldn't happen to know where I can find a potion for hangovers, would you?"
"Even if it existed, I suspect I'd have a difficult time indeed persuading Madame Pomfrey to stock it," said Greengrass. "But I happen to know a close candidate. Mopsy!"
A house-elf materialized in front of Greengrass, draped in a relatively stylistic robe of wool. "Mistress Daphne called for Mopsy?"
"Yes, Mopsy," said Greengrass kindly. "Can you please make me a glass of sunberry juice, minced with alihotsy leaves and imbued with a slight tinge of honey?"
"Certainly, Mistress Daphne! Is Mistress Daphne needs anything more?"
"Not for the time being. Though… perhaps don't mention this to father, Mopsy."
"Thank you," he said, when the house-elf left. He swiveled and plopped down on the couch closest to Greengrass. "What're you doing still up, anyway?"
"A personal oversight," said Greengrass, looking faintly embarrassed. "After the party, I intended to finish my Charms essay to free up the weekend, but the evening was starting to weigh on me… I had Topsy brew me a cup of mooncalf coffee, with specific instructions on dosage so as to keep me up for an hour or two, but no longer. I failed to account for the fact that father likes his mooncalf beans at full potency, so now I…"
"Feel like you wanna run around the place?"
"More or less," she said with a shrug.
Mopsy appeared once more, gripping a glass of iced maroon liquid, adorned with a silver straw and a little red-white umbrella. She set it on the table, bowed to both he and Greengrass, and was gone not a second later.
"Go ahead," said Greengrass, motioning at the drink. "It won't relieve you of all your ailments, but it should somewhat soothe most of your symptoms."
Nodding gratefully, he leaned towards the table to pick it up. The juice was warm and startlingly viscous, and he finished it all with a single gulp, his mouth wafting with its sweet, sour flavor. A wave of energy surged through his body. It felt as if he was once more moving on land after hours of trudging through mud, and the pounding in his head had faded into a faint, though annoying, hum.
"Thanks, again," he said. The glass poofed upon touching the table. "It really works."
She smiled in response, looking pleased as she fiddled with the book in her lap. It was a well worn leather-bound tome, engraved with the gilded words: A Treatise on Natural Philosophy.
"You've been learning alchemy, have you?" he said, nodding at the book.
"Indeed, and so have you, I've noticed," said Greengrass. "I assume it has something to do with what happened in Professor Moody's class, with your wand."
"Yeah, that's it," he said quickly. "It's been acting out, so I've just decided to make a new one on my own."
"You know," said Greengrass, voice laced with amusement. "Most people would simply buy a new wand. If you told Professor McGonagall, I'm sure she'd allow you to make a quick visit to Hogsmeade or Diagon Alley, given how crucial it is for our studies."
"I guess, but…" He strained for an excuse. Though his mind was partly rejuvenated, thinking still felt rather like looking for the Golden Snitch while blindfolded. "I've done that already, when my previous wands were acting out. Went to Ollivanders, but none of his wands really fit, so…"
He shrugged, hoping the answer — a product of his mildly addled brain — was good enough for Greengrass.
"I find that rather hard to believe," she said. "Out of the hundreds, possibly thousands, of wands stacked on his shelves, surely one would select you? And if not, surely Mr Ollivander would craft one specifically designed for your needs."
"I'm as confused as you are," he said casually. "Didn't really explain much, Ollivander. Just said I needed to make my wand on my own — it'd work better, apparently."
Greengrass hummed, thinking.
"Does it have something to do with your stay in the Hospital Wing?"
"Huh?" he said, startled. "Oh, that — well — I —"
"You don't have to elaborate," she said quickly. "It's just, the nature of the potions Madam Pomfrey gave you… Dreamless Sleep, Calming Draughts, Eximometus Draughts… The latter was a joy to brew, by the way, though I don't suspect I'll brew it often — are you familiar with what it is usually used for?"
"I may have an idea, yes," said Harry flatly.
"It is most commonly prescribed to Ex-Aurors or war veterans," said Greengrass. "And spell shock and trauma can often have adverse effects on one's magic, so perhaps that's…" Seemingly realizing the tactlessness of her words, her ears turned pink and she changed the subject: "but I'm sure you know all that, of course. Regardless, you managed to summon a corporeal patronus with your wand, so it can't be too bad. Speaking of, that wasn't your first time casting the charm, was it?"
"No," he admitted.
"Good, now I can feel less ashamed of my own abilities," said Greengrass, though he could've sworn there was a trace of disappointment in her expression. "We're already several lessons in, and my efforts to master the spell have been about as fruitful as my attempts to make the Blast-Ended Skrewt edible."
"Why in the world would you do that?" he asked, baffled, unsure whether she was joking with her last statement.
"To see if it was possible; what other reason could there be?" she said matter-of-factly, though there was a twinkle in her eyes. "I'll have you know that the best pieces of magical knowledge often have outlandish origins. Take the Patronus charm, for instance. Did you know that it came out of a drunken bet?"
"What?"
"It's true!" said Greengrass, looking oddly giddy. Whether it was the coffee at work, or a result of sheer eagerness, he didn't know. "Three of the best scholars at the time, so the story goes, were drinking in a tavern, discussing the latest inventions in protective spells. Shield charms were all the rage back then — it was just discovered that you could make strange variations of the charm by imbuing it with the properties of other spells. Most of these are defunct now, of course, having little practicality, but they are an interesting theoretical curiosity nonetheless…
"Anyway, the scholars wagered on who out of the three could devise the most unique variation. The first created Protego Avis, wherein the shield manifests as a flock of birds swirling around the caster. The second scholar was more inventive still, linking the shield with the Disillusionment Charm, causing weaker spells to pass through him as if he wasn't there. But the third, instead of invoking the physical world, or calling upon another spell, did something unprecedented. He channeled something more abstract: his own emotions, and by doing so he invented the fundamentals of the Patronus Charm and inadvertently revolutionized the field of defensive magic, all while drunk as a hinkypunk. I think about it sometimes when I struggle with spells."
Truth be told, he wasn't particularly enthusiastic about Magical History, but the way Greengrass' eyes glowed as she talked, the enthusiasm in her voice, growing with every word, the way she leaned slightly at his direction as she spoke… She could talk about the standardization of cauldron bottom thickness, and he would still listen.
"Well, did he win the bet?" he asked, encouraging her to continue.
"You'd think he did, would you?" said Greengrass, chuckling. "But no — it was said that the third scholar was so inebriated at the time that he couldn't conjure the spell he devised, so the other two thought it was all baloney, and the prize went to the second scholar. It was only once the third had gathered all his wits back that he fully realized his discovery. And I must admit, the theory behind the spell is rather elegant. For a charm, at least."
"For a charm?" said Harry, bemused.
"Not as beautiful nor as profound as the deepest theories in alchemy," she said adamantly.
"Both are equally dry to me," he said. He enjoyed the affronted expression in Greengrass' face, though an odd sense of guilt arose in him. "But I haven't read too much into alchemy to know for sure, anyway, not like you — I guess you've been learning alchemy for healing, right? That's what you said you wanted to do after Hogwarts?"
"It's the other way around," said Greengrass. "No alchemist of worth will apprentice someone straight out of Hogwarts; you'd need some experience, and preferably some papers under your belt to even be considered. Several years — decades, perhaps — in a Healer's ward shall help in that regard."
"Alchemist, huh?" he said. In all his years, he hadn't known anyone his age to have studied alchemy, let alone aspire to do it for a living. He had assumed she was like some of the Ravenclaws he knew, gunning for the most prestigious jobs, such as Healing. "Y'know, most people see healing as a career path to strive towards, and not just a means to an end. I mean, it's a noble job, isn't it, healing? You get to help people, save lives, that sort of thing."
"And where do you think the potions we use to save lives come from?" asked Greengrass, voice growing louder with passion. "Modern potions rests on the shoulders of alchemy. Charms and transfiguration — they all rely on the theoretical framework established by alchemical experiments and theories of the alchemists of old. We would be nothing without it."
He'd gleamed as much from what little reading he'd done, but he was rather under the impression that alchemy was akin to ancient sorcery: magicks long discarded for more modern and efficient methods. Certainly the precise, rigid recipes behind potions were much more straightforward to follow than the arcane, often contradictory recipes for alchemical elixirs.
"If we already have all that stuff, what's alchemy for?" he asked, genuinely curious. "I'm not saying it's useless or anything, obviously you need to know the theory to create new potions and spells, but — I dunno, maybe I just don't get it, but I thought we've discovered everything there is to know when the Philosopher's Stone was invented. Wasn't that the original goal of alchemy, I mean?"
"That's exactly the sort of mindset that fosters the stagnancy of magical progress."
"Stagnancy?" asked Harry, raising an eyebrow. "Don't we already have it pretty good? Compared to muggles, I mean. Magic can do everything we want, we can easily live to the age of a hundred, and there's a cure for all diseases out there—"
"Not all," said Greengrass, voice soft but sharp.
The silence hung over them like a cracked ceiling; he wasn't eager to break it. She sighed, picking up her charcoal and sketchpad from the table, and started drawing.
"Besides," she said firmly, right hand making broad strokes on the paper. "The Philosopher's Stone is but a hint of what is possible. What of the panacea, the universal remedy? And the Wand — to date, it is our best way of channeling magic, but as you have noticed, it is far from perfect. What if we could do away with wands entirely, and perform advanced, controlled magic with merely our fingers? What if we could defy the Life-Death barrier, and resurrect the dead?"
"Impossible."
"And how would you know that?"
He thought of what Dumbledore had told him, before he had arrived in this world. "It's just a fact of life. What's dead can never be resurrected."
"Not with our current understanding of magic," said Greengrass. "Which is dictated by discoveries in alchemy. The fact is, our lives are still far from ideal. We are powerless without a wand. And, barring the Flamels, we still die of old age, of diseases."
"Yeah, but that's just life, isn't it?"
"For a muggle, perhaps."
Something about her tone ticked him off.
"Steady on," he said lightly. "My mum's a muggleborn. I don't like the way you—"
"But then she's a witch, not a muggle—"
"Even still," he said. "The way you said muggle…"
"I'm not prejudiced, if that's what you're implying," she said. "I'm merely acknowledging that we have powers they do not, and hence have higher expectations for our quality of life. Is that not reasonable?"
"I guess," he said.
She had a point, if initially told in an unfortunate manner, and he suddenly felt sheepish. Perhaps it was a remnant of his old animosity towards Slytherin that had caused him to overreact to a somewhat innocuous statement. Greengrass wasn't the type to spout wizarding supremacy nonsense, anyway.
"But I apologize, all the same," she said. "Perhaps I could have worded it differently. My point was, we have learned how to mend broken bones within a single night, to regrow limbs and transform silver into gold. We can fly, travel instantly from one place to another, and build houses with a flick of our wands. These things were once impossible, too. What's stopping us from going further?"
"Complacency?"
Greengrass beamed. "Exactly!"
"But I dunno, it's just hard for me to call someone like Dumbledore or Flamel complacent," he said, shrugging. "If what you say is true, and a universal remedy, and controlled wandless magic, and whatnot are all possible, why aren't they working on it? Why aren't more people working on it? It'd make so many lives better."
She didn't answer, instead gripping her charcoal tighter and moving it with increased ferocity, eyebrows furrowed. Embracing the silence, he leaned against the couch and closed his eyes, feeling the tides of drowsiness once more lapping on his —
Suddenly remembering the reason why he abandoned his bed in the first place, he sat up, eyes shooting towards the ceiling. It was still dark outside, but the darkness won't last forever…
"Listen, I'm gonna go out for a while, would you mind covering for me?" he said. "If anyone asks, just tell them I'm in the Hospital Wing or something. I should be back later this morning — hopefully before everyone wakes up."
"Up to no good, Potter?"
"No, I—" he stammered, before realizing he had no reason to lie. "I just need to gather some wood for the wand. The Forbidden Forest should do, you reckon?"
Greengrass looked up from her paper, eyes turning towards his. It suddenly occurred to him that the Forbidden Forest was supposed to be… well, forbidden. Unlike him, normal students don't tend to make a habit of visiting it.
Greengrass stood. "I'll join you."
"What?"
"You'll get lost if no one is accompanying you, considering it's your first time there," she said, picking up her belongings from the table. She snatched her sketchpad, seemingly considering something, before stacking it on her pile of books. "I've been assisting Madame Pomfrey in collecting certain herbs and plants from the Forest since fifth year, and she's since delegated the whole task for me. I was planning on going tomorrow, but since you insist on going now…"
She glanced down at her robes; it had the color of milk, its texture thin and silky, flowing all the way down to her feet. "Just give me a second — I shall change to something more fitting for the occasion."
With her hands full of books and stationaries, she carefully trod up the stairs, the echoes of her steps accompanying the thrum of the hearth's crackle. He watched the fire dancing eternally on the logs. Wood turned to ash, and the ash hovered up and materialized back into wood, and on it went, from wood to ash, and ash to wood. It was a most ingenious combination of charms and transfiguration, even invoking the alchemical theory of cyclic models. Usually he'd pay no mind to these things, but a combination of working with more advanced magic during his tenure at the Marauder's Broom, and researching wandlore and alchemy, had changed the way his mind worked. Hermione would've been proud…
The resurgence of a rhythmic thudding announced Greengrass' imminent return. Indeed she appeared from the corner, strolling down the steps. She had a significant shift in outfit: on the outside she wore a thick brown coat which reached her knees, laden with large pockets; inside she sported a green tunic which clung rather well to her figure, waist fastened with a leather toolbelt; and her white loafers had been replaced by a tall black boot, her neat bun capped by a cream bowler hat. He suddenly felt underdressed. She was the image of an adventurer.
He cleared his throat. "Right," he said. "Let's go, then."
They stood by a cramped opening to the wall of trees at the forest's edge. Here the grass and shrubbery spired up to his knees, biting exposed skin; he glanced at Greengrass' high boots with envy.
Mist clung to the air inside, like pregnant clouds on a winter sky. Despite its chilling stillness, he couldn't help but get the sense that they were walking into a thunderstorm. Their pathway was shrouded by lush leaves and crooked branches, obscuring the emerging twilight. He made to enter, but Greengrass stopped him by the arm. Her face was grim, bearing uncertain.
"I should warn you — we can't stray too far in," said Greengrass. "I've been here a handful of times, but never at night. We should be safe, as long as we can still see this edge of the forest…"
"We'll be fine," he assured.
Greengrass released him, looking doubtful.
But his confidence wasn't without reason. He knew the Forbidden forest more intimately than possibly any other student. It was here that he died, and here that he arrived. Memories wafted in the air, his mind flashing with images of his first detention with Hagrid, hunting the killer of unicorns; of warding off acromantulas with Ron, and the screeching tires of the Ford Anglia; and of facing Lord Voldemort, accompanied only by the ghosts of his past.
Adrenaline coursed through him nonetheless, whether from memories or anticipation he wasn't sure. His heart thrummed. Fatigue faded with every breath, muscles tensing, itching to move.
How he missed this feeling…
He wasn't made for months of idling, he realized. He can't sit around with only study or work to fill his time. For better or for worse, this was his home. Danger was his long lost lover, one he suddenly felt keen to reunite with.
He strolled in, Greengrass following closely behind, leaves rustling in their wake. The ground was uneven, treacherous. Roots the size of his forearm bulged from the ground like veins, their surface slippery. The path wound around the forest's rim, its edge just barely visible to their right. Greengrass stopped every few minutes to collect ingredients for Pomfrey: a scraping of glowing blue moss from a tree's bark; a red firefly she caught with the skill of a Seeker; a large pile of droppings, which she picked with gloved hands; and many more besides. Soon her pockets and toolbelt were brimming with vials and sacks and bottles containing colorful, rancid ingredients of all sorts.
Harry walked ahead, focusing singularly on his goal: to find a wandworthy tree. There were a thousand different possible qualifiers for wandworthiness, with varying degrees of conspicuousness and significance. Researching and understanding these clues had been a nightmare. Most books had a frustratingly mystical approach to the whole thing — you'll know it when you see it, they had said.
Some of his more practical tomes had, thankfully, prepared him with something more practical to go off of. Perhaps the most apparent signifier was the presence of bowtruckles and other magical creatures. Other signs include the arithmancical significance of the tree's dimensions, the way light was reflected off of its bark, and aesthetical beauty.
Knowing all these signs was all well and good, but spotting them was another matter entirely, requiring the foresight of good experience and the patience of a phoenix. Quite frankly, he was of the impression that it would take quite a number of early morning sessions to finally find what he was looking for.
Perhaps today was his lucky day, then.
The tree in question stood proudly in the centre of a minor clearing, surrounded by fat green mushrooms — home to dozens of scuttling fungifae. On closer inspection he identified it as a holly tree, its branches ripe with vivid red berries. He hadn't seen a bowtruckle just yet, but he'd bet his last knut they were in there somewhere.
"That is it, don't you think?" he said, motioning at the tree.
"It is certainly wandworthy," replied Greengrass, regarding it with keen eyes. "But you could do better, I believe."
"What?"
"Notice the amount of fruit it has."
"Isn't that a good thing?"
"Not at all." She walked up towards the tree, picked off a berry and gave it a sniff. With a scrunched nose, she let it drop. "A tree of high magical significance would ripen with fruit that attracts the attention of other magical creatures, and so—"
"A more wandworthy tree would be more empty," he finished. He glanced down towards the colony of fae, barely the size of wasps, nervously approaching the fallen fruit. "But what about this lot, then? The fact that it attracts some fae must mean something…"
"Yes, but it appears that their population is rather scarce for fungifae," she said. "A good colony can easily reach the thousands in number; there is a reason scholars often refer to their territories as mushroom kingdoms. But this — this is pathetic. I am willing to wager that the forest has much better in store."
"Steady on, you don't wanna hurt their feelings," he said wryly. "How do you know all this, anyway?"
"This is all merely applied alchemy, Potter."
"Well, maybe you should teach me," he said offhandedly, looking around in search of another potential tree. "'Cause I'm bloody clueless at this."
"Only if you teach me the Patronus Charm."
"Maybe I will," he said. He glanced at her and noticed with surprise that she looked serious. "Hey, you'll get it eventually. You know all this stuff about alchemy, the Patronus is just a walk in the park compared—"
"I doubt it," she said. "Practical wandwork isn't exactly my forte." She looked away. "Come on — the sun is almost rising. It's a saturday but I'd rather get to bed sooner than later, the coffee is starting to fade."
Suddenly feeling rather foolish and impatient, no doubt spurred by the excess adrenaline in his veins, he strolled towards a path that trailed deeper into the forest.
"That's not the way—!"
"I know," he said, turning back. "I just have a feeling that we'll have a better shot finding it the further in we are."
"And how, exactly, do you know this?"
"It's just a feeling," he said, shrugging. When he had arrived here, he appeared at an Acromantula's nest quite deep in the forest. On his way back, he recalled, he had unwittingly bumped into a tree dwelled by bowtruckles. "Besides, it makes sense, doesn't it? It seems denser in there, and the more trees there are, the likelier it is we'll find one that's wandworthy."
"Be that as it may, we must — Potter!"
He had turned and continued walking, guessing — hoping — she'll follow him anyway.
She did, stomping to his side, tugging his sleeves.
"I feel like you're grossly underestimating the amount of danger we're in just being here!" she said. "Do you have any idea what sorts of creatures roam these lands? "
"Probably, yeah."
"From stories!" she exclaimed. "Not experience!"
He snorted, still moving along the trail. Despite the approaching sunrise, his surroundings grew dimmer.
"There's a reason the Forbidden Forest is Forbidden, you know."
"Yet, here we are," he said lightly. "If you wanna go back, I'm not stopping you, you know. I still need to find what I'm looking for."
She considered, lips flattening, before sighing. "Astoria will feed me — and you — to the basilisks if I don't return in one piece."
"Isn't she your younger sister?" he asked, frowning.
"Indeed, but she certainly doesn't act like it," she said. "Sometimes I think she's as bossy as father. She'll almost assuredly be the one to inherit the family business."
"We'll be fine," he assured her again. This seemed to calm her, though she scooted closer with a nervous glance at her back. "Hey, what do you think about the Triwizard —"
His world became that of dirt and mud as he stumbled face-first to the ground, an unseen bush snickering behind him. He swore, spitting out foul-tasting dirt as Greengrass helped him up, her face twinkling with amusement.
"Shut up," he said, cleaning his body with a flick of his wand. He glared at the bush. His knees prickled with blood, more than there should be at such a simple fall; some of it had been smeared into the plant. "I swear it wasn't —" Something behind caught his attention, and he pointed. "Wait, tell me, was that there before?"
In the line of trees that barricaded their path, a crack had formed. It was wide, much wider than their current trail, and he was sure he hadn't passed by it.
"I don't believe so," said Greengrass, hands on her hips.
"Shall we?" He approached the opening, taking a closer look.
"I don't think we—"
She paused in her steps as she caught a glimpse of the pathway that had materialized out of nowhere. It stretched through the horizon, the blazing red tip of the sun casting the mists with an ethereal glow. His skin shivered with thrill. Help will always be given at Hogwarts to those who ask for it.
He must travel in this direction. His instincts demanded it — to see what was on the other side, if for nothing else. Wordlessly he entered, Greengrass following beside him, with not a word of complaint.
The path looked well-trodden, clear of grass and shrubs, though he had a funny feeling it was one that had lay in rest for a good amount of centuries. It sloped at a slight inclination, water trickling from uphill, dampening their boots. To his side the trees seemed to respond to his glances, clamping close together as if preventing them from escaping. Strange…
"Potter?" said Greengrass, concern in her voice.
"We'll be fine, I just —"
"No — look behind you."
He did so, expecting to see the intersection far behind. Instead he came almost face to face with a tree's bark. Stumbling backwards, he pulled out his wand, ignoring the pang of discomfort in its touch. Their way back was gone. The trees across had interlocked together as if in an embrace, weaved together into a thread as thick as Hagrid. When approached, they crowded in even tighter, supernaturally shifting their size and position such that no amount of ducking or weaving allowed him passage. Greengrass collided head-on with one, whining in pain — they wouldn't find salvation in the trees that walled their sides either, it seemed.
He set his sights back forward.
Shit.
In the distance, like a tidal wave surging towards them, the trees closed in, clasping together, one by one, with exceptional speed.
They were getting faster. And closer.
"Diffindo!" he cried out, swinging his wand like a whip to the newly formed wall behind him. The orange spell smacked the bark and fizzled.
Greengrass followed his example. It didn't work. For once, his wand wasn't the problem.
"Depulso!"
"Bombarda!"
"Incendio!"
"Bombarda Maxima!"
"Deletrius!"
"Mobiliarbus!"
Spell after spell they tried, charm after charm, hexes after jinxes. None put even a dent to the relentless palisade that had formed — and are forming — around them. It was like the Horcrux all over again. This was something just as powerful, and, judging from the aura of magic he felt surrounding him, this was much more ancient. He turned towards the ever-approaching wall of intertwining trees still rushing towards them.
What would happen when the wall arrives? Would it stop right before them, as the trees behind them did, or would they be crushed between the grasp of unforgiving trees? Somehow, he knew it was the latter…
"What do we do!?"
Greengrass' voice dispersed his morbid musings.
A breeze, ripples in the air from the advancing wall of trees, billowed his hair backwards. They were getting closer. He was just seconds away from death.
His mind calmed in the face of danger. He had faced far worse.
This trail had appeared out of nowhere, right after he stumbled on that unassuming bush. As if… as if it was a secret passageway, and the bush was some sort of trigger — no, the blood was… But why was there a passageway in the middle of the forbidden forest?
It didn't matter. He knew how to deal with secret passageways.
"Dissendium!"
The spell shot forwards. Translucent though it was, it thrummed with power.
And it echoed off of the tree with a resounding clang. Nothing else happened. But there was something there. The spell didn't just disappear like the others. It had been blocked, met with resistance, as though there was something stopping — like a lock —
"Alohomora!" The tsunami of wood and bark halted just before his nose with a hiss. "Dissendium!"
Like a gate opening inward, the interlocking array of trees unraveled from each other, returning to their original positions, in a backwards wave far faster than before.
The path on both sides was open once more, wide and welcoming.
He let out a breath he didn't know he was holding, and Greengrass leaned against a tree, panting, face pale.
"What," she began, her voice dangerous. "have you gotten us into, Potter?"
"I dunno," he said. He glanced uphill. "But why don't we find out?"
"Are you insane?!" she exclaimed. "We almost — that could've —" She closed her eyes and inhaled deeply. "How did you know?"
"Know what?"
"To use dissendium! And alohomora! Never in a million years would I have ever thought to use those spells."
"Instincts, I guess," he said, shrugging.
"The same instincts that compelled you to go deeper into the forest?"
"Pretty much," he said. "And it's served me well. Listen, you know what dissendium does, don't you? And alohomora? There must be something of value in there — something someone, or maybe Hogwarts itself, wants to hide."
"Hogwarts itself? You're not making sense, Potter."
"There's something there, I can feel it," he said. "And I know you can feel it too — the magic in the air — aren't you the least bit curious to find out what it is?"
"Fine!" she snarled, before marching well ahead of him.
Startled, he followed silently behind.
Perhaps he was imagining it, but the trees to their side seemed to bow in deference as they passed. Greengrass was right; what had he gotten himself into? But he found it difficult to care. The truth was, he had never felt so alive in months. The danger, the adrenaline, the trusty aide of honed instincts. This was what he missed, all those days in Clayfoot Cottage, and in his first few weeks at Hogwarts. The days were warm and friendly and comfortable, but they were hollow and empty. Purposeless.
Being here reminded him of all the adventures he'd had, and the people he shared it with. It brought him closer to them, as if they were still here with him after all this time. He could imagine Ron spouting jokes beside him, Hermione rattling off obscure spells, Ginny and Luna and Neville…
What that it, then? Was all of this impulsiveness just a twisted form of homesickness?
He recalled the deaths that had happened as part of those adventures — the horrors, and the pain. Suddenly the adventures didn't seem as glamorous.
"I could have died," said Greengrass. Her voice was softer, face still white. "If you weren't there — if it was just me — I would have died. And no one would know how or why."
It occurred to him that not everyone held his casual demeanor towards danger.
"If I wasn't here, you wouldn't have went this far in," he said gently. "And besides, who knows if you would've died? Maybe the charm, or whatever the hell that was, wasn't meant to kill — it just wanted to protect what it was hiding."
She shivered, but said no more. The long silence was filled only by the soft thuds of their footsteps and the hallmark of nearby creatures: the chirping of birds, the buzzing of insects, and the howls of mysterious creatures. As they trekked through the trail, the water streaming downhill seemed to grow in size and ferocity, drenching the soles of their boots.
Fuelled by hunger (for it was breakfast soon), adrenaline, and sheer curiosity, it didn't take them very long to approach their destination.
Harry gaped in awe.
The place in question was a large secluded clearing at the peak of the hill, which was, it seemed, filled purely of water. Tiers of smaller pools ascended up towards the clearing, separated by small waterfalls, the last of which poured downstream. Plump waterfae of varying colours hovered about, their sublime glow piercing the hazy air around them.
At the center of the clearing was a tree of magnificent beauty. It eclipsed the sunrise such that rays of radiant orange light oozed off of its outline, as if it was a star of its own. Its leaves were lush and blossoming, blooming with white flowers and dark berries. There was a certain symmetry to the tree that was difficult to explain, a harmony in its position relative to its surroundings, a balance in form…
"That's an elder tree!" said Greengrass, laughing in shock. "And it's submerged! That's not possible!" She looked at him, awestruck. "How? How did you know we'd find this?"
"Help will always be given at Hogwarts to those who ask," he said, smiling at the quote, before realizing it was a rather strange thing to say as a new student.
Greengrass didn't seem to notice, however. She dashed towards the downmost pool like a child in the rain, boots splashing on the ankle-high water, robes swishing.
"Avalonian Minnows!" she exclaimed, leaning down and pointing at a school of rainbow-coloured fishes nibbling at Greengrass' fingers. "These are supposed to be extinct! How — why are they here?"
She unlatched a jar from her toolbelt and began scooping. Harry joined Greengrass in the oversized puddle, and began making his way up the clearing. With each tier the water seemed to go deeper, hosting creatures of increasing degrees of exoticism — he was sure he saw a seahorse skidding away to a rock. But he ignored it all, focusing solely on what he had come here to claim.
Steadying himself at a rather precarious position at the edge of the clearing, he narrowed his eyes at the sight before him. The surface of this pool was somehow of a different colour than the rest, white and ethereal, gleaming under the ascending sun. Though he couldn't see through very clearly, he knew the pool must be deeper than the rest. He pointed his wand at a branch and fired: "Diffindo!"
The spell faded into the tree, as before.
If he were to collect any wood from this tree, it seemed he'd have to earn it. He looked back at Greengrass, but she was busy extracting something form a luminous purple mushroom growing on a rock.
Tentatively, he put a foot down until it hit solid ground. Grimacing at the cold, and some other sensation he couldn't place, he put his other foot down. It was shallower than expected. As he trudged closer to the tree, however, the pool seemed to grow deeper and deeper, until he had to lift his chin to keep his head dry.
Almost completely submerged, he stood below the shade of the leaves. Hesitantly, he lifted a hand and caressed the tree's bark.
There was a sudden creak, and the ground rattled, unsteadying him. Water sloshed — he jutted his chin to the sky, and his hair dipped underwater. But he needn't worry for long.
At first he thought the water was becoming shallower, leaking out of the pool at an unnatural rate. But that wasn't it. He was ascending. Using both hands to balance himself, he realized with a start that he was now well above the surface, and somehow dry as a broomstick. Below him was a great green bridge, cutting across the pool, lustrous and shining as if it was straight out of the carpenter's workshop.
Once more he stole a glance at Greengrass, but she wasn't looking at him at all. She probably hadn't even noticed this new development, being engrossed as she were in seemingly intense negotiations with the surrounding fae. He could almost forget how morose she was just moments ago. Shaking his head, he turned back towards the tree. Something in the wood caught his attention — an engraving of two letters, so faint he had to squint to see. It said:
A.P.
Initials, perhaps? He felt like he should recognize it somehow — if he did, the name teetered at the tip of his tongue. A rustle disturbed his thoughts, and it was only due to his instincts as a Seeker that he caught a fallen branch, almost stumbling back into the water as a result. After discerning that it was the same branch he'd tried to cut off earlier, he waved it around, trying its feel on his hand. He didn't know what he was expecting — fireworks, perhaps, or an orchestral symphony — but it felt just like a regular old stick to him, though with a slight undercurrent of power.
Satisfied, he followed the bridge to the pool's edge and made his way around the rim. The trees here had parted backwards, granting him a wider passage to pass through. Stone stairways had formed on either side of the waterfalls — he swore those weren't there before.
Greengrass waved at him, grinning, surrounded by a twirling and swirling mass of glittering fae, looking radiant herself. The tiny humanoids seemed to defer to her as if she was their ruler — their queen. His heart fluttered at the sight.
He waved back, and hopped down the stairs.
A.P.'s identity is not really plot relevant - it's more of an easter egg. The name probably won't be mentioned again after this chapter. Regardless, their identity should be fairly easy to deduce if you know your HP lore. I'm gonna leave the speculation and theorizing up to the reader. Apologies if there are any spelling mistakes or inconsistencies, and I appreciate those kind enough to point them out in reviews/comments.