It had been months, and had felt like years, since Harry Potter stepped through time. A routine had been adopted, and in his dark days he surrendered himself to it fully. Mornings in the library, studying. Potions theory on Mondays and Wednesdays, fairy lore on Tuesdays and Thursdays, horcruxes and soul magic on Fridays. Afternoons in the potions lab, crafting ever more complex potions, stocking the pantries of their safe houses, preparing for war. He spent his Saturdays with Luna, who never spent her weekends at Hogsmeade. She met him, every Saturday morning around ten, in the glen near the southeast boundary of the Forbidden Forest. They sat together, and she spoke her mind as he curled into her lap. And he lived for every second of her time, every articulation of her thoughts, and profoundly regretted the dusk which demanded her return.

On Sundays, he rested, sleeping until the fragrance of brunch joined the chorus of a bright morning's light to force him awake. He sat with Lupin and Tonks over a vast spread, laughing over embellished stories for hours.

Sunday afternoons were spent observing the local fairy communities, among whose societies he'd been granted honorary membership. An aged Sessile Oak whose broad branches emerged from the southernmost boundary of the Ravenswood hosted a vibrant community of wood fairies. A steady offering of blueberries and bottle caps won their affection within three weeks of initial observation. The small brook a stone's throw beyond the westernmost garden path, fed by a natural spring flowing out of a waist-high stone outcropping just beyond the forest's edge, drew the bulk of his attention. It was by happy accident that Harry discovered the stone fairy community, while observing the playful (and, Harry suspected, scandalously flirtatious) dance of the river fairies. Suddenly the distant rumble of stone scraping against stone shook his attention, and his gaze was drawn to movement in the cleft of the rock. Shapes emerged over time, like thick brushstrokes in an impressionist painting, in rolling patterns of black and grey and brown. The soft tinkle of fairy laughter resonated in his ear as he was introduced to the clumsy movement of stone fairies, whom river faries found delightfully ridiculous.

It was after nearly twelve weeks of observation that Harry discovered, by way of a tattered, leather-bound volume buried deep within his library, that such a concentration of fairy communities was extraordinarily rare; Ravenswood Hall and The Rook both sat upon the only known British fault lines — permanent rifts drawing together the human and fairy planes. He counted himself extraordinarily lucky, having been welcomed by no fewer than three fairy communities in a span of less than four months. He became aware, at nearly every moment, of the subtle draw of the fairy realm, intensified in moments of observation, and he fought the inclination to surrender to that enchanting pull.

Thus it was on a dull Sunday in late October that he found himself spread across one of the sturdier branches of the aged oak, passively observing the enchanting glide of a meandering wood fairy. Since that perfect summer afternoon, he'd found the movement of wood fairies almost intoxicating. Unlike Luna, he didn't bring a charcoal pencil and sketchpad. He found he didn't have a knack for illustration outside of the enchanted sketchbook Luna had gifted him. Instead he merely watched, lost in his thoughts, as the small, nude figures navigated the uppermost branches upon the delicate vines that extended from their verdant auras. Time worked differently in their presence, he found, as on some occasions he felt he'd just settled upon his favorite branch when suddenly it was nearly dusk, and other days the moments before them stretched such that he feared he'd been enchanted for days, though his wristwatch claimed only minutes had passed.

Today was one of those days, and he hadn't minded at all. By two he'd been convinced that dusk was immanent; Harry was relieved when he discovered there were hours yet. Luna had suffered particularly that week. Her housemates executed a subtle, semi-permanent transfiguration of her bedding into a silver lark that flitted about the common room chirping "Loony" without ceasing. It had taken three days for the matter to reach Professor Flitwick's attention. The two evenings between, Luna had slept beneath a bath towel. She'd caught cold, and she had sneezed incessantly as she recounted the events with almost unaffected distance. Harry hated that he could do nothing to help her, hated even more that he had done nothing when he could have.

So he was relieved by the enchanting distraction of the wood fairies. He lay his head back against the trunk, forgetting the troubles that haunted him.

Less than a stone's throw from Harry's Oak was rooted a towering Birch. Harry couldn't have known it was among the oldest trees in Ravenswood, and he couldn't have guessed her lowest branches had been sourced for six of the thirty most powerful wands the ancient family of Olivander had ever produced. Had he known, perhaps he might have shifted his attention, now and then, to that ancient, magical tree. So it was that Harry hadn't noticed the figure leaning against her pale bark.

He was a figure of impossible darkness, deepest black against an outline of piercing bright white — an eclipse of stunning power in the shape of a man. He wore nothing, and it suited him perfectly as he leaned his strong frame against the ancient Birch. He stood, silent, for nearly an hour, watching Harry with compassionate eyes, smiling fondly now and then.

At quarter-to-four, Harry was overcome by the sense that he wasn't alone, and on an impulse he shifted his gaze beyond his right shoulder. There was only a raven taking flight, and after a moment he laughed off the suspicion.

Just then, in an ancient School for Witchcraft and Wizardry nestled in the Scottish Highlands, a young witch with waist-length dirty blonde hair and piercing silvery grey eyes, seated in the pocket in the northernmost corner of the Ravenclaw common room, began to sing the lullaby her mother taught her, those many years ago.

Darkness shudders, shadows fall
Trembling, watch the wicked flee
Hear the righteous raven's call
Bound and broken hearts set free
Prince of Fairie, hope of men,
the Raven King reigns again
Prince of Fairie, hope of men,
the Raven King reigns again