The Gift
The Knight Bus quickly proved to be Harry's least favourite form of magical transport he had experienced thus far.
Portkey travel lasted only a moment or so, and the unsettled feeling in the stomach faded within a minute. The bus, however, was miserable for every uncomfortable second that it moved.
Already, Harry had been flung forcefully back into his chair several times, had almost landed in the lap of an elderly passenger, and had hit his head on one of the grab rails; all in the space of five minutes.
With around a dozen passengers being taken to their locations before him, it would be a miserable journey to endure, though he knew it would be worth it to see just where he had come from.
He had considered using the floo network, but had never done so before, and with Black on the loose, he did not wish to be overhead asking for information pertaining to his planned excursion.
Black.
The very thought of the man made his blood boil.
Having learned of how close his parents had been to Sirius, Harry had trawled through the photo album Hagrid had gifted him for Christmas during his first year, and it hadn't taken long to find what he'd been looking for.
The picture in question had been taken during the wedding of James and Lily Potter, and amongst the few guests was Sirius Black, the man who would eventually betray them, and Harry, to the Dark Lord.
It was odd.
He looked so very different from the maniacal man shown daily in the newspaper.
Sirius Black had appeared ecstatic, and the smile he wore joyous and unwavering.
In truth, it was impossible to comprehend the man in the photos ever doing what he had, but Harry had learned long ago that smiles can hide the worst in a person.
He shook his head of the thoughts of his godfather, not wanting this day to be sullied by the likes of Sirius Black.
Still, becoming an avid reader of The Daily Prophet as he had over the past few weeks is what had informed him of the existence of the Knight Bus, though now, he was regretting boarding the death trap.
Nonetheless, it was giving him some much-needed time away from the alley so that he could gather his thoughts.
The latest vision he'd had courtesy of the cloak had left Harry reeling.
From the birth of baby Carys to the death of Malory Gaunt, the emotional turmoil alone had been overwhelming.
Despite knowing the nature of the woman and what she'd done, Harry had wept for her, and the baby that would grow without her mother.
He knew what that was like, and there was not a thing he wouldn't give to have his parents with him.
Seeing Malory's final moments haunted him; the pain she'd endured, the unequivocal joy at seeing her daughter, and the heart-wrenching acceptance of her impending death was more than he could take.
What had become of baby Carys?
Harry was hopeful that the cloak would show him, but the birth of the girl and subsequent death of her mother was not all he'd taken away.
The stone.
If Malory's sister never discovered what it was, it could be that it remained within the Gaunt family ring to this day.
How likely that was, Harry did not know.
Centuries had passed since Malory had found it, and it could be anywhere, but it was a lead Harry did not have.
From what little knowledge he'd been able to glean, there had been no mention of any of the Gaunts wielding any power that related to the stone and what Cadmus had achieved with it.
According to Florean Fortescue, who Harry had asked, the Gaunts had fallen out of favour with the other purebloods long ago and had resorted to inbreeding to sustain their purity.
Little had been heard of them for several decades now apart from the fate of what appeared to be the last two males of the line.
Both Marvolo and Morfin Gaunt had been sent to Azkaban, the latter for murdering a local family of muggles.
Marvolo, according to Florean, had been arrested when he'd fought against a contingent of aurors that had arrived at his home to arrest him.
He had died in Azkaban some years prior.
If the ring did exist, then it would either be in the possession of the Ministry of Magic, within Azkaban, or perhaps on the finger of Morfin Gaunt.
None of the deductions were promising for Harry, but it was likely he was the one person who knew what the piece of jewellery, if undiscovered over the years, contained.
"KINGSTON UPON HULL!" Stan Shunpike, the conductor of the Knight Bus declared cheerily, helping the old woman Harry had almost gotten closely acquainted with, off the bus.
Harry groaned as he was flung back in his chair once more, and his thoughts shifted to the other Hallow he did not possess but knew who currently did.
Dumbledore.
Harry could not begin to fathom how the headmaster had found it, but there was no doubt in his mind that the man knew exactly what he held.
He'd recognised it immediately, the white piece of elder that Death itself had plucked from the tree in the churchyard and gifted to Antioch Peverell. If seeing wasn't enough, he had felt the same, cold magic emanating from the wand as Dumbledore used it.
Harry had been dumbstruck at the mere sight of it and there was the briefest of moments that he felt the familiar essence reach out to him, brushing against his very being in recognition.
Then it was gone and Dumbledore had been speaking to him.
Nonetheless, Harry had not forgotten, nor would he.
"GODRIC'S HOLLOW!"
Harry startled at the announcement.
The bus had emptied around him as he had been lost in thought, and his stop had eventually come upon him.
"Thank you for using the Knight Bus, young man," Stan said, offering Harry a bow as he departed.
Harry nodded, already dreading the return journey.
Before then, however, there was much for him to do.
The first thing he noticed was the thick, freshness of the air within the village and the mountains in the distance.
However, despite having been here throughout the visions, Godric's Hollow had changed much over the centuries.
The houses were more modern, and it had undoubtedly expanded in size, though it remained a rather small community.
From his place in the centre, Harry could see every corner that it stretched to and the fields beyond.
Still, there was an undeniable familiarity to the place, and the magic in the air brushed over him welcomingly.
It was here where it had all begun and not wishing to waste a moment, he took his first steps in the village as the Knight Bus vanished with a loud bang.
He could see the church a short distance down one of the paths leading away from the main square, the one thing that was seemingly untouched by the ravages of time, but it was a monument to his left that caught his attention.
It was an obelisk like others he had seen during his time with the Dursleys, depicting names of the fighting men who had not returned from one of the muggle wars.
However, when Harry stepped closer, it shifted into a statue of three people; a man who very much resembled him, and a woman who was cradling a baby in her arms.
It was a sense of longing that filled Harry as he realised what this was, and as he placed his hand upon it, the weight of his parent's death had never felt so cumbersome.
They had died to protect him, had given their lives so that he stood a modicum of a chance at keeping his own, and here he was.
He had lived whilst they had been claimed by the cloaked figure.
"Come Death, come," he whispered the mantra first spoken by Ignotus Peverell so many years prior.
Swallowing deeply, he turned away from the statue knowing that he would fall into the same trap he had with the mirror on the third floor at Hogwarts, pausing once more as his gaze fell upon a small home across the nearby road.
For the most part, it was unkept.
The foliage had grown wildly along the outside, and the once brilliant white finish was smeared with bird droppings and was now a creamy colour.
It was upsetting to see, but it was the roof of the home that Harry looked upon where a large chunk of it had collapsed inwards.
It was here that it had happened.
This had been the Potter family home when Voldemort had come for them.
Placing his hand on the gate, Harry took a step back as a wooden sign rose from the ground, a frown marring his features as he read.
On this spot, on the night of 31 October 1981, Lily and James Potter lost their lives.
Their son, Harry, remains the only wizard ever to have survived the Killing Curse.
This house, invisible to Muggles, has been left in its ruined state as a monument to the Potters and as a reminder of the violence that tore apart their family.
Harry's frown deepened.
He hated that the house had been left, and he hated the wooden sign that others had seen fit to carve their initials into.
This was not how he wanted his parents to be remembered.
It would have to be changed, something he would look into in due course.
The house was his, and even if the thought of ever living in it made him feel sick, he would not see it left as it was.
Whomever had seen fit to do so would be hearing from him.
That was for another day, however.
It was other personal business that had brought him home and he intended to tend to it, despite his now maudlin mood.
With a final shake of his head, he turned and made his way towards the church, passing through the kissing gates where he found himself in the very same graveyard he had witnessed Gawain Peverell burying Malory Gaunt.
It had indeed changed over the years as people had been added to it, but it was the first recognisable place he had found himself in within the village.
He walked amongst the tombstones for a while, pausing as he came upon those he recognised.
All three of the Peverell brothers were here, buried next to one another with the symbol they had adopted carved into each of their memorials.
Harry offered each a respectful nod.
They had been far from perfect, even foolish in what they had done, but he felt as though he had come to know them well enough throughout the visions he'd shared of them.
"Orchideous," he whispered as he drew his wand, placing a conjured rose on each of the graves before stepping passed them.
Gawain Peverell was the next he came to, and it felt strange to be standing in front of his grave when he had yet to witness the man's demise.
As with his father and uncles, there was no date of birth or death etched into the stonework, only the symbol of the Deathly Hallows.
Again, Harry laid a flower on his grave and looked for the only other familiar name he had learned, but it wasn't here.
What had happened to baby Carys?
He knew it was likely he would see it in another vision to come, but her absence did not sit right with him, though he did spot one other grave he'd hoped to see.
Gawain had left the stone blank amongst his family members; his mother, his aunts and cousins that had found their way home in death, but it had not remained so.
Much different to the writing on the other graves, a word had been added to the memorial of Malory Gaunt.
Mother
That was it, a single word summing up the complex person Malory had been throughout her life, undoubtedly left by a daughter that never knew her.
Gawain must have told her the truth, and the man earned a little more of Harry's respect for doing so.
Still, there was no sign of Carys anywhere, and whilst he pondered what had happened to her, he added a rose to Malory's grave before going along his way, seeking out two more graves he expected he would find here.
He did only a moment later.
James and Lily Potter had indeed been laid to rest here, and again, Harry found he despised the words left to remember them by.
"The last enemy that shall be destroyed is death," he murmured before chuckling humourlessly.
Death was neither a friend nor an enemy, and it certainly would not be destroyed.
In his few short years of life, Harry had learned better than most that death was the inevitable end. It wasn't something to be escaped or destroyed, but to be embraced when your time was done.
Regardless, he couldn't help but feel more connected to the Peverells.
His mother and father had been a perpetual absence in his life, the only memory he had of them being of their murder.
He had photos, but it wasn't the same as it was with the Peverells.
Harry had gotten to know Ignotus and is brothers to a lesser extent and was familiar with Gawain.
It felt wrong, but it was not something that could be helped.
That did not mean that as he stood before James and Lily Potters final resting place that he didn't feel the same sense of longing he always did. It was just that to him, they would always be the people that had been taken away before he'd been given a chance to know them.
With a sad smile, he placed a flower on each bed of kept soil and took a step back.
There was a love and admiration for his parents that would never waver, and Harry knew he would never be content in life until he had righted the wrongs done to them.
Perhaps James and Lily would wish for him to do what they had and hide from Voldemort when he returned, but that was not Harry.
He'd had to fight tooth and nail for everything he'd ever had, and that would not change.
No, somehow, he felt drawn to the Dark Lord, that all of it would come to an end with the death of one of them.
Whether that would be Harry or Tom Riddle remained to be seen, but he could feel it in his very being that it would culminate in a standoff between them.
With a final look of gratitude to his parents, Harry headed towards the church to finish what he had come here for.
He would be back again and would always take a moment or two for those that had given him a chance at life, but there was something else that required his attention.
The door to the church was unlocked, and Harry suspected it remained so for those that lived in the village who may wish to seek solace with their god.
He, however, was not here to convene with higher powers.
In truth, the only god or deity he recognised was the one he had witnessed being summoned by the Peverells.
Even so, there was a tranquillity about the church, a peacefulness Harry could not explain.
Not that he thought on it for more than a few seconds.
He was here to obtain something, if it was still here.
A thousand years was a long time, after all.
Making his way up the aisle towards where the priest would stand to give his sermons, Harry took in his surroundings.
The stain-glass windows were a thing of beauty, and the complex architecture was a sight to behold.
Maybe if Malfoy and the other bigots saw this for themselves they wouldn't think so lowly of muggles.
Harry doubted it.
Reaching the podium in which an enormous bible rested atop, he realised that he did not know where to begin looking for the book that had belonged to Ignotus Peverell.
Would he have buried it in the churchyard?
Harry didn't believe so.
Churchyards changed often as new graves were dug, and Ignotus would have taken that into account.
No, it had to be within the walls of the church, but where?
He peered around the room almost aimlessly searching for any clue as to the whereabouts of the book when his eyes came to rest on one of the windows situated behind the podium.
On the surface, it did not appear to be so different from the rest, but within the depiction of what Harry believed to be Jesus surrounded by his disciples was a cloaked figure lurking at the very back, clutching a large tome in one of his bony hands.
In the other, it held a rope threaded through a trio of skulls, each marked with the symbol of the Hallows.
Cautiously, Harry approached.
He had learned that it was best to be reticent when it came with anything to do with the figure.
Nevertheless, the nearer he got, the stronger the feeling of the cold magic became, and when he was only a foot away, he placed his hand on the glass.
The book was seemingly so close, yet so far away.
Until it wasn't.
Harry gasped as the figure pushed what he sought from the glass, and it was with a trembling hand that it was accepted.
Having given Harry the book, the figure gazed at him for a moment before simply walking out of view to the left.
For several moments, Harry stood still, daring not to move.
He had encountered several portraits at Hogwarts that did something similar, but this was no mere magic painting.
Nothing else within the glass moved, just the shadowy figure.
When Harry felt as though he could breathe freely once more, he unashamedly ran from the church, not stopping until he was clear of the kissing gate and he was certain he was not being pursued.
Breathing heavily, he shot a final look towards the graves, and even ignored the almost overwhelming urge to enter the home he had spent his earliest months in when he reached the centre of the village.
Instead, although reluctantly, he drew his wand and summoned the Knight Bus for his return journey to Diagon Alley.
He did not wish to leave, but he had gotten what he had come for, and so much more than he'd expected additionally.
No, this was not goodbye to Godric's Hollow, but a temporary farewell.
There was still much he wished to do here when the time was right, but for now, other things required his attention.
He would be back here, however.
Of that, he was in no doubt.
(Break)
Albus looked on as a frustrated Cornelius paced back and forth in front of the fireplace, turning his bowler hat over in his hands. The Ministry had failed to locate Sirius, and it was a growing concern for all.
"It has been weeks!" Cornelius huffed. "There is no sign of him, Albus. He has no wand and no one to turn to. Where the hell can he be?"
Albus had been pondering the same thing.
Sirius was very much alone in the world with no resources and nowhere to go, not unless he had gone to ground in his childhood home.
It was possible, but Albus had his reservations.
Sirius had not escaped Azkaban to spend his life in another prison.
He's at Hogwarts
The ominous words led Albus to believe that Sirius would be coming here, if he wasn't in the area already.
He looked out of the window thoughtfully, wondering where the escaped man was now.
"I am at a loss," Cornelius sighed as he took a seat. "The aurors have combed every inch of the country. All of the supposed sightings have been nothing but hysterical chancers hoping for a little fame. Damn it, his face is even all over the muggle news, and nothing!"
"He will show himself, Cornelius," Albus comforted.
"But what will he do between now and then?" the Minister asked worriedly. "Black is an unpredictable lunatic. I have never seen someone so unaffected by the Dementors. They are furious, Albus. They want him returned to them."
Albus detested the foul creatures.
He had visited the island on a few occasions over the years, and he always dreaded encountering them.
The mere thought of being in the presence of a Dementor sent a shiver down his spine.
"Well, there is nothing for it," Cornelius declared as he stood. "If Black isn't found, they will have to be stationed around the school to ensure he stays out. Lucius and the other governors are adamant that security is increased until Black is caught."
"You are suggesting that the Dementors be allowed to patrol Hogwarts?"
"I can see no other way."
Albus shook his head.
"I will not have them in the school," he said firmly. "They do not differentiate between guilt and innocence. I will not expose the children to them and that is my final word on the matter."
"I was not suggesting that they are in the school. The Dementors will patrol Hogsmeade and be stationed at the gates of Hogwarts. It has already been approved by the governors, Albus. I understand your reluctance, but this is a most desperate situation. Imagine the uproar it would cause if Black managed to get in."
It was not often Albus allowed his anger to get the better of him, but the governor's decision to once again bow to the whims of Lucius had irritated the headmaster greatly.
Surely even Lucius would not wish to expose his son to the Dementors?
Why was he so keen to see Sirius apprehended?
Draco.
With his mother being the last legitimate Black not wanted by the Ministry, it stood to reason that the boy would inherit the family fortune and perhaps the lordship.
It was the only scenario that led Albus to believe that Lucius would take such drastic measures for something that did not affect him on the surface.
Of course, his interest was in himself and the legacy of the Malfoys.
Regardless, there was little Albus could do if he did not wish to cause an unpleasant relationship between himself and Cornelius.
"They will not cross the threshold," he insisted. "They will keep their distance from the students."
"Of course, of course," Cornelius said dismissively. "If we are fortunate, we will capture Black before the school term starts. We have a little over a month, after all. He can't hide forever."
Albus was not feeling as positive as the Minister appeared to as he stepped into the fireplace and vanished.
It only made him more pleased that he had reached out to Remus to take the Defence Against the Dark Arts post.
If there was anyone left alive that would know where Sirius might be or was able to prevent him entering the castle, it was Lupin.
Or so Albus hoped.
(Break)
Swimming from Azkaban to the east coast of England across the North Sea had taken its toll on Sirius. Even in the summer months, the water was cold, and his weakened state still made the calmer current difficult to navigate.
It had been an arduous journey to say the least and one that had only just begun.
He had taken a day or so to recover in some nearby woods where he managed to hunt a rabbit or two to eat.
Still, he was severely malnourished from his many years in Azkaban, but Sirius knew he could not remain where he was.
As such, he had begun making his way north, avoiding all populated areas he could until it became necessary to risk venturing into them to catch his bearings.
Twice he found he'd been travelling in the wrong direction, much to his chagrin.
He couldn't risk apparating, and without a wand, he was living off the land, eating only what he could scavenge, washing in rivers, and sleeping uneasily beneath the trees.
Despite the hardship, Sirius had no regrets leaving his cell.
Wormtail.
The despicable man was hiding as a rat at Hogwarts, and that could not be allowed.
He was responsible for what had happened to James, Lily, and little Harry.
A lump formed in Sirius's throat at the thought of his godson.
Blinded by the grief and anger he'd felt upon learning of what had happened, he had not considered the boy.
That, he did regret.
Sirius could only guess what kind of life Harry had lived up until now, and though he was hopeful Albus would have assured he was well, it would not have been the same without his family.
Sirius should have been there.
He should have taken Harry from Hagrid and fulfilled the vow he had made to James and Lily to protect their son, with his life if necessary.
He had failed them, and it was a guilt he would carry for the rest of his days.
Sirius licked his lips as he watched a woman emptying the leftovers of a meal into the bin outside a home, followed by some other general waste.
He would have to sift through it to get to the food.
It didn't matter to him.
Sirius hadn't eaten for the best part of two days, so getting his hands dirty for a meal was a minor inconvenience.
He watched the house for several minutes after the woman had returned before he slinked from the shadows in his dog form, flicking the wheelie bin open with his nose and resting his forelegs over the rim.
Helping himself to the potatoes, gravy and vegetables, he wolfed them down ravenously before snatching the discarded newspaper and heading back into the undergrowth where he transformed.
It had been a week since he'd last gotten hold of one of the many muggle tabloids, and as he glanced over the cover, he was pleased to see that his face was not plastered across the page.
Sirius did pause, however, as he took in the date.
July 30th, 1993
Tomorrow would be Harry's thirteenth birthday and Sirius found himself once again pondering his godson.
What was the boy like?
Had he taken after James or was he more like his mother?
There were dozens of questions Sirius had, and he hoped that he would get the opportunity to have them answered.
Firstly, he needed to deal with Pettigrew, and then, perhaps he would be granted some time with Harry before he was inevitably returned to Azkaban where he would live out the rest of his days.
He would do that gladly knowing that the rat had gotten exactly what he deserved.
(Break)
It felt as though he had only just taken his leave of the graveyard, and yet, here he was once more, though there were fewer monuments and the surrounding houses of the village were much older.
Everything else felt so familiar, and as he passed through the kissing gates, he gazed into the distance looking for whom it was he sought.
Harry spotted her where he expected she would be, and as he approached, she turned to him and offered a sad smile.
"What is bothering you, my girl?" Harry asked as he took a seat next to her on a wooden bench.
The girl was in her mid-teens at most, and the resemblance to Malory Gaunt was undeniable.
Down to the brilliant green eyes, and thick dark tresses, Carys was the very image of her late mother.
"I just need to know," Carys murmured. "They call me bastard, a stain on the family. They even call me a mudblood."
Harry felt his irritation rise at the hated slur, but also a sense of foreboding.
He had dreaded the coming of this day since Carys had been born.
Still, he would not lie to her.
He had promised himself he would never lie to his daughter.
"What is it you wish to know?"
"Who was my mother?"
Harry nodded, a sense of sadness washing over him as he thought of the woman.
Their encounter had been brief, and rather chaotic, but he had never forgotten Malory Gaunt.
How could he when she had given him such a perfect daughter?
"Your mother and I were not married," he sighed, his gaze shifting towards the unmarked grave. "We did not know each other well. She was…complicated."
"Complicated?"
Harry nodded.
"It is a painful truth but you shall know it all if that is your desire."
Carys nodded and Harry released a deep breath.
"Her name was Malory Gaunt. She was from a well-known pureblood family from across the border, mind their reputation was not a good one and has only worsened over the years. We met when I learned that she intended to raid our lands. I captured her and foolishly let my guard down. She escaped."
Carys frowned in confusion.
"But I was born."
Harry smiled as he nodded.
"She was a wily woman," he murmured somewhat fondly. "I gave into her, and when I woke, she was gone. I still do not remember what happened that night."
Carys did not seem placated by the explanation so Harry wrapped an arm around her shoulder.
"She was a wanted woman, Carys. Some months later, she was found by some of the men here and brought to me. She was in the midst of giving birth to you, and she died shortly after you came. Your mother loved you; I will not see you believe otherwise. Our short time together was turbulent, but I would not lie about what I saw. She wanted nothing more than to be here with you, to know that you were loved, and in her final moments, she held you in her arms and we named you together. She did not pass on until she had my vow that I would love you as deeply as she did. I kept that promise to Malory, not out of any loyalty to her, but because the moment I looked upon you, I loved you so."
Carys nodded as the tears rolled down her cheeks.
She had always been a quiet girl, observant, but exceedingly brilliant in her ways of magic.
This was perhaps the first time Gawain had seen her so vulnerable, the wounds of truth exposing the longing she had endured over the years.
"I am sorry, Carys. I wish that our tale was one of romance and adoration."
She shook her head as she wiped away her tears.
"You told me the truth. That was all I wanted."
Harry pulled the girl into his arms and held her tightly and Carys silent weeping turned into deeps sobs.
Not knowing what to do, he clung to her.
"Do you wish I was never born?" Carys asked. "They all say things about you too."
Gawain shook his head.
"Cowards," he snorted. "I have regrets in my life, Carys, but you coming into it is not one of them. I would die for you in a heartbeat, just as I would for Arthur and Brynn."
Carys looked up at him, and Harry held her gaze until a smile tugged at the corner of her lips.
"You look just like her," he sighed. "Just as beautiful. She would be proud of the woman you are becoming."
Carys nodded.
"Why didn't you write anything on her stone?" she asked.
"I didn't know what to write," Gawain answered honestly. "You can do it if you'd like?"
Carys frowned thoughtfully before she stood and approached the blank stone, drawing her wand.
After a moment, she carved a single word into it and took a step back.
"Mother?" Gawain asked curiously.
"She was my mother," Carys answered simply. "It is no one else's business who she was or where she came from. I don't care what she did. She loved me and that is all that matters."
Gawain smiled proudly.
"She loved you dearly," he reiterated. "Just as I do."
Harry felt himself pulled through the void, experiencing no confusion for the first time.
He had seen the stone for himself only a few days prior, but it was nice to see the memory of how it had gotten there.
Gawain had kept his word to Malory and had raised their daughter well.
In truth, it only made the knowledge that they were no longer here all the more sombre.
Gawain Peverell really had been a good man, and someone Harry had come to respect deeply. He hadn't held the circumstances of Carys' birth against her, and yet, he still wished to know what had led to the young woman not being buried with the rest of the Peverells.
The knowledge would come to him, he hoped.
Shaking his head of the thoughts, he looked around the room, his gaze coming to rest on the small pile of cards and presents that had arrived for him throughout the morning.
Hermione had sent him a book on runes that he was quite keen to read, and Ron, who was still in Egypt, had sent some souvenirs from the country.
Nicholas and Perenelle had sent him a card with the promise they had a gift for him when he would be visiting them the next day for the remainder of the summer.
All in all, it had been a good birthday, a peaceful one, but enjoyable, nonetheless.
For much of it, he had been thumbing through Ignotus's book, absorbing every word he could of the man's life, his findings on the cloak, and even some very useful spells he had included.
It was as informative as he could have hoped for, even if he struggled to comprehend much of what had been written about the magic of the cloak.
One day, he would understand, but having just turned thirteen-years-old, today would not be that day.
Stretching where he was sitting on the bed, he shuddered as a chill ran down his spine.
It was a lunch time in July and Harry couldn't understand why he suddenly felt so cold.
Trembling, he stood in front of the fireplace in his room and lit with a muttered spell, and the coldness that seeped into him only increased as he did so.
What was happening?
No matter what he did, Harry could not get warm, and as the colours of the room around him began to fade into a greyish hue, his concern grew, turning into outright terror as he turned his attention to the door and caught sight of the cloaked figure that had haunted the Peverells.
"Now?" Harry asked weakly, his throat suddenly dry.
He wanted to be as brave as Ignotus had in the face of Death, but he could not ignore the fear he felt.
Was it the cloak figure that terrified him so?
No, it wasn't Death that frightened Harry, but the unknown of what lay beyond.
Would he be reunited with his parents?
He didn't know, but he also didn't understand what had led to him facing his own demise at such a tender age.
Slowly, the cloaked figure shook its head and pointed towards the clock on the mantle.
"One pm," Harry murmured, his eyes widening as an extract from Ignotus's book came to the forefront of his mind.
It came to him on his thirteenth day of being named, is what Gawain told me…
His thirteenth name day.
Harry's was today.
Had Death come to him the same way he had Gawain?
It was the only thing that made sense, unless it truly was his time to pass.
Before Harry could ponder the situation further, the cloaked figure glided towards him, a skeletal hand reaching out from within its robes.
With nowhere to run, Harry could only brace himself for the inevitable, and as the tips of the bony fingers touched him on the skin above his heart, he felt a rush of magic like no other wash over him, settling into every fibre of his being.
It was cold, colder than anything else he had ever felt, yet as familiar as the magic within the cloak.
It was all Harry could focus on, and for a moment, he felt as though he would indeed die from chill.
Even when the figure retreated, the coldness stayed, and it stared at him, seemingly judging Harry's worth to have been bestowed with whatever had been gifted to him.
"Peverell," it spoke in a gravelly voice.
Harry could only swallow deeply as the figure offered him what appeared to be bow before it vanished, taking the eerie, greyish hue with it.
For a moment, Harry could barely breathe as the cold magic continue to flow through him whilst he lay upon the floor in front of the fire that still failed to warm him.
Would the cold remain with him in perpetuity?
Harry didn't know, but as he attempted to stand, his limbs gave out from the sudden onslaught of weakness and fatigue he felt, and all he could do was let the darkness take him as he wondered what had been done to him in the past few moments.