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Hunters and Prey | ||||||
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Category: Post-Hogwarts, Post-DH/AB Characters:Harry/Ginny, Hermione Granger, Luna Lovegood, Neville Longbottom, Ron Weasley Genres: Action/Adventure, Angst, Drama, Romance Warnings: Mild Language, Sexual Situations, Violence Story is Complete Rating: PG-13 Reviews: 295 Summary: February 2000 Newly Qualified (in record time) Auror Harry Potter remains obsessed with “The List.” The ten people still wanted for their part in the Battle of Hogwarts. Their capture is essential. It will bring closure to the events of the past few years. Harry has set himself a target. He wants to see “The Last Death Eater” and the other nine captured before the second Anniversary of the battle. His attempts to meet his target will bring heartbreak, danger, and pain. Hitcount: Story Total: 112105; Chapter Total: 6241 Awards: View Trophy Room Author's Notes: Thanks to Amelíe and Andrea for their comments, corrections and input. Please review. Constructive criticism is always gratefully received. |
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7. The Hunt: Den of Wolves Harry stepped out into a bubbling beck. Water rushed from a narrow crack in a high crag behind him. It flowed around the Shivering Stone and splashed over pebbles and gravel in its search for mother sea. The beck meandered down into a forest which proudly announced its age and temperament. This was no man-made excuse for a forest, not like the orderly marching rows of pines he had walked through in recent days, this was gnarled ancient oak, beech, horsechestnut, ash and elder; trees which did as they pleased. This was gorse, holly and brambles growing in wild profusion. The air was heavy with the smell of wet peat and rotting leaf mulch, smells which mingled with the sweet scent of wildflowers. This was a place where no Muggle had settled, chopped trees or changed the landscape. The world beneath the iron grey sky was made of shades of green and brown; small patches of other colours were provided by purple heather, yellow gorse, lavender foxgloves and bluebells; there were a few snowdrops under the trees, too. It would be difficult, impossible, probably, to walk through this forest without leaving a trail. Tendrils of mist streamed from the trees as Harry carefully picked his way downstream towards them. Looking down he saw foot-shaped holes in the water; he could also make out the oddly shimmering movement of his cloak hem in the current. The cloak was not much use under the circumstances, but he did not remove it. Pebbles skittered underfoot as he splashed his way forwards to the point where the beck tumbled into the forest. The water was moving more rapidly as it entered a narrow glen. At the forest’s edge, the beck fell precipitously into a small pool, a drop of about five feet. The water flow had created a small pebble beach as it undercut the rocks. To Harry’s right, a narrow path led away from the stream and into the forest. The path was overgrown and obviously little used. He cautiously went to investigate. Looking down the path, he could see no more than a hundred yards into the tree-shaded gloom. Nettles and brambles lined the narrow, muddy trail and within the treeline the forest floor was the brown and yellow of wind blown leaves. The leaves were slowly decomposing, but many were still dry enough to rustle. Taking the route through the trees might lead him to the werewolf village, but it was possible that he could meet someone en route, and leaving the trail would likely be noisy. Cautiously he scouted a short distance down the path. A few of the trees were sprouting cautious buds as if daring winter to return; most, however, remained leafless. He saw something moving high in the branches and stopped, looking anxiously upwards. He squinted worriedly and finally recognised the stick like creatures as Bowtruckles. He looked down; he was leaving footprints in the peaty soil of the path. The cloak was impractical here, too, because of the thorns and brambles. Even disillusioned he’d leave tracks. There was scent to consider, too. Remus’s notes, which he’d been reading in his tent, had been a revelation to Harry. Most werewolves, even untransformed, retained an increased olfactory awareness. What he needed, he realised, was a broom. Auror equipment should include a broom–a good broom, too, though it would be unwieldy to carry. He wondered if it would be possible to make something like Hermione’s beaded bag. That way Aurors could store whatever equipment they needed to carry out their mission. He made a mental note to discuss the idea with his friends when he got back. Standing silently on the path, Harry made his decision. He returned to the stream, jumped from the top of the small waterfall and landed on the pebble beach with a clatter. The noise he had made was covered by the roar of the water. Unfortunately, once in the glen he could hear nothing but the babbling beck. Stopping, Harry pulled an Extendable Ear from his pocket, disillusioned it, and sent it vertically up above the edge of the glen. The effect was disconcerting. Through one ear he could hear the stream rushing alongside him, through the other the stream was a distant murmur–he heard the rustle of the trees, nothing else. Taking a few moments to adjust to this unusual auditory information, he carefully examined his surroundings. He was well screened from the forest. For him to be seen, someone would have to look directly over the edge into the rapidly deepening ravine. Grass overhung the edges and dripped water down into the lichen covered stone sides of the glen. The fern and moss that covered edge above the rock was steep and slippery. It was unlikely that anyone would approach closely enough to see him, and the water would hide his scent. The weathered stones on both sides of the glen were slick with running water, which spilled from the soil above. Large growths of sphagnum moss grew on the walls. Several useful types of fern, moss and lichen grew in profusion around him. Harry stopped and smiled to himself. Sitting at the next desk to Neville Longbottom for two years, he realised, had taught him a huge amount about plants both mundane and magical. He hadn’t had any formal lessons, he must simply have absorbed Neville’s enthusiastic chatter. Harry cupped his hands under a particularly large area of moss, leaned forwards and squeezed moss against stone using his forehead. His head and hands tingled with the cold. He gulped the ice-cold, moss-filtered water. It tasted very fresh and a little peaty. Senses alert, Harry began his descent of the narrow gorge. There were a few occasions where he slipped on moss covered rocks. At other times he had to cross from one side of the stream to another. He cursed the previous two days’ weather. The water that had fallen to earth was slowly making its way to the stream, which was swollen and fast flowing. Several times Harry stopped to dry his feet after being forced to walk through rushing water to a better path on the opposite side of the stream. After walking for at least half an hour, Harry scrambled down the side of a second waterfall, this one a drop of some eight feet. At the side of the waterfall was a wide pebble beach. Pebbles and larger rocks from it had been thrown into the stream to create a makeshift dam. This, the first sign of human intervention with nature, made the pool directly beneath the waterfall very deep. The stream twisted out from this secluded, enclosed pool at right angles to the falls. Keeping his back to the wall, he peered carefully around the corner before proceeding. The stream widened, and so did the glen. Travelling downstream became much easier. Pebbles had been deposited by the water in such a way as to make a passable, if occasionally treacherously slippery path. The cover provided by the glen was diminishing as it began to open out into the forest. A faint path led up the right side of the glen and into the trees. Deciding that it probably led to the village, Harry disillusioned himself and clambered carefully up the left side. On the right bank of the stream, the opposite side to where he stood, the forest was coming to an end. On the left the trees continued, stretching high up the hill away from the stream. A precipitous rocky bank, covered in gorse and a few shoots of fern, rose steeply from the waters edge to the forest. As Harry crept along its edge, he smelled smoke. Stealthily skulking from tree to tussock, Harry slowly followed the water, heading cautiously towards the smoke. Although the stream continued to fall away to his right, he followed an apparently little used level trail. Soon he saw the village. He stopped and carefully assessed what he could see. The buildings were basic and primitive: a motley collection of single-storey wood and plaster cottages with thatched, or in some cases turf, roofs. Outside each cottage was a garden full of vegetables and herbs. There were about two dozen of these buildings scattered in a rough semi-circle along the curve of the stream. At the radial point of the semi-circle, where the village met pasture, there was another building; a large two-storey stone farmhouse. Harry tried to keep calm. He’d found the place, but that was only the first part of his mission. Now he had to find somewhere to keep watch. He must locate Lowell and, through Lowell, find Lestrange. As he looked back into the trees, searching for a safe and secure camp site overlooking the village, the door to one of the cottages opened. A dainty little girl, about ten years old, walked out with a wooden bucket in her hand. As Harry stepped backwards he dislodged a stone which slid and clattered down the bank towards the stream. The girl looked up at the noise, and appeared to look directly at Harry. She had a pale, oval-shaped face and her reddish-brown hair fell almost to her waist. The stone rattled to a halt under a gorse bush at the edge of the stream. The girl looked towards the noise, shrugged, then walked over to the stream and filled the bucket. Harry started breathing again. He waited for the girl to go back indoors before moving cautiously into the trees. He carefully scouted the area, looking for a spot where he would be able to observe the entire village. By the time he had found his ideal location the entire village was awake and moving. He did not dare set up camp until after dark. Lying in a narrow gap between a fallen elm tree and a flourishing gorse bush he hastily scribbled a note to Ron and Neville. “In safely, beginning observations. More later,” he wrote, before signing the message. Safe, he hoped, under his Disillusionment spell, Harry pulled out his Omnioculars and began his observations. Even by the end of that first, uncomfortable, day, he had begun to identify the villagers. The butcher was at the far end of the village, downstream of every other property. Harry watched in disbelief as the burly man hobbled a squealing pig, hauled it protesting into the air, and slit its throat with a single cut of a wicked-looking knife. After placing a wooden bucket under the creature to collect the steaming blood, the man left the still twitching creature and went to examine several animal skins stretched out on wooden frames. The baker was at the other end of the village. As soon as his door opened, someone from each of the other cottages, usually a young child, hurried over to collect a loaf. The smell of the fresh-baked bread was carried on the breeze across the stream to Harry, making him hungry despite his hearty breakfast. As he watched, a middle-aged woman left the bakers and hurried over to the stone house. To his surprise, she climbed up some stone steps on the outside of the stone building and knocked on an iron bound oak door on the upper floor. Harry watched closely. A grey-haired crone opened the door, took the basket and closed the door in the woman’s face. This was apparently normal, as the woman descended the steps and returned to the bakers. Harry looked carefully at the stone house, and recalled his conversation with Mr and Mrs Wake. This was a bastle, a fortified farmhouse. There were three tiny slit-windows on the long wall, and two of them covered the staircase. The stone stairs ended short of the door, and the wooden platform in front of the door was built on a beam cantilevered out from the wall. It appeared as if the platform could be dropped from inside the building. The ground floor had double doors leading into what, Harry remembered from his conversation with the Wakes, would be a low vaulted barn. The building was roofed in thick, rough cut, slate. This would be a difficult building to attack; especially if, as Harry suspected, it was magically protected. He tried to keep an eye on the door while also watching the rest of the village. A tall, rangy man in his late twenties was walking disconsolately back from the bakers, a sour look on his face. He met the dainty little girl and his face cracked into a reluctant smile for her. He ruffled her hair affectionately as they passed, and then his face again soured. At the dainty girl’s cottage two other girls were now in the garden; they had dragged a cow out from the house and tied it to a post. Similar things were happening elsewhere. The two girls were probably sisters of the first girl. The eldest looked twelve or thirteen. She towered over her sister, who was perhaps eight years old. Both were stocky. The younger had shoulder length dark brown hair and uneven teeth; the older was round faced and had long, tawny-brown hair. The elder girl took control and began to milk the cow while her sister stroked the beast’s nose. Harry watched each of the cottages as cows were lead out, milked and taken to the pasture; he watched the butcher expertly dismember the pig, and saw him shout a name. ‘Ross!’ The name echoed across the stream moments later. A teenage boy (thirteen or fourteen, Harry estimated) strolled from the cottage and grinned at his father. The butcher picked up the choicest cut of meat, wrapped it in brown paper, then re-wrapped it in newspaper. He handed the package to the boy. Ross was a good-looking boy, and he obviously knew it. He was tall and broad-shouldered and his long black hair flopped over one eye. He strutted arrogantly through the village until he approached the bastle. As he climbed the stone steps his demeanour changed. He was cowed and nervous when he knocked at the door. The crone opened it, took the meat and slammed the door in his face. Harry continued to watch village life unfold in front of him. Eventually he saw the mother of the three girls. Her hair was the light tawny brown of her eldest daughter. She was a slight and careworn woman, no taller than her eldest daughter and not as stocky. She had a sadness about her which reminded Harry very much of Andromeda Tonks on one of her bad days. Finally remembering his camera, Harry photographed everything he could see. It was almost noon before the bastle door opened again. Six people descended the stairs and Harry’s heartrate increased expectantly. He trained his Omnioculars on each of them in turn, but was disappointed; Rabastan Lestrange was not one of them. He recognised Verulf Lowell from his research. He was a long-haired, yellow-teethed, grey-haired man in his fifties. An imposing looking black-haired woman about ten years his junior hung onto Lowell’s arm. One of the other four was instantly familiar to Harry: Scabior, Greyback's henchman in the Snatcher squad who’d taken them to Malfoy Manor. The others were a short, fat, sweaty, bald man, who Harry recognised from the wanted posters as Zachary Youen; an unprepossessing-looking woman with wild brown hair who looked as if she might be related to Scabior, and a skinny man with greasy black hair–Gordon Payne. Harry should have been elated; he had found three of the wanted Snatchers, one of whom was supposed to be dead. But he was not; there was no sign of his main prize, Rabastan Lestrange. Nevertheless, remembering his mission, he photographed them as they swaggered around the village giving orders. They had wands; it appeared that no-one else did. Harry continued watching until dusk, when the animals were brought back indoors. That night Harry was very busy. He removed the frame from his rucksack, enlarged it, and levitated it into the air above an area of brambles and between four sturdy trees. Transfiguring the straps into ropes he tied them to the four trees, creating a platform about fifteen feet square and about the same height above the brambles. Clambering up the largest of the four trees, an ancient oak, he stepped across onto the platform and altered the length of the ropes to ensure that the platform was level. Satisfied that the platform was solid and secure he looked over the edge. He would get a much better view of the village from up here. ‘Accio rucksack,’ he whispered. It flew up into his hand. Pulling out his tent, he erected it on the platform, and finally disillusioned everything. It was an unsettling feeling, standing on an invisible platform, while invisible himself. Turning, he realised that he couldn’t find the entrance to his tent. Laughing inwardly at his stupidity he removed the spell from the tent, pulled the Ginny Weasley action figure he carried from his pocket and tied it the zip of the tent. He then carefully repeated his Disillusionment charm, leaving the action figure visible. From the ground, no one would be able to see the tiny model Ginny in her green Harpies robes as she flew and looped in front of the zip. After setting up his protection and alarm spells he grabbed the model Ginny, unselfconsciously kissed it and then opened the tent. Once inside he began preparing his first meal since breakfast, almost fifteen hours earlier. He wrote a lengthy report; it was well after nine before it was completed and sent. That done, he went to bed early. It had been a long day and there were likely to be many more ahead. The following morning, Harry woke to torrential rain. He looked outside, rain was running across his invisible platform and pouring off one side like a waterfall. Being invisible was no advantage in this weather. He transfigured the thick canvas of the platform he’d created into a fine, strong net. This helped, though the tent itself was still obvious from up close. He spent a miserable, cold, and wet day watching the villagers going through their regular routines. The next day was dry so Harry donned his Invisibility Cloak and followed Lowell and his henchmen. He was disappointed. They did not lead him to Lestrange; they simply patrolled the fields and meadows beyond the village. The majority of the men of the village were working in the fields. Lowell and his henchmen occasionally stopped and, with casual cruelty, cast the Cruciatus Curse on one or another of the working men. These vicious acts seemed to be random. Harry’s natural inclination to run in and defend the defenceless found itself at odds with his Auror training. After a struggle, his training won. Revealing his presence now, he knew, would almost certainly alert Lestrange. While following Lowell and his gang, Harry made a grisly discovery. Cantilevered out from the bastle, on the only wall he couldn’t see from his side of the stream, was a man-sized cage. Hanging inside the cage was a mouldering corpse. Little more than a skeleton; the man had been dead for several months. The villagers all avoided looking at the cage. Harry cautiously took more photographs. After a few more days watching over Shivering Stone, Harry became familiar with the quiet routine of the village. The baker was always the first to rise, his ovens were working just after dawn. When the wind blew in the right direction, the smell of fresh bread was a distraction to Harry, whose magically preserved bread, though not yet stale, was certainly not fresh and warm from the oven. Every day the villagers toiled in the fields; every day Lowell and his henchmen patrolled. By now Harry knew most of the villagers and could guess many relationships. Most of the cottages were home to a single family. The eldest children in the place were Ross, the butcher’s son, and the tawny-haired girl. They were, he assumed, Squibs; if they had magic, both should have been at Hogwarts. The boy and girl pointedly ignored each other. The girls’ mother, he noted, was alone in the village in not having a man in her household. The rangy, sour-faced and dark-haired man was the only person who lived alone. These two cottages and their residents were shunned by the other villagers. Sunday, his sixth day, was the day of the Harpies game against Kenmare Kestrels. Harry did not dare listen to the midday game. He couldn’t risk the noise, and he couldn’t risk missing Lestrange. A little before noon he discovered the girls’ names. He had seen the three head out of the village soon after breakfast. He had watched them appear from behind the house furthest upstream, about four hundred yards from his hideout. They had travelled a short distance up the path, taken a side path and reappeared at the foot of the glen he had travelled down almost a week earlier. They returned at noon, laughing and joking. They did not return to the village, but remained on his side of the stream. Harry watched in trepidation as they passed within twenty yards of his hideout, talking loudly. The eldest girl was Amber; she was in charge, there was no doubt about that. The middle, dainty girl was Ruby. She was quiet and (Harry noted with concern) her observant eyes were constantly darting everywhere. The youngest was Jade, who was clumsy and, when seen close, much younger than her size suggested. Both of her sisters mothered her. As they passed the hideout, Ruby looked at the ground, then looked up, straight at Harry. ‘What’s that?’ she asked her sisters, squinting and pointing up at Harry. For a second, he panicked, then he realised that she was looking through him, he looked round, and saw the action figure he’d tied to the tent zip. Instantly on his feet, he covered the figure within the folds of his cloak. ‘There,’ Ruby was saying, ‘see that big branch, follow it along this way,’ she pointed. ‘Oh,’ she said, disappointed, ‘it’s gone.’ She peered up at where Harry was standing, still pointing. The three girls watched for a long time. ‘There’s nothing there,’ Amber scolded. ‘I’ll tell Mum you’re telling stories again, making stuff up. Little liar.’ ‘Am not,’ Ruby retorted angrily. ‘Jade saw it, didn’t you?’ Her sisters turned to the youngest girl; Jade looked from one to the other in panic. She was being asked to choose sides, and she obviously didn’t want to. Instead, she burst into tears. Harry expected the two older girls to blame each other for this turn of events. They didn’t; they instantly forgot their argument, comforted their sister and went on their way. That night, lying on his bed in the tent, Harry’s mind wandered as he tried to reassure himself that this job was his. It had to be. It needed a Seeker’s patience. Waiting, watching, looking for the Lestrange-sized Snitch, observing his opponents planning tactics. He wondered how his friends would have coped. Ginny would have revealed herself out of sheer boredom by now. Neville … Neville probably had the patience, Harry admitted, as did Hermione. Ron, he realised grinning, would be getting frustrated simply reading Harry’s reports. Once again he wondered how his friends were, how Ginny was. He longed to talk to her, to hear her voice, see her smile. If only she’d been at home when he had called. The following morning, the imposing looking woman left the village alone. She mounted a broomstick and flew over the woods, heading towards the Shivering Stone. Harry decided not to follow her; if she was going through the barrier he would never catch her on foot. Now convinced of the need for a broom, he frustratedly scribbled a short report saying that she’d left and then went back to observing village life. It was almost dusk when the woman returned. Long enough for her to have left, flown outside the anti-Apparition area and gone…anywhere. That night, the moon reached waxing half. There were now only seven days left until the full moon. Harry was becoming obsessed by the lunar cycle. It had been another boring day and he was restless. Ginny, the Quidditch results and the phases of the moon were now occupying his every thought. Yesterday the Harpies had played at home to the Kestrels; he knew their fixture list by heart. Their next game was another Sunday game, a four o’clock start, away to Montrose Magpies. That game was on the full moon night, one week away. Hopefully, he would be home in time to watch it. Until this mission began, he had attended almost every Harpies game. Until last week he’d known all of the results. Curiosity overcame him; he had to know how Ginny’s team had fared against the Kestrels. Having a copy of the Prophet delivered to his hideout was out of the question, but the butcher wrapped his meat in brown paper and then in newspaper. During his observations, Harry had seen several villagers give him their old newspapers to use. Waiting until long after midnight, Harry sneaked down into the village, both disillusioned and under his Invisibility Cloak. He picked up a copy of the Sunday Prophet from the pile of papers kept under a stone outside the butcher’s and sneaked back to his tent. Pleased with his success he looked first at the back page and settled down to read the paper. The match report surprised Harry. The Harpies had won, no surprise there, but for only the third match that season Ginny was not the highest scorer. In fact, for the first time she was the lowest scorer of the three chasers. The reporter made several comments about Ginny being off form and speculated about her England place being in jeopardy. The match report ended with a reference to an article on pages three to six. Concerned, Harry turned to the front of the paper. There were several photographs of Ginny, Linny and Livy on pages three and five. They were obviously drunk in every image. In most of the photographs the camera seemed to be focussed on their plunging necklines, not their faces. The article headline read “HELLIONS IN TROUBLE AT HOME”. What was going on? Horrified, Harry read on. A lacklustre performance by teen machine Ginny Weasley and antipodean angel Livy Aikenhead did not prevent them from celebrating another victory with fans in the Harpy’s Roost. Joined, as always, by teammate Linny Baker, the Harpies Hellions were only prevented from demolishing their home tavern by the prompt action of Captain Gwenog Jones. It seems that the Harpies stars have again decided to celebrate by getting drunk and wrecking bars. When asked about her teammates’ activities Captain Jones, obviously angry, said, ‘I’ve been ordered not to talk to the press, ask our press office about the young fools.’ The Harpies press office told us that the girls were young and needed to let off steam after so many stunning victories, that no significant damage had been done to the Harpy’s Roost, and that no action was to be taken by the club. Readers might like to be reminded of the recent post-match antics of the Harpies Hellions. Harry scowled, “readers might like to be reminded”; this was an excuse to print old photographs and retread old news. This time, it would be useful; he read on. A few high spirits were to be expected after the Harpies narrow away victory over Tutshill Tornadoes three weeks ago. The Tornadoes fans, reeling from their shock defeat were, however, surprised when three Harpies players, along with dozens of fans, turned up at the Tutshill Tavern to celebrate. A fight was avoided by the arrival of several Law Officers who escorted the Harpies from the building. The following weeks home victory against the geriatric Wimbourne Wasps was expected, but the wild celebrations afterwards were not. Aikenhead, Baker and Weasley danced until the small hours with dozens of fans. There were two smaller photographs on the following page; the first showed the three girls shouting at a group of Tornadoes fans, apparently inside a Tornadoes bar by the look of the dcor. The caption read “Hellions make their move”. The second, larger photograph was a head and chest shot of the three, arm in arm and very drunk, all three wore very low-cut tops. The banner behind them showed that they were in a Puddlemere bar. The photograph was not flattering; at least, not of their faces. The caption read “Hellions show Tornadoes what they’re made of”. Harry knew from long and bitter experience that much of what he was reading was distorted and inaccurate, but after carefully re-reading the article several times he realised that Ginny was not herself. Perhaps he should have expected this, he thought miserably. He’d been to every home match this season and most of the away games until the Tornadoes game four weeks ago. After every game he’d waited to meet Ginny and they’d gone out to celebrate or commiserate. Her flat-mates, especially Linny Baker, were always trying to persuade her to go out with her team instead of her boyfriend. As he wasn’t there for her, it seemed that she had. Even so, it was unlike Ginny to get very drunk. During the Quidditch season she drank only sparingly and even before then he’d never seen her as drunk as the reports claimed she had been. The reports might be exaggerated, but the photos looked genuine. Harry slept badly that night and slept late the following morning. By the following night, Harry was so worried about Ginny that he began to wonder whether to leave. He’d been watching the village for ten days and there had been no sign of Lestrange. It seemed likely that he was hiding somewhere else. After writing and sending his evening report he again stayed awake. At two o’clock in the morning he left his hideout and walked half a mile upstream. Had he been thinking clearly, he would have done this yesterday. Climbing out from the ravine he picked his way carefully through the undergrowth to the path. On his way back down into the village he picked up a fallen branch. The night sky was, for once, cloudless. The moon was waxing gibbous. It hung, shimmering bloated and threatening above the village. Every night its increasing girth reminded him that he was in a village full of werewolves. He skirted the village, walked up to the bastle from the fields, and leaned against the wall. ‘Homenum Revillio,’ he murmured. There were seven people inside: the six with wands and the crone who seemed to be their only servant. He had suspected that would be the case. It was very unlikely that Lestrange had remained hidden inside for over a week. But after all this time without a sighting, it was sensible to check. He transfigured the branch he was carrying into some stepladders, set them up and climbed up to examine the corpse. There wasn’t much left of the man. He had been big, probably the same size as Lestrange. Was it him? Had Lowell murdered Lestrange in order to slowly steal his wealth? The only way to find out was to ask someone. Disappointed, Harry climbed down and retransfigured the steps back into a branch. Retracing his route, he dropped the branch back in the forest and returned to his hideout the way he had come. Lying on his bed in the tent, unable to sleep, Harry’s mind wandered. He wondered how his friends were and why they weren’t looking after Ginny. He missed seeing Ron and Neville at work. He missed his lunch breaks with Ron and Hermione. He and Ron hauled her from her office in the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures. Every day she half-heartedly protested that she “was too busy for lunch”; every day one, or both, of them dragged her out into Muggle London despite her protests. Ron bullied her into going home most nights, too. If left to herself, Hermione would work until midnight. He missed Molly’s Sunday dinners and the banter around the dinner table at the Burrow. He missed playing with his godson, now almost two. Most of all he missed Ginny and, after his obsessive re-reading the Sunday Prophet articles, he worried about her too. Harry woke late the following morning, frustrated and disappointed. It was after nine so he scribbled a hasty “no news” report. He reread it and as his concern overwhelmed him he hastily scribbled “What’s the matter with Ginny?” at the end before signing his name. After wrapping himself in his cloak, he lay outside watching. The village routine continued as normal. Early in the afternoon the three sisters left and walked upstream, laughing and chattering. Five minutes later the butcher’s boy, Ross, followed them. The boy was moving stealthily and carrying a crossbow. Harry didn’t wait; he didn’t even climb down the tree. He felt for the edge of his invisible platform, grabbed it, lowered himself over, and dropped the remaining three feet into a patch of nettles. His trousers protected him from the stings. Wand in hand, he raced after the crossbow carrying youth. Ross was on the opposite bank and about four hundred yards ahead of Harry. The dark-haired boy was moving quickly and quietly. Harry ran pell mell through the undergrowth, but the butcher’s son was soon out of site in the twisting glen. Harry pressed on as quickly as he dared. From his initial journey down the glen, he knew that he was approaching the lower waterfall and pool. As he hurried onwards there was a girl’s scream, then a second, and a third. Sprinting around the corner he saw the youth charging straight towards him. Harry was about to Stun him when he noticed that the crossbow had not been fired. The boy certainly hadn’t had the opportunity to reload since the screams. Perhaps something else threatened the girls, something the boy was running from. Harry moved out of the way and let Ross sprint past. As the boy reached the next corner he stumbled and dropped the crossbow with a clatter. There was a spark and crack on the side of the glen near Harry, then he felt an agonising pain in his calf. Looking down he saw several slivers of wood protruding from his lower leg. The crossbow had loosed when it was dropped. Harry’s leg gave way and he fell into the water. He gritted his teeth, trying not to cry out. At least the shock of the cold water was keeping him conscious. He watched with interest as his blood mixed with the cold, fast flowing stream. The three girls rounded the corner upstream. Jade was struggling to pull her robe straight. Amber looked furious. ‘What’s wrong with boys looking at us when we’re swimming?’ Jade asked her older sisters. ‘I’m going to tell Mum,’ said Amber with relish. ‘He is going to be in so much trouble.’ ‘What’s that?’ Ruby asked, pointing to the vaguely Harry-shaped hole in the water. Harry tried to stagger to his feet, to get out of the water, which was revealing his presence. He collapsed in pain. His cloak floated up around his body, partially revealing him to three astonished girls. He rolled sideways onto the pebbles, out of the running water and, unfortunately further out of his cloak. He’d been hit by the broken end of the bolt. Re-examining his wound, he saw that three separate splinters of wood were protruding from his calf through his trousers. One, the largest, had gone right through the leg. He swore. ‘Language!’ Jade exclaimed, hands on hips. Harry looked at the little girl in surprise; being scolded by a small child was a new experience for him. He immediately stopped cursing. Blinking water from his eyes, Harry looked at the girls. Amber and Jade stood and watched him carefully. Amber, he noticed, had picked up a large stone. Ruby was some distance behind them, but was now approaching at a run. ‘Sorry,’ he gasped through gritted teeth. ‘This hurts. I really need to take the splinters out.’ ‘You shouldn’t try to do it yourself,’ Ruby said sternly as she stopped next to her sisters. ‘I’ll go and fetch Mum, shall I?’ ‘I’ll be all right,’ said Harry, grunting with pain. ‘Just leave me alone.’ Ruby edged forwards and reached out with a handful of wet moss. She squeezed the moss and trickled ice-cold water onto Harry’s forehead. It helped to clear his head. ‘Mum does this when we’re hurt,’ Ruby told him. Behind her, he saw that Amber had raised her stone, ready to defend her sister. ‘Thanks,’ he muttered, ‘but I’d best deal with this myself.’ Amber began to relax. ‘I’d be grateful if you didn’t tell anyone you’ve seen me,’ he continued hopefully. ‘I’m not supposed to be here.’ ‘It’s too late for that,’ a female voice said softly. ‘Don’t make any sudden moves, and put your wand on the ground where I can see it.’ Groaning with effort, Harry turned to see the girl’s mother advancing towards him. The sunlight glinted off her tawny brown hair and she was little more than a silhouette. However, he could see enough to realise that she had a crossbow pointed at him. |
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