Chapter Text
Curses split the air, close enough that heat licked at Harry's face as he turned toward the shouting. A wand flared at the edge of his vision, the flash burning white across everything, and something hit him hard enough to tear him off his feet. His stomach lurched as he left the ground and wind tore past, pulling at his hair and robes. He clutched the broken half of his wand until the jagged edge bit into his palm. When he hit the ground, pain tore through his shoulder and ribs, locking up his chest and leaving him gasping. Branches gave way beneath him, scraping his arm and catching on his clothes before he slid to a halt in soil so cold and wet it soaked through at once. Grit ground against his cheek and for a long moment he could not move, lungs seizing and refusing air until a rough, uneven gasp forced its way in.
He could not put the pieces together. Spells from all sides, fire stinging his skin, Voldemort's face half-hidden by smoke and blood. Shouting somewhere behind him, a burst of green, then another flare that slammed into him and hurled him clear. He clawed for control even as the world spun, but after that, nothing.
The fight had vanished so quickly that the ringing in his ears felt louder than anything else. Mud clung to his hands as he dragged them through the dirt, leaving streaks across his fingers. Smoke still sat in the back of his throat, but the air around him was cooler and heavy with damp earth. His eyes watered and he blinked until pale streaks of light began to show above him, broken by shapes that shifted with the wind. They swayed and wavered, refusing to stay still, and when he tried to lift his head the world tilted, pain flaring along his ribs until his arms failed and set him down again. He stayed low, shaking from the effort, staring upward while the shapes slowly steadied into something he could name.
The forest was dense, the canopy blocking enough of the pale light that he couldn't tell the time of day. He lay there for a long time, barely able to breathe, his face against damp soil. The sharp throb of a cracked rib anchored him to the dirt. His right arm was curled protectively under him, fingers still wrapped around half of his wand. The other half was gone, flung somewhere into the moss and leaves during the fall. He didn't even have the energy to look for it. A sticky warmth was pooling at his side, soaking into his shirt. The scent of blood mixed with charred cloth and something acrid, burned magic.
Harry pushed against the ground, mud sliding under his palms as he forced his body upright. His legs shook before they were even under him, and the moment he tried to put weight on them, pain tore through his thigh so sharply that his vision blurred at the edges. His balance went and he dropped back down, catching himself with his hands before his arms gave out and sent him forward into the dirt. The jolt drove through his ribs and left him sprawled, cheek grinding into the wet earth.
He stayed like that until the spinning in his head slowed enough to let him move again, then dragged one knee under him and braced both hands against the ground. Every muscle in his arms trembled as he pushed himself up, slow enough to make his shoulders ache. The pain in his leg struck harder this time, a hot line that ran from his calf to his hip until it felt like something might tear. His strength faltered, knees folding as he sank back down, ribs hitting the ground with enough force to knock the air out of him.
When the pounding in his head dulled enough for him to think, he forced his hand down to his leg. His fingers came away wet and red, sticky in the cold air. The gash was wide open, bleeding down to his boot, the rip in his trousers dark with it. His stomach turned and he wiped his hand against the dirt before checking the rest of himself. His forearms were streaked with burns, skin blistered where curses had caught him, patches of blackened flesh already stinging. A scrape ran from shoulder to collarbone, rough with grit that ground into the raw skin. His clothes smelled of ash and blood, torn and crusted in places where they had burned through.
His glasses were gone. Panic gripped him so sharply it made his chest hurt. The forest around him blurred into a wall of moving shapes, shadows and light blending until even the ground seemed to tilt under him. He shut his eyes and stayed there, face against the dirt, until the panic ebbed enough for air to come back into his lungs.
Then something inside him shifted. It wasn't a spell he called or a charm he knew. It felt like the same wild force that had stitched his wounds closed without his asking, now surging toward his skull. Pressure built behind his eyes until he thought they might split. Pain lanced sharp through his temples, bright enough to make him cry out, and then it broke like a fever breaking.
When he opened his eyes, the world had changed. The moss in front of him was sharp, each bead of water bright and clear. The trees stood solid, no longer smearing into one another. Even the ferns near his face showed every serrated edge. The pain left him shaking, his head still throbbing as though something inside had been forced into a new shape, but the sight sharpness came with a lingering ache behind his eyes, but it did not fade. He learned quickly that hard use and low food brought the ache back, yet the sight stayed clear.
He stayed crouched there for a long time, waiting for it to slip away, afraid it might, until the shadows around him began to lengthen. The clarity stayed no matter how hard he blinked, and the ache behind his eyes dulled but never fully left.
He lay there until the cold began to seep through him, leaving his arms heard no voices and no footsteps. Leaves moved overhead. That was didn't know if the battle was over or if he had been thrown somewhere far from it, but staying there felt like waiting to die.
Magic stirred inside him, sharp and uneven. It cracked under his ribs like sparks snapping off stone, leaping into his hands and fading again before he could grab hold of it. The energy built and broke against itself until it left him shaking. He tried to catch it, to pull it into something he could use, but it slipped through him every time, leaving nothing but the hollow ache under his sternum.
He had to move. The thought came without plan or direction, only the sharp sense that if he stayed where he was he wouldn't get back up again. He rolled onto his side, chest clenching, and dug his hands into the dirt. It took most of his strength to drag himself forward far enough to get clear of the patch of mud where he had fallen. His arms quivered with the effort, his ribs screaming with every pull, but he kept going, inch by inch through the damp underbrush.
The forest stretched on without end, each tree looking like the last, their roots catching at his legs as he pulled himself over them. By the time night fell, his elbows were raw and caked with mud. He collapsed under a rotted log and stayed there, curled tight, trying to keep the heat in his body from bleeding away. Rain filtered through the leaves and soaked him through, leaving him shivering against the ground. Somewhere in the dark something howled. It was close enough to keep him awake, heart hammering, too afraid to stop but too weak to keep going.
The next day was worse. He dragged himself forward in feverish bursts, stopping only when the spinning in his head forced him to put his face to the ground. His muscles cramped until they felt ready to tear and his ribs ached with every shallow pull of air. Once, the world tilted so hard he nearly went face-first into the mud and stayed there.
It was late on the third day when he heard water. At first it was faint, no more than a thin hiss in the distance, and he almost thought he imagined it. He crawled toward the sound until it grew louder, steady and insistent, pulling him forward until the trees broke enough to show a narrow stream rushing over smooth grey stones. He dropped beside it, too tired to kneel, and dragged himself close enough to plunge his face into the current. The water shocked him with its cold, made his teeth ache, but he didn't stop until his stomach cramped and forced him to pull back.
He lay on his side for a long time, mud soaking his clothes where the bank was soft, staring at the rush of water until the noise drowned out everything else. The ache in his leg had spread to a deep, throbbing burn, and his ribs hurt too much to let him lie flat. Hunger no longer came as a sharp pain but as a hollow, heavy feeling that made it harder to keep moving. He had chewed strips of bark until his jaw ached, swallowed a handful of berries that left him retching until his throat burned. He had pressed leaves to his wounds just to try something, anything, but they only stung or numbed without helping much. None of it mattered. What mattered was that he stayed alive long enough to understand where he was, or to know whether he was meant to be anywhere at all.
The days that followed blurred. His body healed in fits and starts, never evenly. Some cuts sealed over quickly, thin scabs forming even when they should not have yet. Others stayed open and angry, slow to close. The bruises along his side faded only after weeks, yellowing in uneven patches, but the cracked rib mended so slowly he felt it shift every time he turned or tried to sit up too fast. The gash in his leg grew worse before it got better. It swelled and turned hot to the touch, red spreading out around the wound until it hurt to move it at all. He could not walk on it, could barely crawl, and so he stayed by the water, drinking when he could, keeping the flies off with clumsy swipes. Some nights he woke shivering so hard his teeth rattled, unable to decide if the chill came from fever or the wet ground beneath him.
One night, when the heat in his leg had climbed so high he could barely think, his fingers started to tingle. Magic snapped under his skin like a live wire, running down his arms to his palm. He barely knew what he was doing when he put his hand over the swollen flesh. Something inside him shifted, not in the wound itself, but deep in his chest, a sharp pulling sensation that made him gasp. The magic burst outward, wild and hot, and for a moment the pain in his leg dulled. He passed out like that, hand still clamped over the wound.
By morning the fever had broken. The swelling had gone down enough that he could bend the leg without crying out. He didn't understand it, but the memory of that surge stayed with him.
It happened again later, after he reopened a gash along his forearm while hauling stones to make a shelter. This time, the magic didn't wait for him to be half-delirious. It came the second he thought of stopping the blood, rushing to the wound until the skin stitched itself closed under his palm. The mending was rough and left an angry red line, but the bleeding slowed enough to let him keep working.
After that, he began to trust it. Not entirely, the magic still came and went, sometimes ignoring him, sometimes flaring so strong it left him dizzy, but often enough that it became part of how he kept himself alive. He still used water to wash his cuts, still pressed leaves to wounds when he found ones that numbed instead of burned, still bound cloth around injuries when he could tear enough from his shirt. But he let the magic help where his hands failed.
Weeks passed. Or maybe more. Time blurred into sky and soil, into dawns that came too early and nights that stretched too long. He lost track of days when there was no one to name them. The lean-to he built wasn't much. A shallow wall of flat stones stacked against a split tree trunk. A covering of branches stripped of leaves and bound with vine. It leaned crookedly, and rain seeped through the gaps. But it held in wind and gave him space to sleep without watching the stars turn above him.
Food had become a calculated risk. He learned the hard way. One kind of berry blistered his lips; another filled his mouth with sand-dry bitterness but settled his stomach. Mushrooms were worst. He didn't touch them again after the second attempt left him retching, curled on his side for hours while the sky spun overhead. He sharpened sticks to make crude spears and traps, lured rabbits with scraps, cornered squirrels until he could kill them with a thrown rock. The first one bled too much. He hadn't expected that. His hands trembled as he skinned it with the edge of a broken blade, trying not to gag. But he ate it. And the next. And the next. The shaking stopped eventually. He didn't notice when it did.
The first time the magic came back to him with force instead of healing, it struck without warning. A boar broke through the brush, tusks low, charging too fast for him to think of running. His hand went up out of instinct, and the air snapped tight around it. The animal froze mid-stride, suspended, its breath clouding the space between them. Harry's knees buckled and he hit the ground hard, vision swimming until everything went black.
When he woke again, the boar was gone. But the magic hadn't slipped away with it. It stayed under his skin, different now, as if waiting for the next time it would be called.
It hadn't vanished. The magic was still there. Just hidden, quiet, altered. The wand had been a guide, but not a source. That knowledge changed everything.
He practiced in silence. Carefully. Sometimes hours passed with nothing but his breath and the forest around him. He didn't speak spells aloud anymore. He thought them, shaped them, willed them. A flicker of heat could become a flame in his palm. A gesture could raise a wave from a puddle. He found rhythm in repetition, refining by failure. When his aim slipped, the spell went wild. One misfire singed the bark of a tree and scorched his fingers. Another left him with a nosebleed that wouldn't stop for hours. He kept going. He learned to mend torn cloth, to dry damp logs with a glance. He heated stones at night to keep warm and pushed the rain aside with a word. He never tried a Patronus. He wasn't sure he could stand to see it not come.
Eventually he stopped thinking about going home. Not all at once. At first it crept in quietly, as fewer days ended with him staring at the sky and tracing constellations he didn't recognize, trying to force them into the shapes he remembered from astronomy lessons and late nights at the Burrow. But there came a point when the idea of returning felt farther away than the war itself. It didn't feel like waiting anymore. It felt like absence. Like a door had closed without him noticing, and there was nothing left to do but continue forward.
Animals no longer ran from him. They watched, cautious but not afraid. Birds returned to branches when he passed beneath them. A fox once trotted alongside him for a stretch of trail, pausing only when he did, then vanishing without alarm. The forest no longer felt like something he had to survive. It felt like something he had entered into an uneasy agreement with. He took what he needed. It did not fight him.
The trees grew familiar. He knew which bark peeled easily, which trunks marked the edge of a slope, where water collected after rain. He could read the clouds, thick ones that meant hours of drizzle, fast ones that meant a storm would arrive by dusk. The wind carried stories if he paid attention. He could tell when it swept through carrying the scent of wet fur, of something dead nearby, of smoke. Threat didn't announce itself with sound anymore. It came with silence.
His body had changed. His frame, once slight beneath school robes and swallowed by Dudley's castoff sweaters, was lean now but carried a sharpness that didn't belong on someone his age. Hunger and poor meals had carved lines into him that never quite went away, his shoulders narrower than they should have been, his wrists fine-boned. What little growth had come in time he had been herehad been stretched thin over hard muscle and angles built from running, climbing, and dragging food back to camp. He looked younger than he was, like he'd been left behind by the boys his age who had proper meals and warm beds.
The pain in his leg never truly vanished. It dulled with time but stayed with him, stitched into the way he moved, something he had to work around the same way he worked around hunger. His hands bore thick calluses along the fingers and palms, his nails chipped and uneven from stone and rope, from scraping dirt aside with bare hands to set a snare or dig for roots when nothing else could be found. His ribs showed when he lifted his arms, pale lines across skin that had been bronzed by the sun.
Months of this life shaped more than his body. The quiet settled in first, broken only by the sounds of the forest and the tasks that filled the day. Without anyone to talk to, words stopped coming as easily. At first he muttered to himself, if only to prove he still could, but the sound startled him, too sharp against the hush. Little by little, he spoke less until silence felt natural. Sometimes he mouthed words when he remembered a spell or caught himself thinking of someone. Speech itself became distant, something that belonged to another life, the words too heavy to force out.
Time blurred with the silence, one day slipping into the next until whole seasons had passed. Two winters and summers had come and gone, leaving their mark on him as surely as hunger and injury had. When he lay on his back and looked through the branches, he sometimes tried to count what had changed since the day he landed here. His body carried the answers in roughened skin and in the set of his shoulders, in the way his hands no longer shook when he worked with stone or when he killed what he needed to eat. The limp from his leg had become permanent, though he had stopped noticing it. What had once felt like pain had settled into something he moved with rather than against. The forest had carved him into something it would allow to remain.
What did not change was the emptiness around him. There were no paths but the ones he cut, no voices but the ones he remembered, no trace of anyone else. Days stretched without interruption, filled only by the sound of his own work and the shift of the forest around him. Speaking aloud startled him after a while, the sound too sharp, too out of place. More often he mouthed words instead, half-formed, fading before they reached the air. The faces he held onto blurred when he tried to picture them, and the voices he once knew clearly now reached him only in sleep. Since the moment he had fallen into this place, no other human had stepped from the trees, and he had begun to live as if none ever would.
That was why the noise unsettled him. He heard them before he saw them, rough voices carrying through the trees with the crash of boots on underbrush. At first he thought it was a hunting party. He dropped into a crouch behind the roots of an overturned tree and stayed still. When they came into view, he froze. They were tall, broad, filthy. Their skin ranged from grey to dull green, mottled with old scars. Their weapons were crude. One carried a blade notched like a saw, another dragged a club made from a tree limb wrapped in chain. They shoved each other when they walked, laughed at nothing, barked insults at full volume.
"Stupid orc," one spat after another stumbled.
"Useless orc," came the reply, teeth bared.
Harry hadstayed low, his breath shallow. They passed within twenty feet of him, never looking down.
He followed them once, from a distance. They set camp near a stream, ripped apart a deer without skinning it, then threw the scraps into the fire still raw. One of them drank from a dented iron flask and tried to smash it over another's head. The rest laughed. Harry backed away before they noticed him.
They never moved quietly. He could hear them from half a mile off. Their trails were easy to find, broken trees, scorched bark, blood. One time, he found a hollowed stump filled with bones and strips of leather. Another time, a pit dug shallow, covered in soot and ash, with the smell of rot still hanging over it.
The goblins came later. Smaller, hunched, and fast. Their speech was clipped, almost whispered, but their movements were precise. They scavenged more than hunted, passed through ruins easily. He spotted them digging through collapsed stonework, prying open rotted crates and stuffing the contents into packs. One carried what looked like a silver fork tucked into its belt. Another had a child's shoe tied to its wrist. None of them looked up.
He didn't approach. Didn't speak. He knew they wouldn't answer with anything he could understand.
After seeing these creatures he started to look for signs of other humans. Scanned the skies for smoke. Checked hilltops for signs of towers or roads. Once he saw something shaped like a building in the distance, but when he reached it, it was a ruin. Whatever had lived there was long gone. The stone was blackened. Bones scattered inside.
He stopped hoping after that.
His focus turned to how the magic answered. Each day he tried again, pushing until it strained, then easing before it broke away from him. What had once lashed out wild now rose when he summoned it and stilled when he released it. He no longer forced it until his arms trembled and his vision blurred. He had come to recognize the line between enough and too much. With that sense, he shaped wood to fit, cut edges into stone, shifted weight with a flick of his hand instead of his shoulders. Fire rose with ease. Water gathered at his feet when he bent the air toward it. It was no longer about finding what he could do. It was about how little disturbance he left behind when he did it.
He hunted more efficiently now. Tracks revealed themselves quickly, scuffs in bark, disturbed moss, patterns in how birds scattered. He didn't miss steps or set traps in the wrong place. A snare line took minutes to rig. He used tension spells on the cords so they held fast without pulling too early. He had no need to chase his prey anymore. It came to him, caught where he meant it to be caught. He cleaned what he killed, used what he could, left nothing behind to invite he had enough scraps, he stitched foot wraps into proper moccasins and tied leather panels into a vest that shaded his ribs from branch and stone.
When he moved camp, it took half a morning, sometimes less. He kept his gear stripped to essentials. A net of wrapped supplies over his shoulder, everything folded and bound in cloth waterproofed with wax and sealed with ash. Tools nested into each other. No noise when he walked. No light when he traveled. He could vanish from a site in under an hour without leaving a trace behind. He never stayed in one place long. Fires carried farther than he liked, and he had seen too many remains that reminded him the forest was not empty. Burnt-out pits, piles of bones, scraps of leather cut with knives. Moving often kept his trails faint and his chances of being found by those creatures smaller.
He kept a mental record of the places that worked. He never marked them. No symbols. No trails. Just patterns he memorized and cataloged. A narrow ridge with stone outcroppings that funneled wind just right. A shallow cave near the base of a hill, dry even in storm season. A hollow trunk that had once belonged to something enormous, now softened and clean on the inside. He returned to them rarely, only when needed. When he did, he could tell if someone else had passed through. Disturbed soil. Scratches that hadn't been there before.
There were no fires unless there was rain. Smoke was a risk he didn't take. When he needed light, he conjured it low and close, barely more than a glow under cupped hands. Enough to see the blade edge while sharpening, or the cut of meat as he worked. Never more than that.
Speech had faded in the same way. At first he muttered out of habit, small instructions to steady his hands, but even that gave way to silence. Commands stayed in his mind. Spells formed without sound. The forest was quiet, and he had long since learned to move in step with it. Most days passed without anything breaking that stillness, just the rustle of leaves or the distant snap of a branch when something small darted past.
It was during one of those quiet days, while crossing a narrow stream he had walked a dozen times before, that it happened. The water was low from the dry weeks, the stones beneath slick with algae. He stepped forward too fast, sure of the path, and his foot slid out from under him. His leg wedged between two submerged roots, twisting hard enough to jolt pain all the way up his hip. When he yanked it free, something sharp caught and sliced into the meat of his calf. He hit the bank in a sprawl, wet and covered in grit, already reaching down to stop the bleeding. The wound was deep, long, and angry. Not just a cut. It had peeled wide, already filling his hand with warmth.
He pulled his leg up and gritted his teeth. The muscle was torn. He'd had worse, but not without help. Blood poured freely, soaking the cloth he pressed against it. The pressure slowed it, but didn't stop it. He sat there for minutes, breathing through the sting, arms tense and jaw clenched.
When the bleeding finally lessened, he leaned forward and tried to summon the magic.
His hand hovered over the wound, fingers slick with river grit and blood. The energy came, but sluggishly, like wading through mud. He shaped it as he always had, tissue first, then skin, slow and steady. He had done this with deeper cuts and even a broken finger once, forcing the bone to knit until it held. This time, the magic felt wrong from the start. Thin. Unstable. The thread frayed as soon as it touched the torn muscle, slipping away before it could take knew at once this wasn't fatigue; the magic itself refused to take hold, dead to his call no matter how he shaped it.
He pressed harder, teeth bared, forcing more power through, but the rush never came. Instead, the magic fizzled out mid-spell, leaving a sharp ache that shot all the way up his thigh. He had felt exhaustion before, after days of hunting and healing without rest, but this was different. His core wasn't just tired. It felt… off. Hollow in a way that made the back of his neck prickle.
He tried again, slower, shaping the flow carefully. The spark caught for a second, then scattered apart as though something had snapped inside it. The backlash was sharp enough to leave him dizzy.
"No," he rasped, shaking his head. He had done this before. It had worked before.
He shifted focus, willing only the blood vessels to close. The glow that should have sealed them guttered and died. His magic wasn't gone, but it was slipping through his grasp as if there were holes in it. The realization left him cold.
Whatever was happening, it wasn't just fatigue. His core still burned faintly, but it felt distant, like calling across an empty room.
His hand dropped to his side. The pain flared hot, sharper now that the magic had failed, and it took him a long moment to think past it.
The best he could do was wrap it. He cleaned it with boiled water, cut a strip of fabric from his shirt, and folded it tight around the leg. He packed moss to absorb moisture, then tied another strip to hold it all in place. It would need to be changed twice a day if he wanted to keep it clean.
When it was bound and held, he tried again, hoping the calm might make a difference. The answer was the same, nothing. The magic stayed distant, offering no spark, no heat, no response at all. He stopped before he made it worse and left it for morning.
He slept in a hollow near the stream that night. Cold and still soaked, but there was no energy left to walk. He kept the leg propped up on a large stoneand listened to the forest hum low around him.
In the morning the pain had settled, but the leg was stiff and swollen. He checked the bandage. The bleeding had stopped, but the wound was still open. Still raw. He cleaned it again, rewrapping it quietly, and didn't try magic this time. He knew the result would be the same.
Each day after that, he tested the leg. Slowly. He walked short distances with a branch carved into a rough cane, favoring the good side. He adjusted how he moved through the brush, gave up climbing entirely, and stayed away from steep ground. It slowed him more than he wanted to admit.
He hated how much it slowed him.
When he tried to move faster, the pain cut deep through the muscle and nearly took him to the ground. He didn't test it again after that. Not seriously.
He kept to short tasks after that. Light work. Nothing that needed climbing, nothing that meant hauling. The traps closest to camp were enough for now. He reset them in the early morning, checked them by midafternoon. He moved at half his usual pace, stopping often to rest against tree trunks or kneel beside the stream and soak his hands in the cold water to ease the stiffness.
By the end of the third day, the skin around the wound had flushed darker. A ring of red had crept outward, and the heat beneath it pulsed with a slow, steady rhythm. He smelled the change before he saw it, a sour tang just strong enough to make him still. When he peeled back the bandage, the sight made his gut tighten. The edges were wet and angry-looking, and the center glistened more than it should have.
He tried again out of sheer desperation, calling for anything that might close the wound before it spread further. The magic stirred faintly, but guttered out before it could touch the torn muscle, leaving him with nothing but the sting of failure and the smell of infection. He swore under his breath and reached for the boiled water instead.
He cleaned it with water heated from a flat stone, watching the steam curl up. He hated how slow he'd become, hated that sitting still made the ache worse. Infection could kill faster than hunger, faster than thirst, and he refused to let it win without a fight. He crushed the dried bark into strips, soaked them with boiled leaves, and pressed them down hard enough to sting.
The poultice hissed when it touched the raw skin, filling the air with a bitter smell. He didn't flinch, but he stayed crouched there longer than he needed to, watching to make sure the bleeding didn't start again. When he wrapped it, he pulled the strips tighter, enough to make his thigh throb. He'd have to walk less. Fish more. Hope it held.
The next morning he made his way back to the stream before the sun had cleared the ridge. The walk was slow, every step pulling at the wound, and by the time he reached the water sweat dampened the back of his neck. He lowered himself onto the rocks carefully, stretched the bad limb until the ache dulled enough to hold still, and rested with his hand above the surface. Magic stirred faintly under the skin of the stream, sluggish but there, and he coaxed it into ripples that drew the fish near. They flicked in and out of reach, quick flashes of pale scales before darting away, until he managed to catch two. By noon both were wrapped in cloth and cooling in the shade on a flat stone.
He did not cook them. The forest told him something had changed. The birds that called at dawn had gone silent and had not returned. Insects were quiet. No brush moved with the scurry of small animals. He crouched near the edge of camp, cane braced under his hand, listening so long his ears began to ache. The silence held, steady and unnatural, and the longer it lasted the clearer it became: someone else was in the trees.
When he stood, he did so carefully, shifting weight from his bad leg, and turned toward the lean-to. Nothing in the camp looked disturbed. The firepit was cold, the stones sat in their circle, the net hung between the branches. Yet none of it reassured him. The silence had not lifted, and it meant only one thing. An intruder had entered the forest.
Then the sound came. A footstep on the slope beyond his camp, sharp and distinct before it vanished into stillness again. He froze, his hand clamped on the cane, his eyes fixed on the trees. Pain spiked through his leg when he shifted his stance, but he forced it still and waited.
Another step followed. This one carried the low creak of a branch pushed aside without snapping. The sound made his chest tighten. It did not match orcs, who blundered through the brush, breaking whatever lay in their way. It did not match goblins either, whose foul smell would have reached him already. This was neither. Whoever it was moved with care, and that unsettled him more than the thought of noise and crashing ever could.
Harry eased backward into the brush. Each step strained his leg, and he fought to keep balance as he sank beside the roots of a half-fallen pine. He knew the hollow from before, the same space he had once used when a bear wandered too near, and it gave him the cover he needed now. His hand pressed into the dirt to keep himself steady, fingers digging deep as he shifted weight off the injured limb. The cane lay across his lap, his grip set around it, though he doubted what use it would be if the stranger reached him.
No branches moved. Sap cut sharp in his nose, and damp soil cooled his palm where it pressed against the ground. He forced himself to stay still, leg throbbing, eyes fixed ahead on the thick wall of needles. Then the branches shifted. A shape moved between the trees, slow and careful, pushing aside the brush without sound. The figure edged closer, step by step, steady in its approach.
A man came into view through the trees. He was tall and lean, with broad shoulders under a cloak worn thin by years of use. The edges were frayed where they had dragged through brush, and his boots were scarred from long travel, the leather cracked and stained from mud and stone. A sword hung at his side, plain in its sheath, the hilt darkened from long handling. A travel pack rested against his back, its straps worn smooth, with the corner of a bedroll tied to the bottom and a small pouch fastened to the side. His stride was steady and unhurried, his steps sure on the ground. He made no sound beyond the faint scuff of boot on earth and gave no sign that he expected company.
Harry stared, his body locked tight, breath snagged in his chest. He had not seen another person in two winters, not one. He had not thought they existed here at all. Yet the face beneath the hood's shadow, the breadth of the shoulders, the simple fact of a man walking through the forest left no room for doubt. Human. The truth of it unsettled him so deeply that he could not move. He did not know if this stranger was harmless, dangerous, or something else entirely.
The man's path brought him nearer to the clearing. His eyes passed over the lean-to, the firepit, and the net strung between branches, but he gave them little attention. He stopped at the base of a tall tree and set his hand against the bark, holding still for a long moment. There was no shift in his posture, no restless motion, only a brief pause before his gaze moved again.
Harry lowered himself deeper into the roots of the pine, one hand pressed hard into the dirt, the other wrapped around his cane until his palm hurt from the grip. His injured leg throbbed with the strain of crouching, and he adjusted his weight to keep from slipping. He held his body rigid, refusing to let even his breath make a sound.
The man's gaze moved slowly across the clearing. His hand did not touch the sword, though his eyes lingered on the camp as if weighing who might have left the firepit cold and the shelter standing. He studied the tree line, taking in each shadow and the edges of brush, pausing at places where cover lay thickest. His attention moved with care, not rushed, but sharp in its sweep.
Then his head turned again, and for a moment his eyes narrowed. He stopped. His focus locked on the thicket where Harry crouched, and a faint spark of surprise crossed his face, quickly tempered beneath the calm. He had not expected to see anyone, much less a boy half-hidden in roots and shadows.
He did not step forward. He did not reach for the blade. His posture stayed balanced, but his eyes remained on Harry, sharp and attentive, taking in every twitch of a finger and the tremor that went through the cane in his grip. His gaze was steady, but searching, as though he was trying to decide what manner of wild thing had revealed itself.
"I didn't mean to intrude," he said after a pause, his voice quiet and even, though surprise lingered at the edges. "I didn't know anyone was living out here."
Harry sank deeper into the hollow of the pine roots, one arm braced for balance, the other clenched hard around the cane until his palm hurt. His leg throbbed with pain from the crouch, but he ignored it, keeping himself still. His chest felt tight, every part of him strung between fear and a disbelieving relief that there was someone standing there, a man, living and breathing, not a dream brought on by fever.
The man's expression shifted as his eyes settled fully on him. He noted the rigid hold on the cane, the tension locked in Harry's shoulders, and the way he braced himself against the ground as if ready to spring. The calm in his face remained, but something gentler threaded through it now, faint in the furrow of his brow and in the careful length of his stare. His gaze lingered, and as it did he began to see more than the defensive crouch.
Harry's hair had grown long and uneven, dark strands tangled at the ends. His face was hollow beneath the grime, angles cut hard by old hunger. Over what had once been t-shirt he wore a vest pieced from small tanned skins, seams tight with sinew and set with rough, uneven stitches. A larger hide hung from one shoulder as a short cloak, the edges smoked and dark from curing. His legs were wrapped in leather panels laced up the calves, with soft-sole moccasins bound at the ankle. The old trousers showed only in ragged strips under the wraps, kept for warmth and for cutting into bandages. One leg was bound in a fresh cloth dressing, stained at the edges.
The man stayed where he was, his hands loose at his sides and his body still, but his eyes never left the boy crouched among the roots. He took in the thinness of the wrists, the sharp line of the collarbone under the shirt, the guarded tilt of the head. Each detail told him more than words might have. He had walked for days through empty land where there should have been no one, and yet here was a boy, too young and too worn to belong to such a place, hiding as though danger was the only thing he had been taught to expect.
He drew a slow breath before speaking, lowering his tone so it carried no threat. "You're not what I expected to find here," he said, surprised.
Harry did not respond. He stayed curled into the hollow of the pine, eyes locked on the man in front of him, his knuckles tight against the root as though it were the only thing holding him in place.
"I am not here to drive you away," he continued after the silence held between them. "If you want me gone, I will take another path." The promise was quiet but firm, left in the open air between them as if he knew Harry needed the choice.
The clearing remained hushed, broken only by the faint rasp of wind turning the leaves above. Harry gave no sign that he had even heard, though hesaw the effort in the set of his jaw, the way his shoulders strained against the stillness, as if holding himself together by sheer will.
The man lowered himself into a crouch, his movements slow, careful to show he meant no harm. He rested his forearms across his knees, leaving his hands visible and empty, and waited until Harry's gaze followed the shift before speaking again. "Do you understand me?"
The boy stayed silent, staring back, but the man saw the minute shift in the line of his shoulders.
He tried again, this time in Elvish, the words smooth and low. "Pedich Edhellen?"
No reply. Only the flicker of Harry's eyelids.
The man switched to a third tongue, older and harsher. The boy's brow furrowed, faint confusion breaking through the rigid mask. The sound of it seemed to pull him a fraction out of his guarded stillness, though his hand stayed braced against the root as if ready to push himself back at the first sign of threat.
"You can understand me," he said quietly, returning to the Common Tongue. "Can't you?"
Harry's fingers flexed against the root. His lips parted, and the reply came as little more than breath. "…Yes." Relief passed over the man's face so quickly it might have gone unnoticed if Harry hadn't been staring so hard. The line of tension eased from around his eyes, and he inclined his head once, slow. "Good," he said simply, and though his words stayed quiet, something warmer threaded through them.
"I am called Strider in these parts," he said then, offering the name as fact, not boast. His gaze stayed fixed on Harry as he asked, "What is your name?"
Harry's throat worked before he answered, and he stayed still for a moment longer as though weighing whether to give the truth. When it came, the word was quiet but steady. "Harry."
Strider inclined his head again, accepting the name without question, and for the first time his posture loosened, shoulders settling as if some silent measure had been met.
"I will stay where I am," he added after a moment, keeping his posture low and open. "No nearer than this if you wish." He eased his shoulders back against the tree behind him, making himself still in a way that showed patience rather than threat. His eyes never left Harry's, and in them there was open worry, and something that might have been relief that the boy was alive at all.
Strider shifted against the tree, leaning into the bark so he could watch without strain. From this angle Harry's face was clearer, though most of him stayed hidden behind the bramble. His spine curved into the root, his shoulders locked, his frame set low as if stillness could keep him safe.
"You're not from anywhere near here," Strider said, his voice even and steady, more observation than challenge. He let the words settle, his eyes fixed on the boy. Harry stayed silent, but the tautness in the air shifted, as though he were listening now.
"You're not northern. Not western. Not from across the mountains." His gaze sharpened slightly, testing, but Harry gave no answer, only tightened his grip on the cane, weighing the words.
Strider's gaze moved once to the tree line before returning. "You don't know where you are," he said, this time more gently, as if to offer the truth rather than press it. That struck closer. Harry's eyes narrowed, but the fear that had held him so rigid had dulled, replaced by something quieter.
"You've been alone here a long time." Strider's voice stayed calm, not pressing, only stating what he saw. "Long enough to know the ground, long enough to keep yourself alive, but not long enough to belong to this place."
The breathing across from him had steadied. It was still shallow, rough at the edges, but the panic that had clung earlier had ebbed. Strider marked the change and let his voice ease further. "I don't expect you to trust me," he said. "But you're not the only one who's found himself in a place that doesn't match the map."
Harry's brow furrowed, a faint crease that stayed this time. His lips did not part, but his eyes shifted with a trace of thought as if he weighed whether the question was safe to answer. Strider did not move, keeping himself low and still, waiting until the boy's breathing evened before speaking again. His words were quiet but clear, not rushed. "How long has it been since you spoke to anyone?" He held Harry's gaze, not demanding but not looking away either, and let the question sit between them.
Harry's eyes fell toward the dirt, and his thumb ran along the cane. "…Lost track." The words came rough and thin, dragged out of a throat that had not used them in too long. He stopped there, shoulders tensing slightly as if bracing for what might follow.
Strider inclined his head, slow and even. "That is a long time to be alone," he said. His eyes stayed fixed on Harry, his voice steady but carrying weight. "Out here, the wild does not leave a man in peace. You must have seen much to still be standing." He studied Harry's face, not missing the way his hands tightened on the cane, before continuing with the same certainty. "You have seen orcs."
Harry's chin dipped once, quick but definite.
Strider nodded once in return, reading more than the boy had said aloud. "And there are other things in these parts. The smaller hunters, quick and clever, that strike where they find the unguarded. You have seen them too?"
Harry swallowed hard, his throat working before he forced the words out. "Smaller. Quick." His voice cracked, and he shifted against the cane as though the effort had cost him.
"Goblins," Strider said, giving the name plainly, and he did not sound surprised.
"Maybe." Harry's reply was quiet, his shoulders drawn tight, and for a moment he seemed to steady himself against the cane as though it was the only solid thing in reach.
Strider watched him for a moment longer, his eyes narrowing slightly as he considered what this meant. "You have fought them." It was not a question.
Harry hesitated before his lips parted, his fingers flexing against the cane. "Sometimes." The word sounded stripped bare, as if speaking it took as much effort as the fighting itself.
"And yet you are still here," Strider said, not with disbelief but with a firm nod, as though acknowledging the truth out loud.
Harry pressed his hands into the soil until faint lines showed where his fingers had been. His chest rose sharply once before he spoke again, voice rough and uneven. "I kept breathing."
The clearing stayed quiet, but the silence no longer felt sharp. Strider stayed in place, letting the boy have the space to sit with the words, and neither of them moved until the moment had settled.
When Strider's gaze moved again, it landed on the leg kept behind the roots. The bandages were tight and clean, stained only faintly, the work of someone who had changed them often and carefully. Strider drew a deepbreathbefore speaking. "You have done well with that wound. Better than many I have seen even with help at their side. You kept it clean, kept it wrapped, and that is no small effort." His eyes stayed on Harry, his voice firm but even. "But there are hurts that will not close fully without another's hand."
Harry's gaze flicked up, then down again, his grip on the cane tightening until the wood creaked faintly. His shoulders stayed rigid, his body caught in a taut stillness as though he had not decided whether to trust or retreat.
Strider kept his posture low, his hands resting open on his knees where the boy could see them. His tone stayed even, leaving no doubt that he meant what he said. "I can tend it. If you step out, I will stay where you need me to stay. I will not touch you without your leave. But I can close what is left and ease the pain that remains."
Harry's breath shuddered out, uneven and rough. For days he had known the wound was worsening, heat creeping under the bandage and a deep ache flaring whenever he tried to stand. He had argued with himself that he could wait it out, that another stream, another bundle of clean moss, and another careful wrap would be enough. He knew it was not enough anymore. Now a stranger in his clearing said he could help, and the certainty in those words made his chest tight. He could not tell if the tightness came from fear, anger, or something he did not have a name for, only that it pulled at him from inside and would not let go.
He pushed his weight forward, braced against the roots, and tried to rise. Muscles that had been held still for too long trembled hard. His bad leg folded almost at once. The cane slid in loose dirt and the ground seemed to tilt. For a breathless instant he was falling and could not stop it.
Strider moved before the fall could finish. He caught Harry across the shoulders with one arm and steadied his side with the other, holding him firm enough to keep him upright but not so hard that he could not pull away if he needed to. The grip was careful and sure, keeping him on his feet.
Harry froze. His chest heaved, his thoughts scattered, and for a few confused seconds the shape at his shoulder was not Strider at all. It was Sirius, taller in his mind than he had ever been in life, Sirius's coat brushing his cheek, Sirius's arm bracing him with that quick, reckless steadiness that had once felt like the only safe thing in the world. His mouth opened on the start of a name he had not said in years, and the sound caught sharp in his throat. The image shattered, leaving him with a stranger's steady hands and the ache that always followed any thought of Sirius, an ache that felt old and raw at the same time. Shame flooded in right behind it. He did not know why he had leaned in. He did not know why, for a heartbeat, he had wanted it to be real.
Strider felt the way the boy went rigid and the way the rigidity held, not the brief brace of someone startled by pain but the locked stillness of someone who did not know how to be held. He had seen men shake from hunger and fever and fear; this was different. This was a boy who had learned to stand alone until standing alone had become the only way he knew how to stand at all. Tears hit the skin of Strider's forearm and clung there. They surprised him, not because boys did not cry but because these tears seemed to startle Harry more than the near fall had. Strider set his stance and kept his hands steady, thought of what it meant that a touch meant to prevent a fall had opened something far older than the wound in the leg.
Harry's eyes blurred. Heat stung at the corners and then spilled, and he could not stop it. A flood of old things rose up without warning. He remembered Molly pulling him into a kitchen hug and not letting go until he stopped shaking, Ron thumping his shoulder without saying anything more, Hermione's fingers gripping his sleeve when she was afraid for him, and then Sirius again, always Sirius, laughter that felt like home and hands that steadied him and the pain that always followed because nothing that good ever stayed. The tears made no sense, not now, not here. He turned his face away and scrubbed at his eyes with his sleeve until the fabric came away damp. He forced a hard breath into his chest and shook his head as if he could throw the mess of it off like water.
Strider did not ask him to explain. He did not look away either. He loosened his grip just enough for Harry to settle his feet on his own, but he kept close enough to catch him if the leg failed again. He did not speak until he felt the boy's chest begin to settle. When he did, it was quiet and simple, meant only to anchor the moment. "Easy," Strider said, and he kept his hand braced at Harry's back. "I have you."
The words hit hard. Harry did not answer. His shoulders stayed tight and he stood without moving for a long few seconds, as if any shift might bring the panic back. Some part of him hated the help, and some other part leaned toward it without asking him first. That pull frightened him more than the injury did. He did not understand it. He did not trust it. He could not make it stop.
They crossed the clearing by slow degrees. Strider set his arm behind Harry and matched his pace to the boy's unsteady steps. Without the cane, balance went in waves and came back only when Strider steadied him. Harry leaned more than he wanted to admit. He tried to carry his own weight and found he could not do it cleanly; the admission lived in the way he let himself rest against that steady hand for the span of three steps, then tensed again for the next three. When Strider eased him down onto the broad stone beside the firepit, Harry's eyes swept the lean-to, the net hung between branches, the small cache of stones where he had set what little he had gathered. Being far from the tree roots that had hidden him made his skin crawl, and the open space pulled at his nerves in a way that felt like fever.
Strider crouched in front of him and pulled the pack close, setting it down where Harry could see. He loosened the flap and folded it back to reveal fresh rolls of bandage and folded linen beside a small pouch of herbs and a skin of water. Other supplies were tucked neatly inside, the kind of things a man would need to keep himself alive far from the road. Everything was ordered and clean, the sort of pack kept by someone used to living by it.
Harry's shoulders tightened as Strider loosened another knot. When the cloth came free, the sudden touch of air made him flinch. His breath caught, and he swallowed hard, forcing the sound back down. The edges of the clearing felt strange, as though they were swaying, a low hum filling his ears until the world seemed both too near and too far away.
Strider worked through the layers one by one. Each strip showed him how carefully the boy had tended the wound. The cloth was torn neatly from trousers, tied evenly, and the moss beneath was dark but fresh enough that it had clearly been changed often. The boy had done everything right. When the last layer came away, Strider's mouth set. The cut was clean but angry, the skin around it swollen and red, heat rising from it more than it should. The moss was stiff with dried blood but not spoiled. For a long moment Strider stayed crouched, one palm against his knee as he looked at it. He had seen men fall to fever from wounds that had looked no worse than this. If it spread further, the boy might not be able to stand at all. He pushed the thought down and made sure none of it showed on his face.
When he spoke, his tone stayed even. "You did all you could. The infection is spreading."
Strider reached for a square of linen from his pack, poured water over it, and began to clean the wound. The cloth passed over the skin in slow, steady strokes, clearing away the last of the dried blood until the raw edges were bare again. He rinsed the cloth and started again, working from the outside inward, each motion even and careful so that Harry could follow what he was doing. Cold water stung against hot flesh, and Harry drew a breath through his teeth, swallowing the sound that wanted to rise.
When the skin was clean, Strider opened a small pouch and took out somedark berries, putting them between his teeth. Harry watched every motion, silent, as Strider chewed until the skins split and the pulp softened. The faint sound of it was loud in the quiet clearing. When the berries had broken down, Strider added the leaves, working them in his mouth until the juices were released. Then he spat the mash into his palm, worked it into a thick paste with his fingers, and set it aside while he prepared the wound.
Harry's gaze stayed locked on the man's hands, his chest rising and falling too fast. The clearing swam at the edges of his vision. For a fleeting instant it was not Strider crouched there but Sirius, his face half in shadow, his expression tight with concern. The image wavered, broke, and left Strider in his place again. The ache that followed made Harry's throat clench until he thought he might choke on it.
Strider dipped his fingers into the paste and spread it over the wound. The sting was sharp, searing through Harry's leg and pulling a hiss from him before he could stop it. His fingers dug into the stone beneath him, nails scraping against the dirt as the mixture seeped into the open flesh.
"Breathe," Strider said quietly, working the paste deeper, stroke by stroke, until the inflamed skin was fully coated. His hand stayed steady, and though the sting burned, the pressure of his fingers was grounding. When the paste was spread evenly, he layered fresh moss over the wound, smoothing it into place until its dampness cooled what the berries could not.
Harry's head dipped once, his chin nearly touching his chest before he forced it upright again. The fever left his limbs feeling loose and strange, his thoughts drifting. The quiet care was harder to bear than the pain, and memories rose sharp and sudden. Molly Weasley kneeling before him in a warm kitchen, wrapping a knee while she scolded him to sit still. Hermione leaning close in the common room, dabbing at his cheek with careful hands after a rough night. Sirius brushing his hair back from his forehead, telling him to rest while his hand stayed firm at his back. The memories hit too fast, too close together, and for a moment he nearly jerked his leg back, desperate to make it stop.
Strider saw the twitch but said nothing. His eyes flicked to Harry's face once, reading the tension there, before he reached for a strip of clean cloth. He began to wind the bandage, moving with slow, smooth turns, pulling it snug enough to hold but never harsh. He paused to check that it stayed firm without biting into the skin, then tied the last knot and rested his palm lightly on Harry's shin until the boy's breathing steadied again.
"This will hold for now," Strider said quietly. "I will gather more leaves near the stream and berries that fight the sickness. They will slow it, but they will not end it here."
Harry's eyes stayed on the dirt, his jaw set. He knew it was bad, he just hadn't really wanted to admit it to himself.
Strider did not push. Instead, he stayed crouched and watched him a moment longer, his sharp gaze never leaving Harry's face. At last he asked, "How old are you?"
The question caught Harry off guard. His brow furrowed and the answer did not come right away. Out here, years had blurred together. Days had meant food, nights had meant surviving until morning. He searched for the number, piecing it together from scraps. Two winters, that much he was sure of. His lips parted, dry, before he finally gave the answer, rough from disuse. "Nineteen. I think."
Strider's brow furrowed faintly as his gaze took in the lean frame and hollow face. "Nineteen," he said softly, almost to himself. "Too young for this kind of life."
The words struck hard, scraping against something raw inside him. Harry's jaw tightened until it hurt, and when he spoke the reply came sharp, as if to push the thought back. "I've had no choice."
Strider inclined his head once, accepting the reply without argument. He was quiet for a moment, then asked, "And your parents? What became of them?"
Harry's lips pressed together until they ached, his eyes fixed on the ground. At last he whispered the only word that fit, stripped of anything beyond the truth. "Dead."
Strider bowed his head slightly, letting the silence stretch before he spoke again. "I am sorry." His gaze returned to Harry, steady and calm. "No other kin? None who would look for you?"
Harry shook his head once, sharp and final. "No one."
Strider stayed crouched a moment longer, letting the quiet linger before sitting back slightly on his heels. His face was still, but his eyes were watchful, as though weighing what he had heard against what he already knew. He did not press further. Instead, he let the silence hold, steady as a promise that he would not turn away.
The words struck deeper than Harry wanted them to, and the ache under his ribs clenched until it was hard to breathe. His throat tightened, his jaw clamped hard enough to hurt, and for a moment his eyes stung so sharply he had to turn his head aside. He dragged his sleeve across his face and forced his breath through his chest until it steadied again. The heat running through him made everything feel raw, his skin too hot, his thoughts too close. He had thought the tears from earlier had left him empty, but the simple truth in Strider's voice made him feel unsteady all over again. Someone had caught him before he could fall, had spoken of help as though it were his by right, and it left him feeling exposed, too close to something he had been holding off for years.
Strider stayed where he was, crouched low, letting the clearing stay quiet until Harry's breathing settled. He watched the boy carefully, noting the stiff line of his back and the way his hands stayed braced against the stone as if he needed the touch of it to keep himself from moving. When he spoke, his voice was quiet and even, not breaking the fragile calm between them. "You have done what many would not have managed," he said. "You kept the wound clean. You kept yourself standing until now. That matters." He waited a moment before adding, "But the fever is rising, and by nightfall it will climb higher."
Harry's fingers curled against the stone, and his jaw tightened until it ached. He looked down, refusing to meet Strider's eyes, but stayed silent. Strider read the reaction and went on, his voice as calm as before. "You are not alone tonight. Let someone else keep watch."
The words struck like a jolt through him, so much that he almost flinched. He wanted to snap that he did not need watching, wanted to retreat back behind the roots, but something inside him ached to believe it and he had no answer.
Strider rose in an unhurried motion, gathering the soiled wrappings and setting them aside before glancing toward the roots. His eyes found the cane where it had fallen. He bent, brushed the dirt from it with his thumb, and set it back within reach. It was a small thing, but Harry stared at it for a long moment as if it were something he had forgotten how to use.
"Stay here by the firepit," Strider said, his tone quiet but certain. "Let the herbs do what they can. I will bring more from the stream and change the dressing again before nightfall." His gaze lingered on Harry for a long moment before he added, "When you are steadier, we will speak again of where we must go." His eyes swept the trees one last time, alert and watchful, then he turned and walked into the shadows, leaving the clearing still and quiet behind him.
Once the trees had closed overhead and Harry could no longer see him, Strider stopped and leaned his back against the rough bark of a great oak. He let out a slow breath, his eyes closing as the image of the wound stayed sharp in his mind, the heat of it under his hand, the angry red swelling, the knowledge of how quickly it could worsen if left untended for too long. He had warned Harry, but he had not spoken all of what pressed against his thoughts. If the fever climbed higher through the night, the boy might not have the strength to rise.
His mind turned east first. Rivendell was the surest hope. Elrond's hands could close the wound and clear the sickness entirely. But the valley was far, two weeks or more even with a straight road, and every day spent on the road would take more strength from a boy already limping and fevered. Westward lay Bree, but there would be no one there with skill enough to turn back a sickness that had already gone so far. The villages beyond would not be better.
He turned his thoughts east and south. Beyond the Great River lay the Golden Wood, and though the Galadhrim seldom opened their borders to strangers, their skill was deep. If they reached it in time, it might be enough to break the fever and keep Harry alive long enough to make the rest of the journey. Nearer meant they could reach it before the fever worsened further, and nearer might mean survival.
Strider pushed himself off the tree and turned toward the riverbank, his decision not yet made but the next step clear. He crouched at the water's edge, his eyes searching the plants that grew there until he found what he needed. His hands were steady as he gathered broad leaves that would draw the heat out and berries that could hold the fever down. He wrapped them carefully in a clean strip of cloth and tied the bundleclosed. It was no cure, but it might keep the boy on his feet until a greater choice could be made.
Back at the camp, Harry sat on the stone where Strider had left him. His leg throbbed with each pulse of his heart, deep and insistent. His chest felt too tight, every breath shallow as though it hurt to fill his lungs. No birds called. The stream was faint. He heard his own breathing and the pulse in his leg.
He pressed his palm over the bandage and let it rest there, waiting until the ache in his hand matched the ache in his leg. Then he reached for the magic and pulled as hard as he dared. Nothing answered. It stayed locked inside him, the same stubborn silence as before, offering not even a flicker of warmth. The emptiness hollowed something out in his chest, leaving him staring at the ground until the shapes blurred.
The failure sat heavy in his stomach, worse than the pain. If it had worked, he could have sealed the wound, could have stayed standing without help, could have kept the stranger at arm's length. Now there was nothing left but the waiting, nothing but trusting Strider to come back.
It brought Sirius back too sharply. That one short year of having someone who caught him, who cared if he fell. The memory ached inside him, and now a stranger had given him a glimpse of it again. He had not expected it, had not wanted it, yet here it was and it was threatening the walls he had built around himself.
His eyes burned again. He dragged his sleeve across them, rough and quick, unwilling to admit what it meant. He had lived this long by trusting no one. That caution had kept him alive. But the stranger's patience, his gentleness, left him shaken. And beneath the wariness that had guarded him for all this time, another thought stirred: if he turned this chance away, the wound might finish what the forest never had.
For the first time in a long while, he asked himself if he truly wanted to go on alone.
Strider reappeared from the trees with the things he had gathered cradled in his hands. He set them down carefully on the flat stone beside Harry's injured leg, broad leaves, a small clutch of dark berries, and a bundle of fresh moss wet from the riverbank. He offered a faint, steady smile before lowering himself onto the ground across from the boy. His gaze stayed on Harry, taking in the rigid way the boy gripped the cane, the faint tremor in his arm from holding himself so still. When he spoke, his words were plain and left no space for misunderstanding.
"If I had my choice, we would turn east and go straight to Rivendell," Strider said. "It is a hidden valley, a place of safety. Elrond Half-elven rules there, and his skill as a healer is greater than any other I know. Under his care, this wound would be closed and the infection purged before the next moon. But the valley lies more than a fortnight away on foot, and we would need to make the road without slowing. In your state, you would not last half that distance."
Harry's jaw tightened, the words striking something deep that he hadn't wanted to face. He had known the wound was bad, had known the heat was spreading, but hearing that he wouldn't even survive the trip to the place where he could be fully healed turned his stomach cold.
"There is one other choice," Strider went on, his tone steady but edged with the weight of a decision he did not make lightly. "South and east of here lies Lothlórien, the Golden Wood. The Galadhrim guard it closely, but if we reach them, they can slow the infection and mend the wound enough to let us make the rest of the road to Rivendell. It will not be a full cure, but it will keep you standing. Without their help, we will not reach Elrond's house in time."
Harry's grip tightened on the cane until his knuckles ached. Lothlórien meant nothing to him, nor did the people Strider spoke of, but the thought of being led into a place guarded by strangers who decided who could pass left his stomach knotted. He stared at the dirt, trying to decide if he could trust any of this, the stranger across from him, the road he spoke of, the promise that these people would not turn him away.
"Elves," he said finally, cautious and testing the word. "Are they house-elves?"
Strider's brow furrowed faintly. "House-elves?"
"They're servants," Harry said, his voice sharpening. "Bound to wizards, forced to do what they're told. Is that what's waiting there?"
"No," Strider said, and the answer came without hesitation. "The Galadhrim are the Eldar, the Firstborn of the world. They are no one's servants. They keep their own law and their own land, and they guard it well. They will not welcome me easily, but they will not leave you to die at their borders. If they choose to help, their hands are skilled enough to turn the infection back."
Harry drew a slow breath, but it did nothing to settle him. The idea of stepping into a guarded wood, of being surrounded by people he didn't know and couldn't fight if it came to it, made every muscle in his body stay tense. He didn't want this man leading him anywhere. He didn't want to lie helpless under the hands of strangers. But the pain in his leg pulsed with a slow, steady throb that told him what would happen if he stayed. The fever had been climbing since morning, and it would not stop.
"If we go," he said at last, his voice rough, "I don't want them touching me more than they have to."
Strider inclined his head once, accepting the words as though they were an oath. "They will do only what is needed to keep you alive for the road ahead. Nothing more."
Harry finally looked up, searching Strider's face for any sign of falsehood. The man's gaze stayed steady, calm and direct. Harry wanted to believe him, but belief didn't come easily after so many months with no one to trust. He stayed silent until the quiet between them felt too heavy, then let out a hard breath and gave a short nod.
Strider stayed crouched where he was, his sharp gaze fixed on Harry until the boy finally looked back. "We cannot wait until dawn," he said as he rose, his tone steady but leaving no space for argument. "The infection will worsen by morning, and if we leave tonight, we can reach the river before the fever climbs further." He let the words settle a moment before adding, "Pack what you need. Take only what you can carry. I will catch fish before we go. We will need strength for the road."
Harry's grip tightened around the cane, the wood biting into his palm. Moving camp was nothing new,he had done it before in rain, in storm, in worse pain than this, but letting someone else decide when and where to go set his teeth on edge. For too longevery step had been his, every risk one he chose. Now a man he had only just met was giving orders. The urge to tell him no flared hot and immediate. He jammed the cane harder into the soil, staying still long enough to make Strider wait before finally moving toward the shelter. If they were leaving, it would be because he chose to get ready, not because Strider told him to.
Strider gave a short nod. "Do you have a pack?"
Harry gestured toward the hide bag under the shelter, its seams worn but strong. "There," he said, then nodded toward the flat stone near the firepit where two small fish lay wrapped in leaves. "Caught some earlier. They're small."
Strider crossed to the stone, crouched, and inspected the fish with a quick, practiced glance. "They are enough," he said simply. "Better than what I would have caught in so short a time." He gathered them and set them aside, then turned back to watch as Harry braced the cane and forced himself upright.
Harry swayed at once, leaning hard on the stick until the ground steadied. The short walk to the lean-to left sweat damp on his brow, each step halting and uneven. He crouched stiffly, using the cane as a brace while he packed the knives first, then the food, tying the strap closed and dragging the bag toward him. From beneath a flat stone at the back of the shelter he pulled the broken half of his wand, its wood worn smooth where his fingers had held it night after night. He hesitated only long enough to glance toward Strider, then slipped it deep into the pack where it would stay hidden. The effort of it all left him breathing harder than he wanted Strider to see, but when he turned, the man's expression had already changed.
Strider stood with his arms folded loosely, watching every detail—the tremor in Harry's leg, the way his shoulder dipped under the pack's pull, the set of his jaw just to stay standing. When he spoke, his voice was quiet but left no room for doubt. "You will not make the road on that leg. If we want to reach the Golden Wood before the fever worsens, I will have to carry you."
Harry's head snapped up, his fingers clenching tighter around the cane. The words landed hard, leaving his chest tight and his thoughts tumbling. He hated the idea, hated how quickly it stripped away what little control he had left. His jaw locked, and he forced the words out between shallow breaths. "I can walk," he said, rough and low. "I've made it this far." The pack dragged at his shoulder as if to mock him, and the cane skidded against the dirt when his balance faltered.
Strider did not look away. "This is not a matter of reaching the next clearing," he said. "It is seven days to the Golden Wood, over stone and hill with no time to rest long enough for that leg to mend. If you try to walk it, you will tear it open worse than it is now, and we will lose more than time. You know you cannot keep your footing as you are." His arms lowered as he stepped closer, steady but insistent. "Let me carry you before you bring yourself past the point where I can help."
Harry's throat worked as though he might argue again, but his leg trembled so hard he had to brace the cane with both hands just to stay upright. The thought of stumbling over rock and root for seven days with the wound pulling at him turned his stomach. He shoved the cane hard into the earth and tried to take a step just to prove he could. Pain lanced up through his hip, dropping him to one knee. He stayed there, breathing sharp through his teeth, refusing Strider's hand when it moved toward him. When he finally forced himself upright again, jaw tight and shoulders squared, he gave a single, short nod.
Satisfied, Strider turned toward the firepit and stacked a few small sticks, striking flint until sparks caught and a low flame licked at the wood. He skewered the fish Harry had caught on a stripped branch and set them over the fire, keeping it low and hot so it would burn out quickly. Harry stayed near the stone, silent but watchful, while the smell of roasting fish filled the clearing. When they were cooked, Strider passed one to him and waited until he had taken it before sitting back with his own.
They ate without speaking, the fire crackling softly between them. When the last bones were stripped clean, Strider scattered the fire, doused it, and stirred the wet ashes until no glow remained. He covered them with dirt and brushed the ground smooth, leaving no trace of heat behind. Then he rose, crossing to the shelter and checking the straps of both packs. He lashed them together into one tight bundle and swung it across his chest where it sat snug, leaving his back clear. The cane he tied against his belt within easy reach. When everything was secure, he turned back to Harry.
"It is time," Strider said. "The road will not wait, and neither will the fever."
Harry swallowed hard and nodded once, though his jaw stayed tight. Strider crouched low in front of him, his shoulders broad and steady. "Arms over my shoulders," he said. "I will take your weight."
Harry hesitated long enough that the clearing felt too quiet. His fingers locked on the cane until his knuckles went white. When he finally let it fall, it clattered against the stone. His stomach knotted, but he stalked the last few steps forward on his own, refusing to be guided, and hooked his arms over Strider's shoulders with stiff elbows. The lift was clean and quick, the sudden loss of ground making his breath catch.
Strider adjusted his grip until Harry was steady. With the packs strapped across his chest and the cane secured, he rose to his full height and turned toward the edge of the clearing. Harry stayed tense at first, but Strider's balance never shifted. His steps were even as he started forward, carrying them into the trees.
The forest closed around them almost at once, swallowing the last of the firelight. Branches brushed against Strider's cloak, but his stride stayed smooth, quiet. Harry gripped the straps across his chest, heart hammering from the lift, the clearing vanishing behind them as if it had never been there at all. For the first time in years, he was not moving under his own power. The woods stretched ahead, starlight glinting through the canopy, and Strider carried him toward the river without looking back.