Findings, Part 1
An abandoned house, Unknown
25th september 2003
A mixture between careful levitation and physical work sees the rubble obstructing my prize get reduced little by little. The constant back and forth, stacking the pieces near a corner that might be good for us to stay the night if push comes to shove, helps me stay warm and ruminate on everything.
And then, before I arrive at the solution to how I might ask Luna about her earlier statement, the physical task is finished. The rubble now forms a new, somewhat precarious wall on one side where I thought we could camp in for the night, and a few pieces of either glass or crystal lie before me, seeming to be the broken version of a rather-big, stained-glass windowpane. “Reparo,” I murmur, then, and tap what seems to be one of the corner pieces gently with the tip of my wand.
The jagged things, gleaming under the recast Lumos, slither towards each other on the gritty floor and clink into place.
A glance towards our tiny campfire informs me that Neville and Luna are companionably murmuring to each other over the pot of now-steaming soup. So, not wanting to break their intimacy and not wanting to deal with Luna yet, I resolve to show the picture to them just later.
And it’s a picture indeed, of a biped, blue-skinned, red-eyed, hairless and eyebrowless being, who is garbed only in a piece of dark-green loincloth and what looks like a plethora of tattoos. It – or he? She? They? – is in the pose of stabbing into the very, very toothy maw of a bigger… thing… possessing at least a dozen arms, all ending with fearsome claws and framing the maw, with what looks like an icicle growing right from its fist. It – the biped being, not its kill – is snarling viciously, itself, showing off a row of sharp, black teeth, but the hatred towards the thing it’s stabbing is tempered with… grief? Or maybe loss?
It reminds me much of my twelve-year-old self, strangely, when I had to kill Slytherin’s basilisk but thought the situation was still hopeless for myself and Ginny, down there, trapped in the Chamber of Secrets with only the Sorting Hat and Fawkes for company.
Feeling oddly protective and fond of this bit of artwork, I carefully mould stasis and unbreakability into it, shrink it, then put it in my coat’s inner pocket. (Well, it seems like nobody lives here anymore, or even close to this place, so I can take what I want without disrupting anything, can’t I?)
I move to the next pile of rubble, then, brightening my Lumos on the way in hope of catching a glint or an odd shape, while still occasionally keeping an eye on my two companions. (Those lovebirds might need some help watching for their surroundings, as engrossed as they are with each other.)
The next heap sadly just brings me more materials for the parameter wall of our might-be campsite.
The one after that, which is as large as both previous piles combined and located somewhat farther away from the outer wall of the… house?, turns out to have hidden a large if filthy swatch of something that might be a rug. It is made up of a coarse but strong-seeming fibrous, grey material woven into a thick sheet, then embroidered in apparently random patterns with thick, silvery thread. Ironically, the bits lying outside of the rubble seem to have been torn off or eaten by age, instead, judging by the rugged edges and loose threads that have been softened by more than use. (And I’d think I’m sort of an expert for many things used and/or aged, with how “kind” the Dursleys were to me, how expert the Weasleys were with the things they had, and how long I spent exploring a certain millennium-year-old castle up in Scotland.)
Well, it could be some sort of blanket for us, if nothing else. So, with that in mind, and with the hope that the rug might turn out to be large enough for the three of us, I cast a stronger Reparo than what I used on the picture on it.
Some bits of thread and fluff fly from all directions to the bit of fabric, and the small tears and wears on it vanish. But nothing else happens, while a rather good amount of my energy has been unexpectedly sapped away by the spell.
`Damn. So reckless, Harry.` My Gryffindor side has chosen a “very, very good time” to reemerge and, like in most other occasions, put me in trouble.
Fortunately, Luna is calling me for supper….
A hasty cleaning and shrinking later, I jog to where she and Neville are seated while stuffing the now-pocket-sized bit of fabric into my other inner pocket. Engorgio could always be applied to it later, should we need more of it to act as adequate blanket for all of us; but for now, I’m famished!
Eating soup dipped in bread from a humble tin bowl while sitting on the floor brings sweeter memories from my Horcrux hunt with Ron and Hermione to the fore of my mind, though, and makes the warm, thick, savoury liquid plus its chunks of vegetables and meat feel paradoxically tasteless in my mouth.
It’s been years…. Ron seems to adore the good public opinion he and his beloved Quidditch team has been garnering, Ginny likewise; but what about Hermione? Lately, she hasn’t even sent me a letter or a reply to any of my regular letters to her; and in the letters before that, short as they’d increasingly been, she never talked about her own thoughts and feelings and opinions, just tiny snippets of the work she was currently doing. She’s been insisting that she’s too busy to meet for a chat, and she’s always claimed that she’s safe and happy, but isn’t that what a prisoner could be forced to write, also? After all, I was made to write a regular letter telling that I was all right, under the scowling scrutiny of Uncle Vernon, the summer after my fourth year at Hogwarts.
I’ve been ignoring the signs so far, telling myself that I’ve been pretty busy, too. But I’ve gained my A-Levels and in fact begun to study my double bachelor degree on geography and anthropology, and I’ve passed my NEWTs as well. So what’s my excuse, now?
This place, as dreary as it is, filled with broken memories vannished by age and hidden under rubble, only serves to heighten the guilt, the longing, the dread.
Because, the longer I stay here and look round and try to restore some things, the more I feel that the former occupants of this house – and it’s a house, since I’ve spied a few broken legs of stone chairs or maybe tables, during my search – were surprised by a devastating attack, however long time ago, and didn’t manage to save what – or maybe even who – they wanted to save.
Lives could be cut so quickly. I should have known that. I nearly died each year I was at Hogwarts, and even for the next two years after the battle had been won, when the bolder and more desperate of Voldemort’s sympathisers tried to target me in random places. But here, I’ve been postponing any kind of plan to drag Hermione away from her work for a little while to unwind, for all kinds of silly reasons.
Well, if it turns out that I’ve found nothing else worthwhile here, at least I’ve found how horrible I’ve been to one of my best friends.