Author's Note: Finishing the birthday story referenced last time took a little longer than I anticipated. Now that it's finished, I should be able to get back to my usual weekly posting schedule.
Thanks to all who reviewed. Time to peel back another layer of Harry's past as he copes with his present difficulties (which, he will soon learn, have only just begun). On to Chapter 2.
Time held little meaning for Harry as he sat securely under his Invisibility Cloak and watched the forest for signs of movement. He'd gained certain new perspectives in his time in China, among them being the concept of time as a river, gently carrying its human flotsam forward toward an unseen and ever retreating horizon. Not that he truly understood even a fraction of what he had learned on his pilgrimage of self-discovery -- the Master stressed that even a wizard's lifetime barely permitted one to skim the surface of learning and understanding. It was enough that one made the effort.
Harry ran his hand over his right thigh. The flesh was supple once again, the fever gone. But, he noted, the relief in his leg seemed not to extend to the rest of his body. His face still felt flushed, his joints achy. Well, he reasoned, he had been dashed through a wall of bamboo by an angry dragon. It would be unnatural if he didn't feel some discomfort.
Simple healing spells had removed all trace of his numerous scratches and cuts. He saw only unbroken skin through the small tears in his garments. He would have to secure new clothes at the first opportunity. This would be easily accomplished, as nearly every village had one or more among the elderly whose living was gained by the loom, the spinning wheel, and needle and thread. The clothes he wore now were just such, obtained in exchange for a day's labor in the fields.
Harry had begun to despair of getting a meal anytime soon. He felt certain that this part of the woods was safe from dragons; the trees were relatively close-set, and none showed any sign of having been disturbed by anything large. Nothing the size of a dragon could fail to leave some trace in so confined a space. And the smaller animals would find it safe to live and forage here.
But these were not exactly ordinary circumstances. A violent dragon battle like the one Harry had stumbled upon might frighten the animals away for days. There was no way of knowing.
A twig snapped, a soft, muted sound. Harry might have missed it were he not so deep in meditation that even his heartbeat and breathing seemed non-existent. Peeking through his Cloak, Harry just made out a small patch of fur, mottled and well-camoflaged in the patchy sunlight.
It was a Mouse Deer.
To Harry, it was supper.
Drawing his wand noiselessly, he eased the tip past the folds of his Cloak and whispered, "Avada Kedavra."
A short spurt of green energy burst from the wand, shimmered feebly for a moment, and died.
Cursing silently, Harry repeated the spell, with similar results.
Harry sighed. The Killing Curse was strong magic, powered as much by force of will as by practice and personal mettle. While he was sufficiently recovered to perform basic spells, such as the earlier Summoning Charm, he was simply too weak to provide the necessary impetus for such a potent Curse as this one.
The tiny deer was still in view, its ears twitching nervously, seemingly intent on some plant at which it appeared to be nibbling. Alert for sound and scent only, it had not seen the faint green sparks emitted by Harry's wand. His mouth set, Harry pointed the wand a third time.
"Stupefy!"
Harry congratulated himself on his aim at a distance which he estimated at no less than eighty yards. The deer lay motionless, though still alive. All that remained was for Harry to bring it to him with a Summoning Charm.
Harry thought again of his lost Firebolt. Would that he could recover his broomstick so easily. But for a Summoning Charm to work, it was necessary to know at least a general direction in which to point one's wand. He could hurl the Summoning Charm at random all day and into the night and not even be close to the right direction. Moreover, every attempt would be a drain on his magical energy, further sapping his already diminishing reserves.
But a good meal would replenish his strength for some future attempt. And he had a right to expect some good luck after so much bad, didn't he? It was with this happy thought that Harry drew a relaxing breath and pointed his wand --
Harry's jaw went slack.
The deer was gone!
It could not have run off. He'd hit it squarely, of that he was certain. Grunting in frustration, Harry aimed his wand toward the spot where he thought he'd seen the deer last and said, "Accio deer!"
When nothing happened, Harry merely sighed. He'd had little hope to begin with, so the reality of failure brought no real disappointment.
There was nothing else for it. Using the tree for support, Harry pulled himself upright. He tested his weight on his right leg, which proved to be pain-free, if a trifle weak.
"Not a bad job of bone-mending, Potter," he said aloud. Smiling, Harry set off at a slow, halting pace in pursuit of his supper.
As he walked, Harry passed the long, tedious march in reflection. His thoughts came to rest, as they so frequently did, on Hogwarts. He saw himself as he was nearly two years ago, at the beginning of Seventh Year. He was sitting in Dumbledore's office, the Headmaster's voice ringing out loud and clear in his mind:
"To become a fully functional Auror, Harry, you must know much more than how to cast and repel attacking spells. You must become a completely self-sufficient individual. There will be times when you will find yourself alone, under adverse conditions, with no one to turn to for succor but yourself.
"You must learn how to find or build shelter from inclement weather. You must learn to live off the land, finding food how and where you may. And you must become skilled in the rudiments of healing. If a Death Eater or Dark Wizard should wound you in battle, there is no guarantee that a Healer will find you before you succumb to your injuries.
"As a first step, you will be taking a special Advanced Potions class twice a week. Professor Snape will instruct you how to brew potions that may very well save your life one day."
Harry groaned at the prospect of seeing Snape twice more per week. Dumbledore responded with a chuckle.
"In addition, you will need to prepare your own potion ingredients in avance and keep them with you. Mr. Longbottom has kindly volunteered to assist you."
Though caught off guard by this, Harry was in no way surprised. If Neville seemed inept at actually brewing potions, that was due in no small part to his fear of the Potions Master, who derived a sort of sadistic delight in badgering Neville into a flustered tangle of nerves every lesson. Left to his own devices, Neville was more than competent at Potions -- he had performed admirably during his O.L.W. practical exam, far from Snape's derisive, intimidating sneer; and when it came to the matter of potion ingredients, especially those of an herbal nature, he was easily the most skilled student in Seventh Year. Even Snape had yet to find a single criticism for Neville's Potions Kit, which was organized in a manner that even Hermione could not surpass.
"Furthermore," Dumbledore continued, "you will be reporting to Madam Pomfrey twice each week to be acquainted with the healing arts. Should you ever find yourself in circumstances similar to those experienced by Mr. Weasley in the Shrieking Shack three years ago, you will be very grateful indeed to have such skills to call upon in your time of need."
Nor was this a surprise to Harry. He remembered Remus Lupin once commenting, "I'm not as good at mending bones as Madam Pomfrey," implying that he could, at need, do so, if not as skillfully. That presupposed that the healing arts were not uncommon among magical folk as a whole.
Thus it was that Harry reported to the hospital wing two days later and found himself sitting before Madam Pomfrey in similar fashion as he had sat before Dumbledore.
"I regret to inform you, Mr. Potter," Madam Pomfrey declared (in a tone in which Harry detected no regret whatsoever), "that my present duties leave me unable to render the services required by both you and the Headmaster.
"However -- " and here Harry thought to detect a decidedly Dumbledore-like gleam in the Nurse's eye, " -- I have assigned you a most capable substitute. You need have no fear. A list has been compiled of those healing spells which we feel will be of the greatest service to you in your, 'ahem', chosen profession."
Madam Pomfrey handed Harry a scroll of parchment, which he took with a polite nod.
"And now, if you will excuse me..."
Knowing he had been dismissed, Harry rose with a muttered, "Thank you," and left the Nurse's office.
Outside, Harry unrolled the parchment and began to read the list of spells, noting the name of each, the incantation, and the results.
"I'm sure you'll find the list complete, Harry," came a familiar voice from behind him. "We were very thorough, Dumbledore and I."
Harry's head jerked up as he whirled about.
"Hermione? You mean you're -- "
"Not very intuitive for an Auror, Harry," Hermione teased. "If you're planning on using those same instincts to fight the Dark Side, you may be needing those healing spells a lot sooner than you think. Maybe we should increase to three nights a week -- or even four."
Or every night, Harry thought, so long as you're the teacher. But aloud, he said, "So -- where do we begin?"
"The list is double cross-referenced," Hermione said, walking over to peer at the list upside-down. "The first column lists the easiest spells to learn, in descending order. The other contains those which will be most valuable to know, but more difficult to master."
"I'm in your hands," Harry said with a nod.
"To start," she said thoughtfully, "I think we'll try healing simple cuts. But first, you need to drink a pain-suppressing potion."
"Wouldn't it be better," Harry suggested, "if I learned to work through the pain?"
"You will," Hermione said. "Later. First, I want you to concentrate on learning the spell. When you've got it down, then you can practice applying it under adverse conditions.
"Until then," she smiled, "rein in the testosterone, Rambo. I assure you, that macho chest-pounding rubbish will score you no points with me!"
"Yes, ma'am!" Harry saluted, grinning broadly. "You're the teacher, ma'am!"
"See you remember that, Potter," Hermione returned, her stern expression outranked by her laughing eyes.
Harry saw those eyes clearly now as he slogged through the forest clutter in pursuit of his meal. Every painless step was an affirmation of Hermione's dilgence and skill in the healing arts. It had been necessary for Harry to suffer any number of broken bones during their practice sessions, and Hermione had not been satisfied until Harry could perform the healing spell as well (if more slowly, and not quite as painlessly) as she.
In the end, he had not taken the Auror's road for which he had prepared so diligently. With the destruction of Voldemort, Harry found his passion dampened considerably in regard to his chosen path. He'd chosen another road instead, one leading here to this ancient land where he hoped to find within himself an indefinable something that would give his life meaning. Or so he told himself. The simple truth was, he knew very well what was missing from his life -- or, more accurately, who.
Harry now stood at the spot where he believed the deer to have fallen. He prowled about, peering through the underbrush --
There it was. It had slipped under a tangle of fallen branches, its camouflage making it virtually invisible. It was thoroughly stunned, but still warm and alive as Harry extracted it. It appeared to have been nibbling on a small tuber of some kind. The law of the land, Harry thought. It had come seeking a meal, and now it would become one.
Harry had considered various means of humane dispatch as he walked. The best would be to sever a neck artery, allowing the animal to quietly bleed to death. It was a proven method over many thousands of years. A simple Incisor Charm would make the tip of Harry's wand razor sharp. It would be over in seconds, quickly and painlessly.
And he couldn't bring himself to do it.
It was one thing to kill at a distance with a beam of magical energy. It was quite another to hold a warm, living creature in his hands and take its life away in such calculating fashion.
Harry sighed heavily.
"Ennervate."
The tiny deer leaped up, its large brown eyes wide, and bounded away like a streak of Summer lightning.
Harry sank down into the brush. After a minute's quiet contemplation, he reached down, his fingers closing on a small, elongated object.
"Potato soup, then," he said as he studied the small tuber that was peppered with tiny teeth marks on one end.
Within minutes he had water boiling in his pewter bowl. He sliced the tuber into small sections with his wand and dropped them in, stirring it with a fresh bamboo splinter. The result was a sort of potato mush that reminded Harry of some of his more Spartan breakfasts at the Dursleys.
Among his pokes of potion ingredients was a small number containing simple spices. A pinch of one and a dash of another added the final touch to his meal.
Not even bothering to conjure a spoon, Harry sipped his repast from the bowl, sighing aloud at every swallow. Eschewing civilized manners, he licked the bowl clean before rinsing it and returning it, flattened once more, to his pouch.
Now that he had eaten, a lethargy came over Harry. He lay back in the shade, weariness wrapping him like a heavy cloak.
Madam Pomfrey always said (and Hermione concurred) that no spell or potion was as efficient at healing the human body as the body itself. Harry's body was trying to heal, drawing all its energy for the task and leaving Harry barely enough to think.
Harry watched the shadows around him steadily lengthen. Night could not come soon enough. Using a combination of magic and astronomy, he would be able to use the stars to tell him his exact position, as well as the date. He chided himself for losing track of something so rudimentary as the date. But wandering across a timeless land for weeks and months on end tended to diminish the significance of such modern devices as watches and calendars.
Harry had spent more than a month in a temple overseen by a Chinese wizard who was so ancient that a beardless Albus Dumbledore had been one of his students more than a century ago.
Ushered into the aged wizard's presence, Harry sat cross-legged for what seemed hours before the Master finally spoke:
"Who are you?"
"Uh...Harry Potter. One of your old students, Albus Dumbledore, sent me."
After a contemplative silence, the old wizard said again, "Who are you?"
"I told you," Harry said. "Harry Potter."
The teacher declined his shaven head slightly.
"Those are labels by which you are known to others. A brand burned upon you by your parents, at a time when you bore no distinction. Again I ask: "Who are you?"
"Uh..." Harry said slowly. "I don't know."
The Master smiled and bowed deeply.
"Now we may begin."
A part of Harry wanted to stay longer at the temple, but Wanderlust continued to tug at his sleeve. But he was the wiser for his brief stay. And even as the great bronze doors closed behind him and he walked out into the light of a new day, the words spoken to him by the Master in that first session remained with him:
"A man wears many masks in a lifetime. Those behind which we hide from others are as nothing beside those behind which we hide from ourselves.
"You must peel away your masks, young Potter. Only then can you discover who you truly are."
Author's Note: It's interesting to consider that I wrote this story at least a year before OotP came out, yet much of Harry's preparatory regimen, in particular the stress on Potions skills, plays out much as it did in the book. It only goes to prove that a little reasoning goes a long way when facts are at a premium. It will be interesting to see if Harry actually takes rudimentary Healing lessons from Madam Pomfrey in Book 6 (we already know he's taking Advanced Potions). If that's the case, I may just challenge Trelawney for her position as Divination teacher. If I'm proven right about the medical training, we'll be tied at two accurate predictions each. And if the Hermione of canon REALLY opts for a medical career, that will leave me one up. Pack your bags, Sibyll. Maybe Madam Rosmerta is hiring at the Three Broomsticks. Two butterbeers, please. Are these peanuts fresh?
Tune in next week when Harry's predicament tightens by another half-turn of the screw. Until then, thanks for reading.
Author's Note: