The Silver Crow

A/N: Slight parody warning in this chapter. I just couldn't resist. :-) Thanks to Lariope, my wonderful partner-in-writing.

Chapter 2 – The Silver Crow

She waited four days. By then, the lack of doing something, of doing anything, had her so jumpy and irritated that even Harry had started to notice. Quite a feat, she thought grimly. Harry didn't notice much outside of his own thoughts these days. His obsession with the cursed locket they'd found had reached an all-time high, and she often found him sitting on his bed, just staring at the silver object in his hands. It worried her more than she wanted to admit.

She heaved a sigh and pulled on a jacket, preparing to go out to explore for a while. They had moved their camp again the day before, Apparating to a bare, mountainous area she'd often seen in a framed photograph hanging on her parents' bedroom wall. The look of the place suggested that they were somewhere in the Highlands...where exactly, she didn't know. Putting the small drawstring bag in her pocket, she lifted the flap of canvas serving as a door and ventured outside.

It was cold...much colder than anticipated...and she instinctively pulled her scarf higher, muttering a quick Warming Charm. An icy gale was beating down on the grey rock around her, and a kind of cruel beauty lay about the place. It was a harsh world, but an utterly majestic one as well; she felt an acute sense of awe walking amongst the great masses of heavy rock. Looking up, she scanned the landscape for something unique, something that would qualify as 'a special setting'. A little further ahead, fog was forming, thick and white, on a landing a few feet above her head. Squinting, she thought she could make out a narrow passage behind it. Deeming the spot mysterious enough to be promising, she grabbed hold of the cold stone and began climbing.

The climb was slow and difficult. She reached the landing quickly enough, but the passage behind it was cramped and dark. The fog grew denser as she went on and caused her to slip, sending jolts of panic down her spine from fear of falling. With every yard, however, her mind seemed to quiet, the endless spinning of thoughts in her head slowing down to a void of sharp focus. On and over she went; down and through she pushed. It started to rain, small icy drops that bit at her face and hands. Her muscles began to protest, and her fingers started to feel numb, but she barely noticed the discomfort. A smell invaded her nostrils suddenly, and she reeled back. It was strong and unpleasant, making her think of eggs gone bad. It became stronger the further she went, and she fought to breathe through her mouth to escape it. The fog changed too, feeling almost hot against her cheeks, and a half spluttering, half murmuring sound started to overpower the smattering of the rain against the mountain side. Curious...and more than a little nervous...she pushed on.

It was a small area, sheltered by mountains on all sides. At the far end was a crack in the rock, from which great bouts of hot water and steam burst forth, spraying the ground and feeding a small, natural pool below it. The water was bright blue and opaque, making it impossible to see how deep the pool might be. Around the edge of the hot spring, the ground seemed alive, great big bubbles forming in the soft clay and releasing a strong smell of sulphur when they burst. She approached with caution, transfixed, as the water gushed and spluttered, enveloping her in the warm steam it generated with every new cascade. She leaned down to touch the water and found it hot to her touch, but not painfully so. Without thinking, she removed her boots and waded into the pool, feet bare against hard edges of rock and smooth, soft clay that welled up between her toes. The water became warmer the further she went, and she stopped after only a few feet when the heat became too much. Closing her eyes, she breathed in deeply, letting herself get lost in the contrast of the warm water around her ankles and the cold sprays of rain on her face. She stayed there a while, lost in sensation. Then, reality returned, and she reluctantly walked back out, half-collapsing onto a slippery rock and pulling the drawstring bag from her pocket.

"Good evening, Professor."

She hadn't had to wait long. It almost seemed as though Phineas Nigellus had been waiting for her call when she'd quietly voiced her request to talk to the Headmaster. The Headmaster... the title still sent a pang of sadness through her, the word having been so intimately connected with Professor Dumbledore in her mind. Remembering who she was about to speak to, however, she drew a shaking breath to clam down and concentrated on the task ahead. When the response came, it still managed to startle her.

"Miss Granger," he said simply, and she felt an overwhelming flood of comfort well through her. "I trust that you have managed to complete your assignment." He sounded so much like his normal, teaching self that, for a moment, she could almost convince herself that she was back at school, working under his scrutiny in the Potions classroom. The thought made a small smile tug at the corner of her mouth.

"Yes, sir," she replied...and quickly launched into a description of her surroundings, words pouring from her mouth without conscious thought, the relief of finally being able to talk to someone, to actually do something, making her forget who the person was on the other side of the black canvas. She felt as though she hadn't talked...really talked...in months, the rush of words extracting tension and anxiety from her like something drawing infection out of an open wound. He didn't interrupt her, and her voice finally died down, leaving her feeling deliciously empty and somewhat exposed.

He listened to her voice as wave after wave rolled off the painting in his private quarters. He'd moved the charmed object there after realising that it could be used for communication. It was safer that way; honour-bound though they might be to the current Headmaster of Hogwarts, the portrait-versions of his predecessors still had an awful tendency to gossip and speculate. He regretted not having discovered this possibility of communication earlier, but then, nothing much could be done about that now. He fought back a sense of worry as she spun her tale: the girl was strung so tight she risked snapping at any moment. He doubted she even realised it when her description of the discovered hot spring turned into a sad soliloquy. She spoke of the Golden Trio's fantastically failed attempts at finding the objects they were seeking, of the strain of living on such close quarters with two insensitive boys for weeks on end, of fears for the future and regrets of the past, of worry for loved ones and the aching loneliness of a person lost. In the half-hour of unbroken monologue, he learnt more about her than he had in the six years when she'd been his student, and more than he'd ever learnt about most people he'd met. He wasn't the kind of person who people got to know. He studied people...who studied him in return...but to study someone was a very different matter from getting to know them through open information and honesty. He found himself at quite a loss of how to react.

"Stay where you are," he said finally. "Once I've found out your location, I'll contact you again."

"Once you find...? " she exclaimed, bewildered. "What about the map?"

"The map only shows the United Kingdom and Ireland," he explained. "I have to extend the spell over a larger area. Now, what country are you in?" Stunned silence followed this question.

"I don't know," she admitted, having pondered the alternatives for awhile. "I thought we were still in Scotland."

"Obviously, you were wrong," he replied drily. To his surprise, a ripple of laughter sounded through the frame.

"I guess I was," she said, still giggling, though he could tell she was trying to hold it in. Pent-up stress, he assumed. Wonderful. Well, at least she wasn't crying.

"From what you describe, you seem to be somewhere with cold weather and high volcanic activity," he observed. "Since I doubt that two seventeen-year-olds would have been able to Apparate to New Zeeland, you are most likely somewhere in Iceland. I will revert shortly."

The painting was silent again, and she was left sitting on the cold rock, staring at the empty canvas. Iceland. It made sense. Her parents had gone there for their honeymoon many years earlier, she remembered that now. The rain kept pelting her with its cold drops, and she shivered; the Warming Charm seemed to be wearing off. She took out her wand to recast it when the spluttering sound of a new outburst from the nearby geyser drew her attention. The water looked wonderfully warm and quite heavenly in its baby-blue splendour. The beautiful colour alarmed her slightly, since it just didn't seem natural, but the few diagnostic spells she cast deemed it quite safe. She had to stay here and wait anyway, she told herself, starting to remove her clothes and fold them neatly on top of the wet rock. She would probably never have the opportunity again. Might as well, her mind whispered softly. Might as well... Throwing a last self-conscious glance over her shoulder, she removed everything but her underwear, cast a Burn-protection Charm and slipped into the steaming water, making sure to leave the portrait face down on the grey surface.

He was staring at a student. An almost-naked student.

The thought burned viciously through his mind, and he quickly averted his eyes. It didn't help much; the image of her, relaxed and curious, wading towards the spluttering geyser in next to nothing...soaked and transparent pieces of next to nothing to make matters worse...seemed attached to the back of his eyelids. He forced it away, opening his eyes to stare hard at a fissure in the mountain next to him. Moving his eyes along the rock, he kept his gaze firmly focused on the surroundings, taking another deep breath to regain his composure. There were things to be done.

Retreating into the shadows, he cast a Disillusion Charm and quietly removed the Sword of Gryffindor from its sheath. He had to admit, the location was quite perfect for what he had in mind. He could have just left it outside the tent for Potter to find, of course, but Dumbledore had been rather adamant that it should be accepted through a deed of courage and valour. Quite ridiculous, really. The sword was under a powerful Arthurian Charm, that was true...a charm which dictated that a worthy knight would be able to withdraw it from its tattered companion artefact in times of great need. The symbolism was hardly subtle, but then the charm had been put on the sword by Godric Gryffindor, also known (in Slytherin House mainly) as perhaps the most flamboyant drama queen ever to walk the lands of Britain. Since the charm only extended to the relationship between the sword and the hat, however, there was really no need to take it into consideration on this occasion. Once retrieved, the sword could be handled like any other worldly object, passing from hand to hand without problem. But Dumbledore had insisted, and he would obey, as he always did. Potter would get to re-enact tales of great legend and feel heroic. It was probably the easiest way to convince the boy of the sword's authenticity...he reluctantly agreed on that count. He just wished the display wouldn't have to be quite so gaudy... Sighing, he murmured a series of spells to get the sword into position and turned his wand towards the sky. Creeping deeper into the shadows, he sat down to wait.

He had just gone outside to look for Hermione when a flicker of light caught his attention. A beautiful, silver crow descended gracefully through the air, approaching slowly. The image made something stir in his mind, a memory half-forgotten, lurking just out of sight. He couldn't recall having seen this particular Patronus before, yet it seemed oddly familiar. The crow circled him twice, so close that he could almost reach out to touch each delicately defined feather. It gave a soft crooning sound, as though asking him to follow, and turned to the West. Transfixed and intrigued, Harry drew his wand and followed it.

The crow led him through the mountains, on a rocky, difficult path that seemed to go on forever. Darkness was heavy and compact around him, the silver bird his only light as he soldiered through the unknown terrain. Despite the cold rain on his face, he felt warmer than he had in months, the Patronus awakening hope and faith within him. He didn't know where it came from, but the feeling in his gut told him that the bird meant help in the desperate quest they were caught in. The silver light reminded him of his own stag. It brought comfort.

Rain changed into wet mist, and he pushed on through a high ravine, sound of rushing water reaching his ears. Climbing over a last boulder, he found himself in a small mountain clearing, dominated by a bright blue pool of water. The crow stopped over the centre of the steaming hot spring and crooned again. Almost reverently, he approached the edge of the pool, walking willingly into the ever-thickening mist. Another sound caught his attention...the first soft notes of Phoenix song, growing steadily stronger. It was a song of a time long lost, of legends and of myth. It told a thousand different stories in a moment's time: tales without words, filled with courage and beauty. He felt his breathing grow deeper, a sense of purpose filling every part of his body. His feet touched warm water, and he felt the skin sting as he waded into the pool. Somewhere between here and there, he'd removed most of the clothes he was wearing, his body responding sub-consciously to the feeling of sanctity that cloaked the place.

He was in to just below his waist when the song suddenly grew stronger. In front of him, a blade broke the surface, rising smoothly into the air. Gloriously, the Sword of Gryffindor rose from the water, followed by the person holding it. Harry gasped softly as Hermione came to stand before him, wet curls trailing down her chest and back, the gleaming sword placed as an offering on her outstretched hands. He swallowed hard.

"We found it, Harry," she said, her voice filled with wonder. "Here, take it."

He nodded slightly, extending his hand. Reverently, he grasped the hilt of the sword and took it from her hands, relishing the feeling of holding it again. Just like the time before, when he'd held it in a desperate fight against a giant Basilisk, it filled him with strength and courage...with determination. He would see the prophecy through, no matter the cost; he could see that now. The steam rising from the water seemed to clear the clouds of doubt and confusion that had filled his mind for so long. He felt cleansed, free even of the crippling anger...and even more crippling sense of guilt...he'd felt ever since Dumbledore died. He looked into Hermione's eyes and saw the same determined focus mirrored there. He swallowed again. Clear. It was all so very clear to him now.

Conscious thought gone from his mind, he acted on impulse, lowering the sword to his side and sliding his free hand into Hermione's tangled hair. The Phoenix song came to a crescendo, speaking of triumph, of battles won, and of true love reclaimed. As the last, ethereal notes reverberated through the air, Harry leaned in and kissed her.