Chapter Text
Harry ducked his head and stepped into the cool darkness of the cave. The inside was inky black and it took a while for his eyes to adjust. He took a shuffling step forward, his hands reaching out to brush against the rough surface of the cave walls.
This was his last chance to explore, He was expected back in Britain tomorrow, He had his international portkey ready on the side table, an empty coke can, the side dented sharply in.
He wasn’t sure how he felt about returning to Britain. He hadn’t felt sure about anything much since the end of the war. Nothing felt entirely real to him. Only in flashes. Moments of realness so sharp in their intensity it hurt. Andromeda’s hug at Remus’ funeral, the slightly scratchy fabric of her robe and the faint scent of lavender perfume. Or Hermione and Ron saying goodbye to him at Grimmauld before he portkeyed out here, the way Ron’s arm fit over Hermione's shoulders, the colour of her eyes as the light caught them.
In the weeks and months since the war, there had been so many people, so many owls flying into the house, so many reporters wanting a statement here and a comment there. The Ministry wanted his seal of approval, or more honestly, they wanted his publicity to rubber stamp their moves in their post-Voldemort state.
He seemed to wake up every day with a new Order member there to greet him and escort him to the Ministry, or commandeer the kitchen table with books and decrees and pages and pages of notes. What to do with the Death Eaters, Harry? Who will care for the war orphans, Harry? Should the Slytherins be allowed back into school, Harry?
He just wanted to put his hands over his ears and scream for them to leave him alone. But even that seemed like too much effort. He just nodded and smiled and tried to think deeply about things when he didn’t really want to think at all.
Which was why, when Charlie had come by Grimmauld, taken one look at him and said, “You need a holiday, mate.” Harry had nodded and smiled and then somehow found himself on the far side of Europe, enjoying the unexpected heatwave at the tail end of autumn.
There were no other buildings near the cabin. He’d trekked up a small hill one evening, the cool night air fresh on his brow, and seen a thin thread of smoke in the distance. So there were other houses scattered about. Charlie had said the place was popular with city dwellers from Bucharest. It was closed to muggles as some kind of nature reserve, which gave it something of an appeal among the magical community as a quiet getaway. Charlie’s friend had been happy to offer the place to his ‘young friend from Britain’, and since it was the off season, he hadn’t seen anyone else the whole time he’d been here.
The Black Sea spread, choppy and dark from the door of the cabin and at the first sight of it, Harry had felt something deep inside him come unfree. He’d been right to come here. The isolation was strangely appealing, Harry was tired of the parade of owls, the clusters of miserable faces at each funeral and the clusters of reporters that had taken to pitching tents outside Grimmauld place like some sort of impromptu and very unwelcome festival.
The thought of returning to that, real life, made Harry’s chest feel tight, and he turned resolutely away from where he’d been staring back at the cave mouth, dropping his hand from the wall and walking deeper into the cave.
He’d come down here at the start of the week and he’d eaten his lunch perched on the flat rock at the back of the cave. A little light from a hole in the roof spotlighting the floor at his feet. He’d worked up a sweat walking down the long beach, and he’d shed his cloak, looking around for somewhere to hang it. That was when he’d seen the markings.
Harry circled the illuminated patch of floor, placing the smooth rock at his back, and looked up and to the right. There. In the corner where the wall met the roof, tiny dark lines that almost looked natural except for their uniformity. They looked something like runes. Not recognisably, but something in the way they were clustered had made Harry think of writing.
He walked towards them, reaching up above his head to trace them softly with his fingers.
He’d attempted to translate them, intrigued by their mystery, but he hadn’t been able to relate them to any of the runes he knew, not that he knew many. He’d copied them down carefully on a piece of paper, hoping Hermione would have better luck. Or maybe the library at Grimmauld Place would shed some light on them, but until he was home, he had no way of knowing, so they remained a mystery, and Harry had felt compelled to give them one last look before leaving.
He let his hand drop from where he’d been tracing the marks and turned to leave the cave. As he turned, some tiny glint of light flashed in the corner of his eye. He stopped, turning back with a frown. What was that? One of the marks had flickered slightly. He stepped up close to it, craning his head to see. There, in the grooves of one of the marks, there was something… something that glinted, not shining but… reflecting? Yes. He stepped closer still, pressing one hand against the wall and rising onto his toes. There was something in the groove of the mark, something dark and... wet. Harry suddenly had a terrible sinking feeling.
He looked down at his hand and even in the gloom of the cave, he could see that the tip of one of his fingers was smeared with blood.
In that way that small cuts don’t hurt until being noticed, now that he’d seen it, he suddenly felt the throb at his fingertip. It was a tiny cut, barely more than a scratch. An edge of one of the markings must have caught at his skin. He hadn’t even noticed.
He shivered and pulled his cloak tighter around him. The air in the cave seemed to have turned colder. Harry took a step back, looking around him. His hand clutched on empty air at his waist. He hadn’t thought he’d need his wand, not for a walk down the beach. He’d finally let his guard down.
How stupid. How could he have been so stupid?
There was a scattering, soft sound as sand on the cave floor was drawn up in an eddy of wind. Harry looked around him. The sand shouldn’t be shifting. The cave was deep enough that the wind from the beach didn’t penetrate. The temperature was still dropping, and rapidly. He could feel goosebumps raising on the back of his neck. When he looked back at the marks he saw they were all glistening now, filling up with a shining darkness. This was bad. This was extremely bad.
Harry turned on his heel and ran towards the mouth of the cave. It should have taken him seconds to reach it, the cave was short, but instead he found himself running and running, the mouth never coming closer, in fact, as he ran, the light seemed to recede further and further away. He was panting, and at his back, he could hear the wind picking up, the noise turning to a scream, turning into a roar as the sand flew up around him. He threw his hand up to protect his eyes. It clawed at the back of his shirt, ran cold fingers through his hair. Little rocks and stones were being caught in the wind now, and the force of it was pushing harry back.
Harry strained against the wind, trying desperately to reach the patch of light that was now tiny, as if down a long tunnel. “Help!” He shouted, “Help me!” But even if there had been someone to hear, his voice was snatched away by the greedy wind.
There was a great gust, his feet flew out from under him and Harry was thrown bodily against the wall. He cried out in pain, the shock of it reverberating up his bones and he fell in a slump at the base of the wall. Harry raised his hands to protect his eyes as they teared up against the wind. It was wild now, swirling all around him. Flashes of light and scraps of shadows seemed to fight for dominance. Rocks and stones flew up from the force of the wind, they pelted against him, beating at his arms and chest until he had to curl up into a ball to protect himself. He felt them drawing blood, one whipped a raw line across his cheek and another struck hard against his ribs.
There was a noise in the air, a great, voiceless screaming, that seemed to come from all directions, maybe the wind itself. He pulled his hands up over his head and braced as well as he could against the wall. But even as he did, the wind dragged him forwards, pulling him into its spin. He grabbed frantically for the wall with freezing fingers, but the rocks pelted at his hands and arms, and there was nothing for him to hold on to. The wind picked him up and Harry’s feet left the floor, he spun, and all around him was darkness and flashes of light. It was so cold, so bitterly cold, even the rocks beating and bruising him started to fade away to numbness.
The wind drew him tighter, circling in and in until he saw the heart of the storm. A dark, gaping void and suspended within it, the carved markings glistening and twitching with their own power. For a second Harry hung suspended above them, and for a second he saw the truth of them and the knowledge of what they said was so vast that it filled his mind, crowded out behind his eyes and ears and filled his mouth until his head seemed it would burst, and his eyes rolled backwards, his body fell limp and with a thunderous crack the world disappeared.