Harry awoke the next day, completely unaware that he had even fallen asleep. In fact, he wasn’t even sure if it was the next day. It could still be the day before. The sky was darkening, the sun setting, as Harry sat up and coughed. His throat was parched, his bones creaked and his body ached as he moved.
He had a feeling that he had slept for a day and a half. It was the next day then… or the next night technically. Sitting still, he realized that he was actually warm and well rested though when he had drifted off to sleep without meaning to he had been soaked to the skin and exhausted. In all honesty, Harry knew he should be dead. Sleeping outside in winter while drenched? It sounded suicidal. Harry rubbed his face and decided that somehow his magic had kept him warm during the night.
As he looked up at the sky, his head throbbed. Where would he go now? What would he do? Everything they had done had led them to – nothing at all. They had left Salem in hope of safety and they had found safety from the crazed muggles, but their meeting with Stephen and Douglas and Rebecca… nothing had come out of any of those encounters except questions and troubles and pain. So where was he supposed to go from here? What had he learnt? What was the next step? How was he supposed to get home?
Maybe he ought to Apparate somewhere close to Hogwarts. It was dangerous, Harry thought, after all he had never heard of anyone Apparating from one continent to another… was it too far? Or maybe dangerous was good… if he got himself splinched the Accidental Magical Reversal Squad would be on him in half a second and he could tell them what had happened… how he was stuck in the past… how two people had already been killed. He might get shut up in Azkaban for messing with time travel but at least he’d be back in his own time…
Or maybe he didn’t want to be in his own time anymore? What was waiting for him there? Ron and Hermione were dead, here, in 1692. If he returned… people would ask questions. They’d ask him endless question about why three people had gone to Salem and only one returned. Mr. and Mrs. Weasley, Hermione’s parents, Dumbledore, they’d all need explanations and answers. That would be the hardest part and just thinking about it made Harry feel nauseous. He’d have to explain to Ron and Hermione’s families. He’d have to retell their deaths, go over revolting details, feels the stares. He knew what they’d be thinking. They would be wondering why he hadn’t saved them, or why he hadn’t died. How had he escaped? Why had he escaped?
Wasn’t this better than that then? Wasn’t here better than there? There was no explaining to do here to distraught families, no accusing glares, no inquisitive reporters.
No Voldemort. He was free here. Nothing to worry about. No duty, no responsibility. No aching to kill the man who had murdered his parents, Cedric, and caused Sirius’s death. Here there was nothing he could do… and so he did not feel he had to do anything…
People performing Dark Magic were attracted to torturing young girls and children. Followers of Dark Wizards didn’t hesitate to hurt young people.
These girls were evil! I heard they held trials too and our justices are all fair.
To think even young people can be witches and make deals with the Devil. I wouldn’t have thought it possible but there you go!
Whatever else they are, the New England courtiers are just.
She has just moved on. Grieving will not help her or you.
Good thing they’re dead!
Wrong. There was something Harry had to do. Something important. Douglas had been right: Grieving wasn’t going to help Hermione and it wouldn’t help Ron either. Nor would sitting beneath an evergreen tree and waiting to die.
Harry knew what he had to do. And if the Ministry had a problem with it, now, then so be it.
It was dark and quiet in the outskirts of Salem Village. Not many people were awake, and the only lights were of small oil lanterns hanging on posts here and there to give light to those traveling on the road and the shining, unearthly light of the white moon that had risen above. The windows of the houses were shaded and no lights shone through the curtains. A lone dog trotted up the road, tounge hanging, each or its ribs visible. Suddenly the dog stopped and sat its nose sniffing eagerly at the air. It moved slowly towards what it smelled, nose sill working overtime. Its tale began to wag slowly and it whined pitifully. It recognized that smell. It was human. Humans had food. The dog crept forward, near a bunch of trees, still begging for a morsel of food, anything to calm its aching belly for a few minutes.
‘Hey there puppy,’ said a hoarse voice from the shadows of the trees. It was a soft voice, a cunning voice, a sweet, seductive voice. ‘Want a treat?’
The dog gave a muffled bark and wagged his tale faster.
‘Come here boy,’ said the voice again. ‘I’ll give you a treat.’
The dog bounded forward. It had only moved two paces when there was a bang and a flash of green light that bathed everything in a ghostly glow for a split second.
The dog was dead as soon as the light hit it.
The hoarse voice barked a laugh.
Another voice spoke, a female voice this time. ‘That’s a good boy. Enjoy your treat.’
‘I don’t believe it! How could you – no, I don’t even want to hear it! You’re sick! Can’t you see – don’t you understand – you have no idea what this is doing to him!’ A deep voice, a male voice.
Another voice, female, quiet. ‘He’ll destroy himself.’
A third voice, a deep voice, a calming voice, a voice to be trusted. ‘He will not.’