By the time the two figures emerged from the Gryffindor dressing room, the sun was completely veiled behind the stern gray clouds. Torrents of rain poured down, delving muddy craters in the emerald pitch and drumming like nailed fingers on the stands. Rivulets of dirtied water trickled from seat to seat, shingle to shingle, and collected into thousands of minute glittering puddles that pockmarked the moody landscape.
Harry shoved Warson forward, who tramped into a brown pool that splashed its contents all over his clothes. He seemed even more like a worm in its natural habitat.
"Now go," Harry ordered. "Lead me there."
Grumbling incoherently under his breath, Warson plodded forward and ducked beneath a diagonal beam that sat across the tall posts holding up the Hufflepuff stands. Harry followed close at his heels. They had entered a long, slanting tunnel sparsely lit with columns of milky gray light and alive with the dripping of rainwater. The pair passed under the gradually ascending ridges that made up the underside of the seats. They were constantly ducking under low boards cobwebbed beneath the stands' belly.
It seemed to take a soggy eternity to trudge the length of the stands, but at last the two exited the shadows. The lower edge of the Forbidden Forest curved round the multi-colored walls of the stadium. The trees were taller, but less dense there. Harry and his foul companion left the grounds through the north gate.
Warson traveled slowly across the short green lawn that stretched between the Quidditch pitch and the Forbidden Forest. Far, far in the distance, standing like grim wardens overlooking the grounds, were the white-capped mountains, barely perceptible behind a curtain of haze. The rain continued to hammer down from the heavens and drench the succumbing stalks of grass that Harry and Warson were now treking across. Harry was constantly looking cautiously over his shoulder, paranoid that from some tower or turret, Dumbledore or Professor McGonagall would be watching him, enraged. But he need not have worried: no one saw him leave, as everyone was huddled inside the ancient stone walls of the fortress, and no one came.
Presently they slipped beneath the ghostly eaves of the Forbidden Forest. As if a lever had been thrown, all noises of the outside world suddenly went mute. The only sounds now were the scamperings of unseen beasts or birds, and, so high above that they seemed to be immersed in the clouds themselves, the leaves upon the highest boughs and branches fluttering with the rain. All else was deafeningly silent.
Apparently energized by the thought that he was now out of eyesight, Warson suddenly lurched forward and sprinted along, leaping over a fallen log and swinging ahead by wrapping his arm around a tree trunk. Harry, caught off guard, struggled to match his pace.
In all times past, when Harry had entered the dark woods lining Hogwarts, something sinsiter or strange had occured. But he was surprised at how uneventful this long journey was. There had been a nearly total absence of sound, save for what Harry thought to be Grawp thrashing around far off.
At long last, he and Warson exited the last thinning trees of the forest and looked ahead. Looming above them was a steep incline, crowned with a ring of gently swaying pines. They went forward and scrambled up the high hill, sometimes forced to find hand or footholds to climb. But finally they heaved themselves beneath the shade of the pines, and were sheltered somewhat from the unapologetic downpour. Panting, and by tacit consent, they stretched out and rested for a while. On the uncertain horizon, two miles away, jutted like a single tooth the fortress of Hogwarts. It felt foreign to Harry, staring at his school from there. It seemed close, yet far, and for a moment he yearned for its echoing, comforting halls and secret passages. Sprawled like an uneven mirror beside it were the rocky waters of the Black Lake. He sighed audibly and rested his head on his arms, keeping sleep at bay and turning the handle of his wand over and over in his hand.
After about fifteen minutes, Harry decided it was time to move on. Keeping Warson ahead, they stumbled down the hillside and pushed onward across a long plain fenced on three sides by the solemn mountains. They hurried forth, refreshed but eager to be free of the chilling storm. The plains were strewn with flattened weeds and were now but seas of mud. Harry's feet were often pasted to the ground. The journey was even more difficult for Warson, who was slimmer and weaker.
It took a full three hours to plow through the plains. By then the sun was sinking in the west behind the ever-stretching clouds, painting the peaks with a final milky light before sinking behind their rocky crevices.
"I'm tired," complained Warson, the first words that had been spoken for several hours. "Me legs 're achin'."
"Shut up," snapped Harry. His robes were glued uncomfortably to his skin, and his long unruly hair was drenched and hung like a waterlogged drape around his ears and forehead. He pushed his way up the slowly rising lands that would soon give way to the majesty of the peaks. "Keep going."
Muttering under his breath, Warson pressed onward.
At length they passed over the gently sloping lands and tramped along a narrow saddle that overlooked the gray, stony range stretching ahead. All around, slanting boulders sat like tumbled headstones in a vast, grim cemetery of rock.
They had reached the mountains.