He was walking through the woods again, the leaves of autumn settling in on the ground in a calm laziness. A gentle breeze, arriving from the farthest reaches of the flat world, danced through the limbs, cascading gracefully onto his unruly hair. All around the sounds of the woods carried on, unperturbed by the crunching of his worn sneakers upon the crispy brown, yellow, and orange leaves.

On and on he walked, his fingers scraping the bottom on his pockets, digging for a tingling warmth from the brisk autumn air. His eyes, emerald green, shone through the darkest of shadows, as if looking into some dark sin of the shadowy knot in the tree crevice.

Puritans, the random thought ran through his head, had believed the woods were the devil. Oh, how wrong they seemed to be. The woods were calm, peaceful, anything but the devil.

Animals scurried away from his feet, crouching meters away until he passed by completely, before retreating to their former place. They didn’t fear him; they just didn’t want to be trampled to death. Not that he would do that, but he was so caught up in his thoughts, he wasn’t likely to notice that the moment if in he did.

Forward was the only direction he moved. The only direction he wanted to move. There were notches in trees, the large oak ones that popped up every so miles now and then, ones he had passed a long time ago it seemed, if only a few night before, each one marked to show his passing.

He liked to pretend they were stages in his life: the first eleven years of his life wherein he was stupid to the wizarding world, and then a notch for each progressing year at Hogwarts. Why? He didn’t know. Why he wondered these woods, dreaming of shadows and leaves in the autumn, he wasn’t sure.

He knew they weren’t Voldemort induced, for if they were...they’d be darker, creepier, nastier. But alas, for once, fortunately, they weren’t from Tom Riddle, Lord Voldemort, He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named.

His eyes linger on the third giant oak he passed. Three marks, marking his third year. When had he made those? Last night? The night before? So far in the past was his third year, but so late had he marked his passing.

He walked by, not pausing, knowing that it was useless to pause, it always was, living the past was frivolous.

Fourth year past, deeper, more aggressive marks, a darker year that lead to a darker time. Images flooded him, but he pushed them away, ignoring them, despising them, and he kept moving forward. For only moving forward would things be worthwhile.

Slowly, his heart began to pound faster, the fear of the known up ahead. Fifteen years he had worked and just walked through, now...it was his sixteenth year. The one year with gloomy promises arising on the horizon.

A year without his beloved godfather, Sirius.

He couldn’t live the year without Sirius, could he? He had for thirteen years, could he do it once more? He shook his head, such wrong thoughts to think, at such wrong times.

He tried to banish them, and had he self-confidence of exiling them he would’ve done so too.

Then, he arrived.

The unknown year.

The woods heaved up, taking him over a hill, and down onto a fork in the trail. Two trails, he could choose either one and travel down it, marking his path for the year. Maybe forever.

One looked well-traveled by, as if others have followed the same trail he had and trek down the right path. His heart pounded; which path should he follow?

The giant oak in the middle lay un-notched. As if the previous travelers had been too preoccupied to notch up the tree that would lead them into the unknown.

He shook his head, peering down each path carefully, trying to figure out which one would lead to what. Both were dark, one was trekked up; the other was old and overgrown, but showed pervious signs of travelers. Snapped branches, crunched leaves, broken tuffs of dirt having been imprinted by shoe-prints.

He moaned, running his hand through his jet-black hair, his green eyes flashing with hope each time he looked down the paths.

Suddenly, there was a crack behind him, someone lightly stepping onto a twig. Harry didn’t start, but he did turn, warily. And standing there was the man he last expected to stand there.

Professor Severus Snape.

What an odd sight the Professor was too. He had been so used to seeing his Professor constantly wrapped up billowing black ropes, tight black vest and every now and then seeing the white collar of his undershirt, always neatly pressed and fancy.

Now, however, his Professor appeared before him, the black vest hanging loosely, no longer snug, his black robes billowing in a more natural way, and his white, button-up, undershirt, splayed open tidily, fancifully, and properly at the neck, allowing the cool breeze to reach the neck.

He looked...bare, for some reason.

His black eyes, usually glistening with hatred toward the raven-haired boy, were now impassive, bored, and ever so slightly curious.

“Tell, me Mr. Potter, must you linger in the most inconvenient spots all day?” Professor Snape asked, his voice lingering on sarcasm, mockery, and true intrigue.

“I’m just trying to decide which way to go,” Harry responded, rubbing his neck in an offhanded gesture. He eyed the paths again.

“Yes, but you’re taking too long.” Snape snapped, stepping forward, heading toward the giant oak. “You’re needed, Mr. Potter, stop dawdling, you’re almost late as it is.” He shook his head, as if that disgusted him, but Harry thought he caught sight of something else, something he couldn’t place.

Professor Snape made to walk into the tree and Harry for a spilt second was glad to see him go. A loathing, having calmed down since he last met the Professor, sparkled slightly, deep in his soul. The man shook his head, as if sensing that loathing and made to walk through the tree.

“Wait,” Harry said, surprising himself. He reached forward, as if to grab Snape, to stop him, but thought better of it. Snape had frozen anyway.

“What is it Mr. Potter, I have things to do, places to be, people to see.” Snape snarled, his voice not containing, however, it usual snarkiness.

“Which way should I go?” Harry asked, not pleading, but politely seeking another person’s opinion. Why that of Snape’s? Harry didn’t know. Something inside him told him to do so, as if it were the right thing to do.

“Have you ever heard the poem by Robert Frost, ‘Two Roads Diverge in a Wood’, Mr. Potter?” Snape had turned now, staring deep in the boy eyes, uncaring about the barely lingering innocence in his eyes that was slowly seeping away.

“No,” Harry responded, truthfully. Snape shrugged, as it were nothing. He turned and made to walk into the tree. “Wait! Sir!” Harry called out but this time Snape didn’t, he just kept walking.

“He says, Mr. Potter,

‘Two roads diverge in a wood, and I—

I took the one less traveled by,

And that has made all the difference.’”

With that, Professor Snape was gone, having walked into the tree and out of sight. Harry sat on the ground after he left, trying hard to figure out what to do.

Why did it matter which path he took? The one more traveled by seemed to be the safest one, since everyone else traveled by it. Then there was Snape’s suggestion, the one less traveled by. Should he trust Snape? Did the man know what he was speaking of, or did he like quoting poetry at times in an attempt to be a riddler like Dumbledore?

Why did he have to choice, he was only sixteen. Did it matter all that much? No?

Or did it...

Then, after a pause, he stood up, took a breath and walked down a path...

“Hasn’t anyone told you not to talk to strangers?” Uncle Vernon asked in a vicious snarl, his pudgy face wobbling darkly, his second chin seemingly taking on a life of its own.

Harry turned to face his Uncle, stretching his back from having been perched over the bushes for so long. He corked his eyebrows, biting back a sarcastic comment and settling on a mere shrug. He had only been giving directions to a passing old man, looking for his sister’s house; he really didn’t consider that talking to strangers.

“Well, don’t,” he hissed. It wasn’t that Uncle Vernon was concerned for the safety of his nephew; he cared more or less for the safety of his reputation, and didn’t want anything ‘freaky’ happening and being witnessed. It was bad enough that they had to let the boy out of the house. “We’re leaving now...so get inside.” His voice was lowering darkly; face turning a regular color, beside the heat of the day beating in on him. It wasn’t even ten o’clock and the obese man was already sweating profusely.

“All right,” Harry mumbled, rubbing the back of his hand on his forehead. Uncle Vernon stepped aside, allowing his scrawny nephew to slip back, cuffing him sharply on the shoulder as he slunk passed.

“Don’t cause any problems,” Uncle Vernon shouted once Harry was safely inside. “We’ll be back after dinner...don’t do anything freakish or there’ll be consequences, no matter those raving lunatics or yours.” Harry didn’t respond to the order, he was lucky to be allowed out of his room while they were out, and just stomped up to the bathroom where he took a warm shower, soothing his muscles over.

He had been pruning the garden almost everyday this week, the Dursleys determined to win the Best Yard Contest that cam about every six years. Harry was lucky not to be ill with heat stroke from all his days outside, but he didn’t complain. Not even in his constant three-day letters he wrote to the Order.

He knew they knew he was working, he was always being watched, but at least this year he knew about it. He sent off his letter yesterday, saying he was fine and eating enough—that seemed to be a big issue this summer. He had a feeling Ron and Hermione might’ve let it slip, but he found he couldn’t be angry about that.

Once back in his room, the house a thick, engulfing quietness of an eerie emptiness, Harry flopped down on his bed, chewing his lip. He was caught in a moment of indecision, if he should do it or not.

Outside, he knew that his usual watcher at ten o’clock would leave in ten minutes, leaving a five minute open period, and then the next one was to clock in. If he was planning on doing it, then it would have to be then.

He sat up, his clothing, better fitting due to the fact that he was wearing Dudley’s ten-year-old hand-me-downs as shorts and a sagging shirt, and looked around. On his desk, under Hedwig’s empty cage, was a letter from Hermione, a tiny, neat scrawl that played out in the lines of Robert Frost’s poem, ‘The Road Not Taken.’ The one Professor Snape had mentioned in his dream.

After that night, when he woke up after walking down the path, he found himself tossing to and fro, trying to figure out the reason to his choice and if choosing one path or the other mattered. He hadn’t had the forest dream again, and he wasn’t sure if he was glad for that or not.

Sighing, he reclined his head on the wall and thought back to his conversation with Hermione over the phone.

“Harry James Potter what are you up to?” Hermione’s accusing voice asked over the phone, suspicious of his request.

“Nothing, ‘Mione,” Harry replied, truthfully. He was leaning against the wall, fully aware that Aunt Petunia was glowering in the kitchen and thinking of her precious wall being smeared.

“If you say so,” she sounded doubtful. “What’s going on Harry...falling in love with poetry?” For a moment she sounded like Ron, mocking and jesting. Harry had to bit his tongue to comment on that.

“No,” Harry retorted, burning in the face. “Just need to see something...” he trailed off with a dismissive shrug that he knew Hermione couldn’t see, but it helped doing do.

“‘The Road Not Taken’, by Robert Frost, I can do that. He’s an American Poet, so it’ll be easier to limit the searching.” That was the Hermione Harry knew. Study, study, study and research, research, research.

“I better go, ‘Mione, thanks.” Harry hung up after that and hurriedly retreated before Aunt Petunia could shovel him more chores to do.

Hermione had been quite prompt with her response, as usual, her scrawl playing out the lines and then another question to why he wanted it, then nothing else. He hadn’t responded, instead he did something completely stupid, and wrote to Professor Snape.

Hedwig wasn’t back yet with his reply, but he had sent it yesterday with the Order letter. Now he was regretting it, deeply. He hadn’t written much, short and blunt, the way he preferred it and the way he figured Snape would prefer it too. If the man even bothered to read it...

Dear Professor Snape-

Why Robert Frost?

-Harry Potter

“Stupid,” Harry swore aloud when he thought back over the letter. Snape wouldn’t even know what he was talking about! It had been a dream, his own dream. Professor Snape hadn’t really been there. He was so stupid.

But after he read the poem, he had been on such a charge that he reacted without thinking. He was going to have to learn not to do that.

Distantly he heard the pop marking the departure of the watcher and without a thought Harry jumped up, grabbed a few things and threw off his watch, which he had finally replaced last year.

He ran quickly, out of the house and down the street, before the other watcher could arrive and catch him. He had the feeling that the next watcher was Fletcher anyway, and had a feeling that the man wouldn’t notice for a while anyway.

He finally arrived at a safe distance from Privet Drive and settled on a stroll that would lead him into the town. He figured he’d be safe from Voldemort and his Followers, but he was secured anyway. Pausing in the shadows of a large tree, he leaned over and strapped his wand to the inside of his ankle, while placing a fake on in his pocket.

He tied around his waste, a belt, black and leather, so that his floppy shirt of Dudley’s fit nicely. He didn’t look odd with belt strapped around his shirt on the outside, and after carefully examining his reflection; he found that it somehow looked natural on him.

Not that he hadn’t done it before, he and Ron (while he had been on the Quidditch team) used to do it, as did the Twins. It helped with keeping baggy shirts out of the way, and for Ron a bit of settling balance on the broom.

Somehow the look must’ve adapted to him. He sighed when he took off the belt, realized he looked worse without it and tied it back on. His clothing was sad when he couldn’t even look decent without having a belt strapped about his waist.

Sighing in relief in a sudden feeling of freedom, Harry trooped on, his jet-black hair flopping into his face, obscuring his scar and eyes. Almost an hour later, he was in town, slipping through alleys and avoiding anything that might look magical. He was going completely muggle for the day.

He managed to slip into a crowd of children around his age and not one of them gave him an odd look. Feeling oddly free without his guilt of Sirius weighing him down, he buried his hands into his pockets, kicking idly out while the other children chatted merrily around him.

Without his watch on his wrist, Harry felt oddly lost without knowing the time. He didn’t know when he was supposed to be back home, or what time it was, only his stomach, already offset from the lacking portions of food, could tell him the time and that wasn’t reliable either.

He didn’t dare ask anyone for the time. That was the whole point of his departure from Privet Drive. To escape time and everything that revolved around it. All summer he had been living by time, looking frequently to his watch to make sure he had this done by then and starting on this and that.

A familiar routine that was now nagging at him. His urge to look at his wrist didn’t die, especially when he felt oddly disoriented several hours later after his escape and his stomach for the first time complaining from hunger.

He had long since broken off from the group of children, but was sticking to large masses of people. Anything to keep him unnoticed and he was very good at that.

Strolling in front of a large store that flashed the digital time, Harry jerked his head to the left and look elsewhere. The feeling of not knowing time was near impossible to describe. He felt that he was Don Quixote, mounted on his stead, facing off the windmills that were ferocious dragons, while his side-kicked sputtered of being confused and lost.

He wasn’t confused or lost, but at the same time he was confused and lost in his own madness of chasing dragons and not knowing the time.

His stomach rumbled loudly, and absently he rubbed it, looking at a sandwich place he was placing with a slight longing. That was the one thing he hadn’t bothered to bring, not that he had any to bring, was money. Money muggle and wizard money too. At least he brought two wands, a fake one and a real one. He’d be safe, that was for sure.

Running his hand through his hair, he took a shortcut through an alley, making to go to the next street and get even more lost in his obscure sense of time.

Then, suddenly, a black figure swooped out of nowhere, knocking hard into him and stealing his fake wand from his pocket. Harry toppled forward, his arms flailing in an attempt to break his fall, and skilled from his various push and shoves from Dudley, the boy skillfully caught himself over and flipped over.

In a skilled movement he caught himself; Harry flipped his wand from the strap at his waist and trained his wand quickly on the man holding another wand on him.

“So, you’re not as stupid as you look,” Snape’s snide voice cut through the shadows that covered his face. He lowered his wand, as did Harry, who pulled himself up slowly. Snape flicked the fake wand and it burst into a blue rose. “Clever.” Harry tried hard not to gap at the compliment. “Must I ask you what you’re doing?”

“I needed to get lost from time,” Harry shrugged ignoring Snape’s wondering eyebrow.

“Well, come on, you’re not getting off easy this time. Dumbledore’s disappointed in you.” He walked forward, briskly, grabbing Harry by the shoulder and turning him around to walk off. Harry bowed his head, annoyed that Dumbledore was disappointed and disappointed that he had been caught so soon in the day.

They walked in silence, Snape a little farther away from Harry then before, and behind him, keeping a watchful eye on the boy and the people around him. They walked for a long time in silence, before Snape, still glowering, drew a breath and asked the question Harry had been dreading.

“When did I ever mention Robert Frost, Mr. Potter?” Professor Snape demanded.

“Nothing sir,” Harry mumbled. “It was a mistake.”

“I don’t believe you,” Snape snapped. “Tell me Potter, or shall I use...other methods?” Snape was intrigued by the letter, but he hell-bound not to say so. Harry picked up on it anyway, and instantly knew what other methods Snape could use.

“It was a dream,” he instantly regretted the words. “Not a Tom induced dream...just a normal dream.”

“I was in it?” he sounded as if he was horrified by the mere fact.

“Yeah, sort of,” Harry shrugged while his stomach rumbled loudly.

“You know, Mr. Potter, most people eat by fo—”

“No!” Harry cried out, cutting Professor Snape off. The man raised an eyebrow and Harry shrugged. “I don’t want to know the time...don’t ask.” They started to walk again, and suddenly, Snape veered off course, startling Harry. “Err—sir?”

“Come Potter, we have along enough walk. I don’t want to listen to the grumbling of your stomach the whole time.” He led a startled Harry into a sandwich shop and without consulting the boy ordered two sandwiches. Harry was startled to realize that Snape had gotten his sandwich right though. “I’ve seen you eat enough times over the past six years to know what you prefer.”

“Thanks,” Harry mumbled, startled and confused.

“You’ll pay me back,” Snape said simply. “The dream.” He ordered and with Snape that was enough anymore. Sighing, Harry took a bite of his sandwich and with much reluctance went into the story of his dream.

How he and Snape got along for that time, Harry was never sure. However, the whole time they managed, though often full of sarcastic wit and a such a loss of points that had it been the school year Gryffindor would’ve been in the negative range, though the managed not to kill each other and Harry kept his angry abated.

“Mr. Potter, I think you need to learn to take life slowly,” Snape snarled once they had finally managed to finish the conversation. “Can’t even go a few months without something happening.”

“What do you think it means, sir?” Harry asked, flustered. Snape was definitely not a quiet man when explaining something and kept his interruptions coming so often that Harry was horribly annoyed.

“You’ll have to figure out for yourself,” Snape retorted, standing up while bundling up his trash. Harry decided not to ask how Snape knew how to handle muggle money. “Come, or we’ll be late.”

With that they stood up and left. Harry walking quickly to keep up with Snape’s stride.

“Mr. Potter, do tell me there’s a reason for that hideous belt around your waist.” Harry flushed, glad for the beating heat, knowing that the redness could be mistaken for the sun’s heat.

“I—err—you—no reason—” Harry stuttered, rubbing his neck and looking around in a way to distract himself.

“Tell me Potter,” Snape snarled.

“No,” Harry snapped back, annoyed that Snape was pressing him. Snape whirled around. “I don’t have to tell you everything!”

“You’ll speak with proper respect Potter,” he snapped and with that he whirled around and stalked off. Harry followed him, realizing just how much he had offended Snape.

It wasn’t like Harry was telling Snape everything, they didn’t get along that well, their pervious conversation was full of barter and loss of points.

They were walking in silence again and Harry was surprised to find himself feeling a bit bad for hurting Snape’s feeling, if he did that. Snape was a hard man to figure out.

Finally, they arrive at Privet Drive and from what Harry could see; the house was still dark meaning no Dursleys. He smiled slightly to himself. At least he couldn’t have to deal with the Dursleys, Dumbledore would be enough.

“They’re Dudley’s,” Harry finally said, surprising himself and Snape just the same, though the man hid his surprise quickly.

“What?” Snape snarled his face creased in shadows.

“My clothing.” Harry shrugged and fished in his pocket for a key. “I only get Dudley’s hand-me-downs and if I wear my good clothing, from school, they’ll just take ‘em away.” He shrugged again. “Thanks for lunch Professor; I’ll pay you back when I can.”

“Mr. Potter, I know you’re life isn’t great here,” Snape commented, surprising Harry. “If things get—bad—I won’t rescue you, help you...do it yourself.”

“What?” Harry asked, confused.

“You’ve chosen a path but you’ll have to make your own way through it. Maybe this will be one of your choices.” Snape didn’t clear himself up and Harry found himself confusedly walking back to the Dursley house. He knew Snape was watching him until he entered the house and maybe afterward.

888

A week later, several scolding letters later, and meals lacking food because of the sudden sourness of the yard, Harry was worn beyond belief on his bed.

Uncle Vernon was peeved at him, blaming Harry’s ‘freakishness’ for the reason for the failure of the garden. Things were turning steadily worse....

“You’ve chosen a path but you’ll have to make your own way through it. Maybe this will be one of your choices.” Snape’s words suddenly whirled through his head, and he had a sudden idea.

Sitting up, not knowing rather this was what Snape meant to not, he set to work, making his plan perfect...

Harry sat up with a jolt of fear, sweat tingling down his back and his breath jagged with panting. He reached up, unconsciously, to feel his scar which was fine, not even a twinge, but something was wrong, horribly wrong.

The house was an eerie silence, not even the snores of the Dursleys filled it, but after a few moments, Harry remembered that he had been left alone for the night, along with a barely any food and a list of chores he had to have done by the next morning.

On his desk, under Hedwig’s empty cage (she was off at Ron’s) was the perfect plan he had drawn up for escape, but realizing it was useless he had given up on it. Why run away? Dumbledore had said he was protected here more than anything else because of blood magic, what was the reason for running, besides proving himself...to himself and maybe Snape.

There was a sudden creak and Harry straightened up, hair rising on end and his thumbs prickling slightly. That wasn’t a natural sound for sure.

Someone was in the house.

His heart pounded and he stood up slowly, fishing for his wand, which he kept on him at all times (or at least by him) and crept to his doorway, quietly. The Shakespearean saying, ‘By the pricking of my thumbs, something wicked this way comes.’ Ran through his head and absently he rubbed his thumbs.

Taking a steadying breath, he carefully pushed open his door and looked back and forth, seeing no one. Even more quietly, he crept out into the hallway, his wand steadfast in his hand, and crept to the stairs.

Darkness danced in serpent tongues around him, taunting him with concealment of hidden things or people, and spraying across the floor in his wake. He longed to look at his watch but he had tried losing himself to time again and had no clue what time it was. Suddenly he regretted his obscene idea, though it had helped at the time.

He reached the banisters, a light breeze from the A.C. ruffling his hair as he leaned over, hidden in shadows, ready for anything. However, he saw nothing and heard nothing.

He relaxed slightly. Maybe his imagination was just overacting. The Dursleys weren’t here and they rarely left him alone, he was bound to imagine things. Especially with a psychopath murderer after him, but that was all trivial when it came to actually being trusted to be left alone. He had never thought that would happen.

Sighing, he descended the staircase, slowly but carefully, and quietly. His wand never leaving his hand. When he reached the bottom, he heard something.

A rustling, or was it a tapping. Shaking his head, he looked around, while outside the wind blew hard around, bringing about the first cool weather of the summer. All around tree limbs swished and buckled about, screeching and careening in the air. All the noise, Harry was hearing, was coming from that, he was sure of it.

Nonetheless, he walked around the house, carefully, his heart pounding, half-expecting to run into a Death Eater around every corner.

Then, he turned a corner, and did run into someone.

Not a Death Eater, but after a brief second Harry placed as a Muggle Burglar. The robber reacted before Harry could regain himself and soon they were rolling around, his wand having clattered off.

Quick and fit from Quidditch, Harry was fast in regaining control while the burglar fought hard to knock the boy out.

Over and over they went, Harry thinking vaguely of the irony of his death at the hands of a common muggle thief, when they both went crashing into the bottom of the staircase. Harry smacked his forehead, while the robber clunked the top of his head.

Grunting, the robber rolled over and managed to slug Harry hard in the chest, who toppled backward with a hefty oft while wildly grabbing out and snatching the robber’s mask.

It came off gracefully, revealing the face of the man who Harry had consulted not but a couple weeks ago about directions to his sister’s house.

‘Imagine that,’ Harry thought ruefully. ‘Uncle Vernon was right in not talking to strangers.’ Then the robber lunged forward, shoving Harry backwards, and the brawl began again.

At one point, Harry managed to pull himself up while the robber also managed to grab his arm and swing him around. With a sickening crash, Harry when slamming hard into the bottom of the stairs, and the world began to spin.

Vaguely, he watched, as the muggle robber, in horror, fled from the house and he dropped off in and out of darkness. His head was swimming and he was starting to smell the acute smell of blood.

Hell! He was bleeding.

Moaning, Harry realized he needed to get help, but Hedwig was gone and he couldn’t go to St. Mangos without risking his neck. Grunting, and painful tears swimming down his cheeks, Harry clambered to his feet and labored upstairs, gripping the railing with a death grip and fighting the darkness.

If he lost consciousness now, who knew what would happen.

Finally, a painful ten minutes later, Harry, trying hard to contain the blood welling up from his head and forehead, had gathered his things, his wand and was outside the Dursley’s residence, sometime around one in the morning.

Knowing Ms. Figg was out of town, due to the fact that he was by himself, Harry steadied himself on getting over there by himself. It was a laborious task that he didn’t fair too well from. He collapsed twice on the cold concrete, blood swarming up even more while the cloth on his head proved to be futile.

When he finally managed to get to Ms. Figg’s he was barely standing and opening the door was hard, if not impossible. Biting his tongue, he settled on using all his strength to dragging his trunk around back, where the door was always unlocked.

The fireplace gleamed before him eagerly, and tired, barely awake, no longer able to contain the bleeding, he threw in Floo Powder and hoped to Merlin that Ms. Figg was hooked up to Dumbledore’s office, gathered his trunk to himself, and more or less fell into the fireplace while shouting out the destination.

He lost consciousness right after that.

Ah...he was here again. In the woods. Trekking down the path he had traveled, his feet crunching the autumn leaves more loudly than before.

Why was he here? How did he get here? He couldn’t remember much of anything. Maybe it was just another usual day at the Dursleys. Merlin did he loath to be at the Dursleys.

Shaking his head, he kept on walking, ignoring the jaunting limbs of the haggard trees that snatched at him in the brisk fall breeze. All around the world carried on, little animals hardly perturbed by his appearance, tittered on while above day turned to night slowly, the sky casting an omen red color that would have had sailors fretting.

Yet, Harry walked on. Fingering large trees, seeping his fingers into the cracks, trying to place where he was why he was there. He figured after he had chosen his path the first time he wasn’t to be bothered again with the bloody woods. Apparently he was wrong.

His worn sneakers soaked into the moist forest trail, absorbing into the dirt just far enough to make them quite dirty but not enough to bother Harry as he walked.

Sighing, he reached a hill and grimly trekked up it, wishing for the bloody dream to end so he could get back to his real life. At least he had stopped mourning Sirius’s death.

In the beginning of the summer that was all he could do. Mourn and mope. He wanted nothing more than to just curl up in a ball and ignore life around him, just yearning to be with Sirius.

Then...the wood dreams started. Everything changed then. He was marking his way through the years, realizing things he never realized before, and then he came to the path and Professor Snape. That had changed a lot of things.

Then he chose the path...

The whirled around, his raven color hair flailing madly in the wind. His green eyes were wide, shining through the slowly engulfing darkness of the night, his heart pounding.

Had he chosen the wrong path? Was that why he was back? Did he do the wrong thing? He couldn’t tell and he didn’t know. Couldn’t he just turn around and trudge back to the fork and go down the other path. Did it work that way?

No, it couldn’t. One couldn’t just backtrack...could they?

Shaking his head, Harry gulped down a breath and spun around. What was it that Snape had said? Forward something? The best direction is forward...or the only?

Well, it didn’t matter. That was what he was going to do. Snape had gotten him into the mess and he would prove that he could finish it. He was going to keep going forward and if he died in the process...well at least he’d be with Sirius again.

Again he began to walk, more steadily and surely this time. His worn sneakers pouncing through the thickening shadows, glowing once and a while in the bright moon above.

Harry barely glanced up, figuring the moon to not be completely full but close to it, before going back to his paced walking.

Then, he reared upon another fork. A large oak in the center, and two paths, both too shadowy to see down, were waiting for him to chose.

However, he wasn’t alone.

Sitting at the base of the tree, looking wholly bored and impatient, was Professor Severus Snape...again.

The Potions Master looked up, annoyance flashing his features for a brief second.

“Sit, Potter,” was all he said, not bothering to move himself from the base of the oak. Surprising even himself Harry sat down. “Well, it took you long enough to get here.” The man snarled.

“What?” Harry retorted, annoyed. “I took the path you said to take, and now you’re saying I took too long! How long did you think it would take?”

“You’ll treat me with the proper respect, Potter.” Snape snarled, rustling slightly at the base of the oak. Harry glowered, annoyed by all that was happening, even more so with Snape being involved in it. “And for your information that’s not what I meant, and I never told you to take THAT path. Realize and remember that!”

“All right, then what did you mean?” Harry shot back, hot. “Sir.” He added in an afterthought.

“Do you really not know?” Snape asked, his voice toneless.

“Apparently not,” Harry responded, less cheekily then he had meant it to come off as.

“You’ve gotten yourself lost again,” Snape stated, simply.

“Err—lost again?” Harry echoed, confused.

“Yes, Potter, l-o-s-t.” Snape snarled snidely. Annoyed, Harry twitched in his seat, yearning to jump up.

“How the hell was I l-o-s-t before?” he demanded, glaring at Snape, sure that the ex-Death Eater turned spy was toying with him like always. He toyed with Sirius in the same way and led him to his death. Why should he trust Snape anyway?

“Think about it Potter,” Snape responded. “However, don’t waste my time doing so. What I want to know is if you’re going to be traveling a path any time soon.”

“Which one would with wisest?” Harry asked, peering down the paths, and seeing no difference because of the shadows.

“Oh no, Mr. Potter, that I will not tell...since my last suggestion was so well taken.” Snape sneered, his face bunched in shadows but dark eyes gleaming brightly. There was something in those eyes, something Harry couldn’t place.

“How’d I get lost again?” Harry asked, confused.

“You just did...all boys get lost some time or another.” Snape shrugged, as if it didn’t matter but it did. “You matter too much...” he sounded like a crowbar was forcing those words out of his mouth, “for you to slink again from us.”

“I’m just a pawn, doesn’t matter.” Harry shrugged, knowing Snape was referring to the prophecy.

“Is that what you truly believe, Mr. Potter?” Snape asked, leaning forward, eyes gleaming.

“That’s how Dumbledore treated me,” his voice carried more emotion than he thought it would...but he thought it was true.

“Ahh...but that’s just Dumbledore’s nature. Here,” he leaned forward, a stick in his hand, and began to scrape a design in the dirt. Harry peered over more intrigued than annoyed that it was Snape in front of him and not someone else.

Harry watched as Snape drew a chessboard in the dirt, the moonlight coincidentally playing perfecting across the drawing to light up every other square. Harry grinned at the irony.

“This Mr. Potter,” Snape pointed his stick to the front row, where all the pawns laid. “Is where you think you are.” In the middle of the line he drew a ‘HP’. “If that is so than this is were everyone else is...” he drew a line, ‘RW’ ‘HG’ ‘GW’ ‘LL’ ‘NL’ and then other letters, stretching off the chess board itself.

“Does that mean...we’re all—equal?” Harry asked tentatively.

“So, the great Harry Potter thinks he’s better than everyone else?” Snape snarled.

“NO!” Harry snapped, loudly. He didn’t want to be better than anyone! “Just the prophecy and all.”

“Ahh...that rambling bit of nitwit. Yes, Albus spoke to me of that. Tell me Potter,” he sat back, still holding the stick. “You, who rarely follow the rules, and listen to warning and suggestions in your own way..., are you truly going to succumb to the life of that prophecy? It’s...very...unlike you.” Those words sounded odd from Snape, Harry noted.

“It’s just...” Harry trailed off, confused more than before. Snape leaned forward again and drew on the other side of the board. Harry watched as he placed the same initials all over the pawn line, and then, put ‘HP’ by itself, neither in the pawn line nor in the other line. Just by itself. An odd feeling coursed through Harry.

“Is that what you’re aiming for, Mr. Potter? Because you’re starting to get there.” Snape asked, as he stood up.

“I’ve never been good in chess,” Harry mumbled, starring at the board. Had he been looking up he would’ve caught the smirk on Snape’s face and slightly amused shake of the head.

“Tell me, Mr. Potter, when you were first learning to play, did you always come closer to winning then after you learned the rules?” Snape asked, staring at Harry with an impassive look.

“I guess...but I didn’t know the rules. It just took longer, the game I mean.” Harry shrugged, examining Snape closely in case he was mental somewhat. He wouldn’t put it past someone being a spy on Tom Riddle.

“Exactly, you didn’t know the rules. Your moves were chaotic, and chaos always wins over logic in the long run.” Snape smirked, more to himself than Harry, and turned to go. “Make you’re decision Mr. Potter and come back. You’re, once again, needed.”

“Wait,” Harry jumped up. “Why you sir? Why not someone else...like Remus, or Ron or Hermione.”

“How well would you have listened to them Mr. Potter?” Snape asked an eyebrow quirked. “One tends to listen to their...‘enemies’ better than their friends. Hurry up and get back.” With that Snape left and Harry stared down at the chess board, debating which the right path was.

The first time he chose, he realized, was for Sirius. To move on, or to mourn to death. Now...now it was more serious.

He stared hard at the chess board, and after a long debating moment smiled.

“Checkmate,” he whispered, and eager to get free of the woods, he took off running down the left path.

Behind him, swirling gently in the wind and bathed in the bright moonlight, was the drawn chessboard. One side, the side where Harry was integrated into the pawn line, surrounded by others, equal and not alone, laying to the side of the left path while the other side, the one where he was alone, laid to the right.

Professor Snape in the end had given a suggestion in which path to take, had he meant it intentionally or not, Harry never knew.

“They say Harry Potter was never embarrassed by his head injury caused by a muggle that almost killed him. He didn’t speak of it, mind, but he was never embarrassed. When asked about it from Remus, he merely responded “he was a stranger.” This meant nothing to everyone, except Harry, for who it meant everything.” (The-Boy-Who-Lived Biography, Rick Evanes)

Harry was running, his feet pounding the path, cracking branches, smothering leaves, his breath pounding. Behind him, looming in a grand wake of darkness was something, or someone, chasing him with a thirst for his blood. The blood leaking from a crack on his head.

He had to get away, escape the thing chasing him, and get back...get back to the others. It was rearing over him, blocking out the bright light of the moon, threatening to engulf him any second if he didn’t get away.

His sneaker slipped, his heart pounded loudly as he crashed into the forest floor, his face smacking the ground dully. He didn’t rest though, he shoved himself up, and ran again, stumbling and slipping until he caught his breath. Behind him the creature screeched like a banshee at the awful unfairness of his escape.

“He never was much of a runner. He could fly like the wind, but when it came to running, he was like a chicken on ice. Maybe it was from his only sport being flying and arm strength, or maybe it was an inherited trait from some great ancestor, but whatever it was, he was always a lost cause to running. That is until he learned a strategy, or rather a lack of strategy. I guess, it’s horrible to say, but we’re lucky he was only running when he was chased.” Ron Weasley, interview with the Daily Prophet.

Harry’s head was whirling, the dull stinging in his head bothering him, but he pushed away from it. He had to get away, to survive. He didn’t blame Snape for this creature chasing him, he figured whatever path he ran he would’ve met the creature anyway.

Then, suddenly, with a bit of a jolt, Harry’s mind settled on a logical idea in the most illogical sense. Without a thought, he ran veered from the path, not too much though, and began to weave in and out of the trees, moving in unpredictable ways, chaotic ways, as Snape had said in playing chess. Chaos outruns logic.

Behind him the creature crashed and smacked into trees, trying to track his movements but finding no set pattern behind them all. Harry’s breath turned raggedly as he weaved chaotic all over the place, making himself somewhat dizzy but hardly losing direction.

He was set, he was going to escape...he was determined too.

“They say Harry Potter changed during the summer of his fifth year. Some came to believe it was the raw loss of Sirius Black, others believed it to be the prophecy, but there were those select few who knew otherwise. They said he appeared unconscious with a head injury caused by a muggle robber, but awoke with a stubborn head set to determination. Rather foolishly or not. Some things, not even Harry could grow out, and that was his recklessness.”The Final Great Warby Everett

On and on he ran, turning once and a while, grabbing his head from a sudden sharp pain in his head, until he finally managed to put a great distance between him in the creature.

He slowed down, cocking his head to the side, listening for the creature, but hearing nothing, beside a few eerie night sounds created by nocturnal creatures that could care less about Harry and the creature.

He reached up, feeling his head, and trying hard to make sense of how he came to that injury. He couldn’t figure one out, but once or twice, in a flashing moment, he saw a man, who looked almost like a robber, bearing down on him.

Startled, he took a few steps backwards and suddenly, as if drawn by his retreating steps, the creature few forth, screeching and trying to set its unruly darkness upon him. Without a moment’s hesitation, he ran forward.

Always forward.

“Harry kept up a reckless streak throughout all his years at Hogwarts and beyond; however, there was one time, in his last year at Hogwarts, when lost in the Forbidden Forest—he never did understand the concept of Forbidden—with Ron that they were chased by the unforgiving Centaurs into the thickening center of the woods, and lost to a measurable degree that would have Neville blushing. Then Harry turned to Ron and said, “Forward.” That was all he said and that was all he did. He never backtracked, he only went forward, and they eventually made it out. Always going forward.” Hermione Granger, The-Boy-Who-Lived Biography by Rick Evanes.

The creature seemed to be bobbing back and forth, attempting to rear down on him but having to pull up only a few seconds later. Harry didn’t ponder this however, too set on getting away to think of much else.

Then, suddenly, he lost his footing again and toppled forward, banging forward into a tree and stumbling backwards. He landed on the ground; the wind knocked out of him, but wasn’t too dazed not to see the creature rearing down on him, eagerly clawing forward to get at him with the darkness.

A hand grabbed Harry’s flailing arm suddenly and tugged him up. Startled, he turned to look Severus Snape in the face, who dropped his hand without a thought.

“I can’t return, Mr. Potter. Do try not to fail.” With that he was gone, like a wisp of smoke in the wind. The creature screamed, startling Harry, who took off running. His mind was a whirl. Snape, Professor Severus Snape, the bane of Gryffindors, the sworn enemy of he, Harry Potter, had just saved him.

He turned into his chaotic running once again, his thoughts dancing a mile a minute.

“You always said I carried too many things when I was working on a potion. I guess I never believed you until I tripped over my own feet in the Entrance Hall. Every student in mile radius stopped dead at the sight. No one moved, not even my own Slytherins. They just stared, some hiding their glee, others worried. Then he appeared. Right out of nowhere and offered his hand. I was already revealed as a spy, so it didn’t matter my association with him, but I was still reluctant to take it. He must’ve sensed this, because he smiled, dropped his hand and set to picking up my things instead. I guess that was the beginning, but sometimes I’m never too sure.” Severus Snape, speaking to Albus Dumbledore on his Death Bed.

“Severus didn’t trust many people, and I could never figure out why Potter, the Harry Potter, was on his list, but alas it was. It’s my belief that it happened in the Entrance Hall, when Severus slipped and only Potter came to help him. I guess it doesn’t matter, because in the end, it was that trust between the two that matter the most. I guess we should just be glad that it was there to begin with.” Draco Malfoy, Ex-Death Eater turned Spy (following in Snape’s footsteps) in The Woes of a Fraud Death Eater, an autobiography.

Harry slid to the left, stumbling slightly under the startling weight of the turn, and dashed behind a tree. Behind him the creature bellowed and he once again started his race through the chaos, no longer carrying if he stuck near the path or not. He had followed it to the most part, and it was more of his determination to be not be alone in the war that mattered anyway.

The harder he ran, the more chaotic his running became.

“He never did lose a game after that day he awoke in the hospital wing from the head injury. I was sure that with all my strategies I would always win, I was one of the best Gryffindor Quidditch Captains in a century, but when I played Harry in chess, I always lost. I had the strategies; he had nothing...nothing but chaos. I guess in the end, Harry’s unpredictable moves where what saved us all, in and out of chess.” Ron Weasley, The Unexpected of Harry Potterby Leo Tyler.

“Harry was a beckon for trouble. I felt it was my fault, for several years, that Harry had to live through all this. He never had a proper childhood and after fifth year he never did trust me the same way as before. However, he had allies, from all over, and they, like him, disagreed with me about it being my fault. I never believed it until he appeared in my office one day, unexpectedly, and said with so much emotion that I’m still sure to this day that his eyes gleamed ten times brighter than usual. “He’ll eat you alive, Professor, if you blame yourself for something that you had no control over. And I doubt you’ll look very handsome all chewed up.” I knew he was referring to Tom, and with a smile, he left. To say I was stunned would be an understatement and I turned my attention to the desk, chuckling merrily. He really had matured over the fifth year summer; I guess it was just his chaotic strategies that called forth the dogs of hell to him.” Albus Dumbledore, The-Boy-Who-Lived by Rick Evanes.

Behind him the creature roared, angry at the continuous escaping of its prey. Harry knew he had to do something soon, he couldn’t just run forever. He didn’t want to be trapped in the woods forever.

Cutting sideways, Harry hit a root and went toppling forward, head over heals, straight into the base of a large tree. His head swam with pain, coursing to and fro through his body.

Yet, he pulled himself up, pushed away the pain and ran.

“His tolerance for pain was undeniable; it was just his stupidly for not getting it dealt with when need be that was intolerable.” Madam Pomfrey, speaking to Professor McGonagall.

“The one pain tolerance Harry was lacking was in his scar. I’ll never forget the night in the Burrow, when I awoke to the uncontrollable, painful, screaming of Harry in Ron’s room. He saved our lives by doing that, for we escaped quickly before Voldemort could attack, but I’ll never forget the pain in that bellow. Never.” Fred Weasley, Weasley’s Don’t all Have Red Hair by Ginny Weasley.

His heart was racing, pounding in his chest, drumming to a beat too fast to make a rhythm of running with.

He darted, to and fro, avoiding the creature and its chilling, engulfing darkness. His legs were starting to slack, his darting becoming less accurate and the darkness of the night thicker.

Haggard limbs of wicked trees shot out, grabbing and trying to mangle him, blood tore at his mouth then he smacked into a tree, and he flipped forward, once again, but this time he couldn’t, didn’t want to get back up.

Maybe this was his punishment for getting Sirius killed. His own death, in the woods of a dream, his real body in real life, probably slowly dieing with him.

He was the one who killed Sirius. Maybe this was what he deserved...

“Sometimes he was would fall and slip away, as all great people can do, but his slipping was more...dark. Yet, Hermione once told him, “Harry, you can’t control everything nor blame yourself for everything. Let the world take its own once and a while.” And those words made all the difference to Harry.” Neville Longbottom, an interview with the Daily Prophet.

He had to live though, to survive and move on. Sirius would always be in his heart, but he couldn’t die because of it. He had already decided that, with the first path he chose.

With a sucking breath, he propped himself up, and gingerly climbed to his feet and ran for his life, once again. Behind the creature swayed, screeching and hollering at his escape, buckling forward in a stronger stride to get him.

Harry’s breath hitched, a stitch made its way up his side, and his legs turned to a humming numbness that startled even him. Yet, he pounded on. His feet crunching twigs and leaves, grinding them into crumbs as he swirled here and there, in attempt to get away.

Then, suddenly, before him, a large cliff loomed. He had run so far from the path, he was lost to how he reached the cliff, but he didn’t care. He was determined to get away, and if that was by jumping off the cliff, then he would...

“I once asked him if he feared death, and he responded, ‘Too die would be an awfully big adventure.’ I never bothered asking when he read Peter Pan.” Mad-Eye Moody, inThe-Boy-Who-Lived by Rick Evanes.

“I remember that conversation with Moody, Harry had, and I asked him if he felt any fear facing Voldemort. He said ‘yes’ and I asked what. ‘Loss, the death of loved ones, the failure of the wizarding world...death’. I was startled and asked why he just said he didn’t fear death and he smiled. ‘Just death, but Death by Voldemort is something completely different.’ I knew what he meant and realized he did indeed fear a form of death. The scariest form.” Draco Malfoy, speaking to Severus Snape one night, and quoted in The Woes of a Fraud Death Eater.

Harry bit his tongue, and ran forward, thinking of everything he wanted to survive for. Unconsciously his hand went to his forehead, his scar, as he ran. It didn’t hurt, there was no Voldemort. There was no fear.

With a nod, stern and determining, he sped up while the creature hollered in outrage, and he leapt.

He was soaring, flying without a broom for the briefest of moments, and then he was plunging. His fear was set aside, his scar was fine, Voldemort wasn’t involved, and this was a leap of chance.

He looked to the sky of twinkling stars, searching for the Sirius star, which was for him, glinting the brightest. Suddenly, he hit the ground; his knees buckling out, his souls stinging, and he tumbled forward in a series of summersaults before he came to a stop, his eyes closed tight.

“There’s a picture of Harry, standing in the Defense Against the Dark Arts Corridor of Hogwarts, a corridor over from Voldemort, who was invading Hogwarts. He had one arm resting against the wall, his eyes were closed tight, and his cupping his forehead in his other hand. The picture was taken by Collin Creevy and was supposedly symbolized in the passing years as a picture of him gathering his determination, his courage, and his undying fear of Voldemort. It was a symbol of pride among the Wizarding World.

The Wizarding World was wrong. That picture was of a boy, scared and unwilling, but knowing he was doomed to face Voldemort. A picture of a boy, holding the pain in his scar, knowing this could be the end. A picture of a boy about to lose his innocence. It was the farthest thing from a symbol of pride I have ever seen, but alas that was the wizarding world.” Remus Lupin, Severus Snape, Arthur Weasley, the three biggest influences in Harry’s life, in The-Boy-Who-Lived, by Rick Evanes.

“Harry!” a chorus of voices broke out and he opened his eyes to find himself in the dazzling light of the Hospital Wing, surrounded by friends.

“He once told me that it was my fault that everything in his fifth year summer happened, and then he explained the dream. I guess he was right.” Severus Snape