There are times when Harry can’t decide if he is relieved or regretful that the Dursleys never took him camping. Of course, the Dursleys wouldn’t be caught dead camping out in the woods, or a field somewhere in the middle of nowhere, but it might have been a useful skill, he thinks. At present, Hermione is the only one who has ever been camping before, and even then she admits it wasn’t often. She’s having to dust off memories and skills she hasn’t thought of in at least ten years.

 

Just this time last week, Harry thinks, we were still at Grimmauld Place, safe from prowling Death Eaters, warm, safe, well-fed by Kreacher. Wistfully, he remembers the onion soup they ate the night before everything went pear-shaped, and the meal that they never got the chance to sit down to. It’s hard to believe just how much has changed in so short an amount of time, but then, nothing has been really right ever since last June when Dumbledore . . . when Dumbledore was . . .

 

Shaking his head, Harry forcibly breaks off that line of thought and peers off into the trees again. He has no idea what forest Hermione has brought them to this time, but it appears to be a fairly old one – the trees are thick and close together, their top-most branches overlapping in a delicate weave so that the late afternoon sunshine casts a lacy-looking shadow on the ground.

 

For the past five years, at this time of year, he has been at Hogwarts by now, settling down to the schedule of classes, talking and laughing with friends, exchanging insults with Malfoy, trying not to antagonise Snape too much . . .

 

Harry’s fists clench tightly. What he wouldn’t give to be able to antagonise that rotten traitor right now. When he’d seen the announcement in the paper the previous week, he’d been so angry it had burst into flames in his hands. He’d had to find another one to take back to Ron and Hermione. Snape will never be the Headmaster that Dumbledore was.

 

Harry’s whole posture droops. Of course Snape won’t be better than Dumbledore – no one can ever match up to the man who, in Harry’s mind, is and will always be the Headmaster of Hogwarts. How strange to think that there’s a whole new crop of first years who will never know the man. Who will never be dazzled by the outrageously coloured robes he wore, or be bemused by the incredibly nonsense words he liked to utter. Who will never be amazed at the fact that he seemed to know everything, or be awed by the brilliantly magical things he could do.

 

Those first years will never know what they’ve missed out on, Harry muses, but the other years know, and hopefully the legacy will live on, no matter what Snape tries to do to the school.

 

Of course, he’s aware that Albus Dumbledore wasn’t a saint. The stories about his past notwithstanding, Harry still resents the Headmaster for not telling him everything he needed to know about Horcruxes sooner. If Dumbledore had shared more, perhaps he and Ron and Hermione wouldn’t be in this position now, on a secret mission, hunted by Death Eaters and the Ministry – although they are really one and the same at this point – struggling to feed themselves.

 

With a sigh, Harry remembers all the wonderful feasts that Hogwarts used to have. Even the regular meals would satisfy him now. Sitting in the Great Hall for dinner, classes over for another day, Hermione yet to start nagging them about doing their homework, Neville, Seamus and Dean all talking, Lavender and Parvati giggling over some incomprehensible girl-thing, and Ginny . . .

 

Harry sighs again. What he wouldn’t give to see Ginny again, even for only five minutes. Just to assure himself she’s okay. He knows she is, of course, Mr Weasley’s Patronus told them that, but he’d still feel better if only he could see her for himself. Harry instantly feels guilty that he isn’t so concerned about the rest of the Weasleys, but Ginny is . . . Ginny. She’s special. He hopes that she’s doing okay at Hogwarts, and that Snape or the unknown Carrows haven’t cracked down too hard on her.

 

A tree branch cracks somewhere to the right, and Harry is instantly on his feet, wand out and aimed, a spell waiting just behind his lips as he waits to see what danger might be approaching. He doesn’t know how far the centaurs range, nor Aragog’s children who may have started expanding their territory now the old spider is dead, or perhaps it’s Grawp trying to find something to eat or play with. It’s not yet full dark, and no full moon tonight, so it couldn’t be werewolves . . .

 

Harry all but smacks himself in the forehead. This isn’t the Forbidden Forest. The most dangerous thing he’s likely to meet here is a deer. He thinks. Granted, he isn’t actually certain of that, and come to think of it, stags can have wickedly dangerous antlers – his own Patronus is proof of that. But still, the danger is a lot more likely to be manageable here in this unknown forest.

 

When there is no further sound, Harry sinks down again. He’s quite thankful they aren’t in the Forbidden Forest. He can’t imagine having to spend a night camping in there! Although, he’s been in that Forest several times, and always managed to come out unscathed.

 

He smiles, remembering Mr Weasley’s old Ford Anglia and how it rescued him and Ron from Aragog’s children. He wonders what happened to the car after that, whether it still trundles happily throughout the Forest, or if it ran out of petrol, or whatever Mr Weasley used to make it run. Perhaps it got lonely, and went off looking for another car or two, Harry thinks, and stifles a giggle in his sleeve. Merlin, he must be more tired than he thought if he’s thinking things like that!

 

His thoughts turn to Ginny again. He wonders if she went looking for him on the Hogwarts Express, or whether Mr and Mrs Weasley had told her not to expect him or Ron. Ron’s parents might not know the exact mission they had been tasked with, but they were part of the Order, and could surely make a reasonable guess that “Undesirable Number One” could not take the chance of appearing on Platform 9 and 3/4 when it was the first place the Death Eaters would think of finding him on September 1st.

 

Hopefully Ginny would have been safe, maybe spending the trip with Neville or Luna, or her other friends. Harry scowls. Hopefully Michael Corner and Dean Thomas had stayed well away from her. Being his friend, he thinks Dean might tread warily around his girl, but the obnoxious Ravenclaw boy . . . Of course, Harry isn’t there this year, but surely everyone had seen them at the end of last year – they had spent so much time together, surely everyone knows by now that Ginny is his.

 

Harry almost drifts off again, thinking of those wonderful summer days when all he’d had to do was relax with Ginny. He imagines, once this war is over, having the freedom to invite her to Hogsmeade with him, or perhaps . . . well, he doesn’t know where adult wizards and witches go. Somehow, he can’t see Diagon Alley having a quiet place where they can sit and talk and get to know one another again. Perhaps Remus might know a place, Harry thinks. Maybe somewhere that he’d taken Tonks? No – Harry shakes his head – that’d just be too weird. It’s at times like this that he really misses Sirius. Sirius could have helped him with all this stuff that Harry is supposed to know, yet doesn’t.

 

Sirius could have helped them on this venture, too. After his year on the run, he would surely have been adept at finding food for them, and then perhaps tempers wouldn’t run so high.

 

Harry feels a dull ache in his heart as he thinks of how his godfather would have enjoyed this adventure. It’s barely fifteen months since he saw Sirius fall backwards through the Veil, and although the first sharp pang has long been worn away, it’s still sometimes hard for Harry to believe that his godfather isn’t out there anymore, bursting with life, enjoying life, sharing tales of the parents that Harry doesn’t remember and never got to know. It also sometimes feels as though an age has passed since he last saw Sirius, the intervening months have been so hectic.

 

A murmur in the tent behind him disturbs him, and Harry casts a glance back over his shoulder at it. Ron appears to be talking in his sleep. Maybe tomorrow Hermione – or even Ron – will have come up with a plan of action, somewhere they can go to with a specific purpose. Harry has been wracking his brain over the problem, but is sadly coming up with nothing. If only Dumbledore had told him more, told him earlier, then perhaps they would know what they were doing. Harry faces the forest again, that anger against Dumbledore building inside him again.

 

Honestly, they are only seventeen! How did Dumbledore expect them to be able to accomplish anything on their own without his guidance? Much as they might protest that they’re all grown up, in reality they have only just become legal adults, Harry less than two months ago. They should really still be in school, not traipsing around Britain trying to find something . . . several somethings . . . when they don’t know exactly what they’re looking for. Voldemort could have made a Horcrux out of any old thing and stashed it in a hundred different places. If one Horcrux had badly wounded the greatest wizard the world had ever known, how were three teenagers supposed to destroy more of them?

 

Perhaps, Harry thinks, frowning, Dumbledore was expecting Harry to deal with them as easily as he’d dealt with the diary back in Ginny’s first year. Not that it had been easy, but he supposed to Dumbledore it might have seemed that way. Stab a basilisk, use it’s fang to stab the book. Job done. Except . . . if it hadn’t been for Fawkes, and his healing tears, Harry would have died down in the Chamber. You didn’t stab a basilisk through the roof of its mouth and come away unscathed unless you had a lot more luck than Harry had had – or an impenetrable suit of armour.

 

Shaking his head, Harry reluctantly pushes the thought aside. It’s no good worrying about how they’ll destroy the Horcruxes when they haven’t even an idea of where to start looking for one. The only place he thinks Voldemort would have hidden one is Hogwarts. Actually, he supposes there could be one hidden in Riddle Manor, too, where Voldemort stayed – he can’t really say lived at that point – during the year before the ritual to get his body back. He doesn’t think Voldemort was all too attached to it, given his attitude towards his father, but it is at least a place to start. Provided it isn’t crawling with Death Eaters, of course.

 

As for Hogwarts, even ignoring the Death Eaters there, too, Harry has no idea whereabouts in the castle Voldemort might have ventured whilst he was a student. It’s been fifty years, after all, and Harry doubts the layout of the castle is exactly the same as it was then, no matter how slowly everything else in the wizarding world moves. And despite what Snape thinks, he is not stupid enough to walk right in to Hogwarts and ask one of the professors who may still remember.

 

It seems this is another way that Snape is nothing like Dumbledore. Whereas Snape underestimates Harry’s intelligence, Dumbledore apparently overestimated it. Or maybe he just thought there’d be time enough for him to explain more. To help more.

 

How different would this year be, Harry wonders, if Dumbledore hadn’t fallen to Snape’s treachery? The Ministry may still have fallen, but the attack on Bill and Fleur’s wedding wouldn’t have happened, and Harry, Ron and Hermione wouldn’t now be on the run. They might, at this very moment, have been sitting down in the Great Hall, eating the house elves’ marvellous food.

 

Wonderful – now he is starving again.

 

Grimacing, Harry gets to his feet and begins pacing around the tent, trying to make himself stop thinking about Hogwarts’ feasts. He could perhaps try calling Kreacher, or Dobby, but he has no idea what may have happened to Kreacher once the Death Eaters gained access to Grimmauld Place – although he hopes the elf would have been able to take care of himself and is now somewhere safe – and he isn’t sure how closely watched Dobby may be, working at Hogwarts as he is. Dumbledore never seemed to pay much attention to the house elves, but maybe he knew more than Harry thinks. Or Snape may be keeping a closer eye on everything in the castle, including the house elves.

 

Snape may not know that Dobby became a free elf because of Harry, but he would surely recognise a former Malfoy elf and begin to wonder if it is brought to his attention that Dobby is taking food out of the castle.

 

The hoot of an owl somewhere close by makes Harry jump. He squints at his watch before giving up and casting a quick Tempus. Time to wake Ron for the next watch. As he ducks back into the tent after giving a last look round, Harry desperately hopes that they won’t have to camp out for very long. Surely they can come up with an idea of where Voldemort may have hidden his Horcruxes. Really, with a bright witch like Hermione on their side, how hard could it really be?