Previously:

After learning about the return of the Muggleborn Registration, Harry drafts an article to address many of the problems he has with the current magical government. Following the article's completion, Harry visits Luna and asks her to print his article in the Quibbler. Luna warns him that, despite it's importance, his message may fall upon deaf ears.

Chapter Five: Forest

Harry left the Lovegood house in a haze. Luna's words had given him more worries than reassurances.

The sun had begun to set a couple of hours ago, and so the skies were dark but not dim. Harry was able to wander away from the house and down the plain path without any trouble. He was far from the main village, and other people were likely home having dinner. Eating dinner, which was what Harry ought to have been doing.

Harry strolled aimlessly, paranoid but also not, unsure what to expect. He had good reason to be cautious, but he couldn't help but hate himself each time he jumped, whirling around, expecting to be attacked. It was only once he was a distance away from Luna's house that he even remembered to pull his Cloak on.

It wasn't that Harry wanted to go looking for trouble—rather, it was the fact that if something did happen, at least then he would be doing something productive. Either taking down a Death Eater that had eluded capture, or something equally important. Something to ease his rising restlessness. If a Death Eater did come after him, then maybe people would stop gawking at him in public like he was about to snap at any given moment.

And there had to be Death Eaters looking for Harry Potter. Voldemort's most devoted had gone after Neville's parents following the end of the first war, and so Harry knew that, someday, there would be someone coming for him. Fanaticism driven to desperation. Desperation driven by fear and, perhaps, grief. Though Harry could not imagine who, other than Bellatrix Lestrange, would ever mourn Voldemort.

A sharp crack to his left tore his attention away from his thoughts. Harry's wand, already in his hand, sparked violently in response to the adrenaline that had suddenly flooded his body. But there were only the cornfields, the ponds, the trees. He was invisible. It was unlikely anyone was even around.

Now thoroughly unnerved, Harry decided against indulging his impulse to hang about. It was now near the hour when Kreacher would be expecting him home for supper; failing to appear would incite worry, or worse, a moody, irate Kreacher for at least a week.

Harry did feel he owed the elf a lot. Kreacher made sure Harry ate and slept with semi-regularity, and his presence also meant Harry felt obligated to at least behave like a regular human person when there wasn't anyone else around. Once this business with the article was sorted, he would have to turn serious attention to the notes Regulus had left behind.

But for now, Harry doubted he'd be able to handle thinking about such dark topics without worsening his unstable mood.

When Harry did arrive back home, Kreacher was waiting with a steak and kidney pie, and so Harry allowed the good food and unobtrusive company to cheer him, and set the article out of his mind for the time being. To brood over possible failure helped no one. He had a duty to keep his head above the water, so to speak, and he would hold himself to it.

In the days following his visit with Luna, Harry returned to his self-directed studies at Grimmauld Place, whiling the hours away with his books. It was as good a distraction as any, especially as he began to grow a tad anxious over the article he'd written.

To help alleviate his restlessness, Harry began to take short walks around the neighbourhood. He had already sent the cloak that Kreacher had said belonged to Sirius off to McGonagall, and he hoped to get a response from her soon. In the meantime, he made do with his Invisibility Cloak, though it was a bit difficult to walk around underneath it comfortably , especially in broad daylight.

The heavy weight of the Cloak was also making him jumpy. Harry couldn't help but imagine things that were likely not even there. Making monsters out of the shadows, hearing footsteps behind him instead of just the quiet rustle of wind.

But being outside had its peaceful moments as well. It was nice when the sun was out, when he could walk to a nearby park and settle on a bench, watching the Muggles go about their business. During these brief periods of relaxation, Harry could almost forget about the mess that waited for him in the magical world. The politics, the backlash—all of it was a low buzz in the back of his mind.

There was the sun and the sky and the trees and the grass. Nature and tranquility. Harry had never thought much about what living on his own would be like when he'd been at the Dursley's, but what he liked best about doing so now was the freedom he had to set his own schedule. Kreacher didn't mind if Harry sulked on his own for hours at a time, and he didn't press when Harry had a need for space.

As someone who had been held down by responsibility and trauma his entire life, it was relieving to have the independence to handle things on his own. For as much as Harry loved his friends and appreciated their concern, there were times when everything became too much. Sometimes all he wanted was a good solid period of sitting outside by himself with nothing but the wind to disturb him.

Harry wrote letters to his friends and entertained a visit from Ron and Hermione. They spent the night, the three of them curled up on the floor of the living room, limbs touching, the room warm from the lingering heat of the fireplace. They breathed together, heartbeats slow, and Harry was reminded of how much he missed them, how much his heart ached when they were gone, despite the fact that it was for their own good.

He couldn't dispel the shadows that hovered over him, or the demons that clung to his shoulders, or the press that hounded his doorstep. His presence was a bad omen wherever he went, and so it was better to have the distance, better to break himself free of the constant comfort they provided that he knew could not last forever. They would graduate soon, find jobs, raise families. They would rebuild, and he would still be here, caught between the past and the future, haunted by the things he had done and the things he should have.

But his friends reassured him he was doing the right thing with his article, that his efforts were appreciated and impactful, and Harry would have cried at this if he hadn't long since taught himself out of it.

There had always been too many reasons to cry, most of them bad reasons, and so Harry had learned to close off the pain, to force back the burning in his eyes and the suffocating tightness in his throat. Stoic, Hermione had once said, offering the dictionary definition. Brave, Ron had added, because he had been raised in a family where it was okay to cry.

Privately, Harry thought he was being stupid more than anything else. Who would choose to numb themselves like this? If there was a way of working through his troubles, he didn't know how to begin doing it.

At the end of the week, Luna wrote back with a final version of his article. A few tweaks had been made here and there, mostly for clarity's sake, and then a few more grammar changes that either Hermione must have missed, or that Harry had added on after going through her initial corrections.

Harry wrote back with his approval, and the article ran the next day.

.

THE CHOSEN ONE TELLS ALL: A CALL TO ACTION!

.

No doubt people would once again accuse him of attention seeking and fear mongering, but Harry was past caring what his enemies said. If the truth did not convince people, he told himself, then there was nothing else he could do. He was not responsible for the direction of an entire nation, no matter how much he wanted things to change.

Harry sat around all morning, idle and apprehensive. He was waiting, perhaps idiotically, for responses to arrive. Luna had asked if he wanted the positive responses only, but Harry had told her that he wanted to see everything. If people had things to say to him, he would read them. Then he would at least understand what drove them to say and do the things they did.

If he didn't like the letters he got, he would simply not respond to them. It would serve people right for sending him an angry letter, expecting him to retaliate, only to get nothing in response. Harry would write back to the positive letters and see if anyone was willing to help out, maybe start some kind of public campaign together. It would be much easier to do this if he had support, if it wasn't only the word of an eighteen-year-old—who had once been painted as a liar—against a neverending tide of bigoted naysayers.

After lunch was done, Harry told Kreacher to leave him alone for a few hours unless called, and then he made the trek into the study room. It would be more productive to occupy himself with a task rather than get caught in the same thought loops over and over.

Opening the warded desk, Harry retrieved the book with Regulus Black's notes. Looking could hardly make his mood any worse, he decided, though a small part of his head was telling him that this was a dumb, impulsive decision he would regret later.

It filled Harry with unease to read through the pages of notes—a sensation most similar to committing a minor act of misconduct, like sneaking out after curfew or nearly getting caught by Filch with contraband prank items.

As he referenced the book and looked over Regulus' additions, Harry made thorough notes on the process of the ritual and the items that would be required. He could research each of the parts individually and see if a better solution could be found. Sometimes potions ingredients could be substituted if the magical properties were similar enough, so maybe it could be done with rituals as well.

Once his list was completed, Harry checked the time. It had only been an hour since he'd finished lunch.

Harry cast his mind for another task he could use to stay busy. He could start to research the items on his new list, but he had the suspicion that his focus, already reaching its limit for the day, would fail midway through such a task. Harry ran a hand through his hair, irritated at himself. If only it was as easy as shutting his brain off for a few hours. Maybe a hot shower would help settle his restlessness.

Following a shower, Harry did feel slightly better. Like he'd made some progress up the hill towards a good mood, and now even if something bad were to happen, at least he had some wiggle room with which to navigate. Harry had also dressed in a fresh set of clothes in the hopes that said good mood would last.

As Harry made his way down the stairs, his eyes caught on the front entrance. If he left the house, then he wouldn't be so tempted to check for responses. But then again, leaving the house came with its own unique set of problems.

Harry paused at the foot of the staircase, thinking. He didn't have to go to places where there would be people, he reasoned. He could go and let off some steam, maybe go for a fly somewhere isolated. Like the edge of the Forbidden Forest, perhaps. Just outside of the Hogwarts wards and grounds, but close enough that he could take in the comforting view of the castle.

Decision made, Harry made for the closet to retrieve his Firebolt and a jacket. "Kreacher?" he called out. "I'm headed out!"

There was a pop as Kreacher appeared by the door, Harry's cloak in his hands.

"I'll be back for dinner, I think," Harry said as he took the cloak and pulled it on. "But I'll send my Patronus back here if anything changes, yeah?"

Kreacher nodded, then bowed his head. "Did Master wish for his letters to be waiting on the desk when he returns?"

"Erm." Harry hadn't thought that far ahead just yet. "Sure. Just leave them in the study, I guess." It would be a poor idea to read them over supper and possibly spoil his appetite in the process.

Satisfied that he had taken all the necessary precautions to avoid disappointment and unnecessary anxiety, Harry grasped his broomstick firmly in hand and turned on the spot.

When he reappeared, it was a short distance away from Hogsmeade Village. Harry had chosen a destination that was familiar enough for him to picture properly, but was also far away enough for him to avoid running into anyone. The edge of the Forbidden Forest was a lengthy distance up ahead. Harry pulled the hood of his cloak up and mounted his broomstick.

Kicking off, Harry ascended. The rush of leaving the ground never got old. Feeling weightless, feeling free. The wind caressing his robes, face, and hair. His hood blew off almost immediately, flapping behind him. Harry made a grab for it, tugging it back, but the speed he wanted to go at was not conducive to leaving it on. He would just have to stop once he got closer and apply a temporary Sticking Charm.

As he flew on, his hands grew cold due to the wind chill. His Firebolt felt smooth and icy to the touch. Harry took his left hand off the handle, flexing the fingers. His gloves ought to be in his cloak pockets. After a moment's struggle, he managed to fish them out and pull them on. The downside was that his hands were now stiffer than usual since they'd already succumbed to the chill.

Angling his broom back down, Harry lowered his altitude before picking up some more speed. There was less wind closer to the ground, and the trees would provide camouflage in a way that the bright grey skies could not.

Eventually, Harry found himself just up against the start of the forest. Nowhere near the Hogwarts grounds just yet, but Harry could now make out the large castle in more detail. His friends were in there somewhere. Hermione and Ron and Ginny and Neville, likely all studying for their upcoming winter exams.

Sometimes Harry regretted not going back with them. Hogwarts had always been home. A sanctuary from the Dursleys, a safe house far removed from the long summers he spent apart from the only people who cared about him. But there was also a sense of guilt deep in his gut, because Hogwarts had been violated again and again, mostly because of him, and though Harry had helped to repair what had been broken, helped to restore the castle to its former glory, he couldn't quite believe that he belonged there anymore.

He was an adult now. It seemed foolish to consider a school as a home, no matter how near and dear Hogwarts was to him.

Harry landed a few paces from where the field ended and the trees began. There was no snow yet, and the sun was high in the sky. There was only the crisp, biting air and the copses of bare, leafless trees that signalled the beginnings of winter.

His feet now on the ground, Harry walked into the forest. His heart thumped the beat of drums in his ears, and his breaths emerged noisy and uneven as they fogged the air. He knew why this was the case, but he didn't want to think too hard about it.

Harry had traversed the forest before. With Hagrid, with his friends. He had also been here alone. There was a stone on the ground somewhere in this forest, probably nowhere near where he was at the moment, but somewhere nearby nonetheless. Though he had made a point of ignoring the location when dropping the stone, Harry was sure he would recognize the area he had been in if he was to stumble upon it now. Harry had seen his parents, Sirius, and Remus. He would never forget them.

Harry rubbed his knuckles against his chest, trying to ease the tightness there. He wasn't here to think of those memories. He was here to distract himself.

So Harry continued onward, allowing the canopy of branches to swallow him up, drenching him in shadows. Eventually he had to lift his broom up to avoid catching the bristles on the greenery around him. To be honest, Harry wasn't exactly sure what he was doing anymore. What had begun as a desire to feel better had rapidly dissolved into melancholy.

Maybe there were too many bad memories tied to being in forests. Encounters with giant spiders, for one. All those weeks spent with Ron and Hermione when they'd been on the run. And, of course, Harry's confrontation with Voldemort.

Harry inhaled, unsteady. The earthy scents of the forest filled his nose and lungs. There were soft noises off to his left. Creatures, maybe. This whole place was vibrant and achingly real. Was this what it was, to be alive? To walk the earth and feel the cold air and smell the evergreens? Had everything been worth this?

The lives that had been saved were worth it, surely. But Harry's own life had been dragged along for what felt like an age, and rest eluded him despite the era of peace that had been promised. Harry had fulfilled his purpose and defeated Voldemort, yet the general public remained unchanged.

It was too optimistic, he thought, to expect that the death of one villainous dictator would set an entire society to rights.

There was still work to be done, only Harry was tired, and he wished dearly that there was someone else who would come to pat him on the back and tell him they would take control of things from here on out. Take the responsibility off of his shoulders.

However, there wasn't anyone else, and there never had been. It was Harry and his friends and a handful of those he could count on as allies. But it was Harry's duty, mainly, and it always had been his duty, because he wouldn't leave his burden to anyone else if he could help it. Killing Voldemort had been his destiny, and so the burden of this aftermath must be his as well. The fame and wealth and power to change a nation.

Harry turned his gaze upwards. To the thick tangle of branches above him that obscured the light grey sky. He missed Sirius. His godfather had been the closest to a parental figure as Harry had ever had, and now Harry only had an empty house to show for it. A house that they could have lived in together, if Sirius had survived.

But no, Harry thought. Sirius hated Grimmauld Place. So they would have sold it. They would have bought a new place and lived there instead. In the countryside, or in a small wizarding village like Ottery St. Catchpole. Just the two of them. Family.

Harry kicked at a tree root, suddenly angry. So many good things in his life had been taken away. Sirius hadn't deserved to die because of him. And even now, there seemed to be little that Harry could do to fix his current problems. Writing an article was not enough. It wouldn't be enough. But Harry had no idea what he ought to be doing instead. If not with words, if not with public appearances and hand shaking, then what? What could he do? He hated feeling helpless more than he hated anything else.

Harry knew there had to be a proper answer. He lacked the vision to see it through, lacked the experience to carve out the path to inciting the changes he wanted. If only magic could help him figure that out as well, he mourned. But there had always been things that magic could not repair, could not touch, could not go near.

Turning his focus outwards, Harry scanned the forest around him. No one here to see him. No watchful eyes, no invasive reporters.

His holly wand had made its way into his hand, his magic crawling across his skin and up his arm. Release, it seemed to whisper.

So Harry let it happen.

Let his magic swirl and build, let the simmer rise to a boil. Felt his chest expand, pressing against his ribs, lungs full of air, and then the rush. Not unlike the first time he'd ever held a wand, his magic finally settling into its proper channel, that untapped potential at last unlocking inside of him, spilling out and over, flowing into the wand and releasing in a fit of light and splendour.

A tree to his left snapped clean in half, toppling over, disturbing all its neighbours as it landed on the floor, a cloud of dirt and rotten leaves expanding from it in all directions. A tinge of regret filled Harry at the loss, followed by the sharp worry of someone seeing, of someone coming to investigate the disturbance.

Harry lashed out again, and another tree fell, cracking and splintering. He no longer needed his wand for such things, but it felt good to direct it, to aim the weapon and see the impact it had.

Point. Snap. Point. Crunch.

Eventually, Harry found himself, weary and panting, in a clearing of his own making. Sweat clung along his hairline, slipping down the sides of his face and underneath his shirt collar. His broomstick lay at his feet; he must have set it down at some point.

This was too much. As he took in the destruction he had wrought, the power he had unleashed, he felt sick. He would have to come back at a later date to heal the wounds, to replant the trees. Years of toiling away in Petunia's gardens and, later on at Hogwarts, time spent studying in Herbology ought to suffice for this.

Harry closed his eyes, inhaled again. The distinct smell of burning filled his senses. Ashes and ashes. He must have slaughtered over a dozen trees in his stupor, which did not even account for the rest of the greenery—the bushes and the lesser plants that had been squashed underfoot.

With a shudder, Harry wandlessly summoned his broomstick to his hand. He needed to get home. He needed to get back to Kreacher, back to the real world problems that existed outside of his head.

Turning on the spot, Harry vanished, leaving the air behind him colder than before.

A/N:

i had a really rough time writing this chapter. as a result, it sat idly for a while and some passages underwent rewrites.

i just want to reiterate that this story is isn't high up on my priority list at the moment. this is because i want to finish more of 'not a good man, but a great one' before i give this story (which i mentally rank at the a similar level of detail and plotting) more attention.

tl;dr: i am still attempting to update this regularly, but don't be surprised if it goes a month or so with nothing *sweats*

thanks for reading, would appreciate hearing any thoughts!