Chapter 11: Unraveling the Secrets of Skagos

2K 71 1
                                    


The fire crackled quietly in the heart of the small clearing, its light casting long shadows against the towering trees surrounding Harry's camp. The cold northern wind howled above the canopy, but inside the wards, it was calm and comfortable. The elves had worked efficiently, as they always did, setting up a modest shelter for the night. The soft glow of the magical fire bathed the campsite in warmth, its flickering flames reflecting off the eyes of the ever-watchful Kreacher, who sat beside Harry.

Harry sat on a rock, staring into the flames, deep in thought. It had been only a few days since they had arrived on this strange island, and he had spent most of his time exploring its terrain from the skies. His phoenix form had given him a bird's-eye view of the land, but even then, it was vast, untamed, and filled with a wildness that reminded him of ancient magical forests in his old world.

But here, there were no familiar landmarks, no magical settlements or hidden enclaves of wizards. This land was raw, untouched by the modern magical advancements he had known, and the people who lived here were nothing like the ones he'd left behind.

Suddenly, Harry felt it—a subtle but unmistakable disturbance in the wards he'd placed around the camp. His senses, honed by centuries of magical practice, instantly snapped to attention. Someone—or something—had triggered his wards. A slight tingling sensation ran through his mind, alerting him to the presence of an intruder who had wandered too close.

Harry stood up, his black cloak billowing slightly in the cold air. His movement was so swift that even Kreacher didn't stir from his seat at first.

"Kreacher," Harry whispered, his voice low but commanding. "Stay here. There's something outside the wards."

Kreacher's eyes widened, and he nodded, rising to his feet. "Master Harry, should Kreacher follow?"

"No, I'll handle it," Harry said firmly. "Make sure the others remain safe."

With that, Harry vanished into the darkness, slipping through the barrier of his own wards with ease. As he moved silently through the forest, the trees around him loomed tall and twisted, their bare branches reaching up to the sky like skeletal hands. He could hear the soft crunch of snow beneath his boots, though the sound was barely perceptible. The air smelled of pine and frost, and the only other sound was the distant rustling of wind through the trees.

After a few minutes of walking, Harry saw him—a man, hunched over and armed with a crude bronze weapon, his posture betraying his uncertainty as he moved through the woods. The muggle-repelling charms had done their job, diverting the man away from the camp, but Harry could tell by the man's dazed expression that he had nearly stumbled right into their midst.

Harry's eyes narrowed as he considered the situation. This land was foreign, and he still knew very little about it or its people. What little he had learned from flying over the island and observing from afar wasn't enough. If this man was from here, he could provide valuable information—if Harry could extract it from him.

Making his decision, Harry raised his staff and aimed it carefully at the man. With a quick thud, he cast a stunning spell. The red beam of light shot through the air and hit the man squarely in the back, and he crumpled to the ground without a sound.

Harry approached the fallen figure cautiously, his staff vanishing. The man was breathing steadily, the spell having merely knocked him unconscious. Harry knelt down beside him and took a closer look. The man was dressed in furs and leathers, his face gaunt and weathered from the cold. His crude weapon—a bronze sword—lay beside him in the snow. It was rudimentary, even by non-magical standards, and Harry found it curious that anyone would still be using bronze weaponry.

Hadrian Peverell: High Lord of SkagosWhere stories live. Discover now