Harry Potter and the Master of Death [Complete]

Chapter Eight - Sticks and Stones

Harry searched the forbidden forest trying to remember the spot where he had dropped the Resurrection Stone. He had last used it just before confronting Voldemort, summoning his parents, Lupin and Sirius. Their spirits had stayed with him as he handed himself over to the Dark Lord like a lamb to the slaughter. He shook his head vigorously to escape the memory as tears blurred his vision. Dragging his forearm across his face roughly, he trudged on, deeper into the thick woods.

The Forbidden Forest was off limits to Hogwarts student for good reason. It was filled with a myriad of dangers. Werewolves, Vampires, and Acromantulas were just a few of the beasts that dwelled within ancient woods and Harry didn't want to run into any of them by himself. He had considered going to Hagrid's hut and asking for help or at least to borrow Fang, the giant boarhound, for protection. But at the last minute, he had decided to go alone. He knew he should be able to ask for help, but he just couldn't bring himself to put more of his friends in danger

A sharp crack of a twig snapping off to his left startled him and a flock of birds took off into the air like a huge black cloud. Harry had been moving as quietly as possible so as not to alert any of the local horrors to his presence. He whirled around wand at the ready. A flash of grey caught his eye through the tight copse of trees but then it was gone. He was sure he had seen something. Keeping his wand out he continued on, he had left the path ages ago and now the trees were so close together he had to squeeze between them and on at least two occasions he had had to double back to find a way forward.

Another flash of grey, this time he was sure he had seen it, moving off to his right. Harry turned to follow the flash, all the while thinking it was insanity to do so. He stumbled ahead, crashing loudly through the underbrush. Branches whipped against his legs and chest and cut deep slashes into his hands and face. He saw it again, grey dappled fur or hair. It moved without sound as he staggered after it making enough noise for both of them. It seemed to be able to navigate the dense foliage with ease and was far ahead when Harry stumbled. His foot snagged on a gnarled root and he was falling, rolling head over heels, his glasses were torn from his face by a sharp, thorn-covered branch and he landed hard on his back.

He laid there huffing, and puffing, the wind knocked brutally from his lungs. He opened his eyes blinking, the sun low in the sky blinding him momentarily as he heaved himself up into a sitting position. He felt around on the ground until he located his glasses and put them back on. He was in a clearing... the clearing. The shock of seeing it took him back to that night when he had stood in almost this exact spot waiting to die. He remembered the sound of Voldemorts high evil voice and the cheering of the Death Eaters when Narcissa Malfoy had told them he was dead.

He banished the memory and focused on the clearing. His wand was sticking out of the ground ten feet away and Harry retrieved it. He had passed the spot where he had dropped the Stone and so, with one last bitter look back, he began to retrace his steps.

It took him more than twenty minutes to find it... another clearing this one much smaller, but unmistakable to Harry. The ground here was soft and covered in hoof prints. He tried to picture the exact place he had stood when he turned the small Resurrection Stone.

"Lumos," he said quietly, lighting the end of his wand and going down on all fours to search the ground. He picked he way across a patch of earth sure that this was the spot. There were many rocks and pebbles but none was the Resurrection Stone. He dug down into the dirt with his hands, sifting through the soil in vain.

Harry widened his search, pulling out clumps of mud and grass. He dug down, further than the stone could have ever been but still he found not a trace. Sweat streamed across his face, stinging the deep cuts and scratches left from his frantic run through the forest. Eventually, he sat back to catch his breath and think. He was exhausted and covered from head to toe in filth. His back ached and his hands were sore from digging the thick dirt that was now packed beneath his ragged nails.