Harry stirred.
The ache was the first thing he noticed—a dull, relentless pain radiating from his back, his legs, his arms, his head. His entire body throbbed like he'd been trampled by a herd of centaurs.
Then came the cold.
Not the damp chill of the Forbidden Forest. Not the sharp wind that blew across the grounds at Hogwarts in winter.
This was different.
This was deep cold. The kind that settled into your bones and refused to leave.
He opened his eyes slowly.
A ceiling of glistening stone loomed above him, jagged and frost-laced. The dim light filtering into the cavern came from the mouth of the cave some distance away. And then he saw it.
The dragon.
Its massive white head rested just a few feet from where he lay.
Harry froze.
Its eye—milky and still—was the size of a full-grown pumpkin. Steam curled faintly from its nostrils.
He didn't breathe.
His hands twitched, ready to reach for his wand.
But the beast didn't move.
Sleeping. Or dead.
Please be dead.
Harry very, very carefully pushed himself up, biting back a hiss as his muscles screamed in protest. Every limb felt bruised. His robes were torn and stiff with soot. His boots were scuffed. The last memory he had was of Gringotts... of fire... of flying...
And then darkness.
His gaze swept the cavern.
He had no idea where he was.
Then, beside the dragon's leg, something gleamed.
The Sword of Gryffindor.
But it wasn't as he remembered it.
The blade had changed.
No longer the elegant silver longsword with rubies in the hilt—now it was something ancient, heavier, thicker. A two-handed broadsword, weathered and brutal, as though it had been reforged for war.
He reached for it cautiously.
The moment his fingers wrapped around the hilt, something pulsed beneath his skin—faint, warm, familiar.
Magic.
His magic. The sword recognized him.
As if responding to his will, the sword shifted, shrinking with a slow shimmer of steel until it was the size of a dagger. Compact. Lightweight. But still deadly.
Harry blinked. "Bloody hell."
He concentrated again. The blade lengthened in his hand, became a short sword. Then a curved scimitar. Then, with a final thought, back into a dagger.
He tucked it into his belt.
"Handy."
In his pocket he had—his magical trunk from Gringotts, charmed and sealed. Somehow, it had survived the dragon ride and the fire. He opened it carefully, found it filled with gold, silver and copper coins and bars. He also had so many books. He wondered where does it all come from because he didn't have this much money or books. Then He remembered that before his death Sirius had made him his heir.
The mokeskin pouch also had some supplies, spare clothes, a few enchanted items Hermoine bought for their mission, and the rest of his earthly belongings.
At least he wasn't completely stranded.
Then came the decision.
Stay... or leave.
He turned his gaze to the sleeping dragon. Its chest rose and fell like the heaving of a mountain. Every so often, one of its massive claws twitched. It wouldn't sleep forever. And when it woke...
"I am not going to be breakfast," he muttered.
He stood with effort, gritting his teeth. His legs were stiff, his balance off, but he managed to sling the trunk over his shoulder and make his way to the cave entrance.
The moment he stepped into the light—
The cold hit him like a wall.
His breath froze in front of his face. The wind sliced through his torn robes like knives. Snow blanketed the world beyond the cave. Endless white. Jagged peaks in the distance. A vast wilderness. Unfamiliar.
Wherever he was, it wasn't Britain.
Harry stared out at the world in disbelief.
"Where the hell am I?"
No sign of people. No towns. No roads.
He had no idea which direction to go. No idea what this land was. But one thing was certain—he couldn't stay here.
He drew his wand and muttered a string of protective spells.
"Impervius... Calefactum... Protego frigus..."
Warmth spread through his limbs, forming a barrier against the wind. He pulled out a heavy cloak from the trunk—thank Merlin for Sirius's hoarding instincts—and wrapped it around himself.
Then he began to walk.
Step by step.
Through the snow.
Away from the cave.
Away from the dragon.
And into a land where magic would be strange, the stars unfamiliar, and his name unknown.
The wind howled low through the pines like a wolf mourning the death of summer.
Oliver tugged his cloak tighter around his shoulders, thick fingers red with cold as he adjusted the strap of the worn crossbow on his back. Snow crunched under his boots with each slow, labored step. He kept his eyes low, scanning the ground for tracks, signs of movement—anything with blood and meat to keep them through another night.
Behind him, Dorin grumbled as he kicked at a buried stone.
"Should've stayed in bed. Ain't nothin' in this gods-cursed forest."
Oliver didn't answer.
He was too busy following the faintest trail he'd found—wolf prints, light and scattered, already half-sunk into fresh snow.
"You see somethin'?" Dorin asked, stepping closer.
"Maybe," Oliver muttered. "Wolves. Or dog, if we're unlucky."
"Don't care if it's a rat with antlers. I'd spit-roast anything at this point."
Oliver gave a dry grunt. "You'd roast your own foot if you thought it'd feed you."
"Aye," Dorin said, not even joking.
They trudged on in silence, breath misting before them. The cold bit through even the thickest furs. The North was unforgiving this deep into the woods—closer to the mountains, where even sunlight seemed hesitant to fall.
Oliver wasn't a hunter by trade. He was a miller, like his father before him, grinding barley and oats by the stream near Dreadfort. But in the North, you had to be a bit of everything. Miller in summer. Hunter in fall. Forager in spring. Survivor in winter.
Winter.
Real winter was coming.
And they weren't ready.
"We should turn back soon," Dorin muttered. "If we don't freeze, we'll starve."
Oliver was about to agree—until he saw something in the snow.
A shape.
Still. Small. Slumped over a mound of frost.
He raised a hand, and Dorin stopped beside him.
"What is that?" Dorin asked.
Oliver narrowed his eyes. "A man."
They approached cautiously, steps crunching softer now, breath tight in their lungs. The figure was face-down, wrapped in a torn cloak that wasn't made for this kind of cold. The boots were soft leather, polished but scuffed. The hair, black and messy, was dusted with snow.
Oliver crouched beside the body.
"He's alive," he said, surprised. "Breathing."
Dorin frowned. "Don't look like any Northman I've seen."
Oliver nodded. "Clothes are too soft. Cut like southern wear. Might be a lord."
"Aye," Dorin muttered. "Or a merchant. Or a runaway groom. Either way, poor bastard looks half-frozen."
Oliver rolled the man onto his side. He looked young—barely a man grown. Pale. Bruised. But breathing.
Dorin crouched and patted down the cloak. "No coin. No ring. Not even a weapon."
"Maybe he was robbed."
"Maybe he's just dumb."
Oliver looked at him. "He'll die out here if we leave him."
Dorin shrugged. "So?"
"So," Oliver said, "if he is a lord, and we save him, we might earn something for our trouble."
Dorin raised a brow, unconvinced.
"A warm bed, at least," Oliver pressed. "Maybe silver. Maybe a place in his hall."
Dorin exhaled through his nose. "You're an idiot."
Oliver smiled. "But a warm one."
Together, they lifted the stranger, each taking a side under his arms. He was lighter than expected—thin, but muscled. As they struggled back toward the mill, Dorin continued grumbling, though less angrily now.
By the time they reached Oliver's mill, the sun had begun to set behind the trees.
The wind cut harder, but the little structure still stood—wooden walls solid, chimney billowing smoke, the grindstone frozen in place beside the stream.
They opened the door and brought the boy inside.
Oliver cleared the low bench near the fire, stoked the coals, and placed the stranger down as close to the heat as possible. His skin was like ice.
"Get water," Oliver ordered. "Boil it. He needs warmth."
As Oliver sat beside the boy, watching the flames flicker across his pale face, he couldn't shake the feeling that they had just picked up more than a starving traveler.
Much more.
The wind had howled through the trees all through the night.
Inside the small stone mill, the fire still crackled in the hearth, casting flickering shadows over the pale, unmoving form of the stranger. He had not woken once in over a full day, though he muttered now and again—whispers in a foreign tongue, sometimes broken words in a Common accent not quite Northern.
Oliver, seated on a stool near the hearth, dabbed a warm cloth along the stranger's forehead. Beside him sat a bowl of porridge, made from oats borrowed off old Mae, who lived up the ridge and still had enough to lend if you asked with the right tone and helped stack her firewood.
"I don't like this," muttered Dorin, pacing slowly behind him.
Oliver didn't look up. "The fever's breaking. That's something."
Dorin crossed his arms. His thick beard was dusted with frost, and his eyes, always sharp from years of chiseling stone, flicked toward the young man sprawled in a borrowed blanket. "He still hasn't woken. And he talks in his sleep. Says strange things. Names I've never heard."
"He'll wake when he's ready."
Oliver gently spooned a bit of porridge toward the stranger's lips. "Help me lift his head."
Grumbling, Dorin stepped over and propped the boy up by the shoulders. Together they fed him slowly, bit by bit. He swallowed. That was enough.
"He's no Northman," Dorin said as he set the boy down again. "Too thin. Too soft in the face. But those clothes—expensive make. I'm telling you, he's a lord."
Oliver didn't answer. He only glanced once more at the fine stitching on the boy's tattered robe, at the cloak clasp in the shape of a lion's head—though not like any lion heraldry Oliver knew.
Dorin moved to the window and looked out toward the trees. The snow had eased for now, though clouds still brooded on the horizon. Winter had not yet finished speaking.
That evening, back in Dorin's modest stone cottage at the edge of the forest, his daughters huddled by the hearth under a patched quilt. Elsa, the elder at six, was brushing her sister's tangled hair with a carved wooden comb. Nina, only four, stared up at her father as he stirred a pot of thin turnip stew.
"You found a lord?" Elsa asked, wide-eyed.
Dorin, crouched by the fire, smiled.
"Aye, little frostling. Me and your Uncle Ollie pulled him from the snow like a turnip from frozen soil."
"Was he wearing a crown?" Nina asked.
Dorin chuckled. "No, petal. Lords don't wear crowns unless they're kings. But he had fine boots, and his hands weren't rough. And if he's not a lord, then I'm a lady."
"I wanna see him!" Elsa cried.
"Me too!" Nina added, clapping.
Behind them, Marya, Dorin's wife, stood with arms folded. Her expression was more skeptical than amused.
"Don't fill their heads with stories, Dorin Stone. You say you've found a lord, but you also said last winter we'd have a boar roast. I've yet to taste it."
Dorin grinned sheepishly. "This time it's true, wife. I've seen it. He'll wake, and when he does, he'll thank us. He'll reward us."
"With what?" she asked flatly. "Words?"
Dorin walked over, kissed her cheek. "Maybe coin. Maybe land. Maybe enough so our girls never go to bed hungry again."
Marya sighed, but didn't push him further.
The next morning, Dorin brought Elsa and Nina to Oliver's mill.
The little girls wore their best—coats a size too large, mittens too short at the wrists, and mismatched boots. But their faces shone with excitement.
Inside, the fire had been stoked again. Oliver looked up from the hearth and smiled when he saw them.
"You brought the storm with you," he said.
"They wanted to meet a lord," Dorin replied.
"Let's hope he wakes up soon, then."
The two girls tiptoed toward the low cot where Harry still slept. Nina leaned in, eyes wide.
"He's not very big," she whispered.
"Shh," Elsa hissed. "He's dreaming. Lords dream about battles and castles."
"Or feasts!" Nina added with glee.
Oliver chuckled softly, watching them. Even Dorin's hard expression softened.
Smoke drifted softly from the chimney as Oliver and Dorin sat in the small living area, hunched near the hearth with tin mugs of weak ale in hand. The heat of the fire barely reached their toes, and the draft through the stone walls made sure they never forgot what season ruled.
"I say we try again tomorrow," Dorin muttered, his voice low. "There's sign near the Black Pine Ridge. Rabbit tracks, maybe fox. If we're lucky, even a snow hen."
Oliver nodded. "We need something. We can't last like this."
"Our storage is half what it should be. If we don't hunt, we'll be chewing bark by New Moon."
Oliver ran a hand through his beard. "We could ask old Mae for another barrel of oats."
"She already gave what she could," Dorin said. "And with that stranger eating our porridge, our ration's thinner than a southron lord's bones."
Despite the grumble, there was no true resentment in his voice. Only weariness.
"He wakes up and gives us a pouch of gold," Dorin added, "then maybe I'll believe the gods haven't forgotten us."
From the small bedroom behind the curtain, quiet voices floated in—whispers and giggles. Elsa and Nina had been given a serious task: to watch over the stranger while the men talked. And they took the job to heart.
"He doesn't look dangerous," Elsa whispered, crouching near the edge of the cot.
"He looks like a prince," Nina said, eyes wide.
"He's got soft hair. Look how messy it is."
"I bet he's been in a battle," Nina said. "That's what the scar is for."
Elsa leaned closer and gently brushed a lock of hair from the stranger's forehead.
A lightning bolt-shaped scar.
She gasped. "Look! That's not a battle scar. That's a magic scar!"
Nina's mouth dropped open. "Is he a sorcerer?"
"Or a knight. A magic knight. Maybe he fought giants. Or dragons."
"Do you think he lives in a castle?"
"Of course he does. Lords always do."
They sat, watching him in silence for a moment, their eyes full of wonder.
Then the man stirred.
He shifted, a low groan escaping his lips. His hand twitched. His eyes—green, startlingly bright—fluttered open for the first time.
Elsa jumped to her feet. "He's waking!"
She bolted out of the room like a thunderbolt, shouting.
"Dad! Uncle Ollie! The lord's waking up!"
The mugs were set down. Chairs scraped. Both men rushed through the curtain like a pair of startled hounds.
There he was.
Lying on the cot, wrapped in fur blankets, his face pale but no longer deathly. He blinked slowly, dazed, eyes moving from the ceiling to the figures crowding around him.
Oliver stepped forward carefully. "Are you all right, milord?"
The stranger groaned softly, his voice hoarse and dry.
"Yes... I'm all right…"
Dorin leaned in, hopeful. "What house are you from, my lord?"
For a moment, the man's brow furrowed as if the question confused him. His lips parted.
Then, with a ragged breath, he croaked, "Gryffindor…"
And he slumped back into sleep.
The room went still.
Oliver exchanged a glance with Dorin.
"Gryffindor," he repeated slowly. "Never heard of a Northern house by that name."
"Nor have I," Dorin said. "But he's a lord. Only lords call themselves by house. Maybe he's southron. Maybe even from Oldtown or King's Landing."
Oliver rubbed his chin. "Could be. Down there, they've got hundreds of lords. Some fancy, some poor."
Dorin grinned, the first true smile in days. "Well, if this one's fancy and rich, that's all the same to me."
Hope stirred between them—fragile but real.
Because maybe, just maybe, the man in the cot wasn't just a lost traveler.
Maybe he was the answer they'd been waiting for.
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