Sirius Black's Animagus form was a great black dog.
Wizards who could transform borrowed the instincts of their beasts; for a hound, there was nothing more natural than running a scent to ground.
At the fringe of the camp, Moody, Lupin, and Arthur Weasley briefed Sirius on everything they had found. Sirius shifted without a word, fur rippling into place, and with Harry Potter's scent locked, the four of them pushed off into the trees.
We leave them there for now.
Hours earlier, while Astoria and Daphne Greengrass still slept, Jon Hart leaned across the other tent and touched Harry Potter's shoulder.
"What is it, Jon?" Harry blinked himself awake, voice thick with sleep.
Jon lifted a hand for silence and pointed toward the canvas.
Shuffling feet, the odd crackle and pop. Whoever they were, they were close, moving just outside the ring of their wards.
Harry reached by reflex for his wand and found nothing. The realisation hit—he'd left it in the backpack in the cavern. It wasn't with him.
Jon's glance said leave it. They eased up against the tent wall and listened.
The sounds swelled, still blurred at the edges, as if wrapped in wool. Voices, low and indistinct, no more than twenty feet off. Jon flicked his wand once. The murmur sharpened.
"This place is awful," someone said after a few seconds.
Water splashed, fast and sure. The wet thrash of a fish fighting the bank.
A fire caught outside. Several shadows passed in front of orange light, wavered across the canvas. The smell of roasting fish drifted through, rich and oily.
Just Muggles passing through, Harry thought, a breath of relief loosening his chest. Jon's wards would blind them to the camp.
But Jon didn't straighten. He still held his wand ready, eyes on the glow bleeding through the tent wall, his posture edged with caution.
"I don't see why we had to come to a dump like this," the first voice complained.
"It's the Dark Lord's orders," a second voice said.
Harry jerked. He clapped a hand over his mouth and strained to catch every word.
"The Dark Lord—he hasn't shown his face. Hasn't contacted us himself," the first man went on, sullen over the crackle of the fire. "It's always that swine Severus Snape with the messages. For all we know he's Order of the Phoenix."
Harry's fingers trembled at the name. Severus Snape: the man who'd betrayed Professor Dumbledore, the reason Dumbledore had died at Hogwarts; on any wanted list, Snape sat top with the highest bounty.
"If even Severus had turned on us, there'd be no one left to trust."
"But we searched that cavern for hours and never found Harry Potter," the fire-tender growled.
Cold swept Harry despite the summer heat. Sweat gathered along his spine; his hands and feet went numb.
They were Death Eaters. And they knew he'd been thrown into that cavern. The thought curdled, heavy and implacable.
"Maybe there was some accident," the second voice said.
"An ordinary wizard couldn't get out of that cave," the first shot back. "A maze like that—and Potter didn't even have a wand."
Harry's shiver deepened. They knew he was unarmed. How?
"I told you, something went wrong with the plan," the second voice said, cool again. "Those fresh marks in the cavern were Potter's. We can be certain he was there a few hours ago."
A pause, then: "Not that it's surprising. Potter's slipped the Dark Lord more than once. Expecting a cavern to hold him was naive."
"So he got out? Do we start searching the woods around here?"
"These woods run at least a hundred square miles. With just the two of us?" The reply held a dry, mocking note.
"All right, all right. Not practical."
"Finish the fish. Then we find Severus and ask for the next step."
They know where Snape is.
The thought flashed bright. If they tailed the pair, they might land Severus Snape.
But Harry's Invisibility Cloak was also still in the abandoned pack. With it, this would be simple. Without it—
Outside, the voices dipped. A soft thread of incantation carried in.
"What are you doing?"
"Masking our magical traces. If anyone stumbles on this—"
"You're cautious."
A wand was pressed into Harry's palm.
"Hold onto it," Jon said, low and firm.
"We're going after them?" Harry whispered, excitement cutting through the chill.
Jon nodded. He touched the tip of his wand to Harry's head.
Cold slid from the point of contact, trailing down over Harry's scalp and shoulders, a thin sheet of ice melting into skin. He glanced down. His body hadn't vanished. Instead, the tent's canvas—its exact colour and coarse weave—seemed to slick over him, copying whatever lay behind. He looked like a man-shaped chameleon.
"Disillusionment Charm," Jon murmured. "We can't get too close."
They slipped out into the trees. The voices had gone. The Death Eaters were already moving.
"Let's move, Harry."
Jon turned and flicked his wand at the tent. It collapsed at once, folding in on itself, shrinking neatly until he tucked it into his pocket.