Harry Potter and the Stranded Mists of Spring

Chapter 1 - A Morning in Spring

Harry Potter awoke early in the morning in a bed at the Burrow listening to the sounds of the house. All was quiet except for the light-footed leaps of his house-elf, Hermys. Hermys was very young. He was Kreacher's son and was in training to become a healer, which was a very good thing, considering Harry's own profession. Only two weeks shy of the second anniversary of the Battle of Hogwarts which ended the war with Voldemort, Harry was injured in a raid while penetrating a secret Death Eater stronghold on the Isle of Man. They got them, though. Of the seven inner-circle Death Eaters who escaped at the end of the Battle of Hogwarts, those they typically referred to as Voldemort's lieutenants, they'd managed to capture three of them, rescued more than one hundred captive muggles, and took possession of the powerful fortress the Death Eaters were restoring and preparing for their own dark purpose.

The fortress itself was ancient, known alternately as the Hidden Palace or the Crystal Palace of muggle and wizarding legend. Harry had no idea what might become of the place after the raid. What he did know was Rodolphus Lestrange, Rabastan Lestrange, and John Yaxley had all been captured. That left only Alfred Avery, Thorfinn Rowle, Walden MacNair, and Agustus Rookwood at large. Harry frowned then smiled at the thought. It had only taken two winters after the war and all the time in-between to capture them. It was now spring. How much longer, how many spring seasons would it take to capture the other four? Harry found himself lying awake, wondering. Could they do it in the spring? Or maybe in one or two springs? He didn't know. What he did know was, it was his job to capture them. Not only because he was once the boy-who-lived, but also because of his profession.

Harry was an Auror, which was proving to be a dangerous job. It was why he was currently staying at the Burrow where his fiancée's mother, Molly Weasley, could help care for him during his recovery, instead of at home in London at Number Twelve Grimmauld Place. Harry's house-elf was helping too, which he knew was the reason Hermys was currently leaping up the stairs, bringing him his morning potion. With any luck he would be going home today, but for the time being he was here.

Harry's musings about his job, the Death Eaters and his living situation were interrupted when the door to his room was softly pushed open.

"Is Master awake?" a soft voice asked.

"Yes, Hermys. I'm awake," Harry told him.

"I's has Master's potion," the little elf announced.

"I'm ready for it," Harry assured him, swinging his legs around so he was sitting up on the side of the bed.

Hermys executed a perfect bow before handing Harry the steaming vial.

"Thank you," Harry told the house-elf and he smiled.

Harry studied Hermys as he drank it, wondering how his house-elf was doing. His father, his Papy, as Hermys called him, Kreacher, died as a result of helping Harry during the recent raid which turned into a battle in a very confined space. Hermys did look something like Kreacher, only he was much younger, pinker, and with a lot more energy. He was intelligent, quick to learn, and did his best to learn from Kreacher before he died. Harry knew in the traditional sense, Hermys would serve his household well. But he didn't really approve of slavery, even though the house-elves themselves seemed to prefer it, which puzzled him. It puzzled his friend, Hermione too, because while she was trying to change things, make conditions better for house-elves in Britain, she was encountering a certain amount of resistance against these sorts of changes on all sides. It was a mystery in a sense, because none of them knew why.

"Is Master ready to get up?" Hermys asked when Harry handed back the vial.

"I think so." Harry cautiously stood up, testing out his injured leg. "I think it feels better this morning."