Dark Synesthesia | Sirius Black ͛

「 sympathetic character 」

In desperation, he tried to think of further Horcrux locations, but the only one that continued to occur to him was Hogwarts, and as neither of the others thought this at all likely, he stopped suggesting it.

  Autumn rolled over the countryside as they moved through it:
They were now pitching the tent on mulches of fallen leaves. Natural mists joined those cast by the dementors; wind and rain added to their troubles.

The fact that Hermione was getting better at identifying edible fungi could not altogether compensate for their continuing isolation, the lack of other people's company, or their total ignorance of what was going on in the war against Voldemort.

Much like them, Harry wished to return home.
It felt comforting to be able to say that and mean it after so many years of uncertainty around his living space.

Hera had said around his birthday that at any given moment, he should come home; if he's tired, if he's sick, if he's hungry, he should return.
And yet, it seemed impossible to do so in the midst of war.

He thought of her and Sirius routinely, sometimes in spite when it was his turn to wear the horcrux, and other times in longing as he wanted nothing more than to see them again.

"I can hear someone!"
Harry whispered excitably, his hands raised, warning them not to talk.

Then, over the rush and gush of the dark river beside them, he heard voices again.

He looked around at the Sneakoscope.
It was not moving.

"You cast the Muffliato charm over us, right?" he muttered to Hermione.

"I did everything, " she whispered back.
"Muffliato, Muggle-Repelling and Disillusionment Charms, all of it. They shouldn't be able to hear or see us, whoever they are. "

Heavy scuffing and scraping noises, plus the sound of dislodged stones and twigs, told them that several people were clambering down the steep, wooded slope that descended to the narrow bank where they had pitched the tent.
They drew their wands, waiting.

The enchantments they had cast around themselves ought to be sufficient, in the near total darkness, to shield them from the notice of Muggles and normal witches and wizards.

If these were Death Eaters, then perhaps their defences were about to be tested by Dark Magic for the first time...

The voices became louder but no more intelligible as the group of men reached the bank.

Harry estimated that their owners were fewer than twenty feet away, but the cascading river made it impossible to tell for sure.

Hermione snatched up the beaded bag and started to rummage; after a moment she drew out three Extendable Ears and threw one each to Harry and Ron, who hastily inserted the ends of the flesh-coloured strings into their ears and fed the other ends out of the tent entrance.

Within seconds Harry heard a weary male voice.
"There ought to be a few salmon in here, or d'you reckon it's too early in the season? Accio Salmon!"

There were several distinct splashes and then the slapping sounds of fish against flesh.
Somebody grunted appreciatively.

Harry pressed the Extendable Ear deeper into his own:
Over the murmur of the river, he could make out more voices, but they were not speaking English or any human language he had ever heard.

It was a rough and unmelodious tongue, a string of rattling, guttural noises, and there seemed to be two speakers, one with a slightly lower, slower voice than the other.

A fire danced into life on the other side of the canvas; large shadows passed between the tent and flames.
The delicious smell of baking salmon wafted tantalisingly in their direction.