94 Diagon Alley

When I raised my hand in front of me and tried to see if I could see the five fingers, something strange happened.

A bright silver light appeared directly in front of him, walking through the trees. I don't know what the light source was, but it moved silently, and the silver light seemed to float towards him.

He jumped up and raised Hermione's wand, his voice frozen in his throat. He narrowed his eyes, because the silver light was so dazzling that the trees in front of him had become pitch-black silhouettes, and the thing was still approaching...

Then the light source floated out from behind an oak tree. It was a silver-white doe, as bright as moonlight. It gently stepped on the ground, still silent, and there was no trace on the soft white snow. Under the slightest hoof print. It came towards him with a beautiful head held high, big eyes and long eyelashes.

Harry stared at the creature, full of surprise, not because of its strangeness, but because of its inexplicable familiarity and kindness. He felt like he'd been waiting for it, only forgot at one point, and only now remembered their date. His urge to call Hermione had been so strong just now, but now it was gone. He knew, and could bet with his life, that it came for him, and it came for him specifically.

They looked at each other for a long time, then it turned away.

"No." He said, his voice hoarse from the long absence, "Come back!"

The doe continued to walk through the woods at ease, and soon the bright body was striped with thick black trunks. For a tense shuddering second, Harry hesitated, and the alarm bell rang softly: it could be a trick, a bait. But instinct, irresistible instinct, told him it wasn't black magic. He chased after him.

Snow crunched under Harry's feet, but the doe moved silently through the woods because it was only light. It led him further and further into the forest. Harry walked fast, believing that when the doe stopped, he would get him close enough to him, and then he would talk, and that voice would say what he needed to know.

Finally, the doe stopped and turned her beautiful head to Harry again. Harry rushed over, a question burning in his mind, but just as he opened his mouth to ask it, it disappeared.

Even though the darkness had swallowed it whole, its bright image was still imprinted on his retina, obscuring his vision. As he lowered his eyes, the image became brighter and he couldn't make out his direction. Now, fear struck him: its existence meant safety.

"Fluorescent flashes!" he whispered, the tip of the wand glowing brightly.

The image of the doe faded with every blink of Harry's eyes. He stood there, listening to the sounds of the forest, the breaking of branches in the distance, the soft rustling of the night snow. Will he be attacked? Will it lead him into an ambush? It was as if someone was looking at him out of the wand's light. Was it his imagination?

Harry raised his wand a little higher, no one rushed towards him, no green light shot from behind the tree. Why did the doe bring him here?

Something flashed in the glow of the wand, and Harry turned around abruptly. It turned out to be just a small frozen pond. He held his wand high and looked, the cracked black surface gleaming.

He stepped forward carefully and looked down, his deformed shadow and the light of his wand reflected on the ice. But there was something shining under that thick, hazy gray ice cap, a big silver cross…

His heart beat in his throat: he ran down the edge of the pond, tilting his wand so that the light reached the bottom as much as possible. There was a flash of crimson... it was a sword, the ruby ​​on the hilt gleamed... Gryffindor's sword lay at the bottom of the pool in the forest.

He almost stopped breathing, staring down at it. How is this possible? How could it be lying in a pond in the forest, so close to where they were camping? Did some unknown magic draw Hermione here? Or is the doe guarding the pond (he thinks it's like a patron saint)? Or was the sword deliberately put into the pond after they came? If so, who was the one who wanted to give the sword to Harry? He again pointed his wand to the surrounding trees, searching for a figure or a twinkling eye, but found no one. However, a tinge of newly added fear mingled with excitement, and he turned his attention to the sword lying quietly at the bottom of the pool under the ice.

He pointed at the silver sword with his wand, and said softly: "The sword is flying!"

The sword was motionless, and he did not expect it to fly. If it were that easy, the sword would be lying on the ground waiting for him to pick it up, not deep in a frozen pond. He began to walk around the circle of ice, trying to remember the last time the sword had automatically fallen into his hands, when he was in critical condition and calling for help.

"Help me," he said softly, but the sword was still lying on the bottom of the pool, frozen and motionless.

Harry began to walk again, he asked himself what Dumbledore had said after he had the sword last time? "Only a real Gryffindor can pull it out of a hat." What is the characteristic quality of a Gryffindor? A little voice in Harry's head replied: Their guts, daring and chivalry make Gryffindor outstanding.

Harry stopped, let out a long sigh, and the water mist he exhaled quickly dissipated in the cold air. He knew what to do, and if he was going to confess, he had expected it from the moment he saw the sword lying under the ice.

He scanned the surrounding woods again, but was now sure that no one would attack him. If anyone wanted to attack him, he could do it while he was walking through the forest alone, and there were plenty of opportunities when he looked at the pond. The only reason for procrastination at the moment is that the thing to do is too unpleasant.

Harry began to remove layers of clothing with recalcitrant hands. Is there any "chivalry" in it, he thought gloomily, unless Hermione was not asked to do it for him.

When undressing, an owl hooted out of nowhere, and he thought painfully of Hedwig. He was shivering now and his teeth were chattering, but he continued to take it off until only his underwear was left, standing barefoot on the snow. He put his wand, the shard of Sirius' mirror and the old snitch's bag on the pile of clothes, and pointed Hermione's wand at the ice.

"Fractured."

A bang was like a bullet slicing through the silence: the ice surface cracked, and large gray-black ice blocks swayed with the waves on the water. Harry judged that the water wasn't deep, but to get the sword he had to be completely submerged.

No amount of thinking will make the task in front of you easier or warm the water. Harry walked over to the pond and put Hermione's wand on the ground, still lit. Then, trying his best not to think about how cold he would be, or how he would shiver soon, he jumped in.

Every pore on his body screamed in protest, the air in his lungs seemed to freeze, and the biting ice water did not reach his shoulders. He could barely breathe and was shaking so badly that the water sloshed to the shore. He searched for the blade with his numb feet, wanting to dive only once.

Harry gasped and shivered, delaying the moment of immersion every second. In the end, he said to himself that he couldn't do it, so he mustered up all his courage and dived into the water.

The piercing cold tormented him like a fire. His brain seemed to freeze, he dived to the bottom of the pool in the dark ice water, stretched out his arms and fumbled for the sword. His fingers caught the hilt, and he pulled it up.

Suddenly, a sharp pain hit his forehead, and he felt the intense anger of Voldemort at this moment in the cold pool water. The violent mood swings made it hard for Harry to breathe, and he kicked as hard as he could to push himself to the surface, only to hit the pond wall.

Harry's scar appears to be torn again. The real scene around him was gone, he was Voldemort, and he was now in a warmer country, about to the south of England. A tattered cell, and a thin, hard bed, and nothing else.

Voldemort's anger erupted, and he rummaged through the empty cells like a madman, using magic to destroy every nook and cranny where he could hide something.

A line of blood-red words appeared on the wall: "You can't win. That wand will never be yours."

The hopeless and teased Voldemort left Harry's scars burning like a branding iron, and he thumped, struggling to breathe. The entire head was held by sharp claws, and gold stars began to appear in his mind, thinking, he is about to drown, there is no hope, there is nothing he can do, the arms that hug him must be the **** of death...

He woke up, coughing, retching, soaking wet, never so cold. Not far away, another man was panting, coughing, and staggering about. Hermione arrived just in time again, just like when the serpent came... but it didn't sound like her, listen to the low cough, the heavy footsteps...

Harry didn't have the strength to look up to see who was saving him. All he could do was raise his trembling hand to his head and touch the still-hot scar. At this moment, a panting voice sounded above his head.

“You—you—are you sick?”

Only the shock of hearing this voice gave Harry the strength to get up. He shivered violently and staggered to his feet. In front of him stood Ron, clothed but like a jerk, with his hair stuck to his face, a Gryffindor sword in one hand and his wand in the other.

"Damn it," Ron panted, "Your scar hurts again? Do you have to jump into the water at this time?"

Harry was unable to answer. Compared to Ron's reappearance, the silver doe was irrelevant, really irrelevant. He couldn't believe it. he is cold