The morning he left Thelmar behind, Harry did not set out on foot alone as most believed. Instead, he descended into the deep stone cellars beneath Gryffindor Castle. Dust lay thick on the shelves and crates, and in the far corner, rolled carefully and bound with a strip of red leather, was something he had not touched in years.
The enchanted carpet.
Harry brushed the dust away with a flick of his hand. The fabric shimmered faintly in the torchlight, runes glimmering along the edges where he had stitched magic into every thread. He unrolled it slowly, the colors bright as the day he had finished it—deep indigo, threaded with gold patterns that seemed to ripple like waves.
When he had first enchanted it, Lyanna had been appalled.
"You'll not have me sitting on some flying rug like a madman," she'd said at the time, pale at the thought. "I trust stone under my feet, Harry, not clouds."
So the carpet had been rolled away, forgotten beneath barrels of dried apples and crates of mead.
But now, with the journey north calling, Harry smiled faintly as he ran his hand across the fabric. "It's time you saw the sky."
At the edge of the outer wall of Telmar, far from any watchful eyes, Harry spread the carpet over the snow. He stepped onto it, the old thrill bubbling up inside him like he was back at Hogwarts with his first broom.
"Up," he whispered.
The carpet shivered, then rose smoothly into the air, lifting him above the trees. The cold wind struck his face, sharper than any broom ride, but steady. He laughed aloud, the sound carried away into the endless white.
The carpet was different from a broom. A broom answered like a darting hawk, fast and sharp. The carpet was gentler, like steering a boat on invisible water. It rolled beneath him with a strange softness, tilting at his weight, catching every breath of wind like a sail.
"Not bad," Harry muttered, tugging gently on one corner. The carpet swooped left. He pressed down with his heel, and it dipped smoothly. "Not bad at all."
For the first time in years, Harry allowed himself to fly for the sheer joy of it. He banked over frozen rivers, skimmed treetops with a hand trailing in the frost, soared high enough to watch the Frostfang peaks glow silver in the morning sun.
As he flew, memories pressed close. In his world, enchanted carpets had been banned by the Ministry long before his birth. He'd read the dusty law books—"Flying Carpets Prohibited under Section Seven of the Misuse of Muggle Artefacts Act." Ridiculous, he had always thought. What harm could there be in weaving magic into fabric?
He had grown up on brooms, yes. He loved them—loved the thrill of a dive, the rush of Quidditch, the wind screaming in his ears. But he had always wondered what it would be like to fly differently. To soar not on a handle of twigs, but on something wide and steady, where you could lie back and watch the world roll by beneath you.
Now, at last, he knew. And it was glorious.
He could imagine Lyanna's scowl if she saw him now, hair whipping in the cold wind, grinning like a boy. She hated heights, hated flying, and had forbidden him from ever taking Sirius on the carpet.
"Too dangerous," she'd snapped once. "A dragon is one thing. A rug? If you fall, you've nothing to hold onto."
But Sirius had always begged. His son was as fascinated with the sky as Harry had ever been.
"When I come back," Harry whispered to the wind, "I'll take you flying, Sirius. Just you and me. No one to stop us."
The carpet hummed beneath him, its runes glowing brighter as if eager to be used again. Harry angled it northward. The Wall's shadow lay far away, but with this, he could cover miles in minutes.
He let himself relax as the snowfields unrolled beneath. Every so often he would stop, land, and test the controls—altering a rune here, smoothing the weave of enchantment there. He tinkered constantly, adjusting the carpet's stability and balance.
"This will do," he said, satisfied after a long, smooth glide. "If the White Walkers are truly out there, I'll find them. And if they're coming south… I'll be the first to know."
The wind whistled over the carpet as Harry pressed onward into the frozen unknown, a lone shadow soaring against the vast white silence of the North.
The sun was already sliding down toward the jagged line of the Frostfangs when Harry guided the enchanted carpet lower. The sky was streaked in red and violet, the snow below glowing faintly in the last light. He knew better than to keep flying into nightfall. Shadows stretched long across the white wastes, and even a man as seasoned as he was had to respect the cold darkness of the North.
He scanned the terrain below until he spotted a hollow near the edge of a frozen stream. It was sheltered by a cluster of pines and a small ridge of stone—enough to block the worst of the wind. With a gentle tug of his boot on the carpet's weave, Harry dipped low and touched down.
He stepped off into the snow, boots crunching. "This will do."
A flick of his wrist unrolled the canvas bundle he had carried from the castle. It was no magical mansion, no bottomless trunk, no glittering wizard tent from a Quidditch World Cup. Just a simple free folk tent, the sort any wildling might use. Harry had chosen it deliberately. He didn't want glowing wards or enchanted walls to give him away. If anyone saw it from afar, they'd think only a free folk had stopped for the night.
With a wave of his hand, the tent pitched itself, the wooden poles slotting into place with a satisfying thump, thump. The canvas stretched tight and solid, blending with the wild.
Next, Harry summoned stones from the streambed. They flew to him, stacking neatly into a firepit. He murmured a spell, and branches and deadwood snapped free from the forest edge, tumbling into a pile at his side. "Accio firewood," he said casually, and a final load arrived, dry enough to burn.
Soon the fire was crackling, throwing orange light across the snow. The shadows of the pines danced on the canvas of the tent.
Harry crouched by the fire and unpacked a small pot from his satchel. A wave of his wand filled it with clean water, and into it he dropped strips of dried meat, a pinch of herbs, and a handful of root vegetables he had carried from Thelmar's markets. The stew simmered slowly, filling the hollow with a warm, savory scent.
For the first time all day, Harry allowed himself to relax. He had covered more ground than he expected—the Frostfang peaks loomed closer now, dark teeth against the violet sky. By tomorrow, he could reach the quarry village. He wasn't rushing. There was no need. If the White Walkers were moving, they weren't moving fast. The threat was distant still. He would rather arrive prepared than reckless.
While the stew bubbled, he spread the carpet out near the firelight. His fingers traced the runes he had stitched years ago. Some glowed faintly, still strong, while others had dulled from disuse. Harry whispered fresh incantations, weaving more stability into the fabric. He tightened the wards that held the carpet's shape in midair, then adjusted its balance so it would respond more smoothly to sudden turns.
The work was soothing, almost meditative. His father had tinkered with brooms in much the same way, carving and polishing them late into the night. Harry smiled faintly at the thought, though it was tinged with melancholy.
The stew was ready by the time he had finished adjusting the carpet. Harry sat cross-legged by the fire, eating slowly, his eyes fixed on the north. Beyond those mountains lay silence—and danger.
He thought of Sirius, who had watched him leave with such bright eagerness. Of the apprentices, whose voices had clamored to follow him. He had left them behind to keep them safe, but he knew the truth—if the White Walkers truly walked, none of them would remain untouched.
Harry set his empty pot aside and warmed his hands at the fire. The crackle of burning wood filled the night, broken only by the distant cry of a lone wolf.
He breathed deeply, forcing calm into himself. He was not afraid. He had walked into darkness before and walked out again. And if the North truly hid the Night King and his servants, then it was better he face them now, alone, than wait until their ice spilled south and swallowed all he had built.
For now, though, he let the fire warm him, the carpet rest beside him, and the stars wheel slowly overhead.
Tomorrow, he would reach the quarry village. Tomorrow, he would be one step closer to the truth.
Harry had been drifting toward sleep, the fire crackling low, when the sound tore through the night. A scream—raw, panicked, unmistakably a woman's. Then shouts, the guttural roar of a man, and the sound of struggle.
Harry's eyes snapped open. He was on his feet in an instant, his senses stretching outward like a net. His heart thudded once, steady and calm, as the night sharpened around him.
There—northwest, across the ridge.
Without hesitation, Harry sprinted through the snow, his cloak snapping behind him. His superhuman senses carried the sounds more clearly now: the woman's sobbing cries, the thud of heavy footsteps, the scrape of something massive dragging through the frost.
He crested a rise, moonlight spilling over the scene below.
A brute of a man was hauling a woman by the arm, nearly lifting her off her feet. He was tall, broad as an oak trunk, his ragged furs straining at the seams of his shoulders. In one hand, he gripped a massive club tipped with a slab of sharpened stone. His eyes gleamed cruelly as the woman struggled against him, her cries breaking against the cold air.
Harry's jaw tightened. In a heartbeat, he was between them, boots crunching the snow as he blocked the man's path.
"Let her go," Harry said evenly, his voice carrying like steel through the night.
The brute snarled, clutching the woman tighter against his body. His breath steamed in the moonlight, hot and foul. "Mine," he growled, the word thick with claim and menace.
The club swung, sudden and brutal, aimed at Harry's head. But Harry only shifted his weight, a simple sidestep, and the stone whistled harmlessly past him. The brute roared, surprised, and swung again with crushing force. Once more Harry slipped aside, his cloak stirring lightly as if the attack were nothing.
The woman sobbed, terrified, her nails clawing at her captor's arm. In frustration, the brute shoved her away, freeing both hands to grip his weapon. The woman stumbled, then ran, her bare feet flashing pale against the snow. She did not flee far, though—just to a safe distance, her wide eyes fixed on the two figures squaring off beneath the moon.
Harry's gaze never left his opponent. The man was strong, yes—his arms were ropes of muscle, his shoulders broad enough to block the stars—but strength meant little against speed and precision.
The brute hefted his club, grinding his teeth. "You die tonight."
Harry exhaled slowly, loosening his shoulders, calm as a still pond. "Try me."
The brute roared again, swinging his club in a deadly arc. The stone tip whistled through the cold air, aimed squarely for Harry's skull. Harry moved like water, slipping just beyond the reach of the blow, his boots barely crunching the snow. The ground trembled when the weapon struck, shards of ice bursting up from the impact.
The woman gasped, her hands clutched to her mouth, but Harry did not falter. His emerald eyes stayed locked on the man before him, measuring, calculating.
Another swing came, wilder this time, and Harry stepped forward instead of back. The brute had not expected it—Harry slipped inside his reach, driving his fist square into the man's ribs. A sharp exhale burst from the brute's mouth, but he hardly staggered.
Scars crisscrossed his face and neck, proof of a man who had survived a hundred fights. This was no green raider—this was a warrior seasoned by blood and bone.
Harry's heel lashed out next, slamming into the man's knee. The brute grunted, stumbling, but recovered quickly and shoved forward with a shoulder like a battering ram. Harry braced, absorbed the impact, and snapped his head to the side to avoid the club's wild backhand.
The fight burned hot, each man a storm of movement under the pale moon. Harry's fists found their mark again and again—cheek, jaw, stomach—each strike precise, measured. Yet the brute endured, spitting blood and laughing, his voice a growl of defiance.
"You hit like a wolf," he snarled, "but wolves bleed like men."
Harry said nothing. His breath came steady, his body loose and coiled, while his opponent's swings grew heavier, slower, drunk with desperation.
At last, the chance came. The brute lifted the massive club overhead for a killing strike. Harry surged forward, his hands snapping up to catch the haft. For a moment, they struggled, muscles straining, breath steaming in the frozen air. Then Harry's strength—raw, unyielding—wrenched the weapon free.
The brute's eyes widened.
Harry reversed the grip in a single motion and swung. The stone head cracked against the man's skull with a sickening thud.
The brute staggered once, blood spilling from a gash across his brow. His eyes rolled back. Then he toppled forward, face-first into the snow, the weight of his body shaking the ground as he fell still.
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