Chapter 7: Hogsmeade

Before Herne knew it, the twisting jarring sensation as though his body had been shoved through an invisible tube came to an end. It had barely lasted a second, and yet the feeling would surely remain with him for the rest of his life. He felt sick. His eyes appeared to perform loops in their sockets. He couldn't focus, nor could he even think. A scorching sensation akin to acid scalded his oesophagus to the point where the young boy believed blood to pool in the pits of his lungs. He wanted to throw up, though he didn't know how. His body performed all the motions, doubling over, with his mouth forced ajar, yet nothing was expelled from his open lips, spare for a few gut-wrenching splutters.

*Hugh**Gugh* Herne gagged, his gaze downtrodden and forced to stare at the light yellow grass that fluttered in the tame breeze, he hadn't noticed it yet, but his surroundings had indeed changed, after all, a colour so vibrant, as beautiful as the radiant sun could never exist within the horrific world of the forest. Herne's eyes struggled to comprehend the strange flooring that he stood atop. It possessed the exact texture of grass, albeit a bit dryer though its shade was entirely different. It felt coarse against his exposed feet, as opposed to the forest's damp underbrush. He could feel it dry his sodden skin in a manner akin to a makeshift towel.

It was only then that Herne realised that his surroundings had changed, and with that realisation came a sudden motion from the boy, as though devil possessed, his head that once hung low swung upwards, with a force that even left Rowena a bit worried for the boy's safety. His hollow brown eyes shot open before performing an almost immediate squint, for the child was staring at the wondrous sky above. Colours Herne never thought existed rushed through his irises, blues and yellows that would fill even the most cynical man with a sense of warmth riddled his mind. For the first time, Herne saw the sky above, unobscured and untainted by the umbral guise of leaves. It was a wondrous piece of art. Its blue shade, heightened by the glorious light of the summer sun, painted a portrait the boy could only marvel at, with his mouth agape and mind a wonder.

"Pretty…" Herne dazedly muttered, too enthralled by the fantastical painting nature provided to even take a second glance at his current environment. Minutes passed like this, with Herne too entranced by the beautiful sky above to even attempt to move from his current position, no matter how much Rowena inwardly wished for the boy to. She found his intrigue curious, for it painted a rough portrait of the life he may have lived up to this point, and it was not one of happiness but rather a monochrome image of depression.

'For him to be so enamoured with the summer sky, or even the sky in general, he must have been confined to a life of chains and darkness. I wonder just who and where his parents must have been throughout his upbringing,' Rowena inwardly mumbled. Sure she may have liked to give Herne's parents a strict talking to, maybe even curse them to live a life of damnation. Still, such an idea only brought about more unanswered questions and unsolved mysteries regarding the boy, for only she and the other four founders possessed knowledge regarding the boy's relatives, or rather, lack of them.

On the parchment that Rowena had once read, highlighted in gold upon a column dedicated to the lineage of the students, shone nothing. According to her spell craft, the boy possessed no ancestors in the slightest, no mother, no father, though such a thing shouldn't be possible. After all, everyone in this world has someone they come from, something they can call a family whether they like it or not, and yet, apparently, the boy didn't. However, at the time, neither Godric Gryffindor nor Salazar Slytherin or any of the four founders, for that matter, paid the premonition any heed. They simply chalked up the boy's absent family to a faulty bit of spellwork, a failed piece of magic they thought to be impossible at their current skill levels because the alternative simply left them baffled; after all, if they considered the parchments word to be gospel than that would imply that the child simply appeared in the forest, as though dropped there by god and left to fend for himself. 'Get such silly thoughts out of your head Rowena. Think about it logically for a second. There's no way the boy could just appear without a family whether the parchment says so or not,' The mother inwardly muttered, her mind once again pulled to the easy answer that she so wished to avoid.

Still, Rowena's deliberations would be cut short by the child she oh so pondered. As Herne began to move, or instead his gaze did, it fell from the sky that once held it captive and levelled with the world around it. It took in the many thatched cottages that plagued the little town, their straw roofs acting like a stone bastion with their surprising resilience against the gentle breeze. Herne saw people, fellow humans, their ages varying from little babies that rocked softly in their mother's embrace to elderly men and women who brandished similar sticks to that of Rowena while also performing equally as impressive feats of magecraft. Children, too, ran across the bustling streets over to the stationary couple who appeared out of thin air with little more than a pop a few moments ago, their eyes of varying colours all sharing the same spark of wonder directed at the pair.

They were truly unified in their interest in the curious star-struck boy with his odd clothing and the beautiful woman who proudly loomed behind him with a dress made of the finest materials that not even money could buy. Immediately Herne's body shot upright, he met eyes with the bemused children, all of whom possessed an age within a stone's throw of his. His body squirmed in its place under their watchful eye. He didn't know what to do. He'd like to speak to them, but he didn't know how, nor did Herne think he'd be able to given the opportunity, for they looked at him, not like a fellow human, but like a strange creature that had invaded their quiet little town.

Rowena's gaze picked up on all Herne's gentle movements. She noticed his apparent anxiousness, a trait he didn't seem to possess not even moments earlier. No, he wasn't anxious, more reluctant, as though he was scared of messing up, tripping over his tongue, and making a mockery of himself. "Do you want to speak to them?" Rowena's oddly soft tone of voice pressed against the boy's exposed ears in a tone one could only deem a whisper.

"Yes!" Herne enthusiastically replied, any and all of his initial reluctance now removed from his body and replaced with boundless energy no child his age could match.

"Then you should just go up and speak to them, they won't bite, and besides, they'll be your fellow peers and Hogwarts. They're all students just like you, who I assume are equally if not more anxious to meet a child not from their village for the first time." Rowena continued though her words fell upon deaf ears, for by the time she breathed her final syllable Herne was already gone.

"Hello," Herne politely stated, his tone undaunted in the face of the unknown. After all, why should he be scared when these kids were just like him. However, though he politely greeted the group, his words received little more than wary stares from the surrounding children.

Still, such a rejection wouldn't bother the young child who hadn't experienced society long enough to learn such subtle context cues as Herne pressed further onwards through the stagnant conversation. "My name's Herne, what's yours," Herne stated, a beaming smile ever present on his face, yet, no matter how much the boy smiled, he would receive no response spare for the weary stares of the kids he was attempting to befriend.

Seconds passed in crushing silence, a void of empty time one would dread to experience as no words were uttered between either party. The air felt chilly to the young boy. Herne could feel their demeanour shift towards him, going from one of intrigue to that of varied annoyance. They clearly didn't expect the stray child to be so…so…normal…no, normal wasn't the right word. Any normal child would have given up on conversation the moment their greeting went ignored. Herne was something else. He exuded an air similar to that of a sheltered prince though he lacked the dignified portion of such a title.

Sensing the awkward silence, Rowena's lips began to move in a motion akin to a call. She wanted to present an excuse to the young child, a reason to leave. After all, it was her fault he had made a fool of himself in the first place. She knew, or at least, she could assume, that he had little interaction with anyone prior to their meeting, and yet she all but forced him to speak to a group of judging children. However, no such words left her lips as the moment air passed through the cherry red piece of flesh, the boy began to move by himself, his head held high, unbothered he began to march back to the side of the beautiful woman that was until he stopped, for a child finally decided to pity the young boy.

"You're a wizard, right? Where you from," The crackly voice of a teenage boy emanated from the gathered children. He stood proud, undaunted before Herne, his chest puffed out in a clear sign of intimidation. Perhaps he felt threatened by the unknown child, by his boundless capabilities that had yet to be revealed. He heard tales of those possessing pure blood and their arrogant ways. He knew them to be strong, frightening people, who wielded their magic without care, all traits the boy had yet to exhibit but ones the teenager fretted he may possess.

At the boy's call, Herne fell into a mild state of thought over a specific word. Wizard, he had heard it once before though he didn't fully understand what it meant. Rowena had called him as such, even requested that he join their school for such a simple reason as him being one, but he didn't know what being a Wizard entailed.

"Yeah, I think I am!" Herne happily rejoiced, thankful that someone from the group finally spoke to him. However, upon locking eyes with the group, he was met with neither elation nor intrigue from them but rather sceptical cynicism.

"What do you mean you think you're a wizard? You're either one, or you aren't. You've used magic before, haven't you? You have a wand and all that, don't you. So then, what do you mean? "I think I'm a wizard"" The teenager jeered, his stern speech broken by the occasional giggle in the background as the children laughed at the boy's apparent stupidity.

However, instead of receiving an instant response of "Yes" from Herne, the boy froze. Sure he had been told that he was a wizard, but he didn't know if he had actually ever used magic. After all, magic was like the fire that exuded from Rowena's stick and to his knowledge, Herne had never made such a heat form from the tip of a stray stick. What more, the boy didn't even know what a wand was. Rowena had yet to tell him. In fact, she was planning to give him a visual example when he received his very own wand from a shop in this little town.

Sensing the growing discomfort in the area and armed with the knowledge of how prideful some wizards can be, Rowena finally took to grabbing the frozen Herne and escorting him out of the group's way. She couldn't bear to see him embarrass himself any further, especially not in front of children he would soon call his peers. "I'm sorry, but we must be going," Rowena excused her words carrying with it a kind tone though her face couldn't be said to project the same image as she leered at the teenager with her void-like eyes.

The steady sound of footsteps and a weird sense of weightlessness plagued the frozen boy as Herne's eyes dazedly searched around the surroundings. He could see pubs, or rather a singular pub, filled to the brim with what appeared to be middle-aged men and women despite the sun still shining overhead, the boisterous sound of laughter and miscellaneous chatter exuded from the strange land that bore the title of "The Three Broomsticks.". However, it wasn't what Herne was looking for. No, what he wanted to find was the boy from earlier. He wished to free himself from Rowena's tight grasp in order to answer his question, to learn more from him about this strange "Wand" thing, from the child he deemed to know all. Though Herne would soon have to give up on this idea as Rowena's rhythmic taps came to an abrupt halt, and so too did the sense of weightlessness that plagued his entire being as Rowena placed the eleven-year-old boy upon the soft sun-stained grass underneath.

"We'll be stopping here for a bit," Rowena off-handedly stated, pushing open a lacquered dark oak wood door and stepping into the darkness that festered inside the odd building. Herne waited for a bit, not immediately taking to his saviour's side. Herne observed the building that stood before him, undaunted by the blazing summer sun that streamed down upon the little village of Hogsmeade. The building was tall, possessing what appeared to be three floors, each marked by a thick plank of wood that pressed against the stone exterior. Bottle glass windows lined the outskirts of the building's front, acting like the eyes the structure could only wish to have. Herne was initially intrigued by the weird see-through creation, though after pressing one of his hollow brown eyes against it and seeing little more than a fish-eyed view of darkness, he quickly retracted his curiosity. He couldn't see the interior of the building from the outside, but he surely knew what would be inside it courtesy of one wooden sign that swayed gently in the passing wind.

'Ollivanders: Makers of Fine Wands since 382 B.C.'

'Wands, this place has those wand things that person was speaking about!' Herne inwardly exclaimed, a sudden pang of excitement reverberating in his otherwise empty brain. Now he couldn't wait. At first, he was hesitant to enter the dark building, fearing it may entrap him like the forest he had woken up in, but upon reading about the contents available inside, that fear quickly shifted into glee. His dainty hands rushed to the lacquered dark oak wood door. They pressed against its cold frame for but a second before the child gave the object an almighty push similar to the motions he had observed Rowena perform just seconds earlier, and like clockwork, the door belted open, revealing a world of darkness and a strange smell of dust. A sole figure existed in this world spare for that of Herne, and that was Rowena. No man guarded the desk that separated the entrance from the rest of the building, nor did anyone keep a watchful eye over the many shelves that housed row upon row of weird thin boxes.

*Bam* The door slammed shut behind the curious child sending a pang of fear down his spine. His body jumped, and he took an uneasy step forward in fear of the unknown sound, which was shortly followed up by a noise as sweet and sombre as silk. *Ring* The toll of a lone silver bell rang in tandem with the closure of the door. Like heaven and hell, the sounds were worlds apart in tone, yet they felt right to be used together for some reason.

Eerie stifling silence filled the room as Herne waited for Rowena to speak, to tell him what was going on, yet, no such sound would ever leave the stern woman's beautiful lips. Herne felt on edge. The dead noise filled him with an eerie sense of foreboding as though something grand yet unexpected was going to happen with him being at the centre of whatever strange phenomenon was bound to take place.

"Um…" Herne started though his delicate hum would almost immediately be cut off by the crashing sound of whatever lay stored in the shelves behind as row upon row of the boxed goods came cluttering down like a wild waterfall. The stream of destruction appeared ceaseless, Herne didn't know how it was possible, but even the boxes stored at the very back of the shelves, those that feasibly shouldn't be capable of tumbling from their places, came flying out with a force rivalling that of a bird mid-flight. That was until nothing lined the now ornamental constructs, for the goods they once held now lined the dusty floor on the other side of the room with reckless abandon.

Herne was going to voice his surprise, let out a yelp of fear, yet, before he could even let out such a primal urge, he would find his voice caught in his own throat as a lone figure rose from the wreckage. A man no older than sixty, with a head of frizzy grey hair that made him look as though struck by a bolt of lightning, he wore a neat burgundy dress shirt and what appeared to be brown cotton trousers though such garments were withered and caked with dust. He sported a kind smile despite his assumed recent awakening and knowing brown eyes that appeared to stare into the soul of whoever they gazed upon. This man bore the name Ollivander, and he was the owner and sole worker at this little shop.