All Roads Lead to Home

Chapter One

ALL ROADS LEAD TO HOME: PART ONE, CHAPTER ONE

Disclaimer: Don't own Harry Potter, only own this story. And a few OCs and world building additions, but who's keeping track?

___

  ▕⃝⃤ ᴬˡˡ ᴿᵒᵃᵈˢ ᴸᵉᵃᵈ ᵗᵒ ᴴᵒᵐᵉ ▕⃝⃤

 It was drizzling when Harry awoke.

His brain was immediately assaulted by his deprived senses, the scent of rain and wet grass as overwhelming as the chill creeping under his clothes.

The adrenaline had long worn off, leaving him hazy in understanding what had happened.

The fine mists rolled over the waving grass of the moor, billowing in large clouds and fogging his glasses.

He pushed himself up, wincing when the bruises decorating his body screamed to make themselves known. Dried blood still spattered his clothing from the battle, grit and dust mingling wetly.

Hazy from exhaustion, green eyes swept the moor, vision blurred as the white smeared the edges.

Ribbit

He looked down, blinking stupidly at the bulging shiny eyes staring at him.

Ribbit

He hesitated, licking cracked lips briefly. Merlin, he was thirsty. When was the last time he'd eaten?

The better question was, how had he come to be here?

There was nothing but moor as far as he could see, and the cold air stabbed the back of his throat as he puffed steamy white clouds.

His whole body ached, raw and abused from battle. He groaned as he began to stand, successive pains making themselves aware as he moved.

"Do you by any chance know where I am?" He rasped out to the frog, those little eyes still complacent and staring.

Not expecting a response, he surveyed the area once again. There was nothing nearby that let him know where he was, nor where to go.

Ribbit

Bleakly, he sighed. "Yeah, thought so."

It was only after a half hour of walking in one direction that he finally struck hold.

The ache in his right leg had pulsed with every step, so it was with a limp that Harry approached the well worn countryside road.

How did he even get this far into the middle of nowhere?

He sucked in a ragged breath, shivering slightly in the damp, cold air.

Voldemort is dead. That's all that matters. He can't hurt anyone else.

A hacking cough brought up speckles of blood onto his hand, grimacing at the fluid that stained his skin. That was worrisome.

Wiping the offending colour away, he looked up to see a road sign becoming steadily more visible. Thank God. Maybe he could finally find out where he was now.

The screaming instincts that he'd pushed down in favour of not panicking surged upward with a vengeance, because he had to get back, what if there were more Death Eaters and he only had a few people left to lose-

He exhaled, long and low. He could not panic right now. He had to keep calm, and get back. Panicking doesn't do anyone any good.

Wetting his lips, he limped closer to the sign to read the blocky words archaically scrawled across it. How old was this thing?