Fleur's Family
Fleur Delacour stood out among her peers and family, a proof of her mother’s indiscretion, a dragon among birds. An unwanted child. A sister nobody liked.
She was a stern figure, a warrior, a harsh beauty, in a clan where ladies were meant to be gentle and ephemeral.
Her efforts were being dismissed, her training viewed with suspicion. She was viewed as a wasted chance, she would not advance the interests of her family in their eyes.
She would make a name for herself on her own, in her own way. Unwanted by her family, she spurned them in return.
Fire came easily at her call.
She needed to burn something.
Harry's Family
James falls and seals Father’s Sacrifice, a protection over his beloved son. Harry goes to his closest relatives, the Potters of the Pale Forest, and is accepted as another son.
The Pale Forest ever loomed and spectres of ancient fury roamed. Harry grew up alongside his new brother in the care of his adoptive grandparents.
Since ancient times, the Potters of the Pale Forest had a bond with magical hounds. Every son and daughter received one. Yet there was only one pup and two Potter brothers.
Harry watched as his brother cheered, with a new pup in his arms, and wondered what would happen to him. A rough tongue licked his hand. The mother hound rose on her legs and approached the young boy.
He grew up to be a thoughtful boy, and wherever he went, a fierce amber-eyed figure accompanied him. Tall as a grown man, the mother hound, Astra, followed the boy.
He grew, protected by a mother’s love.
Proposal
“You would marry me?” Harry wondered. “I am no great lord, cannot offer you land and power. I am rash, have a temper, and a knack for getting into situations I am not prepared for.”
“And you would marry me?” Fleur spoke. “I am not a great lady. I am no gentle beauty. I am rough, harsh, and unforgiving. I do not give affection openly and am not soft. I have a violent, fiery temper.”
“I would,” Harry replies, looking into her eyes searchingly.
“I would,” Fleur says, and moves to kiss him.
Theirs is not a love of the bards’ songs.
Neither of them minds.
Cuddling
Fleur wakes up to see her husband smiling at her. “What?” She asks, her voice curt.
“Nothing.” Her husband chuckles. “I just never expected to be the one cuddled in our bed.”
Fleur raises her eyebrow. “I cuddle you? Hm.” She pretends to think. “Even asleep, dragons guard their hoards. It is known.”
“Of course, it is known.” Harry nods to her reply.
Fleur lies content, her pride preserved.
Harry sits content, knowing he is what she finds most precious.
Valentine
“What is this?” Fleur looks puzzled when he gives her a bouquet of roses arranged to form a heart.
“It is Valentine,” Harry says as if it explained everything.
“And what has this day to do with roses?” Her sharp eyes bore into his.
Her husband smiled and laid a soft kiss on her forehead. “It is a holiday celebrating love, where people prove their love to their lovers.”
Fleur nods seriously and approaches her husband, giving him a soft kiss, which Harry reciprocates and they get lost in the moment for a while.
“Silly man.” She smiles when they part. “We do not need a holiday for that. You prove your love to me every day.”
Scars
Harry loved his wife, whatever form she chose to wear, human, or Fair Folk, with her scaled wings and horns clearly visible.
Fleur was usually very controlled, stern, taciturn, and it brought him the greatest pleasure to see her unrestrained in the privacy of marriage bed.
It is a morning after their lovemaking, and Fleur’s wings stretch luxuriously. She watches her husband and traces the marks she had left on his body with her clawed hands.
Harry feels her touch and sees her expression. He covers her clawed hand with his.
“I gave you those,” she whispers, and he sees her claws, wings and horns start to fade.
Harry brings his wife’s clawed hand to his lips, to lay the softest of kisses there. “I will bear them with honour.”
Wedding
The trees forming the circle stood in silent witness of what was happening, with only the wind in the leaves making any sound. No birds were singing, and only clouds were lazily rolling across the azure sky. Several people stand in the tree circle.
A single man in green robes, with a sickle at his waist stands facing a pair, a man and a woman, both in warrior garb of mail, with swords and daggers at their waists. Behind them, a semi-circle of solemn figures, men and women, gathered to watch the proceedings.
“Who comes to the Sacred Grove of Communion today?” The green-clad man intoned, his wild beard almost bristling.
“I! Fleur of House Delacour out of Apolline, Lady Delacour by Tristian Mercier. A hunter of felons, a warrior of the Fair Folk.” Perhaps for the first time Fleur proudly proclaimed the names of both of her parents, her distant mother, and her absent father. She stood ramrod straight in her black mail, with her black and silver cloak flapping behind her. Her silvery hair was in a pair of braids that themselves were braided together at the back of her head.
“I! Harry of House Potter, out of Lily Potter and James Potter of Godric’s Hollow. A knight-warder of the Pale Forest!” Harry spoke proudly, facing the wind that was flapping his green cloak. As both his and Fleur’s announcements rang around the grove, the trees seemed to quieten down. A heavy atmosphere now ruled in the grove. More than just humans were here to witness what was about to happen.
The green-clad man spoke again in a booming voice that carried across the grove. “Does Harry, the knight-warder of Pale Forest come to claim Fleur Delacour, the warrior of the Fair Folk?”
“He does!” Harry put his hand over his heat in a gesture of respect.
“Does Fleur the warrior wish to be claimed?”
“She does.” Fleur’s voice was clear and curt.
“Does Fleur, the warrior of the Fair Folk come to claim Harry, the knight-warder of Pale Forest?”
“She does!” There was a fierce pride in Fleur’s voice.
“And does Harry the knight-warder wish to be claimed?”
“He does!” Harry’s voice carried over to the treetops, who seemed to whisper in answer.
The man nodded. “Then come forward.”
They stood now in front of the old man in green robes, who took out a silver knife. Harry and Fleur offered him their right hands. He made small incisions on their palms and gave them a significant look. They clasped their hands, and their blood mingled. The trees now whispered even without the wind.
They both feel a subtle surge of power as their blood mingles. Magic ancient and new. Wonderful and terrifying.
When they step away from each other again, the man nod. “Say your oaths!”
Thousands of voices whispered in the grove as Fleur spoke up. “I swear to you, Harry of House Potter, by earth and water, by air and mountains, seas and rivers, to be yours, in soul and body, by our pledge of life’s blood. I yield my fire unto you, so that our children may never be cold. I yield my heart for you to protect and cherish. I take you onto myself to keep and cherish. From this day unto eternity.” A ball of her flame appeared in Fleur’s right hand, which she now held towards Harry.
“And I swear to you, Fleur of House Delacour, by magic and iron, by ash and by leaf, to be yours, in soul and body, by our pledge of life’s blood. I yield my heart unto you to keep and protect, as I receive yours. I swear by these oaths and our union of blood that I will cherish you and nourish your flame, so that our children may thrive in our hearts and hearth, during summers and winters. From this day unto eternity.” He puts his hand into hers, accepting her fire onto his skin, into his blood. The voices from the trees whispered even more, in approval.
In unison, Harry and Fleur spoke, a single voice of two, harmonized before the Sacred Grove. “From today unto eternity, and woe unto all who would seek to part us. We are one as we enter The Chant, this we swear. By iron and fire!”
The pair knelt, facing each other, each offering a quiet prayer to the spirits within the trees, affirming their oaths and their devotion, giving wishes for their life ahead. They rose as husband and wife.
Harry looked into his wife’s slitted eyes, as her horns and wings now grew, her true nature apparent. There was a fierce pride, and love firm as iron and hotter than fire.
Husband kissed wife.
Fateful Meeting
Not for the first time, Fleur cursed Auberich Delinard and his misbegotten ancestors. She had been pursuing the rogue for the last two months. Her family frowned on her choice of work, but her parents also made sure she would not receive financial or material support, unless she begged them for it. And such a support always came with hidden hooks. She preferred life as a bounty hunter to dealing with the plotting and intrigue of her family. Better to chase after criminals than face the disdain in the faces of her relatives.
But this Auberich, a cunning catfolk who had defiled the heiress to a noble house and stole off with the house’s jewels and secrets, was proving a wily and slippery prey. For two months he had led her on a merry chase through cities, mountains, swamps, and now his tracks led into a forest that sent chills down her spine.
It was eerily quiet. She checked the straps of her armour, and stretched to make sure she could move properly. Her blackened mail clinked and she checked the buckle on her belt that helped hold the weight of her coat of plates. Her helmet left her lower face quite exposed, but she preferred that to the obscured vision when she wore a more protective and heavier helmet. She took a fortifying breath, and stepped between the sickly looking trees.
The smell of rot wafted into her nose when she stepped into the forest. The ground was uneven and slippery, a treacherous mix of tangled roots and rotting leaves. She followed the trail, passing between twisted trees with sickly pale bark and leaves the colour of blood. She expected to hear some animals, birds, or squirrels, but all was quiet, save for the sound of her steps, and her heart thudding in her ears. She gripped the long hilt of her sword at her waist, ready to draw the keen blade in an instant, and advanced into the forest, following the trail. The tracks looked fresh, she had to be close to her prey.
A sound to her left startled her, and she drew her sword, but it was only a deer passing between the trees. A lean, white deer that was watching her with baleful eyes.
“Shoo! Get lost!” She tried to get it to run away, but it kept watching her with eerie calm. Eventually, it trotted away. A few minutes later, a pair of lean wolves with wounds oozing blood and puss kept circling her, eyeing her, but then disappeared between the trees.
Her heart thudded in her chest. “Damned forest. Damned Auberich!” She spat on the ground and continued along the trail. There was still no sound of birds. Only the malevolent whisper of the trees. She could almost make out the words in the sound of the wind going through the branches.
Fleur tried to calm her breathing and continued following the tracks. She bent low to pass under a pointed branch. If she had not been careful and slipped, she could have been impaled upon the branch.
Ahead of her, she heard the sound of a snapping branch, and she brought her sword forward, ready to protect herself. A figure stumbled towards her wordlessly. She noticed his catlike ears.
“Auberich Delinard, you are coming with me, living or dead. Your choice,” she spoke loud and clear. She held her sword in front of her, pointing at him. Then she curses when the figure stumbles forward, still without a word. And how could her prey speak? There was a broken sickly pale tree branch impaled through his windpipe. His eyes were glazed over, yet they still focused on her with malice.
Her eyes widened when the thing that used to be Auberich stepped toward her. He held a slender, elegant blade and looked ready to attack her. His moves were sluggish, fortunately, and Fleur ran him through with her own sword. He crumpled to the ground.
She spat on his corpse again. “That’s what you get for running in here, bastard.” She knew that even if he had not died by her hand, she could still claim her bounty. But then she saw the wound she inflicted on him stitching itself back together, and Auberich began rising again.
“What?” she gasped and took a step back.
Auberich’s face was twisted in a disturbing grin, and the place where her blade had run through his heart was now scarred over.
She quickly parried his lunge and cut him across his chest, leaving a gaping wound. Again, he fell to the ground. And again, the wound started stitching itself after moments.
“Stay dead!” She kicked his knee and cut him across his throat.
But the creature, for it was definitely no longer one of the Fair Folk, rose again.
Fleur’s breath was coming in rapid gasps now, especially when she heard rustling from her sides. Multiple figures were approaching, clad in rusted mail and rotting leathers, but gripping still deadly swords and spears.
She stepped back, watching out for slippery leaves and knotted roots. That was how Auberich died. She made sure to keep all the approaching restless dead in her sight. They were working together, converging on her. The dead were trying to surround her, with eerie intellect glinting in their unmoving eyes.
Staying passive would lead to her death, and she would not turn her back to them, so she bounded to the right and lunged at the walking corpse there, cleaving its skull. It fell to the ground, and she rushed towards the next undead, raking her blade across its throat, opening a deep wound there.
With two undead down, she rushed Auberich’s corpse again, and left a deep gash across its belly. She then had to defend herself from a spear thrust and cut deep into that corpse’s chest.
It took a whirling dodge to avoid a thrust from behind, and it still grazed her armoured back. The corpse whose skull she cracked open was now on its legs again and trying to eviscerate her.
Fire came to her palms, but she dismissed it, unwilling to wield flames in a forest. It took a rushed parry to deflect a blow, while another cut glanced off her chest armour. They were surrounding her. She rolled under a cut and put a bit of distance between her and them. Another blow came at her, which she deflected and retaliated with a cut of her own, but her foes were relentless, and refused to stay down.
She was on the defensive, deflecting blows with her sword and armour, and backing off, taking whatever chance she had to lash out at the undead. “Damned forest! Damned Auberich!” Her blows always sent her enemy to the ground for mere moments, not even a minute.
There is a sound behind her, and she jerks away. An arrow whizzes by her, burying itself in one of the undead and sending it tumbling. Another undead is struck before it can hit her.
“Retreat a bit from their reach!” A male voice calls to her from behind her. From the corner of her eyes, she glimpses a figure in armour, with a beige surcoat and two sigils. A pale tree in black, and a white deer in green. The man is pulling the string on his recurve bow, aiming at another undead. “You need to knock their weapon from their hands! Or burn them! They’ll keep coming otherwise!” The man looses another arrow to knock an undead down.
After taking a deep breath, Fleur gives a nod and focuses. “I hope you know what you are doing.”
“Unlike you, I know this forest.” The man looks at her with his green eyes, and draws his own blade. A shield is at his feet, which he takes up in his other hand. He steps to her, so they can cover each other’s back. “And don’t use the Incendio spell. This forest doesn’t like it.”
“I’ve noticed this forest is moody.” She quipped to him as they both dodged and weaved enemy weapons and struck out with precision. She cut off the sword arm of one corpse and noticed that the injury remained. The body stayed on the ground. “Other fire is fine?”
“Yes.” He deflected a spear with his shield and sliced off the hands holding the spear. “But I don’t see a torch on you.”
“Oh I don’t need a damned torch.” She called on her fire again, and this time threw a ball of her flames at the nearest corpse. Her flames burned hot, and consumed the attacker quickly.
“Nice skill to have.” He bashed one undead with his shield, and severed its wrists.
“It comes in handy.” Fleur feels her hands growing claws as her draconic nature comes forth. Scaled wings burst from her back, and horns grow through the artfully done holes in her helmet.
“Fair Folk?” he asked while disarming a corpse in rusted mail.
“Yes. That a problem?”
“No, just keep burning the undead.”
“Gladly.” Her eyes were now slitted and glowing with ire. She threw a handful of fire at another corpse and then found her way clear to Auberich. “You’re mine, bastard.” With a growl, she grabbed his sword hand and severed it with a cut of her sword. His own blade would serve as the proof that she killed him.
The last few dead fell quickly under their onslaught.
“So, you had a grudge against him, him?” Her partner looked at her. His dark hair was sticking from under his helmet, and his green eyes looked at her questioningly. “Must have been quite the grudge to make you come here.”
“Quite. I was chasing the bastard for months.” “Mhm,” he hummed. “Why don’t you tell me more about it when we get out of the forest?”
“Gladly.” She nodded. “The less time I spend in here the better.”
Their journey back was uneventful, even the roots on the ground and the branches of the trees seemed to go out of their way.
“The forest wants us gone,” he says to her. “We shouldn’t disappoint it.”
She nods to him and lengthens her steps. There is a white streak between the trees and she prepares to draw her sword again, but hesitates when her companion merely chuckles.
“Don’t worry, this one’s a friend. You’ll see.” The man chuckled. Soon, they were at the tree line, and the forest was behind them. There was a horse tied to a tree, watching them placidly. Then the man gave a shrill whistle.
She was startled, even more when a white streak came running at them. As it approached, she could see it growing beyond what she expected. She thought it a white wolf originally, but soon its size overtook the horse that was grazing nearby.
“Zora!” he exclaimed with joy and spread his arms. The giant dog rushed to him, slowing carefully not to bowl him over, and lowered its head to nuzzle him.
Fleur took off her helmet with a chuckle. Seeing the fighter affectionately pat the dog whose size meant it could easily tear them both into pieces just warmed her heart somehow. The dog was even familiar.
And then it was clear. The man took off his helmet, revealing a face she recalled. “Harry? What are you doing here?”
“I live here, Fleur. Potter of the Pale Forest.” He pointed to the sigils on his chest and looked her over. “But what are you doing here? Nobody in their right mind intentionally wanders into the forest. You now know why.”
“I’m a… hunter of sorts, and my quarry ran there.” He looked at her solemnly. “You should have let him be in there. Or asked one of the warders for help.” His hand absentmindedly patted the dog’s snout. “You were lucky I found your tracks.”
She shivered, recalling the wandering dead. “Yes, I am. Thank you for saving my life.”
“I’m a Potter. We Watch the Ways,” he recited the Potter words. “Now come, let’s get you some rest and food, maybe a bath.” A small castle could be seen over the horizon.
“You know how to make a tempting offer.” She smirked at him, well aware of the grime on her after two months of pursuing Auberich.
Courtship
“Mind your feet! Range! Watch the range! Now, press the attack!” Shouted instructions accompanied the clamor of dulled swords and shields clashing as the armsmen trained in the courtyard under the watchful eyes of the grizzled Sir Edwin.
The senior knight-warder of Reodbled Castle stood tall and straight, as if unaffected by the weight of his long years of service. His gray beard, now nearly reaching his waist, twitched as he tsk-ed in displeasure. He then looked to the tall woman next to him.
Fleur stood with folded arms, watching the men train. At Edwin’s questioning glance, she nodded.
“Halt! Step away from each other!” The knight’s voice cut through the noise.
The panting armsmen had their padded coats covered with dust and sweat and were now standing a few paces from each other, all warily eyeing their instructors.
“You must always control the range,” Sir Edwin told them, “you will have good armour and shields, but you will usually fight outnumbered. So control the range, it must be you who chooses when to get closer and when to get far. You must divide your foes.”
Fleur was meanwhile eyeing their feet, but then looked up into their eyes. Many looked away from her intense gaze. “Just because you are armoured does not mean you stay stationary. Be light on your feet.”
The sweating armsmen were nodding at the pair and then sized up their opposition again.
“Good. Now resume!” Sir Edwin barked.
Spurred by his command, the group engaged in a fight again.
Though they heard the footsteps, neither of the instructors turned to face the newcomer, both recognizing him by the sound. It was the padding of canine feet that accompanied him that gave him away.
“Squire Potter. Zora,” Sir Edwin acknowledged without taking eyes off the training fight. “Hard at work, I see.” Harry nodded to both Edwin and Fleur.
“Have you ever known me otherwise, squire?”
“No, I cannot say I have.”
The senior knight grunted, but Harry knew there would be a slight smile under the beard. The three of them watched the training men, each noting details that needed improvement.
“Halt!” Sir Edwin called out again after a few more moments. “Better on the range, but you need to watch your comrades as well.”
Harry nodded to Edwin’s words, while Fleur selected the youngest armsman to approach.
“You leave your right side too exposed when you strike. Watch this.” She drew her own sword and performed a few cuts. “See? Do not linger in your strike, draw back immediately. And do not reach so far. You can allow your enemy to step closer, and then you can strike in the middle of their stride.”
Sir Edwin clapped forcefully. “Alright, we are taking a short break. Drink some water and stretch, then we will continue!”
While the trainees slowly dispersed, chatting and looking for drink, Fleur approached Harry. “You have been avoiding me lately, is something the matter?”
Harry coughed into his hand and looked around for a moment. “I have been working on something.”
“Indeed?” She raised a silver eyebrow. “And what was it that required such a… focused effort?”
Harry gave her a long look and then bowed shortly. A hush fell upon the courtyard. And then he spoke into the silence: “In the twilight's hush, when shadows dance, Amidst the revelry and fair folk's trance, In silence and stillness, I saw your grace, A warrior's spirit, a fierce embrace.
A flower you bestowed, with gentle care, A token of your heart, so rare, In that moment, a question unsaid, A courtship's beginning, as words were spread.
In your quiet strength, I found solace deep, A companion on paths both rough and steep, No grand gestures nor public display, But whispers of love in a secret way.
The scars you bear, unseen by many eyes, Tell tales of battles fought 'neath darkened skies, Yet, in your presence, I see beauty true, A flame burning bright, a love that grew.
For you are not a fragile, delicate bloom, But a tempest's fury amidst the gloom, Together we stand, as warriors we stride, Side by side, hearts bound, forever tied.
So let our courtship unfold with care, A tale of two souls, a love to share, In the quiet moments, our love shall bloom, Embracing the darkness, dispelling all gloom.
Fair Fleur, this ode to you, I present, With words and deeds, a love's testament, In this courtship's dance, may our spirits entwine, With you by my side, a love divine.”
All were silent when he finished, and it was difficult to say upon whom more eyes were focused, Harry or Fleur. Sir Edwin stood straight, hands grasping his belt, and there was a fond spark beneath his bushy eyebrows. The trainees were straining to stay silent, waiting for Fleur to react.
It took a nudge of Zora’s cold nose to make Fleur blink and abandon her stillness. “You… you have composed this… for me?”
Courtship Part 2
Fleur could feel the blood pounding in her ears and she had to work on keeping her breathing under control as her feelings warred with each other. She barely registered Harry following behind her while she strode away from the courtyard, seeking the solace of a grove of trees near the castle.
He gave her at first bemused and then worried looks, but quietly followed after her until she stopped, leaning against an old chestnut.
“Is everything alright? I messed it up, didn’t I?” His voice was quiet and he furrowed his brows as he spoke, making sure his voice would not carry beyond the treeline.
She gave him a small grateful smile and shook her head. “No. Just… give me a moment.” Fleur closed her eyes and took a deep breath. Then another, followed by more.
A thin stream of smoke rose from her nostrils, causing Harry’s eyes to widen. Any funny quips he had died on the tip of his tongue.
“Take all the time you need.”
Fleur nodded and slowly unclenched her fist. With one last shuddering breath, she slowly blinked and looked at Harry again. “I am ready to talk now.”
Encouraged by his nod, she slowly spoke, “My family, the family I was born into, are one of the noble families of our clan.” The corner of her mouth twitched downwards. “You’ve seen some of them so you know I…”
“Stand out?” He suggested.
“Yes, stand out.” She nodded. “As good a term as any. A youthful indiscretion by my dear mother. An indiscretion with a consequence.” A hideous smile twisted her mouth. “Something my family never forgets, nor lets me forget.” Sparks fell from her fingertips. “Many a time I have seen singers, poets, minstrels… enthralled, performing for my mother, sisters, aunts, cousins, all while my kin, all ephemeral and beautiful, tittered and giggled.” He patiently waited, letting her get the words out.
“And while posing and basking in the praises of their beauty, they coldly plotted how best to use the minstrels, to wring the most out of them.” She grimaced in distaste. “And when their use came to an end, they were… discarded.”
Harry looked at his feet for a moment. “I apologize, I did not mean to bring up bad memories.”
“Do not apologize, it is merely an old scar I have to bear. And like an old wound, it acts up sometimes.” She put her hand on his arm. “I know your ways, and know you meant no harm with your poem. It was… charming.”
Blood rushed to his cheek, and a cough stole his words.
“Hush.” She stepped closer to him. “It came from your heart, therefore it was beautiful. Thank you.”
He felt the briefest touch of her lips on the corner of his mouth.
Post Marriage Decisions
It was a time of preparation and change for Fleur Potter and her husband. The new young count of Pale Forest had given Harry a new office. Fleur was now the wife of the future Lord Castellan of Brantfurh Castle, and she was looking forward to helping him hold the office. She knew her husband would never keep her out of the workings of the castle, nor of his office.
Already, during her stay near the Pale Forest, the garrisons at several of the castles have welcomed her help in training the armsmen.
The fact that her family would have scoffed at best at the idea of a Delacour lady drilling the troops, drenched in sweat and covered in dust, only served to bring a smile to her lips and a spring to her step.
Among strangers here she had been welcome, from strangers she had received more smiles and warmth in months than her family had given her in years. And strangers she had embraced in turn, finding a home near a place she had once cursed.
Yet it had been coming to the place where she had nearly died that led to her staying. At first she had thought to accept Harry’s invitation for a few days only. She thought the people living near the ominous Pale Forest, teeming with the restless dead, would be cold, dour, and grim.
And yet perhaps to contrast with the cold threat, the people exuded a genuine warmth that made Fleur yearn for things and feelings she had only dreamed of. And so days stretched into weeks, and then months, while she found herself falling for the man now claiming the title of her husband
She adjusted the clasp of her cloak, one of the only items where she had yielded to vanity and obtained a decoration for herself, using the money she had earned by herself. It was of a silver alloy, and bore a simple image of an eight-tailed star, holding her warm, black cloak in place on her shoulders. Her strides led her through the illuminated corridor of Straetweard Castle, the seat of House Potter of Pale Forest, to the quarters she now shared with Harry.
Her husband was busily scribbling something, hunched over a table, but looked up when he heard her cough.
“Already ignoring your lady wife, my husband?” She put her hand on her hip and raised an eyebrow.
“I would never, my wife.” He smiled at her in apology. “Yours is the reign over the lands of my heart.” Pushing the chair back, he approached her. “Let me pay tribute to my heart’s queen.”
Magnanimously, she allowed him that honour, accepting his tribute on her lips. After a moment, she let him go, knowing he would forever be hers to reach for, and to hold. “You are forgiven, husband. But tell me, what has you so engrossed?”
“Let me show you.” He ushered her towards the table, to the roll of parchment he had been working on, a spark in his eyes.
There on the scroll was the Potter sigil, a silver stag in green and right next to it were empty drawn shields, some with hand-drawn designs. She looked at him bemusedly. “What are you doing?”
“Grandfather Raedfrid adopted me when my parents died, and made me part of his family,” he spoke with a fond smile, “I have born the family crest proudly.”
“So why are you designing a new one?”
He looked her in the eyes. “Some things have changed. I now hold land in my adoptive brother’s name, and more importantly, I have married you.” Gently, he took her hand and brought it to his lips. “I thought that our family’s new crest should reflect that. Reflect you.”
He smoothened the parchment and pointed to the most finished design. “I kept the stag for the Potters, but changed the colours a bit. The stag is argent still, but the vert field is gone, changed for sable.” He rubbed her cloak between his fingers. “Argent for me, sable for you. And for you, a star, above the stag, lighting his way. Argent star with a cendrée edge.” “And why such a design, husband?” She silently relished his touch.
“Why, you may light the way, but you certainly have a steely edge.”
“Are you putting your wordplay into our family crest?”
He chuckled in answer and quickly kissed the tip of her nose. “Is what I am saying in any way untrue?”
She pulled him to her and claimed his lips. “No, husband, it is not. But tell me, why a star for me?”
“Because I have grown to know you, my wife.” While answering her, he softly held the clasp of her cloak, his hand caressing the star on her clasp, the same star adorning the design of their new crest.
“Yes, you have, husband.” Her eyes threatened to mist over. “My husband. Mine.”
Her hold on him tightened. She would never truly let him go.
Halloween at Godric's Hollow
“Happy Halloween, dear,” James murmured after sneaking up to his wife and hugging her from behind.
“James!” She chuckled and enjoyed the feeling of his lips on her neck.
“What?” You could feel the smugness in James’s husky whisper. “Harry’s in his bed, the house is clean, and we have the evening for ourselves.”
Lily giggled and ground herself against her husband a bit, smirking when she heard his quiet growl.
But their intimate moment was interrupted by a high cry coming from the bedroom.
“Why don’t you go to him, show him some paternal affection, hm?” She smiled, caressing James’s cheek. She loved the feel of his stubble. “I’ll get ready for a nice evening while you that.”
“Say no more.” He stole a quick kiss from his wife and hurried into the bedroom. “What is it, little man. Dad’s here.”
Lily smiled at her husband’s cooing and went to a cabinet. She brought out a pair of flute glasses and then went to the wine cabinet.
“All is well again,” James told her as he was leaving the bedroom. “Just a small fuss, but he’s all right again.”
“You’re good with him.”
“He has the best from the both of us.” James went to make the table while Lily was choosing which bottle to open.
A blood-curdling sound shook the house, only to be cut short.
“The caterwauling charm…” James whispered.
“It ended too soon, broken.” Lily muttered, shaking, and looked at him. “James! Get Harry and get out, you’re closer!”
As James ran into the bedroom, he heard a boom. Their door has been blasted open. He could always recognize his wife’s cry of rage. Spellfire. Fury. Screams of pain.
He grabbed Harry and focused on apparating out, but his magic failed him. His hand squeezed the emergency portkey around his neck, but even its spell fizzled out.
The violence behind him ended with a last scream. When he heard a hiss of pain and the sound of unsteady steps, he turned around. There he stood, a tall and gaunt man, half of his once handsome pale face red and black, a mess of blisters and burns. The other half of his face was twisted in contempt and a red spark glowed in his eyes.
“Voldemort.” James gripped his own wand.
“Your pet mudblood fought like a beast.” His voice carried a hiss, mangled as it was by the injuries to the of his face. “But you need not die. Step aside, I want only the boy.”
“Harry? No, never!” James put Harry behind him and raised his wand. “You’ll have to take me instead.”
“Fool. Forget the mudblood, forget her spawn. There are other witches. Purer witches.” Voldemort was caressing his yew wand like a lover.
Seeing the disgust in James’s face, Voldemort lashed out, the dreaded killing curse slipping from his lips with practiced ease.
James fell after receiving the sickly green spell to his heart.
“Such a waste.” Voldemort made sure to step on the dead wizard. “And all for you. For the spawn of a mudblood.”
The crying child struggled to look at the tip of the pale wand that was now nearly touching his forehead.
“Goodbye. Avada Kedavra.” The curse felt almost sensual upon Voldemort’s lips as he uttered it, the closest he ever got to declaring his love, when he called upon death itself to claim another soul.
But then his red eyes widened as the spell, instead of a swift bolt bringing certain death changed into a flash that filled the room
“What? No!”
The pain as the magic was tearing his body asunder was beyond anything Voldemort had ever experienced
Even then, he felt several tugs and knew one thing. He would be back.
Halloween Aftermath
The door to the Hospital Wing opened with nary a sound, letting in one Minerva McGonagall who walked in stiffly, her back ramrod straight.
“Ah, welcome back, professor McGonagall,” her old friend and headmaster, Albus Dumbledore, spoke while bent over a cot which had been enchanted to continuously shift in colour.
“How is he doing?” Minerva spoke softly, approaching the cot. Inside there lay a baby with tufts of dark hair, contentedly sleeping despite the jagged scar going across his brow.
“Sleeping peacefully for now, but he wakes up from terrors sometimes.” Albus gently waved his wand, setting the cot to gently rock. “Poppy and healer Andrews took another look at his scar. There is some dark magic residue, obviously, but it shouldn’t have any harmless effects on him.”
“Thank Merlin for that.” Minerva bent over the cot as well and looked at the sleeping baby. “James and Lily gone, at least the scar won’t be plaguing the little boy.”
“We can only hope.” Albus nodded and poured MInerva a cup of tea from the kettle that was steaming on the table beside them. “So tell me, Minerva, what did you see?”
She pursed her lips so hard that they were hardly visible, giving her a flinty, pinched look. “You cannot seriously be contemplating sending little Harry to live there.” She took a sip of the tea. “You know me, so trust me when I say that they are the worst sort of muggles imaginable. Whatever good was in Lily must have skipped over her sister.”
Albus sighed under his silver beard. “It brings me no joy, Minerva, but Petunia is his closest living relative.”
“And she is truly not suited to bring up a magical child.” Minerva’s face twisted in distaste. “Or just children in general. Her and that Vernon, pf…”
“Unsuitable, you say.” Albus stroked his beard. “I will trust your word on it. It is even… fortunate, in a way.” He refilled his cup of tea. “What do you mean, fortunate?”
“I am sure you realize that Voldemort did not fail to murder Harry simply because he was a child.”
“Yes, Albus, that is clear to me.” There had indeed been quite a few children dead by Voldemort’s wand.
“Magic was involved in Voldemort’s downfall. I of course cannot be certain…”
“Then make an educated guess, Albus.” Minerva’s broque crept into her speech.
“Very well. When we were checking little Harry over, we’ve found him blanketed in a primal protective magic. And the magic had a familiar feel to it. It is James’s magic.”
“Do you think he did some ritual to protect his son?” “I don’t think it was something deliberate on his part. Oh, he certainly wished to protect his son, and laid down his life, I wager.” Albus spoke and a tear rolled down into his beard. “And something happened, I do not know what, which caused his magic to protect his son.”
“While that is certainly fascinating, Albus, how does that make Petunia and her husband not being suitable fortunate in any way?”
“It gives more weight to our recommendation to the Minister not to send Harry to the Dursley family.”
“And where would you recommend Harry to be sent, Albus?” Minerva finished her tea and refilled her cup. “There will be many families clamoring to claim him, but I do not think some, as the Malfoys, would be good for him.”
“Indeed not, Minerva, but if little Harry cannot go to his mother’s side of his family, there is his father’s, of course.”
“His father’s? Fleamont and Euphemia are dead, Albus. As are Euphemia’s family.”
“I realize that, of course.” Albus nodded, his face darkening in remembrance of the scene when he came across Euphemia’s family all murdered in their home. “But let us continue…” “If not Fleamont… But Henry Potter is also dead, sadly. I wonder what he would have to say about current events.”
“Many things, I am sure.” Albus chuckled. “And colourfully too, with much detail. But you forget his wife, Minerva.”
“His wife? Mildred?” Minerva well remembered the woman, strict, harsh, with a tongue that was razor-sharp.
“Indeed, madam Mildred. Henry Potter married Mildred Potter, and quite the pair they made.”
“You intend to send Harry to Mildred’s family? There?” Minerva herself had never gone there, but she could only imagine what sort of family and environment could have shaped a woman as formidable as the long departed Mildred Potter. The Potter Battleaxe was perhaps her most charitable nickname in wizarding Britain.
“Why, yes, I am. The Potters of Pale Forest will surely be capable of protecting little Harry and make sure he grows up into a fine man. And I am sure that James’s protection will only grow stronger if Harry is accepted into the home where James’s blood resides.”
She took a deep breath and mulled it over. But when she recalled what she had seen of Petunia, she sighed and nodded. “I suppose, Albus. But how will you ensure that the Minister sends Harry there and not into one of the more… prestigious or rich families?”
“Leave that to me, Minerva. I am quite sure that dear Millicent Bagnold will think it was her own idea.”
Minerva would swear that Albus gave her a wink over his half-moon glasses.
Aftermath 2
It always startled Albus when he crossed the threshold from Earth to the Borderlands. The air smelled different, crisper and cleaner than even when he had gone on holiday to the Himalayas.
But it was not just the air, the fresh breeze that caught his long hair. He could feel the difference like sparks on his skin, a whisper in his ear, a tug on his magic, resonating with his wand. As if magic itself begged Albus to use it, to wield it and work wonders from thin air, perform miracles. And he knew, without any false modesty, that he could. He could reshape the reality of the world if he wished.
He only had to grasp his wand and focus…
Yet that was an old temptation in his mind, one that he was more than intimately familiar with. Albus knew… He knew what ends that led to. Especially in the Borderlands.
The bundle in his arms stirred, and a soft cry flew to Albus’s ears.
“Ah, you are right, young Harry. Enough woolgathering, hm?” Albus smiled and rumbled, leaning to look at the young boy. “You must forgive an old man.”
Harry’s answer was a giggle and his pudgy arm reaching towards the golden glint of the spectacles on Albus’s crooked nose.
“What do you say we get moving again, hm? And you be sure to look around, I am sure there are many things for a young man to see in here.” Albus gently jostled Harry in his arms, eliciting high-pitched giggles from the baby.
There were indeed many sights to see, for it was a sunny day, with golden sunlight spilling over gently rolling hills covered in grass while trees displayed the rich array of colours that only autumn could bring about.
The day looked positively cheerful and they could see traders following a road, whistling a lively tune while directing the horses pulling their wagons. Farmers were putting away the autumn harvest while humming a cheerful tune, accompanied by laughing and mischievous diminutive figures. Smaller than children, these were how the spirits of the fields, meadows, courtyards and houses chose to manifest. And judging by their disposition, Albus knew that the people here treated them well.
That was one thing that always caused a pang in his heart, for he was keenly aware of the enslavement of Earth’s elves.
“But I am here for a purpose,” Albus muttered under his beard, and so he set off, humming a tune and sometimes making faces at little Harry. He set off in the direction of a forest where the leaves were only of single colour. The red shade of blood.
=======(/)=======
“Potters watch the ways,” Albus muttered to Harry as they entered Straetweard Castle. Its tall lookout towers loomed over them until they passed through the gate, accompanied by armoured guards. Even their castle, Albus thought, was named ‘The Way Watcher’.
They walked through illuminated a corridor, the guards silent and grim, grimmer than what Albus was used to from Borerlanders. But his polite enquiry was met only with steely silence.
“Through the door,” one of the guards, a stocky man with a deep scar across his cheek, rasped in a rough voice. “The Lord will see you. And remember that we will be watching you.”
“Of course.” Albus nodded. “I would not have you ignore your duty.”
The other guard beckoned him to go through. On the other side of the door stood another pair of armoured guards, and in the corners of the chamber, Albus could see more guards, this time equipped with recurve bows.
He had to walk some distance into the chamber, one of the audience halls where the lord of the castle received petitioners. His steps were muffled by a thick carpet, and in front of him, taking up the center of the chamber, stood a table upon which somebody had put a plate of bread and two goblets.
Facing him from across the table was sat the lord of the castle, Raedfrid Potter. “Albus Dumbledore,” the man spoke up. “The esteemed headmaster of the Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Would you partake of my bread and of my water?”
Albus nodded slowly to Raefrid, looking the man over. He remembered him to have much less grey hair, but there was the same resolute face, and the keen look in his brown eyes. Behind the man’s chair rested a dog, but not an ordinary one. At least, Albus knew of no ordinary dogs that could rival horses in size.
“I would, thank you. It is a pleasure to share bread with you.”
After Albus swallowed a mouthful of the fresh bread, he could see Raedfrid rise from the chair, gripping a walking stick, and do the same. The dog, meanwhile, opened one of his eyes and gave Albus a single look, before closing his eye again and settling down into a nap.
“Good, good.” Raedrid slowly strode around the table, leaning on the stick. “Now you would perhaps deign to tell me what brings the famed Albus Dumbledore into my castle.” He raised the stick and pointed its head, carved into the shape of a dog’s head, at Harry. “And with a babe in his arms as well. I do not suppose you have had a dalliance and need to hide the fruit of your loins?”
“No, certainly not.” Albus coughed to clear his throat. “In fact, I came here with the intent to speak with your son, Raedwald.”
Raedrid gritted his teeth and leaned on the walking stick even more. “To speak with my son… You are late, much too late for that. Raedwald is now resting with his ancestors. I put his ashes beneath the roots of the sacred tree just a few days ago.” He straightened his embroidered tunic.
“My condolences.” Albus bowed his head. “May I ask how it happened? I remember Raedwald as a healthy and strong young man.” “Even the strong and the young can fall prey to cursed wounds,” Raedfrid spoke quietly. “After Raedwald’s wife died in childbirth, some of his caution died with her. And so it happened that he returned from an expedition into the forest with a wound that refused to heal.” His fingers around his walking stick grew pale as he gripped it. “And sometimes, cursed wound can leave an old man alive.” Raedfrid could feel the scar on his leg throb in pain.
“Yes, cursed wounds can be very dangerous.” Albus nodded. “Then know this. This babe is not of my loins. He is Harry, son of James and Lily. Potters of Godric’s Hollow.”
“And I presume you have not brought him here, with a cursed scar on his brow, just for a social call.” Raedfrid walked closer to Albus and inspected Harry closely.
“You presume correctly. James and Lily have been slain by the same wizard that gave young Harry that scar in the attempt to kill him.” Albus stroked Harry’s head, feeling his soft tufts of hair on his palm. “James, whatever he did, made sure that Harry is protected. And thanks to that protection, Harry is alive, albeit scarred.”
“And so you bring young Harry here.” Raedrid’s eyes sought out Albus’s gaze.
“And so I bring him here.” Albus returned his gaze without flinching.
After a moment, Raedfrid nodded. “He is a Potter, and welcome here. I will care for him as if he was my own. He will grow up alongside my grandson Leofgif.”
Albus nodded with a smile, almost feeling a tingle as the protective magic was sealed and strengthened around Harry.
“I am glad to hear that. Very glad.”
“You must know, Albus, that a childhood here is not easy.”
“Yet he will grow up with a family that accepts him.”
“Yes, he will. Tell me, would you like to stay overnight?”
“Yes.” Albus nodded. “Yes, I think I will. Thank you.”