Disclaimer - Rise of the Guardians, How to Train Your Dragon, Tangled, Brave, and Harry Potter - none of these are mine, of course. Please read, review, and enjoy! -phoenixagirl123
"Tell me 'nother story, Dad!"
"Alright, Jack, but this is the last one, aye?" the man chuckled good-naturedly. "Then it's off to bed with you, m'boy. Hm, I know - Once upon a time, there was a seventh son of a seventh son, and though he did not know it, magic was in his blood..."
Jackson Overland had always loved his father's stories of swashbuckling adventure, of fantastic romances (yes, Jack was now desensitized to the kissy parts) and, best of all, of magic. Their family was a simple one; they lived their lives quietly, tending the livestock out in the fields. And every night, a fire flickering merrily in the hearth, Jack would cling to his father's legs and beg for a story. His imagination knew no bounds, and even Jack's mother, a warm-hearted, fretful, practical sort of woman, was amazed at what a tale her husband's words could spin.
He could have written his words, have become a great author with a swimming pool of pounds, but he was a man who preferred a steadier life with his family. "After all, family is everything, yes?" he would tell his wife before blowing out their bedside candle.
As Jack grew older, his parents gave him a sister. But it wasn't the best of times – war and chaos and broken out a few years prior to his sister's birth, and fear was a tangible thing in the breeze. They called the enemy the Bogeyman - an assassin who crept through the shadows and slit the throats of the innocent in their sleep. Ever since the Year of Mists, the one full of government unrest and strange disasters and wretched luck, paranoia still lurked in the hearts of those who had lived through that misery. All were required to partake in a war against the shadowman and his dark-cloaked army. They said it was the Russians; Jack's father was not so sure.
After years of wrangling with the Ministry, Jack's father could not escape being drafted, and he knew now that he had to fight, if only for his family. It had been a tearful goodbye, and Jack made his father a promise – that he would protect and keep safe Emma and his mother from shadow. His dad made eight-year-old Jack a promise too – "I will return, my love, my children. I promise."
Jack quickly learned not to trust promises. He was proud of his dad – proud that his father had helped destroy the Bogeyman's army – but proud indicated that he was happy, and happiness was the farthest thing from his mind.
You can't keep a promise when you're dead.
All Jack had now was his mother, his sister, and his staff. It was his father's last gift to him, an ancient family heirloom. And then something straight out of his father's stories came alive - he one day was merely fiddling about with the thing when suddenly he was carried into the air. It was like a witch's broomstick.
His father would never show him how to fly. Instead, in utmost secrecy, Jack taught himself (a process that involved a lot of bruises, crash landings, and tree branches) and found that being in the air, with the wind at his back and the sun in his eyes, was better than being bound to land.
Then there was the day he learned the staff could channel magic. The kind of magic straight out of his father's stories... He hadn't even known he was magical at all until he'd banged it on the floor and it had started to snow indoors. That day, he was visited by very official-looking people who told a wide-eyed Jack and his anxious mother about the hidden world of witches and wizards, and that Jack himself was a Muggle-born wizard who could attend a special academy, specifically designed for his kind. And that was also the first day he'd seen his mother cry since the funeral.
Jack promised himself that he would never use the staff for magic again… except maybe as a broomstick. You couldn't trust promises anyway. And Jack couldn't give up flying.
He would get a wand instead - because he was going to Hogwarts! The two wizards had given him a book - Hogwarts: A History - which he had read fifteen times so far. What was inside prompted him to perform his first backflip. Excitedly he talked with his sister till midnight, babbling away about everything and anything he knew about magic, fictional or otherwise, and how he would write to her all about his adventures. Emma was reluctant to let her big brother go – who would calm her down when she had nightmares? Who would cheer her up without his pranks and jokes? Even little Emma's worries couldn't keep Jack down for long – he was soaring above the moon. Everything was almost perfect.
Almost, except for the looks his mother gave him. Worry. Pain. Anxiety. With his ruffled brown hair, honey-dark eyes, and a splash of freckles smattering his cheeks, he was the spitting image of his father. She was afraid for him. He was even more of a rule-breaker than his father, her darling little clown – the type who would easily run headfirst into a fight. Now he was barreling headfirst into a world she would never understand. When he was in her arms, he was oceans away. Even when the scarlet Hogwarts Express had pulled out of the station, she felt only unbearable, maternal worry.
"Oh, Jack," she whispered through unshed tears. "Please come home with your nose on the right way, darling. Please come home safe…"
Many stories begin with a simple, "Once upon a time." But in our story, the time that was once uponned was one of elder paths, in a chippery little hamlet tucked away upon an island swathed in broad oaks and towering sycamores. Not a story - a legend, a lesson, the kind with a set time and yet timeless, and you would do well not to forget it.
There is a legend, out from the glen, that once upon a time a single drop of sunlight fell from the heavens. And from the sun's tears grew a magic, golden flower. It had the ability to heal the sick and injured, with far more power than a mere Episkey. Centuries passed, and a hop, a skip, and a boat ride away, four wizards of great esteem built a castle, to educate the youth of the magical community. And so much time passed by, and the school flourished in the hands of Headmaster Lunar and his Deputy Headmistress, Primrose Corona...
There was much happiness as it became known that Primrose Corona was going to have a baby. But then she got sick... very sick, with a rare magical malady that hadn't been seen in literal eras. It was as if the entirety of St. Mungo's had been Confunded. There seemed to be no cure, and she was running out of time. And that's when people usually start to look for a miracle. Or in this case, a magic golden flower...
A healthy baby girl - Hogwart's princess - was born, greeted with much rejoicing. To celebrate her birth, they launched a floating lantern into the sky. And for a moment, everything was perfect.
And then that moment ended.
In a heartbeat, everything was different. It came too quickly, body-slamming Hogwarts mercilessly - the war against Kozmotis Pitchiner touched everyone, wizard and Muggle alike, and Hogwarts, the safest place in the world, had to be protected. Everyone was busier, and just for a moment, Hogwart's princess was left unguarded. But a moment was all she needed. She wasn't one to give up her precious source of eternal youth without a struggle. She'd broken into the castle, snatched the child, and just like that - gone!
In our story there is a why. Why would anyone indulge in such cruelty, to take away a mother's sole source of comfort in a world that was now so full of hurt and hate? It was sick, it was sad, and it was wrong. And then there was a powerful how - how could the Deputy Headmistress still hope for her daughter's return? How could anyone so hurt believe in happy endings? But no one understood that for Primrose Corona, hope was all she had left.
The wizarding world searched and searched, but they could not find their little princess. Far away, hidden away in a tower, our resident scarlet woman raised the child as her own - a woman cloaked in crimson and seducing mystery, who had seen much and learned little from centuries of life. Her name was Gothel, and for centuries she had thrived with her magic flower, restoring youth to careworn bones, caressing the petals and enticing it with pleading song. Now Gothel had found her new magic flower - and she was determined to keep it hidden.
Little Punzie was obedient and sweet, but she was also curious, and no matter how hard Gothel tried to break the girl, her flower always came back blooming. And even worse – the walls of that tower could not hide everything, and Gothel dreaded those agonizing days when she would come into the tower, only to be greeted by a cheerful, "Mommy, can I go see those lights in the sky?"
The worst day of Gothel's life started with blue skies, cotton-ball clouds, and a letter in emerald-green ink – the letter. The letter from Hogwarts. It wasn't like Gothel hadn't been expecting it - the source of eternal youth was concealed in Rapunzel's hair and so clearly she was capable of extraordinary magical powers - but it was a horror movie coming alive nonetheless. Gothel imagined streaks of gray crawling through her hair along her temples and grumbled irritably – what was the point of having the source of eternal youth when it didn't keep you youthful for more than five minutes, even when you had a massive fecking panic attack?
More and more came, each determined to reach the child, and Gothel frantically tried closing the loopholes, but even Gothel, a fairly talented witch in her own right, could not hide Hogwarts from a bright-eyed, cheerful eleven-year-old girl. When Gothel had left to fetch some groceries, assuring her daughter of a swift return, Rapunzel had come across a tiny pocket in the stairs, stuffed with bunches of letters all addressed to her. It even put her second-floor bedroom in it. Very curious (who would write her letters? And how did it get under the stairs?) she had opened it, and had not even begun to express all of her wonder and amazement at the contents when her mummy had arrived home.
"But Mother-"
"Darling, that discussion is closed. You know why we stay up in this tower."
"I know, but-"
"That's right, to keep you safe and sound dear. Now, pass the potatoes."
Rapunzel pouted. It had been five days since she had read the letter – her letter – and her mother got irritable whenever she even said the word "Hogwarts." A school designed for magical kids couldn't be that dangerous, could it? And yet, her mother was still quite sure that there would be bullies and thieves and Venemous Tentacula.
"Mother…" Rapunzel wheedled. "I've never made any friends. I've never met anybody!" Except Pascal, she thought, but ignored the niggling guilt in the back of her mind for lying. "I want to, y'know, see things, learn things! It's a magic school! I might even make some friends!"
"Friends?" Mother's laugh was like the tinkling of broken glass. "But my dear, that's demented! You've never been to school, with cliques and bullies and – my girl, you think they'll be impressed? Please. They'll eat you up alive!"
Rapunzel looked away. She wanted to prove to her mother that she could survive – it wasn't like she was completely helpless. She could do lots of things. She did have lots of spare time anyway. Even physically, she wasn't too bad – she had practice climbing up walls and balancing on rafters all day. So she unleashed her greatest weapon – the puppy dog eyes. Because even strict Mummy (well, that was the understatement of the year) couldn't resist the puppy dog eyes.
"If I go to Hogwarts, I promise that I'll stop asking about the ligh-I mean, the stars that come out on my birthday…"
It was a great sacrifice – she'd been wondering about those lights for her entire life – but Hogwarts was worth it. It had to be worth it.
Frowning, Gothel considered the child's words carefully. The mysterious magic of the puppy dog eyes were messing with her mind. She would be so close – dangerously close – to discovery, but she wouldn't be recognized. Gothel could certainly arrange that. Their own daughter would be living right under their nose… And a change of scenery couldn't hurt…
And she knew how Rapunzel was about promises.
"…Very well." Above her flower's annoying shrieks of delight, Gothel added, "But – on the condition that I shall be your Herbology teacher at Hogwarts, where I can keep an eye on you, so you won't-so nobody can hurt you."
There was a resounding squeal of happiness from the girl, and she tackled Gothel in a tight hug. "I love you so much, Mother!"
Gothel smiled darkly, stroking her daughter's precious hair. It was light and silky beneath well manicured fingernails. Ah, well. Teaching Herbology would mean lots of dirt in her cuticles, but Herbology had always been her favorite subject. She was very good at making flowers grow.
There was a time when her fingers fumbled on a bowstring, when she struggled with an arrow, when she couldn't shoot a bullseye on horseback. It was little more than a distant memory, but it was there – a happy time when the world was carefree, and the war barely made it beyond the haze of innocence clouding a five-year-old mind. To her, everything had been perfect.
To worried parents Fergus and Elinor? Not so much. Having a considerable amount of money suddenly seemed useful, and their Galleons were pouring in to help with the war effort, but fear was still rampant. Kozmotis Pitchiner was good at that – spreading fear. And so the two of them guarded their precious daughter as closely as they could… but rambunctious, redheaded little girls ought to get in trouble occasionally, and her parents happened to take their eyes off their wee lassie for just a moment to speak with a harried scout…
She bounced and tumbled through the undergrowth, crisp leaves crackling merrily at the slightest touch, deeper into the shadows of towering pines and twittering birds. The mossy forest floor was dappled with faint patches of light, and suddenly little Merida felt very small and insignificant in comparison to this vast, ancient place.
And then something rustled, and she turned about with a little gasp. There was nothing, except for the shadows, but she could not quite shake off the feeling that she was being watched, and quite suddenly her heart started beating tremulously.
But all sense of foreboding was forgotten when she heard it – a crooning little whisper, like a child singing. She turned to see the glowing blaze of blue smoke, dancing and beckoning to her. A will o' the wisp! It was calling to her, bobbing prettily, and she was so delighted by the wisp that she paid no attention to the ominous growl behind her…
Reaching out a tentative hand, she just barely brushed the thing, a sliver of wispy satin, and snatched it back when the wisp faded away in the breeze. They are real! Magic is real…
Fergus and Elinor only knew of their child's wandering at the sound of her shrill scream of terror.
Merida raced through the tall grass, but felt paralyzed to the spot as it reared above her – with bared gleaming fangs and talons as long as her arms and guttural snarl in its throat, with scales like midnight, its hide littered with the weapons of fallen warriors…
Mor'du, the demon king of all dragons.
Elinor whisked wide-eyed Merida away as Fergus as his kin unsheathed spears and swords and wands against a creature that counted as its own landmass. That day, Fergus lost a leg to Fiendfyre and gained a story he could tell for years to come. And Merida made herself a promise – never again would anyone dear to her to have to come to save her at their life's risk. And Merida didn't know what Jack did about promises.
The light-hearted, boisterous little redhead soon grew into a gangly, untamed spitfire – cute until she opened her mouth. She became known as a sureshot, and by the age of eight she was reputed to be able to pin a fly to tree with one of her arrows without killing it. Any weapon became a natural extension of her arms – any weapon, that is, but a wand. Magic seemed to sputter at her fingertips, and she would rather duel with blades than useless little twigs anyway. Her request for self-defense lessons in between history classes only delighted her father, who much preferred sparring than giving lectures about doddery old kings of the past.
Elinor, however, had other ideas. She despaired in her dear little princess' hobbies. No matter how hard she tried, she could not mold and shape Merida into the lady she had to become in order to become a socialite from a distinguished pureblood family. She was following her own path, and almost certainly she would tarnish their family tree with tainted blood. Elinor had never known a Muggle-born and had never sought to question her parents; she had gladly filled her role, and had sacrificed much for her family. It was a different kind of bravery than that required to climb the Crone's Tooth and drink from the Fire Falls. Fergus always thought that if Elinor had gone to Hogwarts, she would either be the most beautiful Slytherin there ever was, or the quietest Gryffindor.
In DunBroch, the traditional assumption was that all the redheads were Gryffindors. Not one to break tradition, Elinor, a graceful brunette, had been from Beauxbatons. Both she and Fergus had been chosen to compete in the Triwizard Tournament. Neither won – but ever since their first dance at the Yule Ball… the rest was history.
On her eleventh birthday, Merida received two letters – one from Hogwarts, and a second from Beauxbatons.
Merida stubbornly campaigned to go to Hogwarts, her explicit adoration of Fergus playing a huge part in her decision, while Elinor tried to convince her tomboyish daughter to attend Beauxbatons, as it was a school "benefit of my wee little princess." Merida rather felt her mother was taking the "princess" nickname way too seriously.
In the end, after much moaning, whining, and desperation, Merida finally did the most painful thing in the world. She decided to think rationally.
She combed her hair, washed her face, smoothed the wrinkles in her dress, clasped her hands, and reached a compromise. Elinor was so undeniably pleased at her daughter's first real attempt at poise that, a week before the return letter of acceptance was due, Merida awoke to find the Hogwarts uniform hanging from her bedroom door. She then proceeded to awaken the entire manor with her screeches of joy.
"I'm going to Hogwarts!" she cried, all poise forgotten. "Mum – I love you so much!"
Berk - fishing, hunting, charming sunsets, and a serious pest problem, and not something you could fix with Auntie Em's Bug-Away Spray either.
Berk was devoid of mice or mosquitoes, due to the place being the most miserable little spit of land ever, with the kind of balmy, sun-in-the-sun weather that would give you frostbite on your spleen, but it did have massive biodiversity regarding the dragon, even more than in Romania. And getting rid of the devils involved stubbornness issues, the vocabulary of a sailor, and muscles. Lots of muscles.
Which Hiccup lacked. In obscene amounts.
Well, he had the stubbornness - it was wired into his DNA. And he would stubbornly try and fail and try again until it killed him. Because he was going to kill a dragon and damn the consequences.
Berk had once been a top-notch dragon handling facility, and Hiccup's mother had been one of the best handlers out there. Despite a conspicuous lack of technology and less-than-ideal weather conditions, Berkians got by just fine, just as they had for hundreds of years. But even Berk, in all its solitude, didn't not go unnoticed by Kozmotis Pitchiner when the War of the Fearlings began. Quite the opposite, in fact. Because what better way to spread the fear than to turn their own against them?
After the nightmares set the dragons on them... Grudges in Berk are hard to forget. Unlike the rest of the world, Berk was never freed from war. But to Hiccup, this war was life. And this life meant that for him to be a hero, a son of the chief, he had to kill a dragon.
But the universe was sort of against him. He and disaster clung to one another like a Permanent Sticking Charm. He was a scrawny little fishbone, always poking his freckly little nose into books, clumsy and awkward, using sarcasm as his crutch (impudence, Berkians called it, as most lacked the wit required of sassiness). His father, Stoick, worries for the boy. His son can't lift a hammer, can't swing an ax, and seemed totally devoid of magic. Any and all attempts to strengthen the boy ended in pathetic failure. (Attempt #1: Tossing the boy in front of a furious, flame-spewing dragon is not going to get the boy any stronger. Attempt #2: Handing the boy an ax he can't lift does not in any way solve Attempt #1's problems. In fact, Attempt #1 should not be attempted ever again.)
But all Hiccup sees is disappointment.
Berk wasn't a place for the brainy anymore. But Hiccup's mother had told him before she died never to forget himself. A promise. And Hiccup was bent and bound to it, mostly because his mother had been the only one willing to see something good, the only one who listened. So he stubbornly chased after his dragon-killing (and subsequently getting a girl) dream by going about it Hiccup's Way rather than Berk's Way, and he hoped that maybe one day, Hiccup's Way would be enough.
On Hiccup's eleventh birthday, a letter from Hogwarts arrived, much to the surprise of everyone. Hiccup hadn't exhibited a single sign of magical ability, so it had everyone baffled, including the boy himself. Hiccup was entirely convinced they had gotten the letter wrong...
Until he set Gobber's mustache on fire during dinner. They weren't anywhere near the fire!
Of our fearsome four, Hiccup is perhaps the most apprehensive. He has a chance to start something new at Hogwarts, to make something of himself... but he'll screw it up, like he always does, and Hiccup isn't looking forward to that part. He and disaster were already best buds without magic - now what's going to happen? Explosion, probably. It always involved explosions.
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