This is a Multi Period (not time travel) story that is is partly set in the 10th Century, (Part of what is commonly referred to as the Viking period) as a result it contains depictions of battle, sacrifice ( so some descriptions of a bloody nature etc), slavery, religious intolerance and other period attitudes for this era, in those sections. It therefore it may not be suitable for younger readers, those of a sensitive disposition, or those who object to the portrayal of those subjects even in a historical, fictional context. If you are such a person, then perhaps this story may not be for you.
Disclaimer: Anything you recognise from the books by J. K. Rowling remains hers and hers alone, I make no claim on them.
Chapter 1
Destiny's Journey Begins.
The 10th century.
The long, rough grass was crisp and brittle, frozen by the sharp white crystals of the early winter frost. Each blade covered, giving them a blue grey appearance on the muddy, frozen isthmus of land that stretched from the confluence of the two becks that normally flowed from a roughly easterly direction. A layer of ice covered the two weed filled becks that met not more than half a mile behind the small fortified farmstead and stretched towards the great City beyond. The small community was set on high ground on the bank upstream of the southernmost of the two becks, which was the stronger flowing of the two; they broke the ice of the beck to gather water whenever the well within the palisade was frozen. The marshland behind the settlement was not used for much of the year, the ground too soft when not frozen and the vegetation too rough for more than sheep or goats to digest, had only limited interest to them. The entrance through the timber wall faced land that was good rich and fertile, that provided more than enough food for the inhabitants and give them surplus to trade with the occupants of the City who had little space to grow or rear their own.
The hundred or so souls that resided within the compound were an insignificant number compared with the populace of nearby Jorvik, or as the Saxons still called it Eoforwic. That City lay beyond the confluence of the becks as well as the point where they joined the Fosse, a small shallow river that further separated the farmstead from its larger neighbour. Whatever anyone called it, the city had undoubtedly grown under the North men's control to become, what the sailors who arrived there on their ships assured its residents, without doubt the largest city in the world, it was a claim easy to believe of the filthy place. Just as had the Romans long before them, the North men had recognised that this place was strategically important and a naturally well protected inland port, it had grown again and grown fast, becoming larger than even the old City. With probably 30,000 residents within its ancient stone walls, which had been built by the Romans as was the case with a number of the buildings within, having been repaired using tree trunks, it was a City of boundless wealth and importance. No one knew how to make the stone the ancients from Rome had used to fix the blocks that formed their largely surviving constructions together, so it was impossible to build using their techniques now, regardless of the wealth. There were some that claimed the Roman stone had been made in a close to a liquid state before the blocks had been positioned. Others mocked such an idea, pointing to the pillar's made of blocks in the river, the remains of a City Centre bridge long collapsed into the fast flowing brown water, to show it could not have been, liquid stone would soon have been washed away.
The numbers of people living there had grown since the Norse had first arrived and settled here amongst those that had occupied the remains of the strong buildings. With them the Danes had brought trade with other countries, which expanded and some residents grew wealthy. The north men had gained control of the lands north of the Humber, called Northumbria, or Danelaw, mostly through trade rather than the violence they were renowned for and certainly could and would use, just as the Saxon population they infiltrated, were more than able to match. Both peoples had, instead seen the value of trade here and had exploited it to mutual benefit, building wealth in the City which flourished as a result, with many ships arriving on the tide, each day from early spring to the onset of winter. Every vessel carrying goods the captains were keen to trade from all corners of the world to this richest of all market places. Seal pelts arrived from Iceland, Peppercorns and Gemstones from the Hot Eastern lands, as well as the unfortunates who were now slaves, usually captured in battle in far off places and all manner of produce in between A rich tapestry of goods found its way to the City, from foreign lands and the countries that divided this island, to be sold or bartered in exchange for Gold or the goods made in the City which would be spread throughout Danelaw and the world, though foreign trade was just a memory in Winter, or something to look forward to resuming in the Spring, depending on how well trade had gone for the one speaking.
Many people were attracted by the potential wealth to be earned there; riches were available beyond even the dreams of most outside its protection. Such was the opportunity in the City that each day there was a steady stream of people carrying goods through its gates along each of the still smooth roads the Romans had built that radiated from it to lead across the whole vast island. They came to trade from all over Northumbria, to claim their share of the wealth in exchange for the produce and trinkets they brought. Much was traded with the residents of Jorvik; some left the City carried aboard one of the ships on the main river, to be traded across the known World. At least it did, until the winter storms arrived at sea.
No captains risked the wrath of the North Sea in winter; it could claim many a crew in good weather, no point risking them in the storms of the months of shorter days. Many ships that were wintering within the protection of the walls had been dragged out of the water onto the banks of the Ouse. They sat, like beached whales, in the freezing mud of the tidal river, which flowed steadily, even lazily, to the Humber and then to the North Sea. The stranded vessels had been beached to protect them if the river froze, but also so that the hulls could be laboriously scraped clean of Barnacles and slime, before they were repaired ready for spring when even more ships would start to arrive. Many of the City's boys could earn extra money for their families during the lean Winter months, scraping the planks of the ships clean, it was filthy work, but kept them warm on the frozen mud and paid well compared to many jobs available to them at other times of the year.
Throughout the maze of muddy streets of the City was a hive of activity, both honest trading and more nefarious activity, the noise of children playing between chores mixing with the shouts of the traders working, women talking or arguing the price of their purchase and animals squealing or grunting behind the houses.
It was this filthy, noisy place that was the capital of Danelaw, as some called the northern country above the Humber. It was here that the King of Northumbria and his family lived, in a palace that was one of the larger Roman villas left. The timber built long houses spreading to engulf the abandoned Roman remains; even the streets of that city were gone, beneath the need for more easily maintained houses, latrines and filth. Still a number of the more important, larger buildings built by those ancients, remained, resilient, if crumbling reminders of a glorious past. Some retaining faded remains of richly painted decorations on the walls, the amphitheatre providing a ghostly place where the Kings men practised and trained, watched by children, who jeered the prisoners held there, destined to be fodder for the ravens and birds once practice was done.
There was a permanent pall of smoke from the myriad of fires, staining the sky above the city and the smell of all manner of rotting waste in the streets was carried on the wind, mixed with the scents from the fires and cooking. As you got closer to its still formidable walls, the stench hung in the air, sometimes spreading for miles over the surrounding lands, depending on the wind strength and direction.
The walls protecting the City, were reinforced old Roman stone defences, that had been built in a square on the eastern side of the Ouse, in the triangle of land created by it and the smaller Fosse which flowed into the Ouse to the south of the wall, affording a natural defence as the city had grown outside the Roman limits. Where the stone work had crumbled, the wall had been repaired and strengthened using tree trunks from the surrounding forest, ensuring they had kept those within safe as they had since they were laid out centuries before. Both the Saxons and the North men had, where possible, ignored the Roman street pattern when building their new houses amongst the remains of the Roman built structures. The roads were filthy, mud with some wood or patches of straw strewn in especially wet areas, a haze of smoke from thousands of fires hung above as the tradesmen and craftsmen went about their work, the children played and the women prepared the meals or shopped. Although they had used some of the larger, more complete brick and stone Roman buildings, where they had been easy to repair and maintain, but the majority of the City's buildings were long houses, built from planks of wood and thatched with reeds from the two rivers and the becks. The sheer amount of wood cut from the forest for the City over the years had created a wide, clear view across the mile between the great City and the humble community, which was now a further half a mile from the trees beyond.
It was in this space, to the east of the City where the farmstead lay between the two becks, but high enough and far enough away from them for their flooding, in autumn and Spring to not be a problem. The ground between the two becks close to where they merged, turned to bog due to the autumn floods, along with the area between the combined becks and the River Fosse which they joined, were full of numerous pools and thick mud that were frozen that day, but still reflecting the weak winter light of the early morning sun. It was the confluence of these two watercourses that gave the outpost its name, Tang, the Saxon word for the meeting place of two such streams, a name used for this place for far longer than the defended farmstead had been there.
The small community sat within its own small defensive wall of tree trunks, driven into an earth bank above a ditch. It was an outpost of the city, close to the Roman road which led east over the hills and moors to the coast at Hvitsby, a settlement with a large Abbey, some fifty miles or two day's walk away, through dense forest where wolves prowled, hunting Hare and other small mammals before it rose above the trees over the Wolds and moors. The road saw a constant stream of people during the day, hurrying to and from the city with goods to trade, Fleece from the high moorlands, Jet beads from Hvits Settlement, Antler, timber, sea shells, animal skins, clay and gems amongst the raw materials for the City craftsmen to make objects from. It was also a route from the farms and estates to send in their produce to trade, meat from the Wolds, Barrels of Honey, as well as grain, Vegetables, Fruit and Nuts all carried on wagons, horse back and by slaves for miles, to supply the City where there was little room to grow much food. From dawn to dusk, a steady stream of people made their way to or from the City, those leaving hurrying away to get through the forest before dark. At night no one travelled through the woods, the spirits of the forest ensured that. They would attack travellers, especially those on their own and their soul would become lost in the trees forever, seeking the souls of others in turn.
The land his family owned and farmed here, next to Jorvik, ran up to the edge of the vast eastern woodland then along its boundary, to the north as far as the road, which marked that end of their estate. To the south their lands stretched round the city wall to the river Ouse including the smaller community at Fueltorp, the river formed the border of their land at that end, including another two Roman roads into the City. The land had been part of the gift to his family, given generations ago by the then King as reward for supporting him in battle where they had won a victory. His family had slaves to farm the land and look after them whilst they spent the winter here, avoiding the worse winter weather at their other, rather grander, house and estate at Thwing in the hills of the Wolds.
His family was wealthy, his ancestors mighty warriors on his father's side, they had fearsome reputation and were the subject of many a song and saga told by the fires of settlements everywhere. His Father was a Lord, the Lord of Tang and though old, over forty winters, had been a feared warrior. Songs were still sung of him and he was still a powerful man, in more ways than one, respected by Saxons and North men alike. It was not just because his Father was large or a warrior that he was respected, but he was also an advisor to the King, one of the most trusted and could raise over a hundred men at arms, who were sworn to him, if needed. His Father was a man who enjoyed the relative isolation of Thwing estate and of the farmstead here at Tang. His men having earned their own lands in the area, in battle to the south, none having halls as large or grand as the ones he owned of course.
His mother was a strong woman who had kept her beauty through a number of pregnancies and raising their surviving children. She was an example of the rare variety of Saxon, she, like her husband, was a pagan who shunned the newer religion, Christianity, which most Saxons followed.
There was, even now, a large church in Jorvik; it was the largest building there, apart from the King's palace and a few of the old Roman structures like their amphitheatre which still survived. There were a number of Priests living at the Church, which they called a Minster, or a Cathedral depending which of them you spoke to. They were in a constant battle with the King over the Taxes he charged them, in the Christian Saxon South a portion of everyone's Taxes went to the greedy Church and the Priests were free of all tax. Not so here, where many still held onto the old gods and beliefs, so the Priests could only gather from those who attended their churches and were taxed by the King, just as all men were. His Father considered the Christian Priests to be leaches that wanted freedom from Taxes, no responsibility to defend their community or go into battle for their King and to strip all of their earned wealth. The priests claimed that a Christian man had become Roman Emperor on the steps of the building on which their church in the city was now built. They said he was the first Christian emperor they had been blessed to have, so here in the city their church was founded, it should rule, his father said the clergy were speaking from where a pig farts, they would say anything to try to support their claims for more silver. No, his family preferred a mix of the Old Saxon and Norse gods, but, despite having to pay out more the new belief had grown in the city; the Priests were gaining converts and money. Almost unnoticed they had gained support and wealth in the City, so much so that they could now, if they wished, even challenge the throne, although the question of their success if they did remained.
Here at the estate that gave his family their title, they were close enough to the city to benefit from the traders, but did not have to suffer its smelly, crowded streets. Within its timber post on earthen bank ramparts were a dozen wooden, thatched buildings, for the slaves who tended the fields and family, the gate was guarded and a long plain building housed the dozen or so sworn men whose turn it was to guard the family alongside the few who lived with the family. The Hall was a large long house, decorated with carvings and animal skulls, a large set of Antlers stood high at the pinnacle of the roof above the door. The Hall was where he lived with his Father and Mother at one end of the space, near the cooking fire, the other end of the room was home to a number of sheep and cattle, providing warmth to the family as the fire died down, untended overnight. He spent his days, hunting, fishing, doing his chores and in battle training, as he had since he was six, as was expected of all boys once they reached that age. The evenings were spent in the Hall listening as his Father and his most trusted men discussed the day's work, the situation in Jorvik or told stories of past glories and battles. He sat next to his Father, observing, not speaking. He was there to learn how a Lord behaved and kept the loyalty of his men, he was his father's heir. He would take over when his father died.
Now he was almost an adult, he was eleven, a year from adulthood, once he turned twelve he could be called to take part in battle, he could marry, but first he had to build his reputation. He was a skilled swords man and a master of techniques required in a shield wall, as was expected from the heir of a Lord. The smith a Thwing had made him a sword; helmet and chain mail coat of his own which he wore for practise, in it he already appeared as a powerful Lord might. One day all that his Father owned would be his, once his father was dead, he would be the Lord of all this and the sworn men would need to decide whether to swear an oath to him or another Lord. They needed to know he would be an asset leading them into battle, before any would become his men. He was now the only surviving son, his elder brothers having died in battle.
His name was Utred, Utred Huntrodds, son of Utred the Feared, his family did not use the Norse tradition of adding Son to their name, but proudly keeping the name of their ancestors unchanged. When he was young he had not understood why his father was feared, not until he had started his lessons did he know the fierceness his Father was capable of. After that first battle training in the practice area, in the courtyard within the wall, he understood, that first lesson was forever engraved in his mind. His Father enjoyed teaching his son personally when he could and this first lesson had been with his Father, they had used wooden weapons on that occasion and his Father had asked six of his men to form a shield wall, which he single handedly attacked. He had instructed the men not to hold back when he charged, even though he was their Lord. The men had taken him at his word and charged, hard. Utred remembered his fear as the six battle hardened men had, at first seemed to over whelm his Father, attacking him savagely with the wooden training weapons. Then suddenly with a blood-curdling roar, his Father had erupted from the scrum and flung the men around like dolls. The moment the six year old Utred had heard that animalistic, feral roar, a noise he had never heard from him, he knew why his father was called the Feared.
His Father had then had half a dozen Norse prisoners from Jorvik brought in to the yard; they were led shuffling in, some looking round in fear, others defiant. These were criminals caught and tried in the city, who had been sentenced to death, by one or other methods open to the court ranging from hanging to drowning in the river or beheading, all were dishonourable deaths for a Norseman. His Father offered them the chance to die as warriors, with swords in their hands and attempt to defeat him, if they could; alternatively they could die in humiliation by whatever means had been determined. Each of them chose to fight; they were assured that if they defeated him then they were free. They all believed in the old gods, which was why they had been selected, it meant that for them death in battle, with a sword in their hand, would guarantee glory in the afterlife. To die fighting would mean joining dead warriors in the Feasting Hall of Valhalla, a far more appealing death than execution and humiliation, their bodies mounted over the city gates to be fed to Ravens or cast into a sty for Swine to devour.
By choosing to fight, they were trying to regain some glory for their names; they would certainly achieve that if they defeated a renowned warrior like his Father. They were given swords, axes and shields, real ones. His Father picked up his own sword and shield and stood ready as the six prisoners attacked, together in a disorganised mass.
Utred had vomited at the sight of the first one to fall, abdomen opened, its contents spilling into the mud, the body writhing in the man's death throws. His older brothers laughed at him, as their Father slaughtered his opponents and the blood ran thickly across the ground. That had been the first time Utred had seen slaughter, as it would be when he went into battle, the first time he had been this close to death, the smell had over whelmed him, at the time.
Now, five years later, he was the only son left and had become accustomed to the sight of such gore and death. He had killed men, during training duels with prisoners, admittedly because it was during training sessions the battles were weighted in his favour to some extent, though only to ensure he lived, not necessarily won. If any of the criminals had looked like over powering him, even with the blunt weapons they had been given, his Father or one of their men had acted to prevent it. He remembered the first he had killed a few months before he turned eight. The man had come at him fiercely, trying to scare him, he had fought poorly though and Utred's sword had first felled him, cutting through his calves, but the man grabbed him as he fell, dragging him down, then gripped his throat tightly. Utred swung his sword wildly, opening the man's own throat and sending blood spraying over himself and the ground. The man's grip released him as he grasped at his own neck, trying to seal the wound so he could breathe, but it was pointless.
"Finish him Utred, end him quickly, this isn't revenge." His father ordered.
The man was twitching on the ground and suddenly Utred was nervous in his euphoria of the fight. He had tried to stab the prisoner through his heart, but the blade had glanced off his ribs. He had continued to try to end the man's pain, stabbing and slashing at him, his father and his men laughing at the youngster's efforts until eventually the man had died. Unknown to Utred a priest had seen the fight and was horrified at what he had seen and started berating his father for condemning his son's soul to hell by allowing it. His father had simply called. "Utred how was it?"
He looked up at his father, face red with the man's blood and a massive grin on his face. "Good Father." He replied, white teeth showing brightly through the blood.
Grinning, Utred the feared turned to the priest. "If you don't start them killing young, before they know to feel the guilt you would put on them, they never become a good warrior. When he is a lord he will need to fight and kill or he will have no men for the King, they won't follow him. He will also need to condemn men to death at times, if he will not carry out the sentence himself, how can he ask others to do it for him. "
His father walked away from the shocked man, who had come with a message from the King, Utred held onto the sword, still dripping with blood and followed him to the hall.
That night in the hall, Utred got drunk for the first time, celebrating his first kill as his father said was his family's custom. The priest sat as a guest with the family, his message still undelivered, uncomfortable in this hall of debauchery as he saw it. His father told a heavily embellished version of his son's first kill, then invited the priest to tell a tale to mark the occasion. The man told of Christian saints and how it was not too late for my soul to be saved, he described how saints sat in heaven singing Gods praises for eternity, claiming this was an ecstatic existence.
Utred could not see that as an aspiration he desired, preferring the wilder feasting hall of Valhalla, but in drink asked. "Are there any women in this heaven?"
Believing he was gaining a potential convert from the interest shown, the Priest replied. "Of course, they sing alongside the men, it is truly glorious."
"No!" Utred replied. "I meant women, real women like those with the warriors in Valhalla, women to hump."
His father and the men fell about laughing, as the priest opened and closed his mouth, speechless. Eventually the priest found his voice and weakly responded, promising to pray for them all.
Utred had of course received injuries himself over the years, during his training. They had strengthened him, taught him to dodge and be quicker, but no matter how serious the wound, they had healed quickly, too quickly compared with those of others. He had never received one wound that hadn't been completely healed within a day, no matter how serious it had been. In fact no injury he had received in his life had remained long. Once when he had, as a young boy, fallen from his Fathers Hall roof at Thwing, breaking the bones in both of his arms and a leg, they had healed within a day. Only close family and the most trusted members of the household knew of this ability, to others it was explained away by understating the extent of his injuries. He was not allowed to mix too much with the slaves children of course, his only friends his own age had been children of his Fathers most trusted men who occasionally trained with him. They would be the ones expected to be expected to fight at his side as his men, when he became the Lord, should the King command it. If they any of those had noticed his self-healing abilities, it wasn't mentioned for fear of raising his Fathers' anger. The family knew it may well be known or suspected at least, but were not about to broadcast it widely where it could get the heir killed by the church who viewed such things as the work of their devil.
It couldn't be denied though, that fast healing wasn't the only odd thing about him, strange things seemed to happen around him on a regular. When the animals and beasts that lived in the Hall were restless and no one could calm them, all Utred had to do was raise a hand for them to settle down instantly. On one occasion the cooking fire in the guards barrack had once spread and caught the thatch. Utred entered the house and rather than the building burning to the ground as it should have, only a small section of the roof had needed to be replaced. Such events were known about of course, they could hardly be hidden within the community, though they were rarely spoken about, never with outsiders, who remained ignorant of the odd events. Even so, both at Tang and Thwing, it was known that Utred son of Utred was odd and everyone feared him a little as a result.
This crisp, winter morning, Utred had risen from beneath the furs on his bed as the sun rose, keen to begin this day. He had grown well in the last five years, the training had toned his muscles, which he covered with a linen shirt, then pulled on his woollen trousers and leather boots. Dressed he set about his daily chores, keen to get them out of the way so he could get on with the rest of the day. He might be the son of the Lord, but that did not mean he did not have work contributing to the household to do. He stoked the fire to bring it back to life for the day, ensuring the flames grew on the new logs he placed on the embers before he began spreading clean straw on the floor, a task he did when the old had been absorbed by the mud. His mother rose as he was feeding the beasts at the far end of the hall, she began preparing breakfast. As he worked he was planning the hunt he was going on with later that day with two of his Father's most trusted men, in his mind as well as looking forward to the morning's training.
"Morning my Lord." Fryga called, bringing the first bucket of water of the day into the hall from the nearby well, for the family to wash in.
Fryga was one of the free servants they had; she was twenty, tall and heavily pregnant with her seventh child. She was sworn to Utred's Father, as was her husband and one of the household. Although she had been pregnant each year since marriage, only one of the children had so far survived, but this was not unusual and in fact she was one of the oldest of the married women in the community still bearing children. So many died during child birth, both mother and child, such was the nature of bringing new life into the world.
"Morning Fryga." Utred replied.
He liked Fryga; she was one of the few who were not bothered by the strange occurrences that happened around him. She was of course, quite proper when she dealt with him, remembering her place as a member of the household that protected her, but at the same time she was someone he trusted and had often confided in. Her husband was one of his Fathers most trusted men. She set about cooking breakfast for his family and hers, whilst other trusted servants tended to the animals and started on the day's tasks.
Practice that day was enjoyable; he was practising shield wall skills with some of his Fathers' men. They formed two walls of six men behind overlapping shields and charged each other using short wooden bearded axe's to try and break through. Utred decided, on the fourth charge, that his team would use the triangular pig snout formation, moving into it during the charge to confuse his Fathers group and attempt to force a path through their wall. It worked and his Father roared with laughter as Utred beat them to the ground having burst through.
"Well done my boy." He laughed "Odin knows that is hard to pull off, I believe we have made a warrior of you at last. Now, how about another charge? This time no tricks, a contest of power see who can push the other back."
"Yes Father." Utred replied, grinning ruefully, knowing his Father had the more powerful team and was using the challenge to get a little revenge on him.
They all stacked the wooden weapons near the house then formed the two opposing lines of shield wall, then charged. To Utred's surprise his team held firm, at first then slowly they began to slip back on the frozen earth.
"No, come on push," Growled Utred to his men and their wall briefly held again.
This was a shield on shield contest of raw strength and power. Each man was crouched low behind their shield, pushing hard, their feet digging into the ground to increase the pressure and prevent them being shoved backwards. But still his Fathers team was winning. "Hold, come on damn it hold." Utred thought as his men redoubled their efforts.
Instantly the pressure on his team's shields lessened, "Push!" He shouted.
They did and burst straight through the wall, pushing his father's team out of the way.
Shocked Utred looked round himself; he knew that had been too easy. "What the Hell?"
His Father's team stood or in some cases lay on the ground where they had fallen, still looking like they were straining against their shields, but they were all perfectly still. Utred and his team moved amongst his Father's men, checking them. They were alive, and conscious, but could not move. Utred tried to move his Father's arm, but it was solid and unforgiving. Some of the slaves noticed the men still as the Roman statues in Jorvik; they murmured in surprise and stopped their work.
Summer 1999.
The occupants of the unremarkable street of Privet Drive, within the little known town of Little Winging in Surrey had grown used to hearing raised voices from within Number four. Living in a place that, in most residents opinion, was so ordinary that, that in itself was its main claim to what little notoriety it could muster, so very little of note about it, anything different was of intense interest and there had been nothing as interesting as this in the area since the arrest of Piers Polkis a couple of years ago. From the outside the house looked no different from any of the others in the street, with its crystal clear, sparkling windows, crisply painted, smart front door, complete with polished brass number and letterbox that shone brightly when the sun, or even the light of the nearby street light, hit it. It's neatly manicured garden, freshly raked weed free gravel between two spotless rows of slabs forming the drive that lead to the glistening double doors of the garage and spotlessly swept paths, gave no impression that the house could be owned by anyone other than people who were proud of their home, ideal neighbours even. However as the occupants of the other houses in the street knew, nothing could be further from the truth.
Although the residents were enjoying the show, as the sound of raised voices belted into the street for them all to gleefully hear while the Dursley's were having yet another row, they all knew the family too well and were nervous of perhaps witnessing something happening which would mean that they would have to intervene, or worse end up testifying about in a court. Although they would all have enjoyed seeing the family finally get their comeuppance, they would far prefer it if they were not involved and it was down to others to actually do it.
The arguing between the family members had been occurring more and more frequently over the year or so, that had passed since they had returned to the house from being mysteriously away for ten months. They had told no one that they were planning the trip, in fact it had been so sudden a departure that some had not realised the house was empty for almost a week. Not that anyone believed anything untoward had happened to the family, it was just that their absence was not noticed by some and those who had seen the departure itself were few in number and word needed to spread amongst the community. No one knew where they had gone, nor were they keen to ask any of the family out right on their return, heaven forbid they be accused of prying into the family's affairs. Yet whilst number four had been empty, the neighbours had fairly soon realised that much of the trouble in the street had ceased in the absence of the family from the town. It had been quite a noteworthy change, appreciated by all. The street had been so peaceful, so pleasant to live in; it did not take long for them all to agree it was mainly because the family were not present. Many had hoped they would not be returning, but they had although the problems of before had not, instead there were different, more entertaining ones with the trio. The Dursley's had always been odd; their return had not initially been at all welcome to their neighbours.
Mr. Dursley was a very big man, always trying to give the impression of normality and respectability, always a little too hard for it to be true. He abhorred anything he viewed as different, be it a humorous sticker on a car or someone dressed up at Halloween. It was well remembered he had flown off the handle once when a neighbours relatives had arrived to visit, in a Volkswagen caravanette painted to look like a lady bird. The house had been on the market very soon afterwards, the man had lost his job at Grunnings. The neighbours knew that Vernon liked to control his family with a rod of iron, but that incident had shown that given half a chance, he would run all their lives just as hard. His attitude to his neighbours had never been friendly; he often acted as though he barely tolerated them or believed them beneath him in some way.
Mrs. Dursley was a thin woman, who might have engendered some sympathy for being married to Vernon had it not been for the fact that for years she had proven to be a malicious gossip. She had only spoken to her neighbours in order bad mouth others in the town, especially any who criticized her son. She was interested in everybody else's business though and took great interest in those she thought were lowering the tone of the street, which was everyone except her family, in her opinion.
The residents of the street knew the couple had one son, Dudley, an only child; he had terrorized the local children for years before the family had disappeared. However the neighbours had noticed a change, for the better in him since the family had returned. No longer did Dudley wander the streets looking for trouble; he had not reconnected with his old friends, who seemed to have dissipated as a result, of them only the young Polkis had continued along the path of criminality. Dudley had, surprisingly to many, befriended dear old Mrs. Figg and could be found visiting her more often than not. The old dear was slightly eccentric about cats, but was well respected, as someone who kept to herself, in the street and was always friendly in her interactions with the other residents and them with her.
There had also recently been a positive change in Petunia, they noticed, but Vernon was just the same, despite the biggest change in the family. No one had seen Harry for nearly two years now, he had disappeared at the same time as the Dursley's. That night the Dursley's had been seen driving away with two strange looking people, the observers assumed that Harry had again been left in the house alone, nothing unusual in that of course. It was possibly the worst kept secret on the street that the Dursley's scapegoat was frequently left in the house, while the other three went out. The teenager had been seen at his room window earlier that day, but that was the last time he had been seen by any of the neighbours. They had, over the years, been told by Vernon the boy attended St. Brutus school, a boarding school for disturbed children, but the boy had seemed quiet during that last summer he had spent at Privet Drive. In fact none could remember him being particularly troublesome at all, true they had heard strange things about him, but not actually witnessed anything. None of them really knew him, due to the stories; they stayed clear of the odd, thin boy.
No one in the street had ever really bothered with the strange family at Number four beyond polite neighbourliness. That was unlikely to change, even though two of them were now more approachable than they had been.
Tonight though, the residents of the street had abandoned their evenings in front of their televisions in the comfort of their own homes and were, instead, stood in groups discussing the goings on in that very house. Loud shouting from the Dursley's had disturbed even the most devout and avid fans amongst them from their soap operas, Vernon's voice carrying the length of the street, on the still summer's evening. He was apparently raging about his son's new girlfriend and his wife's support of the relationship. Apparently she was. "One of them." Whatever that meant, of course it set speculation off amongst the listeners, the wilder theories coming perhaps naturally from those who rarely missed an episode of their favourite soaps.
Unaware that he was providing the residents of the street with its evening's entertainment, the family was standing in their neat living room, Dudley standing defiantly facing his furious Father. This was the latest row his family had, had since Dudley and his Mother had returned from his Cousin's Wedding, an event his Father had forbidden them from attending. They had gone anyway, of course, Dudley no longer held his Father's word as law or his narrow minded prejudices and this knowledge had partly given his Mother the strength to defy her Husband for the first time. They had returned late, his mother had been very thoughtful all the way home.
"They all just accepted me." She had said in wonder, as they had turned into the street.
Vernon had been waiting for them, fuming, but before he could say anything, Dudley had blown a pinch of powder supplied by one of his new cousin in law's brothers, towards his Father, who instantly fell asleep.
The next morning his Father had ignored them both, until he overheard Dudley showing a parchment letter he had received to Petunia. It was from Dudley's new Girlfriend, Maria, who he had met at the Wedding. On hearing this news Vernon had turned purple and the vein on his temple began to throb, he glared at his son, whose eyes met his. After a few moments of staring at each other Vernon had grunted and stomped out.
This behaviour had continued all week, almost daily arguments ensuing as his father sulked. At other times, when he had to communicate, Vernon either snapped at them or merely grunted. Dudley and Maria had exchanged letters daily, via her Owl, a female barn Owl named Phiedi. A fact that Vernon did not miss, causing his anger to increase every time a letter arrived, until at the end of the week he finally exploded as Dudley sent Maria's Owl back with his latest letter. The argument was well under way as the neighbours gathered outside to hear the latest episode in the drama of the Dursley's lives.
"What do you mean you are involved with one of those freaks, boy, I forbid it. How could you expect us to accept her, when she is one of them?" Vernon yelled. "God alone knows what she is like, what has she done to you? I shall see she puts you right again, don't you worry about that. "
Dudley kept his cool as he answered his father. "Maria is a fantastic person." He informed him. "She has done nothing to me, that I was unwilling to participate in, she has certainly done nothing untoward if that is what you are insinuating. There is nothing to put right at all, I have never met anyone like her, she is far from being a freak."
"Of course she is, how could she not be. What would you know about it anyway? You are my son, you have been brought up not to get involved with her kind. That you don't see that tells me and any right thinking person, that you need help, boy."
Dudley sighed. "With each word you show just how little you know me, the person I have become. I will remind you that I am nineteen you can no longer control my life Dad, not unless I choose to let you, which I don't by the way. I make my own choices whether you like it or not, either way what I do in my life is up to me now. You don't intimidate me anymore, nor do you inspire me to be like you, not for several years now, but certainly not since I learnt to think for myself."
Vernon's face was purple with rage. "You ungrateful little brat! After all we have done for you, how dare you speak to me like that. I am your Father boy; it would serve you well not to forget that. You will do as I say, especially while you live under my roof. She is one of them; you will have nothing to do with her or her type."
Petunia stood between Father and Son. "Oh and don't I get a say in this at all, Vernon? I have met her, which is more than you have, so I have a little more insight about her than you have. She is a lovely girl. I am happy for Dudley; he is old enough to make his own decisions. Like it or lump it Vernon."
Vernon was shocked! "Petunia, what do you mean like it or lump it? Oh I get it. You have both been brainwashed by that lot. Well I am not standing for it. Petunia I rescued you from your sister's influence, and then had to take in her freak of a Son at your insistence. Much against my better judgement, you would do well to remember that."
"Vernon, just stop before you make a complete fool of yourself. I have had to put up with your obnoxious Sister and her smelly dogs for you, it works both ways Vernon. With her obsession with breeding them, it is weird how she speaks of it, something prurient, disgusting. She really is the only real freak that I have ever met." Petunia shouted back. "Not to mention your rule that I had nothing to do with my family, especially after my parents died. Well things are going to change, I have put up with enough from you. I should never have had to put up with it at all. You will accept my family, what little is left of it at least; you will apologize to them, especially Harry and his Wife. You will leave Dudley and Maria to get on with their relationship and you will be happy about it."
"Oh I will, will I?" Vernon bellowed. "You ungrateful bitch!" He raised his fist to hit Petunia, whose eyes widened.
He didn't get a chance to do any more, a sudden blow to his ample stomach robbed him of air as he doubled over and staggered back to fall into a chair.
"That's the last time you will raise a fist or hand to my Mother." Dudley stood over him rubbing his own fist.
"Remember, I was school boxing champion, I know where to hit you. I no longer like violence, for its own sake, but I will stop you from hurting either of us again." Dudley crossed to his Mum; he took her in his arms. "I'm sorry Mum, but I am not letting him do that to you under any circumstances." He said as he held her, comfortingly.
"I will have your hide for that boy." His Father gasped from across the room. "I brought you into this world and I will bloody well take you out of it, when I get my hands on you."
"No you won't Vernon." His Wife spat back.
"Won't I? He just assaulted me! No one gets away with that, least of all my Son and I am beginning to wonder about whether he really is mine, the way he is going on. Thinking of dating one of them, ridiculous." Vernon retorted.
"Oh be quiet you petty little man." Petunia retaliated.
Vernon rose, "Petty little man, me?" He bellowed.
"Yes you!" She responded. "Can't get your own way, so you try to threaten and make wild accusations. You don't even realise what you just accused me of in your idiotic attempt to threaten your son."
"Why you ungrateful little bitch, why the hell I married you I am beginning to wonder."
Dudley turned to his Father and stood, fists ready to defend his Mum if needed.
"Perhaps because no one else would have you." Petunia replied.
Vernon looked at his Son and snorted in derision. "I am going out for a walk, when I get back I expect you both to have come back to your senses and to be ready to apologize to me. So long as you do, we shall hear no more of this nonsense and that boy, your nephew, had better not show his face to me ever again." Vernon stalked out of the house.
They heard the door slam as he left and him shouting at the neighbours to clear off and mind their own business.
Dudley turned to his Mum who looked at him; he was surprised to see a very determined look on her face. "Right, that's the last straw, enough is enough. Dudley, pack what you need, clothes, things like that, as much as we can get in your car. We are leaving; I've finally had enough of that fat freak." She stood and they went to their respective rooms to pack.
Harry and Ginny had, had a wonderful Honeymoon in France. They had marvelled at Paris, and then travelled to Bordeaux, where they had, of course, tried the Wine before moving on to La Rochelle where they had discovered a wonderful Crépery. They had toured the area, discovering small villages and towns, enjoying themselves taking in the sights and shopping. They stayed in a different Hotel every night, some large, others small family run ones where they enjoyed traditional French meals. Each day they moved on, but not before they visited the local Bakery to buy some snacks, Ginny loved Pan au Chocolate so they purchased plenty of those, fresh each day. They had spent the last night of the seven at Fleur's parent's house, who had welcomed them to their home warmly. They threw a dinner party for the couple and they met all the Delacour Family, including aunts, uncles, and cousins in fact as many of the extended family who could make it. Gabrielle proudly introduced them to her Boyfriend who was overwhelmed, at first to be meeting the Harry Potter, much to Gabrielle's amusement. He soon relaxed though, despite speaking little English, once Harry wandlessly cast a translation charm the two of them were soon discussing Quidditch.
They spent the next day, walking round the Village with Gabrielle and Phillipe, her Boyfriend. It was an all Wizard village, the only one in France and like at Hogsmeade the main street led to the school, the Château of Beauxbaton Academy. They couldn't enter of course, but even from the gates they could see the large elegant building set in formal gardens, very different to the ancient walls of Hogwarts. They returned to the village to explore the shops before returning to the house.
It was evening before they left the Delacour's, the whole family was there to see them off, Phillipe promised to keep Harry informed of the French Quidditch results and Fleur's parents gave them a parcel of French treats to take home.
The newly Weds had sent their luggage home ahead of them then Apparated back to London and there Grimmauld Place address. It was dark when they arrived at number twelve, which appeared between its neighbours as they approached. They climbed the steps and Harry rang the bell and then picked Ginny up in his arms.
"Harry what are you doing?" She giggled. "Put me down before we fall!"
"No, Mrs. Potter we are doing this properly." He smiled as Kreacher opened the door.
"Master, Mistress welcome home." He greeted them while Harry carried Ginny over the threshold then put her down on her feet in the hall.
"Hello Kreacher, everything all right?" Harry said.
"Yes, Master, there are a number of letters for you in the sitting room, dinner is nearly ready. Madam Andromeda says she and Master Teddy will call in tomorrow. Madam Weasley asks that you let her know when you are back, as does the Headmistress and Minister, they told me you should Floo them at the Minister's flat." He told them.
"Oh, at his flat, that's interesting, thanks Kreacher," Ginny smiled. The couple went to the sitting room and Ginny called her Mother while Harry started on the pile of post on the sideboard. Harry was still working through the letters when Ginny finished talking to her Mum.
"Everyone's fine, Ron and Hermione have set a date for their Wedding. It's next Easter at Ottery St. Catchpole Church, then a bonding at the Burrow, they have bought a cottage in Hogsmeade too."
"Oh a Muggle Wedding should be interesting." Harry smiled as he thought of all the Wizards who would be present. "I have never been to one of those, something to look forward to. You had better give me a hand with these love, looks like everyone in the Wizarding World wants to congratulate us."
"All right darling, are you going to Floo Kingsley and Minerva?" Ginny smiled.
Harry nodded and went to the fireplace to contact the Minister.
"Hi Kingsley, we got your message. We are back safe and sound." He smiled as his friend appeared at the other end.
"Good to see you Harry let me get Minerva mate." The Minister turned and called the Headmistress.
"Welcome back Harry," She called as she entered the room. "Did you both have a good time?"
"Yes Minerva, we got back about twenty minutes ago. Kreacher gave us your message." Harry smiled.
"Is Ginny there? We need to talk to you both, don't worry its good news." Minerva asked grinning.
"Hang on, I'll get her." Harry turned and called Ginny over. When she arrived Kingsley gave the news.
"Now you two, as you know, Minerva caught the bouquet at your Wedding, since then we have been planning. We are getting married at Hogwarts at the Halloween Feast, but we have a couple of things to ask you so, Harry will you be my Best Man?" Kingsley smiles
"Wow, yes of course I will Kingsley." Said Harry. "It would be an honour."
Minerva added. "And Ginny, will you be my Matron of Honour?"
"Of course I will Minerva." Ginny smiled.
"Good that's settled, now no one else knows yet, neither of us has any family left. So we are setting up a cover story to get people we want to be there, there, to surprise them. You two will be the only ones who know the real reason." Said Kingsley grinning.
The two couples then chatted about what had been going on since the Wedding, until Kreacher called Harry and Ginny for dinner.
Later Harry was sat at his desk in their bedroom writing a letter.
"Come on darling." Ginny grinned from where they lay on their bed. "I'm waiting for you."
"There in a minute love, just sending this letter to Dudley, let him know we are back." He smiled then rolled up the letter and tied it to Tiberius leg. The owl flew out of the window. Harry watched him go as the clock in the room struck midnight, then turned and joined Ginny in bed.
Ginny cuddled him "I hope he and Aunt Petunia are all right, Mum says George hasn't heard from Dudders all week."
"He'll be fine, I'm sure dear. Bet we hear from him tomorrow." Harry returned the cuddle they kissed; he felt Ginny's delicate hand as she slowly slid it between his legs.
"Why Mrs. Potter, you are insatiable," He grinned moving his hand to her breast.
"Luckily, so are you Mr. Potter," She giggled.
Author's Notes:
Hope you enjoyed it. This story is going to be very different in that I intend most chapters to include both era's.
My thanks to Balthazar91 for his work as Beta for this story.
This story was removed from another site, those who read it there before it was deleted may have noticed I have added more to it and the Historical notes at the end of each chapter. Those who are new to it I hope you enjoy it, I am using my knowledge from working as an Archaeologist some years ago to add to the depiction of the 10th Century uk (the founders era) portions as accurately as possible in this story. My colleagues are of course constantly discovering new information, our knowledge of the era is far from complete, I have endeavoured to include the most up to date knowledge of the period though through the work of my colleagues our understanding is constantly evolving as new sites are explored and discoveries made.
I include the historical notes on most chapters, simply to give you more background for things mentioned, but if you think I have missed something out of the explanations or there is something about the period parts of the story you are puzzled over, then let me know and I shall try to answer it either in a historical note or once the story is complete in any update to the relevant chapter.
Anyway, until next time.
Tgfoy
Historical Notes:
Jorvik is pronounced Yorvik
Eoforwic is pronounced E o for wick
Both names were used at the time for the City now called York, however for ease of use I shall mainly use Jorvik in this story.
Jorvik is known to have been the largest Viking age Settlement in the then known world, the writings of the Monk Alcuin and the Archaeological record within the city give the estimate of the population used.
The last Norse King of Jorvik was Erik Bloodaxe; most Kings in the period were Saxons under the control of the Norse, i.e. Puppet Kings.
Tang is a Saxon word meaning Meeting Place of two becks (beck is a regional name for a Stream or Brook). The area became known as Tang Hall when a large manor house was built in the 1800's (demolished in the 1970's) then in the 1920's the green field area passed into the hands of the local authority which built it's first council house estate there, the second in the country, to re-house families from one of the Cities slums.
Fueltorp = Fulford, site of the least known, but first battle of three in 1066, during which the last Norse invasion of England began with the capture of York, the victory was short lived as the invaders were defeated at nearby Stamford Bridge about a week or so later.
Hvits Settlement is now Whitby, not much is known of Hvit himself other than his name meant White in Old Norse. The word by meant settlement the modern name is derived from that translation.
At the time this part of the story is set, what we know as England was divided into several Kingdoms. Utred is in Northumbria (North of the Humber) which included some of Lancashire and Cumbria, Mercia was immediately south of the Humber stretching from the border of Wales in the west to lincolnshire in the east and as far south as London on the north bank of the Thames. The bulge of East Anglia was another Kingdom, while Wessex and Cornwall made up the rest. (This is just a rough guide). In this story Only Northumbria was not fully controlled by the Christian Saxons at this time. A unified England was the aim of King Alfred (the one who burnt the cakes according to Legend). Known as the great for brokering peace with the Norse, ending a series of Battles during which he lost his Kingdom except for a few islands in a marsh around Athelney. From such a weak position he raised an army and reclaimed his Kingdom and more, hence he is known as Alfred the Great.
The description of the area and Utred's life will be as accurate as possible, allowing for some artistic licence with the politics of the time, based on what we know or is most likely from what we know. I have toned down the violence in the battle training for this chapter though.
A word about the ages mentioned, average life expectancy was 20 to 30 years for women, 35 to 40 for men. Of course some lived longer but 40 was old by their standards. 12 was young middle aged to them, Girls would be married off as soon after they reached 12 as possible, if they were unmarried by 16 they were considered too old for a young man, a widower might wish to remarry though. In no way does my inclusion of these facts infer that I consider it a correct practice in modern times, they are included so the reader may better understand the different culture of a time long past.