The Hermit

Timeframe: AU Post almost everything.

Disclaimer: I do not own any rights to Harry Potter, Hermione Granger, Long John Silver, or any other literary inventions by others. I accept that I own some minor blame for dubious characters of my own invention, and the situations in this story, but little else. And frankly, I could use the money if I did, but I don't, so no money made, received or bequeathed. This story exists purely for my own entertainment, and hopefully that of others who have as little discretion or taste as I do.

Warning: Character death, but in an appropriate time and place. Very slightly dark and very cranky Harry

A/N: This story was inspired, in small part, by the song "Western Island' by Archie Fisher. Any similarities between this story and others are unintentional, and any resemblance to real human behaviour is highly unlikely.

Chapter 1: The Inheritance

In the Outer Hebrides off the northwest coast of Scotland (on the side away from the North Sea oil fields), there is said to lie a small haunted island.

Non-magical fisher-folk know that it is there because to the behaviour of the seabirds, but none have ever seen the land itself. There was often strange weather around where the island was thought to be, with odd swirls in the clouds, and storm clouds that looked like there was some sort of heat over an area not known to have ever had volcanos or hot-springs.

It is rumoured that it might be the fabled island of Avalon, which is said to be the resting place of King Arthur, and the hiding place for the sword Excalibur, but these are stories told around the fire on cold nights, and were not taken as being anything other than a way to pass the time. Many an older person has commented that, if it is the place where Arthur met the Lady of the Lake, they had both be wearing weather gear and long underwear, as the seas around where the island is said to be are cold and harbour rich fishing grounds. Now and again, an old man could be seen in a dory which would then fade into the mists and fog.

At other times, strangers would come into the fishing villages for supplies, but these were usually thought to be just adventurous tourists. However, about once a year just before the winter storms set in, a very old man wearing a shabby old cloak would come to one of the villages to pick up a shipment of several cases of whisky from one of the famous local distilleries – he was often accompanied by a very short person in another heavy cloak, who would help carry the precious cargo to his small boat. It was whispered that the smaller of the two was a leprechaun over from Ireland (which was very close), given his stature and apparent strength in carrying the cases of the 'water of life'.

Magical folk know that the island has been seen, but only by their forefathers and mothers, or by the very oldest among them. It is assumed that there are strong spells hiding the island, which would fail on occasion, but then be renewed.

February 23, 2161

The Unspeakable sat at his desk in the basement of the Ministry of Magic building in Coventry, the new capital of England since the rising sea waters had inundated London. He was doing whatever it was that the Unspeakables did in their secret lair, and about which they were not allowed, and due to their magical oaths not able, to talk about.

He was brought out of his contemplation by a slight popping sound, and looked up to see an ancient house elf standing beside him. The old creature was in tears, and holding a key and a piece of parchment.

Arthur Potter looked at the elf. "Hello Hamish. I haven't seen you for many years now. I take it that the old man had died."

The elf nodded. "That is true, Master Potter. Your grandsire is now 'The Potter', and head of your clan. However, the Master has sent me with these as his final gifts to you. The island and the dwelling are yours, and this fact is noted in his will, which is to be read in three days at Gringott's."

Arthur's eyebrows raised. "I thought Gringott's was still in London."

Hamish nodded. "They have set wards against the waters, but they have set up floo connections both here, in their Edinburgh office by the castle, at Amesbury near Stonehenge, and in Birmingham. That way, most beneficiaries can get there with only one or two connections."

Arthur nodded as he thanked the ancient elf. He looked at the ornate brass key, which showed none of the salt water corrosion he would have expected on an iron key. He then looked at the parchment.

It read:

'Dear Great-great great grandson,

The calculations we discussed have proved pretty much correct, that a wizard's lifespan is related to his power level. Last summer I passed my 180th birthday, so I figure I have been living on borrowed time since then, as your equations gave my 179.3 years. If you are receiving this, please get the final date from Hamish so you can adjust the parameters in the calculation. I don't know if the malnutrition and abuse in my first eleven years might have reduced the lifespan, but they are factors that you can add to the number-crunching.

As I told you the last time we spoke, the island and all it contains are now yours. It should be adequate to your needs, as it is over a hundred kilometres from the nearest other land and under secrecy charms, so it should be good for whatever secret, dangerous, and noisy experiments you and your boys and girls might want to carry out. Please don't scare the sheep, for they are timid creatures. If necessary, herd them into the winter caverns before doing what you need to do outside. The dogs know what to do – they are telepathic, being descendants of Helga Hufflepuff's Susan.

I know we discussed the possibilities of the Fidelius surviving me, when I cast the charm on my home in my self-imposed exile. It falls to you to confirm this, or to demonstrate its fallacies, which gives you the opportunity to add to your professional knowledge. In case it does not fail when I do, the Hermitage is located on Arthur's Island, at coordinates 59° 12' 33"N and 7° 40' 14"W. I have arranged with Gringott's that they will have a curse-breaker available to remove the Fidelius if it has not failed, so that you can set up one of your own for your own convenience.

My will is with Gringott's, but there will be a couple of documents on the table in the main room. One is general instructions on care and feeding of the animals, and some other matters concerning the island. Don't worry too much about the animals and the farming, the elves and the dogs know most of what to do – it's like in the military, the ranks know what to do, the officer's job is just to tell them who to do it to. The other is some random thoughts and reminiscences, which you may or may not share, at your own discretion.

With Love and respect,

Harry'

Arthur smiled at the signature. From the discussions he and his ancestor had had during some of the elder wizard's brief sojourns out from his hidden place, Arthur knew that for most of his life, Harry had been searching for a community or a place where he could be 'Just Harry'. He was glad that the old man felt he had achieved at least one of his life-long dreams.

He then looked up from reading the note, and say Hamish standing there, looking nervous. He asked what was wrong and how could he help.

The old elf gulped, and said, "Arthur Potter. You are now the Master of Arthur's Island. I have served as the head elf on the island and bonded to the 'Master of the Island' for over three hundred years. I have served the Potter family for over four hundred years. Humans come and go, while we elves endure. I wish to continue serving your family on the island. Arthur Potter, will you accept my bond?"

As Arthur nodded, the elf smiled, and a dim beam of blue light passed between the two as Hamish bonded to Arthur.

After the elf thanked Arthur for the privilege, Arthur asked Hamish if he could take him to the island so he would not have to work out the apparition coordinates himself. The elf nodded, and said "Of course. You are the Master of the Island, and it is now my duty to take you there, if that is your wish."