Chapter One: The Cockerel
The wind was slashing through his worn cloak, causing the over-sized scabbard to slap uncomfortably against the backs of his legs. His breath came out in a fog from underneath the threadbare hood on his garment as he tucked a strand of loose, ruddy hair back behind a hidden ear. The mud sucked awkwardly at the soles of his boots as he stepped quickly through the streets of the dejected town.
This is the place.
Chickens squawked and flitted from one patch of grass to the next, and a worn looking horse was tethered to a post outside of the tavern. The weathered sign creaked mournfully, only half hanging on, its once painted image of a rooster now browned and nearly indiscernible. He scraped the bottom of his boots on the slanted slab in front of the huge wooden door, and grasping the old bronze handle, he gave it a mighty shove.
It creaked dangerously as it swung open, the sudden blast of warm, stale air causing his eyes to sting. It was dimly lit inside, the few small, grime covered windows strangling the meager light from the day outside. A small fire lit in against the far wall provided a meager light, and the staircase looked like a dangerous climb in its disrepair. A few large tables were scattered in various corners, but the chairs and stools near the tiny hearth helped to unify the feeling of seclusion.
He sighed with relief when the owner, a rather large and muscular man with a thinning head of hair and a beard much the same color of his own, came from a nearly hidden door in back- presumably the kitchen since he was wearing a stained apron. The man offered him a room to stay in and a full stomach for only a few coppers. It was nearly all he had left on him, but he relished the idea of staying in an actual bed instead of outside in the cold rain again. He took his hood down and settled, eagerly awaiting some food other than his own horrid cooking. However, after only a few moments of resting at one of the large, semi-clean tables, he felt the hair on the back of his neck prickle. When the chill refused to go away he turned to look for the source of his discomfort.
A bald, slovenly man was staring at him from one of the other tables. His porcine eyes and the wicked curve to the stranger's smile made his stomach churn. He was suddenly glad he'd kept the unwieldy sword strapped across his back, under his cloak. Quickly turning from the unnerving gaze of the stranger, he stared at the wooden table in front of him, determined not to look back at the eerie man. The boy very nearly jumped out of his skin when the door slammed open, a raucous group of men, hooting and hollering, filing into the scattered seats in front of the fireplace.
He felt a smile creep onto his features, a measure of his discomfort gone; with some regulars in the room, he was less on edge about the man who was watching him. After a moment, the owner walked in from the back with a large cauldron full of delicious smelling food; stew, maybe, and told the men a bawdy joke, bringing up roars of laughter. The boy breathed easier, until one of the men practically carried him over to the group.
"'Ey, son! Now there ain't nothin' wrong with 'angin on by 'yersef, but you look like you could use a drink an' a good laugh!" He shoved him good naturedly into an unoccupied stool.
"'e looks like 'e could use more'n one drink, Thatcher!" More boisterous laughter came from the men, accompanied by some hard slaps on the shoulders from unseen hands. He visibly relaxed and allowed himself to laugh with the group as bowls of the pleasant smelling food and mugs of ale were handed out.
They talked until late in the evening, drinking, laughing, and asking him questions, which was more difficult; he carefully sidestepped giving direct answers and distracted them instead by making jokes at their expense. Thankfully, they were a good natured lot and didn't press him for information. He felt bad for not being open with them, but then remembered the man sitting in the corner and shivered. Deciding he was safe enough with the group of large men around him, he took a quick glance at the corner.
Nothing?
The man had gone! He breathed easier, relaxing and content to listen and to the men talk until they left for the night. After they were gone, he helped the owner, whose name was Harbin, gather up the bowls and glasses.
"You know lad," he gave him a halfhearted smile, "ye might want to be coverin' up that red head o' hair of yours." He gave him a shocked look, confused.
"Why's that, sir?" The innkeep looked around, then whispered conspiratorially.
"They say there's been a hunt out fer witches lately, and though I'd like ta think I know a man's character," he grunted, "there's bound ta be summut who's out fer all that gold the King's offerin' and nothin' else." The bear of a man gave a chuckle and scratched his own ruddy beard. "Though they'd be mad ter round up ever' red beard, seeing as what 'alf of England got some like that. I only mention'd it cause yer new here and wouldn't wan' nothing unfortunate 'pon ye by some scoundrel."
The boy nodded, his mouth set in a grim line. It only made the man laugh to see that expression on his face though, and he received a thud on the back and was told he could head upstairs to bed. After scaling the perilous staircase, despite the fact that his foot had gone through one of the steps, he reached the first door on the left and opened it, closing it gingerly behind him so as to avoid breaking it off the old hinges.
He turned to asses his room and his heart stopped dead in his chest. The bald man was seated in a chair in front of the small desk, clearly awaiting the boy's entrance, his crooked and yellowed teeth gleaming dully in the light of a small candle. He reached instinctively for the doorknob, hair rising along the back of his neck.
"I wouldn't do that if I were you." His voice was gravelly, like rocks hitting each other. The boy tried to slow his breathing, and with his free hand, reached for the sword hidden underneath his cloak.
The man chuckled; it made him want to turn and run. "I wouldn't do that either," he stood from the chair, which groaned in protest as he heaved his weight from it, "young Ethan."
The boy gasped. He'd been followed or found, he didn't know which. His heart thunked in his chest painfully. He was dead. The man gave another curdling laugh, turning his back to look out the window.
"Yes, I know your name, Ethan of Westbrook. I know what happened to your mother and father," an ugly eye glanced over at the man's shoulder. "And even your baby sister, too." His breathing sounded incredibly loud; Ethan felt a nervous sweat gathering on his forehead.
I might have to kill this man. The thought sobered him, almost making him nauseous. He'd never killed anything using a sword before, and he swallowed back tears remembering the quick series of steps he'd practiced with his father every day since he was nine.
"The King ordered them dead," he chuckled again, huge shoulders shaking in a mockery of mirth. He turned to face Ethan again. "He ordered you dead too. One thousand gold pieces for your head, he said. I intend to give him at least that much." He took a step towards the boy, hands outstretched, reaching for his neck. A heat flared in Ethan's chest. This man, this disgustingly horrid person was going to try and kill him for no other reason than gold. Well, let's give him a fight then.
With a roar, he whipped his cloak off with one hand and simultaneously tore the old sword from the scabbard with the other. His assailant's eyes widened with shock as Ethan, with measured accuracy, effortlessly slid the blade through his ribs. The man's momentum, however, was not so easily halted; he fell over on top of the boy, pinning him to the floor and spewing bloody saliva from his mouth. Ethan screamed, horrified, and the last noise he remembered was the desperate thudding of someone racing up the stairs.
With a start, Ethan snapped into a sitting position, his hand reaching for… no, it was lost; the dream receded as the real world came into focus. Harbin was muttering curses and bent over a fireplace a few feet in front of the bed he was laying in, which, by its size, Ethan guessed to be the man's own. He saw his sword, back in its scabbard, propped against the side of the fireplace.
The room was smallish, the fire casting a yellow glow to everything; a desk bigger than the one that had been in his room lay pressed against the wall to the left, two wooden shelves mounted above it, and the door out was to his immediate right. He pulled the scratchy blanket away from him and noticed clean bandages wrapped around his middle. Testing it with a finger, he pressed his side in a few places until he hit a spot that flared into life and caused him to yelp with pain.
"Ah!" The large man, startled, yanked his head up and hit it with a dull thud on the edge of the fireplace, then howled an incoherent stream of curses and various invocations of gods. Ethan stifled a laugh at his host's expense when he saw the expression on Harbin's face.
"Oh good, you're awake. You bloody idiot." He glared at him. "Now," the man pointed an accusing finger at him, "when were you gonna tell me that you were bein' hunted? Eh?" A lump rose in his throat, all traces of laughter gone from his mind. "What," he continued when Ethan said nothing, "you were just gonna stroll off on yer own? Killin' men whence they'd come to ye in hopes of fillin' their greedy gullets with gold from yer head?"
Unsure of what to say, he shook his head. Harbin sighed and ran a hand through his think, greying hair. "Look, you can't just… solve yer problems at the end of a blade, boy!" The man looked at him, pity shining through his eyes at the look on Ethan's face. With a wave of revulsion, he remembered the glassy look of the dead man's eyes and the smell of wet blood.
"I…" Ethan's voice cracked, "I'd never killed anyone before… But it was me or him and I can't die yet!" A tear come from somewhere and rolled down his cheek. He swiped at it angrily. Men don't cry. Another sigh erupted from the innkeeper as he sat on the edge of the large bed.
"I didn't say that ye were t'blame, boy," he took one of Ethan's hands, "I just said ye can't keep takin' lives like that. It'll wear on ye and replace little bits o' yer soul with nothin' in return." He looked gravely into his eyes. "Killin' changes a man, but the man decides what kin' he'll change into." Abruptly, he stood from the bed and grabbed a small bag off one of the shelves and tossed it onto the mattress next to the boy. The dull clink that emitted from it as it landed told Ethan it was nearly full of coin.
"Harbin, sir, I ca-" The man raised his hand for silence.
"Ye can and ye will and I'll tell ye why," he sat back down on the edge of the bed, Ethan quickly scrunching aside to afford him some room. "I need t' know more about ye," he said, "before I kin tell ye everything I wan' to." The boy blinked stupidly, and then nodded. If anything, he owed the man a debt, if not his life. Harbin seemed to relax a little more.
"What's yer name, firstly? Sec'ndly, from where do ye hail and why so far frommit? Thirdly, 'ave ye got any idea what yer gonna do?" He stared at Ethan, his eyebrows pressed together in concentration. He swallowed and began his story, his voice shaking at parts and nearly breaking into tears at others.
He divulged his name, how he'd happily lived, and how he'd left the moor of Westbrook when the King's men had burned his home to the ground while his father and he were out hunting grouse and rabbits. He told how he'd heard his mother's screams and the sound of his baby sister's cries as they burned with the rest of the house, trapped inside as the knights had ridden swiftly away on their mounts; he revealed how his father had told him to be brave and then left him his sword as he broke into the house to save their family, how his father hadn't returned as he'd promised, and how he'd dug three deep graves for his family in the soft ground as it began to rain. He told of how he'd met a traveler on the road who'd told him of this tavern, and how he'd slept outside, under trees when he could, on his way to get here.
The older man remained silent throughout the whole story, with the occasional nod or guttural grunt confirmation, until Ethan had simply run out of things to say. He looked into the boy's eyes, assessing him with the new information, a frown of concentration pulling his face down.
"Yer a wizard," he stated. Ethan looked appalled; wizards didn't exist, they were myths- like dragons or unicorns or… or… or…
"N-no, I'm not! I've never done magic or anything like that! I may not be a Christian, but my family lived a ways away from the village! The Father Priest said we could pray to the old gods or not- that the Christian god would understand and-" he spluttered, "I can't be a wizard for- I've been baptized!" Harbin chuckled and Ethan looked at him, eyes still wide with shock.
"Wizarding ain't got nothing to do with the church, boy," he ruffled the hair on Ethan's head, "It has got ter do with blood though." Ethan stared, mouth hanging open while the man amended with "well, mostly anyways. Ye know, I'm not really sure. All I know is that some folks got it an' then some don't."
"B-but I've never- I haven't there's no way!" Harbin pulled a smooth stone from his pocket and slapped it into Ethan's hand. Amusement sparkled in his eyes as the boy looked from the rock to him and then back to the rock.
"Well what's say we test it then, eh?" Ethan furrowed his brows.
"How?" Harbin chuckled.
"Focus all yer attention on that stone there," he said, "and think o' sommut that makes ye angry or real happy." He raised a finger. "It's just got ter be strong is all." Ethan was appalled; him, magic? It wasn't possible. And yet… Well, just a test; he'd prove Harbin wrong and then everything would go back to being sane.
He looked at the smooth stone in his hand, feeling silly. It was a dark grey color, and seemed to fit perfectly in the palm of his hand; it wasn't overly heavy, he hefted it a little. Harbin made an impatient grunt and he frowned, staring. Get angry… Smoke, fire was coming from the direction of the house! He yelled to his father and they dropped the snared hares and bolted in the same heading. Screaming; he blanched, he could hear his mother and the baby screaming! They reached the house. White stallions, flicking their tails as the purple of the Royal banner flapped out of sight; they King's men?! He couldn't breathe; Ethan dropped to his knees and screamed, head in his hands. He screamed and screamed and…
A hard slap on his back brought him out of his daze. The rock was spinning in mid air above his hand! He let out a surprised yell and Harbin let out a booming laugh as the rock dropped with a clatter onto the floor.
"H- How?! How did I do that? How did you know I could do that!" Ethan violently rubbed his arms to quell the gooseflesh on them. It wasn't natural! Harbin grinned and looked at him, straight into his eyes.
"Because I knew yer father, Ethan," the boy's mouth hung open, but mirth still danced in the man's eyes, "I knew Roland of Westbrook."
Author's Note: This, in case you're interested in sticking through this with me, is a story that I have become completely obsessed with. It's been rattling around in my head, and I finally decided that I was going to try to write it out as best I could. Now, you'll have to be patient with me, but here's a more in-depth look: This is a story about the four founders of Hogwarts.
That's all I can tell you so far without ruining it. I know, I know; you haven't met any of the actual founders yet, right? Wrong! Young Ethan, our magically inclined sword-fighter, just so happens to be one!
I hope you all enjoy reading this series as much I I enjoy writing it all out as it bubbles forth onto my computer screen. As always, I want to let everyone know how much I love reviews; criticisim [mind, that is, I didn't say flames] are greatly appreciated! I always do enjoy learning better ways to do things, and if you think you can help me be better at writing, not that I'll listen to everything that everyone says, PLEASE review and teach me!
Disclaimer: I own nothing of J.K. Rowling's original ideas, characters, or places. I do, however, take advantage of lack of information and create my own things to fill in spaces. Everything not J.K.'s is mine and I claim it with pride.
Rock on.