Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter. All rights go to respective owners.
Quidditch League Fanfiction Competition / Season Six, Round One
Team: Puddlemere United
Position: Captain
Prompt: Write a character you've never written before
Chosen character: Queen Maeve
Word Count (not including title and author's notes): 2199 (Google Docs)
A/N — There's not too much in HP canon about Queen Maeve. All that's said about her is that she's a famous medieval witch, who is now immortalized on a Chocolate Frog card. Prior to the establishment of Hogwarts, she also taught young witches and wizards in her native homeland of Ireland. So for the purposes of this story, it will be set in Ireland during the year 829 A.D. (approximately 160 years before Hogwarts was founded).
This story is dedicated to my sister, who put up with me writing a couple hundred words of it while we stood in line at Disney. You're the best!
Betaed by: roseusvortex, JBrocks917, and ValkyrieAce. Thank you!
Hidden in Shadow and Magic
"What does this even have to do with magic?"
She could not help but smile at the question. At long last, her student was finally beginning to use his mind and think. Despite his petulant tone, it warmed her heart to hear the query. She opened her eyes and turned her face toward the hazy light of the rising sun.
The world never failed to take her breath away.
Leaves whispered and rustled in a breeze so gentle, it was almost nonexistent. The lush grass still shimmered with dew; she could feel it seep through the fabric of her dress. She remained in her seated meditative pose along the bank of the mountain brook, however. The world was bright and beautiful — she would treasure every second, ruined garments be damned.
Besides, a grass-stained dress was only a minor inconvenience. She did have magic, after all.
"Maeve! Are you listening?"
She turned her full attention to her charge and almost laughed out loud.
He was knee-deep in the babbling brook with an enormous armful of aquatic plants, scowling at her immediate lack of response or apparent concern. By the Triple Goddess, he was only eight years old, but he was already so serious and … moody. She hoped it would not become worse as he grew older.
Although, Maeve knew that wish was probably in vain. She had known him ever since he had been a toddler, just learning how to walk and getting into far too much trouble. The memory of his first bout of accidental magic still made her laugh. A sneezing magical child and a sensitive runic array did not mix well. To this day, she still kept him far away from her more powerful enchantments and projects.
And when his parents had died from a plague one year ago, it had been an easy decision to not only formally be his teacher, but also care for him.
They were family.
"Ciarán," she said, coughing in an attempt to cover her giggles, "what exactly are you doing?"
If it were possible, his scowl deepened. Honestly, she did not blame him. She was eleven years older than he was — she should be the mature one.
"You said to find plants that we can eat. I found them."
"Right," she said, drawing the word out. "And what makes you think those plants are edible?"
"What does this have to do with magic?" he snapped, repeating his earlier question.
Maeve tried to not roll her eyes. Not only was he far too serious for his age, but he was stubborn as well.
"Well," she replied with a smile, one that only seemed to further annoy the boy, "that is a good question, Ciarán. What do you think it has to do with magic?"
"Nothing," he muttered.
Maeve raised an eyebrow, unimpressed with his answer. She folded her arms and waited a moment to see if he would elaborate on his response, but he did not. Ciarán must have sensed her displeasure, though, because he began to fidget. Water sloshed as he kicked his leg back and forth.
Honestly, she thought, mentally rolling her eyes, this is worse than trying to catch a group of pixies.
When it became clear he had nothing more to add, she reached down and unlaced her simple leather shoes. Taking them off, she stood and stepped into the crisp water, moving next to her ward.
"No!" Ciarán exclaimed, suddenly quite animated. "You cannot enter the water!"
This time she actually laughed aloud, as he futilely tried to push her back onto the bank.
"Goddess, he speaks!" Maeve teased. She placed her hands on her hips. "And why, may I ask, can I not get in the water? After all, you did — for a yet to be explained reason."
Ciarán ducked his head. It was one of those rare moments when he appeared to act his age.
"Uh … you will ruin your dress," he muttered. "And it is also cold."
Maeve sighed. Beneath the moody and stubborn exterior, he did have a genuinely kind heart. He also occasionally acted like an idiot — well, perhaps that was a bit harsh. The boy standing before her — too tall and gangly for his age with a mop of unkempt black hair — was trying his best. He just needed to learn to think about his actions before he took them.
They were running out of time for that lesson to take hold.
She withdrew her wand. Quickly and non-verbally, she cast warming charms over the both of them. Ciarán's eyes widened.
"I forgot about magic?" he said, mostly to himself, in a stunned voice.
"That is the second lesson of the day," she replied, her tone now instructional and focused. "Please try and remember the charms I have shown you — and use them. If you give me the poisonous aquatic plants in your arms, I can answer your original question."
He looked down at the bundle in his arms and then back up in horror. She sighed again.
"You did not eat some, did you?" Maeve asked, reaching for her bag on the bank. After the disaster a fortnight ago with an exploding potion, she always had general antidotes and a bezoar on hand. Just in case.
Ciarán violently shook his head in the negative.
"No! I did not eat any!" he replied emphatically. "I promise! You mean these are not parsnips?"
"The differences between water hemlock and water parsnips are few and minuscule," she replied, taking the plants from her student and unceremoniously tossing them on the bank. "We cannot eat these … unless you were trying to poison me?"
The blood drained from Ciarán's face. Maeve tried to look serious, but she felt the edges of her lips twitch into a small smile. She affectionately ruffled his hair.
"I am only teasing, Ciarán," she said gently. "I trust you. Besides, I hope you would at least challenge me to a duel or make my demise more interesting. Poisoning is so—"
"Boring?" he offered, his face relaxing into a grin. She nodded.
"Just so," she said. "Now … to answer your original question. Please take a meditative position."
Ciarán nodded and climbed onto the grassy bank. He sat down, straightening his back and folding his legs beneath him. Maeve remained in the creek and waited patiently until he was still. She then twirled her wand between her fingers.
"Can you tell me what magic is, Ciarán?"
That was clearly not the question he had been expecting. He blinked owlishly at her, before offering a hesitant response.
"It is an … uh, energy?" he supplied. "We say certain phrases … and, um, occasionally use a wand, in order to make things happen that otherwise would not." He trailed off, as she raised her wand.
Silently, Maeve swept her wand in a half-circle parallel to the stream. The water began to glow like fairy lights before it violently erupted toward the sky. Ciarán shouted and scrambled backward, but she remained motionless — for just as quickly as it had begun, everything was suddenly still.
The water had taken a new shape. It twisted and rippled up into the form of a towering oak tree, complete with a bed of wildflowers at its base; the water-branches and water-leaves even swayed in the morning breeze. It maintained its ethereal light. Another flick of her wand sent a handful of small pebbles from the creek bed floating out of the water. In the blink of an eye, they were silently transformed into iridescent butterflies.
Maeve took a breath in and felt the magic in the air flex around her. She knew that to some people, the water-tree rooted in a lonely mountain brook would be called unnatural; others would say that the flowers and shimmering butterflies were evil.
All she saw was otherworldly, unspoiled beauty.
Regretfully, all good things must end. The second wave of her wand — reversing the original half-circle motion — sent the tree collapsing into itself, extinguishing the glow and sending the water back into the stream.
"Did I say anything to make that happen?"
Maeve looked at her charge, anxious to see his response. She had hinted to him previously of the depths of her magic, but this was the first display of that power and control. At only nineteen years old, she was an anomaly that even other witches and wizards found disturbing. She was all too familiar with that type of reaction since it was the only one she ever received.
Needless to say, it was her turn to be surprised.
"That was amazing!"
Ciarán was looking up at her with awe and devotion in his eyes. She felt her heart constrict as he leapt to his feet and launched himself at her. Stumbling slightly as he wrapped his arms around her waist, she returned the enthusiastic hug.
"Can I learn to do that, too?" he said, almost pleadingly. "Please teach me!"
She chuckled slightly, wiping the tears away from her eyes. "That is what I am trying to do," she replied.
Suddenly, he detached himself from her and bolted out of the water. Before she knew it, he was back on the bank in his meditative pose. His posture was still far too serious for his age, but there was a new energy around him. Maeve knew what it was because she had been there, too.
He now had a goal in his mind and was determined to meet it.
"Magic," she instructed, once she had gathered her composure, "is an energy — but you do not have to say meaningless words to achieve a certain result. Waving your wand in a specific pattern is also not necessary."
She simply pointed her wand at Ciarán and, without a word, he was suddenly dry. His clothes were no longer damp and crumpled; it looked as if he was fresh off the clothesline.
"Magic is a part of you, just as it is a part of me," she continued. "It connects us with all things and every possibility. It is given life by desire and intent. On the other side of the coin, however, it is also a tool; one that you must learn to control."
She looked into his eyes. He was so eager, but also very young. There was a chance he would never have to know, but she felt the weight of knowledge press upon her heart. Maybe someone else would make a different call, but she truly believed being forewarned is forearmed.
"You are aware of the raids done by the Norsemen."
It was not a question, but he nodded anyway.
"There will come a day when you will be alone and facing hard choices," she said solemnly, "and you must be confident in your course of action. For even if you are alone, the fate of others will rely on your abilities."
"I will be brave," Ciarán replied. She shook her head; he was missing the point.
"I am not asking you to be brave," she said. "People were never meant to be one thing. Bravery is meant to be paired with kindness and cunning and knowledge. Just like how I teach you to brew potions and cast warming charms, I also expect you to learn how to cook, tell water hemlock and parsnips apart, and how to handle a knife in a fight."
Ciarán looked up at her, his face clouding in doubt.
"That is a lot to learn," he murmured.
"Yes, there is," Maeve responded. "There will come a time when you will need all of your skills to survive — and perhaps save the lives of others as well. I am not asking you to be everything; I am just asking you to grow and be more than you are now."
The wind whispering through the trees and the water running in the stream were the only sounds to break the following silence.
"Why tell me this?" Ciarán asked quietly. "You keep saying I will be alone. Where will you be?"
Climbing out of the brook, she stepped onto the bank and stood in front of her student. She rested a gentle hand on his head.
"A fight with the Norsemen is inevitable. They are dangerous — and rumor has it that for every fifty warriors, there is one powerful Dark wizard," she said. "I will always be with you, whether in person or spirit. Magic connects us, and we are family. However, just as you rely on me to teach you now, I will need to lean on you in the future. It is the way of this world: we are not meant to do it alone."
Understanding dawned on his features.
"Ar scáth a chéile a mhaireann na daoine?" Ciarán asked.
Maeve nodded. "That is lesson number one, and the answer to your original question." She cast a drying spell over herself and sat down next to him. The words seemed to hang in the air, a red thread of Fate binding them together, but she found that she did not mind.
Ar scáth a chéile a mhaireann na daoine.
A/N 2 — According to history (*gasp* No one said I had to learn something! I didn't sign up for this!), Vikings (aka Norsemen) attacked and raided Ireland periodically over the course of approximately 200 years, from 795 A.D. to 1015 A.D.
"Ar scáth a chéile a mhaireann na daoine" is an old Irish Gaelic proverb. The English roughly translates to "Under the shelter of each other, people survive" — meaning, you can't do it alone and you have to rely on others. I don't know Gaelic, so I apologize if anything has been misrepresented. I did the best research I could. Is fearr Gaeilge briste, ná Béarla clíste.