Hogwarts: A Pre-History

Summary: A long, long time ago, in a land not so far away, four powerful people got an idea.

Disclaimer: I have no claim to characters or scenes from the Harry Potter series, which belongs to JK Rowling and her associates. I get nothing from this except the enjoyment of imagining and writing the story. I am making no money from this, bupkus, nada, sweet-tweet.

Rating: T - No warnings

Author's Notes: Non-canonical, as far as I can tell – some things have been alluded to, but not very specifically. I like to explore the background of how people end up where they do.

I must acknowledge some inspiration from the works of Archie Fisher.

Chapter 1: The Battle

The general stood on the hill overlooking the battle field. As usual, he was gratified by the valour and prowess of his troops, and disgusted by the loss of life and talents on both sides. He had fought many battles in the Danelands, far from his Cornish homeland. In his life he had travelled much farther through many lands and had seen many wonders, but always returned to his island where his success as a warrior was in great demand in this troubled time. He brushed his long hair, no longer the rich red of his youth, back from his brow. He was growing very tired of watching men die.

Also, as usual, he had won, with minimal loss of life on his side. His men knew that those who fought under his banner (the Golden Gryphon {Gryffin d'or} on a red ground) had a better than average chance of surviving a battle in reasonable health, and that any minor wounds would be repaired quickly and with little pain. He trained his forces well, even providing additional training to those who had come to his army already knighted. The extra training he gave made it more likely that his men were the ones left standing, and not lying on the grass below. Even now, the dividers and the healers were moving among the wounded, and those who the dividers determined could be healed were being attended to, while those who could not were given the blow of grace (in French , the 'coup de grace') to end their suffering. For those who had taken the faith of the cross, a priest moved among them to give the last rites, if called for.

If the fallen man was in agony, the divider cast a spell to ease the pain, before either treatment or death. The general had given order to this effect, because leaving anyone in distress when it could be eased was a wound to his own soul, and an unacceptable indignity to all who witnessed it.

The invading Viking band had been soundly beaten, and most of their fighters had died bloodily. The healing and the granting of a (more-or-less) painless death were given to friend and foe alike. Those who were to live were taken as prisoners, the nobility to be ransomed and the commoners to be enslaved as was the custom of the age.

Being a powerful wizard, the general had been able to actually see the flow of magic during the battle. His kind only numbered one in a thousand of the population, but tended to rise to the top by their abilities, although some matched their magical prowess with arrogance and stupidity. As such, magical folk were sometimes respected (as in his own case), or resented and hated. Many magical folk had met nasty deaths at the hands of the non-magical population when they thought themselves above the demands of common decency or courtesy.

He looked over to his right flank, to see how the new lieutenant, a young non-magical Saxon earl, had fared. Because of his family's rank, he had to be made an officer, but in the general's opinion, the boy couldn't command a dog to bark. The young man was brought up to expect instant obedience from his 'inferiors', regardless of their own abilities. The general knew that when such men went into battle, they tended to die young, sometimes by the hands of their own men when conditions made this impossible to prove. Not willing to risk the lives of other men to satisfy the boy's ego unsupported by competence, within his squads the general had placed a number of his best sergeants who could cast protective spells over the men. The young officer had sustained some minor wounds, not enough to harm or maim him permanently, but perhaps enough to suggest finding a different line of work.

The general paused as he contemplated how many battles he had taken part in, and how many he had won. He noted that, for this battle, his senior officers had done all of the planning and the management of the fight. His presence had not really been necessary for the running of the battle, although the men took heart from him being there on the hill in plain view, with his standard flying proudly.

He had not had to draw his legendary sword for at least two years. He had purchased the blade from the goblins, who alone of magic folk could not only cast spells on weapons, but actually work powerful spells into the metals. He had purchased many weapons from the goblins, who were fierce fighters in their own rights. He was very thankful that the opposing army had not had any goblins in their ranks, because the small people had a very different view of warfare than humans did – fighting over farmlands with no mineral resources struck their folk as a waste of time and blood, but the attack of any human on any goblin, with deadly intent, was considered an attack on their entire folk, requiring overwhelming vengeance. They drove a hard bargain, but it was always wiser to negotiate with a goblin than trying to fight one.

He also realized that it had been several years since he took on his lion form during a fight. He had found that he no longer enjoyed the look of terror in the eyes of his enemies, just as he had quit running through the field near his home, panicking the cattle. He still enjoyed the feeling of the rippling movement of his feline musculature when he transformed, but regretted the fear he engendered in the population when there was word of a lion running loose in the neighbourhood.

Perhaps it was time to retire, and work on his new plan.

One odd feature of the battle had caught the general's attention more than any other. There had been a band of berserkers who surrounded a tall middle-aged blonde woman in their midst, who was apparently lame. They had fought fiercely with her at the centre of their formation during the battle. He had seen the protective magic flowing from the woman, who seemed to be casting defensive spells over the men but not giving herself any such coverage. One of his slingers had managed to strike the woman on the head, knocking her unconscious, and the protection over the men ceased. Lacking armour, as they drew their names from the bare shirt (or sark) they wore, the berserkers then died like flies.

More than one of the Vikings had looked up as they died, and smiled. In more than one instance, the general sensed, more than saw, an ethereal form of a woman in armour, gesturing to the dying man. Although he did not believe in the Norse legion of gods himself, he was glad that, in their last moments, these valiant fighters had felt they were bound for a more glorious future in Valhalla. To die with no hope or comfort was a fate not to be wished on even your worst enemy. War was too serious a business to encumber yourself with hate.

The unconscious woman was the reason that the general and his elite corps were at this battle so far north of his home. She was the reason that so much land of the northern kingdoms were now in the hands and under the yoke of the Norsemen. When it was recognised that she was a most puissant witch, casting powerful defensive spells, and these were helping her forces to conquer the armies sent against them, the great military wizard and his men were asked for their assistance.

Before the battle, the general had interrogated a captured Norse noble, who was highly incensed by the woman's presence and her powers. He had complained that a man could not claim any glory when his victory was due to a woman's protection. How, he had railed, could a man face the gods and impress them so that when he fell he would be taken to Valhalla? The fact that a witch gave him his triumph undermined all of that. And this woman was not only a witch, but she was also a peasant! This was intolerable! The noble had been very specific as to the punishment he felt all magical folk should suffer for denying him his rightful glory.

The general was also very interested that the woman's use of her powers had changed recently. Up to about a month before, she cast spells which made her berserkers almost invulnerable, and protected other groups at the same time. She herself was also protected, but as of a short time ago, she ceased protecting herself. It was almost like she wanted to be killed in battle. It sounded like she was as tired of war as he himself, and saw this as the only way out.

He called his chief healer to his side. The healer was also his eldest daughter, and married to one of his senior staff officers. He requested that she make sure that the fallen woman was retrieved and treated to the best of her abilities, and that the woman be afforded the comforts of his own tent, while he would bunk with the men. He wished to speak with her once she had regained her senses.