3. If There Were No Magicians.
They arrived in Time Immemorial on a windy Autumn day in Anno Domini 1015. It was partly cloudy, and warm; the Scottish countryside glowed in colorful leaves. Smoke rose from a distant forge, and somewhere a rooster crowed. The very air had an earthy scent.
Hermione revelled in the realisation she was standing in medieval Scotland! The boys, on the other hand, were more concerned with promptly checking landmarks for their journey on foot.
The first unplanned problem was that the hat had a very wide brim, not leaving room for a tall Hedwig on Harry's shoulders. Harry did not want to hold his forearm in midair for several days just to provide a perch!
Fortunately, from whatever magic pocket young ladies use to hide pins, needles and thread for just such emergencies, Hermione produced a safety pin to tack the brim to the crown on one side. The hat said it wouldn't mind. Now Harry could turn his head a bit while wearing the hat, and Hedwig could have a stable perch.
Harry said it helped that he had broad shoulders. Ron argued the true benefit was from Harry's small head.
* * *
They had walked hardly a mile when they met their second challenge.
As they came upon an apple orchard, an old man looked up from his horse-drawn cart, startled by the sight of the trio, one of them bearing an owl, a pointed hat, and strange black rings around his eyes. He halted the cart, leapt to the ground -- never taking his eyes off them -- and drew a short and very crude-looking sword.
The boys both drew their whingers and stood at the ready. Hermione started reaching for her wand, then remembered not to use it.
"No!" said the hat, in a low but demanding voice. "None of you! Leave him to me!"
Ron and Harry looked at each other, nodded, and lowered swords. The man looked a bit confused at that action, but continued in their direction, his sword drawn.
They could barely hear the hat mutter a word softly, then...a booming voice from nowhere!
"YDELY YE ASTYRFAT CILDEN, WRECCA? SOTHLICE, SWICH CWICSUSL WERDEN GEAEFNAN AS NAEFRE!!"
The man's jaw dropped open at the words. He staggered backward, his sword falling from his hand, and he ran for his life. His horse, spooked, ran past them in the opposite direction, the cart bouncing wildly behind.
An equally upset Hedwig was in an apple tree, squawking loudly. Harry had a pained look, and was holding his ears.
When the dust settled, Ron turned. "All right, what was that?"
The hat whisper-shouted one more word, "Quietus", causing Harry to wince once more. Then in a more normal tone, "Sorry for the Sonorus. Haven't used that in years. I just told him he'd be severely cursed if he were to casually slay you young folk. Voice from the heavens and all that. Effective, eh what?"
"Seems to work," said Ron. "But aside from the git's sword, what set you off like that?"
"I read personalities at a distance, remember. And he really glowed with the sudden intention of slaughtering you all."
"Slaughtering us?" asked a shocked Hermione. "Just like that?"
"It's a different age, completely," explained the hat. "There are many hog farms around here, y'know; I imagine he's an uneducated hog farmer. He would have no tolerance for strangers in his valley, since strangers commonly steal hogs for dinner. He was gleaning the orchard and the woods for anything edible that might feed the hogs. Suddenly there you were, three total strangers in the vicinity. He took out his sword to solve both his problems at once. Serendipity! To his tiny little mind, strangers shan't feed on hogs -- but hogs can always feed on strangers. Nothing personal, and you'd never be missed."
"Oh, I'm so glad I asked," said Ron, rolling his eyes.
"Beside which, he was lading."
"Lading...?"
"Yes. Loading his cart."
"So?"
"An anagram of Ronald Weasley is 'We Slay No Lader.' That suggests you three would have failed to deter him."
"That is so muggular!" argued Ron. "What should I do -- change my name to spell 'We're Not Hog Feed'? Can't we defend ourselves?"
Hermione interceded. "We're not here to stab or kill people, remember."
"Hermione's right, sir," said Harry. "What we actually mean to say is, thanks for the Sonorus. It was brilliant, and saved any bloodshed."
Hedwig returned to Harry's shoulder, glaring at the hat. The hat drew back from the owl.
"Hedwig tells me," said the hat, "she will peck me to shreds if I dare do a Sonorus again."
"And I will help her," agreed Harry. "My ears are still ringing. Now, on to Hogwarts."
"Only 15 more miles of psychotic hog farmers to go," muttered Ron.
* * *
As they traveled, the three were briefed on the 11th century by the hat, including the fact that family names like Granger, Weasley or Gryffindor were not yet in common use.
Something else didn't belong in this time: eyeglasses. Harry's wondrous world would be slightly out of focus for the duration.
"It's quite an era in Britain," said the hat. "Loch Ness is still abrim with huge schools of kelpies; dragons are still not on the endangered magical species list. If you know where to look, there are large communities of gnomes and leprechauns that came with the invaders. Brian Boru's followers are still harassing the coast, just a few days west of here. A goblin still sits as king of the Hebrides, and England's copper miners are mainly elves. Meanwhile the throne of the kingdom of Scotland, such as it is, will soon be held by none other than..... Macbeth!"
The boys, with wicked smirks, simultaneously asked, "Who?"
"Oh, honestly, you two!" said an amused Hermione, shaking her head in disbelief.
* * *
"Hedwig is somewhat the poet," said the hat.
Hermione looked up. "That's the second time you've mentioned Hedwig. Can you read her personality too?"
"Oh, much more. We've been mentally chatting the whole way. Very interesting bird. Gets around much more than Fawkes."
"You talk to birds!"
"Someone has to, since you don't do it all that often. They get bored, y'know."
"So what's a bird's poetry like?"
"Quite normal, actually. Her current work is entitled If There Were No Magicians."
"Wishful thinking, Hedwig," said Ron, "but you shan't be rid of Harry that easily."
The hat chuckled. "Oh, It's not at all like that, Ronald. Her poem is from a Muggle's point of view, how children need time for dreaming, and stories, and imagining on everything -- especially on our world, or course! One verse even hints at some of your adventures. Since songs are my specialty, I've been mentally creating a melody for it, which I'm calling Hedwig's theme for now. Lilting little ditty, almost a Celtic dance. Care to listen?"
"Sure!"
So the hat sang:
- The world would be quite a dull place,
- And we'd be unhappy souls,
- If boys couldn't fly to pirate ships
- Or girls go down rabbit holes.
- If we couldn't dream of centaurs,
- Or riding a unicorn --
- Or we couldn't wish, for just a while,
- That we were wizard-born!
- What if it was beyond our powers
- Imagining wondrous things --
- If there were no magicians, gnomes,
- Or elves or goblin kings?
- We'd meet a demanding ogre
- While crossing its private lawn;
- We'd give it a knut of magic loot
- That vanishes when we're gone!
- The girls would make pets of kneazles
- With wriggily, furry tails;
- But boys would prefer a dragon pal
- With slithery, shiny scales.
Hermione applauded, grinning broadly. Harry gaped at Hedwig in amazement, his eyes welling up; he had a whole new appreciation for the hidden talents of his faithful owl.
* * *
The young Gryffindors gradually became used to life with a talking hat and a chatty owl, so they weren't surprised when the hat said Hedwig was offering to scout ahead for a campsite. Harry stressed Dumbledore's warning about predators, then released her. Hedwig returned shortly to lead them to a high woodlot off the trail, where they spent the night comfortably bedded down on pine needles.
* * *
They crossed the last of the hilly country by noon of the second day, and stood on their final summit, looking down at a familiar lake...and at a Hogwarts that appeared so strange to them!
It was surrounded by a low outer wall, which in later years was mostly buried by the rubble from rock quarrying and excavation of the dungeon footings. They saw only one classroom building, with the central courtyard they had so often crossed, and two towers, all looking remarkably pristine. More construction was in progress where the second building would rise, but at the moment there were just long crude structures with wooden chimneys, perhaps some temporary dorms and a scullery.
A large open ground still covered the spot where the huge sinkhole to the Chamber of Secrets would develop over time. The lower pitch, which would be used soon enough for Quidditch, was overgrown. The Great Hall, gateway, high bridges and larger towers would not be completed for another century. The extensive gardens were outdoors, since the greenhouses would not be built until the 1600s.
Oddly enough, there was a woodcutter's shed downhill from the buildings that they instantly recognised. It was almost surrounded by a forest, already quite tall. It would not change in the next thousand years; they almost expected to see Hagrid by its familiar doorway, or Fang sunning himself on the broad stone steps.
"And can we get in here?" asked Ron. "No hog farmer types among them, I hope."
"Have no fear," said the hat; "we will be treated as friends. You have magic in you, or you wouldn't even see Hogwarts."
"What do the Muggles see in this century?"
"Oh, a wretched heath -- sharp boulders, with hardly a place to set a foot. Vultures and serpents abound by day, and strange howls and wandering lights and spectres at night. In a superstitious age, no non-magic folk would dare approach. Because of this forbidden area, the whole valley is called alaetan, or forsaken; so the farmers are Alaetaners, which will be corrupted over time into the village name, Althers. Well, let's be off."
* * *
They followed the road to the end of the last Muggle cartwheel rut, and beyond into the brush of the enchanted area. The trail resumed as they neared Hogsmeade -- what little there was of the village in that day and age. The people were about their mid-day business, and unlike the old man, paid them no particular attention; with the School of Witchcraft and Wizardry in their ward, they were used to seeing strangers. Some doorways were carved with shopkeepers' names or nicknames, none familiar to our three time-travelers except, perhaps, the Danish-born scribe called Blott.
The hat said the village was young, having been founded by an English expatriate wizard named Hengist, who just wanted some peace and quiet away from Muggles. At this point, the enchanted area was still called Heng's ward, and the town had been laid out in Heng's moed, or meadow. Those names would become Hogwarts and Hogsmeade soon enough.
The road had the usual hoofmarks and other donations left by farm animals. Here and there were other odd indentations on the dusty roadbed, which the hat explained were made by bulky straw barn-brooms during takeoffs or landings.
As the path took its familiar turn toward Hogwarts, Ron passed out chocolate as energy for the adventure ahead. They were still snacking as they passed through the outer wall.
"Well, that's something I haven't felt in a hat's age," said the hat. "I sense multiple Godrics - my own presence, and Gryffindor himself. But I also sense a third!"
"Odd sensation, maybe," said Harry. "But if Madam Pince researched this just right, Gryffindor charmed his hat by now. Including yourself, there should be three Godrics."
"Oh! Before we forget any longer," said Hermione, "I'll do the translation charm."
"Sorry," said Harry. "We should have reminded you."
She swish'n'flicked, "Lingus."
"And none too soon, maiden," said a voice from behind them. Startled, they turned to see a tall, middle-aged man with long, receding blond hair and a full bushy beard.
"Welcome in, travelers! I am Salazar. Can we offer you refreshment and hospice for the night, after your long trip from the Witching Walk?"
