o─-o─-o─-─-─-─ WITHOUT THORN THE ROSE ─-─-─-─o-─o-─o
Disclaimer: I am not J.K. Rowling.
Notes: Thanks so much for all of you guys' reviews, favorites, and follows. Also, I am not British, so if there are any Americanisms or any of the British usages sound strange, please let me know. I did try, but you never know. It kind of made me want to write some software to automatically British-ize things. Do you guys think there's a market for that? This chapter introduces more of the mythos I have added to Rowling's world. I tried to keep it short since I often find that sort of thing boring in other people's stories. I'm pretty sure I at least have a unique take on Merlin and the whole muggle/wizard dichotomy.
o─-─-─-─-─ 4. A BLESSING AND A CURSE ─-─-─-─-─o
Harry slept without realizing, carried away on a tide of reckless thoughts, and when he woke, it was dark. There was a new moon, and some clouds seemed to have covered the stars. With no human habitations nearby, the dark was as absolute as in a cavern beneath the ground.
The wind had acquired an arctic nip, but Harry didn't shiver. The cold to him was what the warm embrace of a mother was to others. He stretched luxuriantly, then rose, testing his muscles. Harry felt re-energized from his nap. He could have walked all night, but he couldn't see his hand before his face, he had no idea where he was, and, most of all, he wasn't ready to go home.
So Harry sat with his back against a massive tree, and thought. First, he thought of what he'd like to say to his father. Spiteful things: "I hate you for making me cry over a jerk like you." Plaintive things: "Why can't you just be nice to me?" Childish things: "I wish mum was alive. I wish I'd been a Black and not a Potter." Shameful things: "I'm sorry I'm not the way you wanted."
After a time, Harry's mind turned to the idea of Azkaban. In truth, he was excited by the idea of the island. He had always been drawn to the dark, the desolate, the depressing, and Azkaban was the quintessence of these. Perhaps, there, he might find answers.
Then Harry began to imagine how James' mistake had unfolded. In Harry's mind, it was a Death Eater, one of those who had pleaded Imperius or betrayed the names of others, who approached his father. James was sitting at the bar working out how to apologize to Harry and wishing Lily were there to help him, when the Death Eater cursed James from behind. James, acting on instinct born of years of being an Auror, turned and cast without thinking. His face blanched in horror as the man died before James could even suspend life functions.
Then the side of Harry that had been pushed down too many times eclipsed his more forgiving side, and Harry imagined it differently. The man was an innocent. It was someone James had known in school, one of those James still mocked, and James drunkenly crashed into the man on purpose, making it look like an accident. James pulled his wand and threatened the fellow, all the while mocking him viciously, and the poor man, driven to rage by the memories of childish slights, cast a minor hex. James cast a binding spell, smiling as he put all his strength into it, and blood gushed from the man's throat. James looked vaguely annoyed as he realized he'd cut the man's head nearly off instead of just strangling him like he'd intended.
Harry tilted his head forward, then drove it back into the tree with a thok. In truth, he didn't really care whether the man had deserved to die. He wasn't real to Harry. And, after all, he wasn't truly gone. He was still out there, somewhere, swaying with the waves, blowing in the breeze. Harry wondered if the man would forgive his killer. Surely death must seem a small thing from such a place of peace. Or was that floating sensation that had so comforted Harry as antithetical to some as the icy cold that Harry revelled in?
Harry sighed. He wondered if James and Remus were looking for him even now. There were spells to locate blood relatives, but what with the protective wards on Harry and the lack of a physical link, they wouldn't have any magical means of locating him. Perhaps Lady could lead them to Harry.
Harry opened his senses fully to dark around him, focusing for any hint of light, but all he could see was the field of scattered stars that was the forest animals. One light that was larger than the others moved steadily closer. It was James, Harry was certain. He recognized the characteristic pulse and colours of the man's soul. How could he know where Harry was?
It wasn't until James' wand cast light into the little clearing that Harry understood. He was surrounded by splintered and exploded trees that had led James straight to him.
Harry stared expressionlessly at his father staring back at him. There was a fraught silence, and finally James broke it.
"Harry. I'm sorry. I've cocked it all up. I'm a shite father. I know it."
Harry scowled and looked away.
"But I'm going to change. I'm going to do better. So, will you come back to the house?"
"Prove it," Harry said.
"I'm sorry?"
"Prove it. Prove you're going to change."
James looked flummoxed for a moment, but then his expression cleared.
"Right. As soon as we get back, I'll ask Remus to be our witness for the Unbreakable Vow. I'll make a vow to never voluntarily drink alcohol again. Will that do for a start?"
Harry blinked, startled by the steel in his father's voice and the magnitude of what he was offering. He half-smiled, but then frowned suddenly. James' expression fell.
"Better leave a loophole so you can drink champagne at celebrations. But only one glass, mind."
James grinned, and for just a moment he looked young again.
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First they flooed to Hogsmeade, then to Aberdeen, and finally Underhoull in the Shetlands, where they just missed the boat as it cast off from the dock. James, flustered, apparated Harry on board but managed to arrive about a foot above deck, so that they both tumbled in a heap to the wooden deck.
Then, suddenly, a dire-looking man with a patch over one eye and a scar that split his face near in half loomed above them. His wild blonde hair could have given James' a run for its money, and Harry had never seen such heavy, brooding eyebrows, like thunderclouds.
"Er, hello," James offered, helping Harry up.
"Dad, the luggage," Harry muttered.
"Shit," James cursed, and disappeared with a crack. A moment later there was a crack from within the hold of the boat, and then a loud series of bangs and thumps. The dire man scowled ferociously and dashed down the short series of steps into the hold, whence issued a loud argument. When the two men finally emerged, James looked chagrined and the dire man looked murderous.
"Er, is anyone steering the boat?" James asked nervously.
"Boat steer self," the dire man proclaimed in a threatening tone. "First mate take watch."
"Er, right. You're the captain, then? I'm a captain as well, you know. Captain of the Wizenwatch, that is."
The dire man sneered impressively at James and turned around to watch the waves they were cutting through. The boat moved at a rather speedy clip, and the water seemed calm enough. Harry sat down and put on his fur-lined cloak. It had been rather temperate out when they had left Ottery St. Catchpole, but they were a good deal farther north now, even if it was summer, and there was a steady breeze from the west, where the sun was dipping toward the horizon. He didn't need the cloak, of course, but he was accustomed to pretending.
"We pass apparition barrier," the dire man said after twenty minutes or so of silence in which James had put on his cloak as well and snuggled close to Harry for added heat. The dire man seemed to think the weather quite fair, as he stood in shirtsleeves, displaying sun-bronzed and weather-hardened skin proudly.
"Almost there, then," James remarked.
The better part of an hour had passed before James nudged Harry to stand, and Harry looked away from the sunset toward his first sight of Azkaban.
The island was a gently sloping plateau set upon cliffs of stone battered by the indigo sea. It was shrouded with fog that seemed to glow with the ochre light of sunset, and blanketed by meadows of green grass, dotted here and there with yellow and purple flowers.¹ At the far end of the island, the land swept steeply upward and disappeared into the mist, and from that cloud rose a great crooked tower of black stone.² To Harry the tower seemed a dark crown upon a verdant head. He felt something deep inside him respond to the sight.
"Look!" James cried, clutching Harry's arm and spoiling the moment. He pointed into the dark waters off the boat's prow, where a whale's tail, barnacle-encrusted and strangely scarred, had appeared. As they moved closer to the island, the whale kept pace, surfacing and blowing. "Do you often see them?" James asked the dire man.
The man sniffed. "Whale make good dinner. Good oil."
James looked disgusted, but said nothing.
Eventually they drew close enough to the island to hear the waves breaking against the cliffs, and the boat docked at an artificial cove constructed of gravel. There James and Harry disembarked, lugging their bags.
"Thank you!" Harry called to the dire man. "What's your name?"
"Halvard," the dire man answered in an uncertain tone, and though he weren't accustomed to speaking with children.
"Halvard what?"
"Bjørn Halvard³," the man grumbled.
"When do you come back, Mr Halvard?"
"Thursdays, unless I'm transporting someone."
"I'll see you in a couple days, then," Harry said, and waved. The dire man looked vaguely alarmed.
─-─-─-─-─o─-─-─-─-─
¹ If you care to know what I'm modelling the island after, go and have a look at the Faroe Islands on Google Earth.
² As for the prison itself, I couldn't find anything satisfying for a model, real or fake, so for now I'm working from various imaginings of Dracula's castle.
³ Norse/Norwegian/Swedish: Bjorn = "bear"; Old Norse: Halvard = "guardian of the rock"
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On the gravel beach, James was waiting with Harry's luggage. He looked grim, as though the realization of his exile had finally sunk in.
"It's not forever," Harry offered, trying to comfort the man. James straightened and forced a false smile onto his face.
"I know. And you'll have lots of breaks. Every fourth week."
"How does the Ministry know who I'm with, anyway?" Harry grumbled as they ascended a rickety wooden staircase that had been scoured smooth by the wind and the spray. They would have to walk to the wizenguards' village since all magical forms of transport were disabled on Azkaban.
"They don't unless they've been using dark magic—not that I would put it past them. And normally they wouldn't even give a damn," James explained. "But in your case there are people who would quite literally kill to get their hands on you, and I can't risk anyone realizing that you're not with me. The other wizenguards would know, for one."
"And since this place is cluttered up with burn outs and wash ups, they'd probably sell the information in a heartbeat," Harry concluded.
Ahead of him on the narrow stairs, James paused for just a moment as though he wanted to protest this assessment. But then his shoulders drooped, and he trudged on.
"I didn't mean you," Harry muttered uncomfortably.
"No," James sighed. "It's true enough. I am a wash up."
"But you're getting better," Harry said. On a sudden impulse, he skipped ahead to check his father's face. When he saw James' morose look, he slipped his hand into his father's and squeezed it.
James smiled. "You're a good son, Harry. I'm sorry I ever made you think otherwise."
"I never thought otherwise," Harry replied cheerfully, withdrawing his hand.
James laughed at the hidden barb. "Just like your mum, you little cheeker."
Harry's smile faded slightly. It was a good time to ask, he thought. It felt as though things were about to change, and this might be his last real chance. As they reached the top of the step and began to walk along a path that was only a single track worn through the grass and into the dirt, he gathered his nerve.
"Dad…do you know who my real father is?"
James sobered instantly. "No, Harry. Your mum wouldn't tell me that." He was quiet a moment, and Harry waited on tenterhooks, sensing that more was forthcoming. "But…I suppose you're old to enough to hear the story now. Now, to start with, you've got to know that your mum was an Unspeakable."
Harry inhaled sharply and his eyes glittered voraciously. "My mum was?" he breathed. He'd always pictured her studying at an Academy after Hogwarts.
"Yes. She was brilliant, Lily was. The top of our class. You get your cleverness from her. And she had a passion for finding out how magic works. I think coming from a muggle background gave her a unique perspective on it. To us purebloods, it's just so normal that we hardly think to question anything. So, she applied, and she got in, right out of Hogwarts. She beat wizards who'd studied and applied for years—decades, some of them. I was so proud of her. She worked in the Department of Mysteries for three years before she quit to take care of you full time."
They walked a few paces in silence.
"I don't know what she worked on," James continued, his tone grave. "I can guess what she would have been interested in, though, if she had her pick. She always wanted to know why some muggles produce wizard children. She thought if she could understand that, she could stop the prejudice against muggleborns. She was passionate about it. I was, too." He shook his head sorrowfully. "We were a couple of starry-eyed kids."
Harry silently agreed.
"I don't know how, and I don't know who, but one day, something—happened. Something went wrong. And, somehow, my Lily was—raped." James drew a deep breath, and exhaled slowly. "She swore it was an accident, a magical accident, and that no one was to blame. Experimental potions trial gone wrong, or something of that sort, I suppose. She wouldn't tell me who it was, though. I guess she knew I'd kill the bloke even though it wasn't his fault." He was silent a moment. "She hinted, several times, that she was researching something that would shock the wizarding world, something that would overthrow all our beliefs. I've wondered if, perhaps, she ran afoul of someone who wanted what she knew to remain unknown. But that's just my speculation. I always want to blame someone, I suppose."
Harry let his eyes roam over the wild and barren landscape, thinking. "Isn't there a potion—a spell—something that could tell us? Surely the goblins have some way to check bloodlines?"
"I'm afraid the goblins don't care all that much about the affairs of wizards, Harry. There are spells on Gringotts vaults and keys to prevent unauthorized persons from entering, but authorization is passed on by the action of the currently designated vault owner. That's why families can disown children simply for acting out of line. If my father had decided to give the Potter signet ring and vault key to our house elf, Tibby, then Tibby would have inherited instead of me, and there'd be nothing I could do about it."
"But surely there's some system, for when people die without having passed their things on."
"Yes," James agreed, "there is. The goblins appropriate everything inside Gringotts, and the Ministry everything outside of it."
"What?! Those greedy—are you serious?"
James chuckled darkly. "You need to get your nose out of those smutty novels and into some books of law. Some of the things our Ministry gets up to would curl even your hair." He reached over and tugged a lock of Harry's dead straight hair gently. "Fortunately most old families have some kind of family charter that acts like a default will, just in case."
Harry ducked his head bashfully. His hair had grown out past his shoulders, and his fringe was down to his chin. He liked to hide behind his glossy black tresses and watch people as if through a veil, though he'd been told by other children that it made him look a fool.
Just then, Lady poked her head out of Harry's shirt and tasted the air. "Are we there yet?" she questioned sleepily. Harry had forgotten she was there.
"Almossst," he answered, stroking her head.
"Harry," James warned. "You've got to promise me something."
Harry set his jaw and glared stonily at the ground. "I'm not giving up Lady."
"I'm not asking you to. But you mustn't speak Parseltongue where anyone can hear."
"I don't care what people think," Harry snapped.
"Foolisssh hatchling," Lady hissed. "Listen to your father. He knows the waysss of men better than you."
Harry scowled.
"Oh? And if they start to think that maybe you've got some other blood than Potter or muggle running in your veins? What then?"
"Uncle Remus said sometimes muggleborns are descended from squibs that have forgotten where they came from."
James scoffed. "Harry, Lily's family were the most mugglish muggles I've ever had the misfortune to meet."
"So? Perhaps they doth protest too much."
James frowned. "Harry, did they teach you history at that day school?"
"Er—some."
"Do you know about Merlin?"
"Of course. He was King Arthur's advisor. He was half-incubus, a metamorphmagus, and an animagus, so he could shift into any form—human, animal, or magical creature. He established the first magical communities of Britain."
"That's a rather sanitized version, but true enough. But do you know what his greatest magical achievement was? What he really made his name with?"
Harry thought. "I guess not. I thought he was mainly a political figure."
"Oh, he was. He was a visionary. And one of his visions was to separate muggles from wizards. Before the Arthurian Era, wizards and muggles lived side-by-side, and muggles knew about magic. It was Merlin who first called for a separation."
"I thought that happened after the witch trials, in the Middle Ages. That's when the statute of secrecy was established."
"Yes, that's when we truly went underground. But what Merlin wanted wasn't so much for wizards to hide, but for them to gather together. He thought that with our people so spread out, only one or two in each town, that wizards would never truly advance. He believed we needed to establish towns, cities, even entire nations of wizards. And he believed that if we stopped mixing our blood with the muggles, we would become more powerful."
"So he established the pureblood doctrine?" Harry asked, astonished.
"Yes. In Britain, at any rate. But his ideas weren't very popular, back then. Most people don't want to leave places where they've always lived, and telling people who to marry is never a well-received proposition. So he came up with an idea that would force wizards to separate from muggles. He poisoned the muggles. He gave them a potion that altered their minds, and the minds of all their descendants, so that they couldn't see magic. They simply wouldn't notice it, and if they were forced to focus on it, they would try to dismiss it as mere trickery or sleight of hand."
"He couldn't possibly have poisoned every single person in Britain," Harry protested.
"Ah," James answered, smiling wryly. "But that's where history comes in again. What was going on with the muggles at the time of Merlin?"
"Well," Harry began, thinking. "The Romans ruled before Arthur threw them out."
James snorted. "Not too difficult to defeat an enemy that's half-rotted from within, but true enough. But what about the common people?"
Harry frowned. "I don't know."
"They began to forget the old gods, son. They became Christian."
Harry's eyes lit up. "Christians eat the body and drink the blood of their god."
"Not literally, but, yes, they drink a certain kind of alcohol that symbolizes the Christ. Into this alcohol, Merlin slipped his potion. Of course, it wasn't a terribly quick process. But, one church at a time, muggles began to forget about magic. And, as the generations passed and muggles intermarried, the infection, as it were, spread, until, now, the only muggles who know about magic are those who've been told about it by their wizard children. And, often, they don't truly believe in it, but simply think their children to be deluded, superstitious types."
James and Harry were nearing the village where the wizenguards lived, now. The entire island was only three miles long and one mile wide. The village was a cluster of weather-beaten grey and brown shacks, with stone chimneys that puffed trails of smoke into the mist that hovered above. There were no streets, but rather foot-paths worn into the dirt, and the deepest and muddiest of these led to the massive black tower whose feet the shacks crouched at.
"Lily's family, Harry, were no squibs. The blood of wizards counteracts Merlin's poison, so a squib can see magic. That's how the muggles got their legends of strange creatures and powers. A squib saw something no one else could see. Often, it was squibs who were burned and hanged as witches. They knew enough to be thought odd and different, but they didn't have the power to defend themselves."
"Was it the poison—that made muggles hate us?" Harry asked.
"I think so," James answered contemplatively. "Before, we were vital to the life of a village. We cured the ailments, delivered the babies, and foretold the future. We made judgments when there were disputes, and we performed rituals of marriage and burial. They called us Druids, here in Britain. In other places, we went by the name of priest or shaman. Magic wasn't so complex then that wizards needed formal training. We were self-taught, or we were apprenticed to another wizard. We didn't use wands or Latin incantations. We had staves and stones and runes. Or we simply willed the magic into being. Potions formulas were carefully guarded secrets passed down by word of mouth from master to apprentice.
"We knew less then, but what we did know had more meaning. We didn't have spells for turning legs to jelly or making giant bogeys flap around like bats. We considered our magic sacred, to be used only for the good of the people and the land. I don't say we were saints, of course. There were evil wizards and witches, to be sure, who sought power and violence. But most of us lived in harmony with the muggles and the land.
"After Merlin's poison spread across the land, the muggles didn't want us anymore. To them, we were fools, madmen, and idiots. If we insisted otherwise, then we were devil-worshippers to be driven off with spears and fire. We couldn't live among them, so we came together. We founded a city called Avalon. But trying to bring together an entire people who come from hundreds of different ways and places wasn't easy. Some hailed Merlin as a hero, but others despised him.
"In the end, it was Morgan le Fay who defeated Merlin. She found the farthest, coldest, most desolate island that she could, and dug a hole deep in the earth, far below the level of the sea. There, she imprisoned Merlin in a cave of crystal, and sealed him in to slowly die. Some believe he may yet live in that buried prison, kept alive by his creature blood, or by some strange magic."
"The island…" Harry asked, entranced by the incredible and epic tale. "It's Azkaban, isn't it?"
"Yes, Harry. After Morgan died, her nephew, Mordred, took possession of the island, and built himself a fortress upon it. He wanted to establish a magical settlement here, for dark wizards, to rival Avalon, but he was ultimately defeated by Nimue, the Lady of the Lake, and he was the first to be imprisoned there, in the highest tower. In time, other wizards were bound here as well."
"Just like Grindelwald," Harry murmured.
"Light wizards are rather known for imprisoning their enemies rather than killing them," James explained, sounding as though he did not necessarily approve of this policy. "There were many wars, after that, and ultimately a more democratic government was established. But the history of wizardry in Britain since Merlin has really been a history of our relationship with the muggles. You have to understand that before you can understand anything about wizarding politics. Politicians and powerful figures define themselves by their beliefs about muggles and how we should interact with them. For better or worse, Merlin forced us to separate ourselves. He made us great, but he also made us strangers in our own lands. That's why the name of Merlin is used as both a benediction and a curse.
"Harry, do you understand why I'm telling you this? Lily's family were no squibs. They were muggles through and through, and that makes you the son of a muggleborn. If people found out you had an inherited talent like Parseltongue, they would know that I wasn't your father. Harry—tell me you understand what I'm saying. They could take you away from me."
Harry nodded, dazed. His head was spinning with visions of medieval villages, Druids in sacred groves, Avalon rising from the holy lake, and Merlin tipping poison into chalices. He shook his head to clear it and tried to focus on the issue at hand.
"Dad," he said quietly. "I have to tell you something about mum."
Harry had thought of confessing what he knew about Lily many times over the months since he'd found out that she was almost Maia Black. But each time he'd held back in fear that James would be devastated over losing Lily because they had fought for muggleborn rights if he found out that Lily was actually a pureblood. But now, in respect for James' divulgence of the story of Harry's birth, and in awe of the deep understanding James clearly had of the history and current political landscape of magical Britain, Harry knew he had to confess.
"Dad, mum wasn't a muggleborn. She was the secret child of Electra Black and Rogerick Lestrange. Her mum left her on the step of a church, and those muggles adopted her without telling anyone."
James froze in his steps and stared unblinkingly at the village they were less than a thousand feet from. "You know this how?" he asked after a moment.
"Mum's sister, Petunia, told me they found Lily on the steps of a church, and I wrote to the church and found out about how Electra Black gave birth there and then both she and her baby disappeared. I assume Rogerick Lestrange was mum's dad as he was having an affair with Electra Black and he also left the country at the time."
James swallowed. "That's amazing. Lily would have been so—so elated to know those horrid muggles weren't actually related to her. I wish she could have known that and perhaps found her parents…"
"But…" Harry trailed off. "But didn't she sort of like being muggleborn? She fought her whole life for their rights."
James shook his head dismissively. "Lily would have fought for that anyway. She always had a soft spot for anyone who wasn't treated right. She was so kind-hearted—so good—but also fierce. Why didn't you tell me this sooner, Harry?"
Harry shrugged uncomfortably as they began to walk again. "I don't know. I tried, once…but I suppose I thought you might be mad that you fought for muggleborns if you knew mum wasn't one."
James chuckled. "I suppose I understand. You have a kind heart, too, Harry." He smiled down at Harry, who ducked behind his fringe as he smiled hesitantly back. "Lily was murdered because she fought to protect the weak and the neglected. She died the most honourable death any witch or wizard can. She would never regret that fight."
Harry smiled faintly, but he didn't fail to notice that James hadn't mentioned whether he regretted it.
"So, here we are," James murmured as they entered the village. "Well, Harry, I know this exile of mine seems like a curse, but I'm choosing to view it as a blessing. I'm going to get my life together, starting here."
He ghosted his hand over Harry's head, and then put his arm around his son, and in a moment of weakness, Harry remembered being held tightly in the strongest arms in the world, and he felt a burst of love for this weak, this cruel, this tender man.