o─-o─-o─-─-─-─ WITHOUT THORN THE ROSE ─-─-─-─o-─o-─o

Disclaimer: I am not J.K. Rowling.

o─-─-─-─-─ 5. BLOOD AND SALT ─-─-─-─-─o

All the officers' houses were identical, consisting of a cube topped by a triangular roof whose two slopes met at an acute angle¹. This attic space had a window on each end and a tiny balcony sheltered beneath the sharply sloping roof. Harry claimed the attic as his before they had even gone inside.

"It's probably freezing up there at night, heating charms or no," James warned.

"Perfect," Harry pronounced it.

Inside the house, they found the downstairs divided in half. The half nearest the front was a combination sitting area and kitchen. There were two doors in the wall across from the front door; to the right, a small bedroom; to the left, a tiny bathroom with a stand-up shower and an auto-vanishing chamber pot. There was also a trapdoor into a freezing cold cellar, and Harry had a brief urge to claim the cellar as his room instead. The dark, the cold, and the enclosed feeling were soothing to him.

James seemed to sense his son's thoughts. "No, Harry. This is for storage."

Back on the ground floor, they ascended the small ladder into the attic, and James set about unpacking the furniture. He had shrunk the entire contents of their cottage in Ottery St. Catchpole and packed it into two suitcases with a combination of cushioning and feather-light charms. It was nice to have his familiar bed and dresser and desk, but Harry's floor space was non-existent with everything unpacked. Nevertheless, Harry arranged his things to his taste as best he could, while James unpacked his own furnishing downstairs.

"I might be able to anchor a space-expanding charm," James offered, poking his head up through the trapdoor to the attic. He yawned. "But not tonight. Let's go get dinner, and we'll unpack the rest after."

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¹ If you want to know what I'm picturing, you can go and look up pictures of Longyearbyen, Svalbard.

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In the mess hall, Harry got his first look at the wizenguards of Azkaban. They were a sorry lot. Those who weren't pale or weedy were burly or hairy. Those who didn't look mean looked sullen, and those who didn't look morose looked morbid. Harry wondered whether the guards had somehow traded places with the prisoners. He glanced at his father and realized that even James looked pale and morose.

There was only one man who seemed out of place, so after Harry had loaded a plate with ham and beans and fruit salad, he plonked himself down right across from Bjorn Halvard.

"You. Boy," the gigantic north-man grumbled. Harry studied the man, lips pursed in appraisal. The dire man's one remaining eye was the dark grey-blue of the North Sea, and his hair was a sun-bleached blonde on top with brown peeking out from underneath. The scar dividing his face ran from his hairline, across his forehead and his patch-covered eye, down his cheek, and halfway down his neck.

"My name's Harry," he introduced himself.

"Don't care," Bjorn replied.

"What happened to your face?" Harry asked curiously.

Bjorn scowled ferociously. "Bear," he spat.

"I like it," Harry commented, smiling a bit. He glanced over his shoulder and waved at his father as the man was snagged by the Wizenwarden, Fintan Oakes. James grimaced apologetically, and Harry shrugged nonchalantly.

"You want a scar like this?" Bjorn suggested, leering.

"Er, no, thanks. I'm not sure it would suit me. But it looks dashing on you."

Bjorn glared. "You have a quick tongue, boy," he allowed.

"Thanks," Harry grinned. He self-consciously checked that his fringe was covered his scar.

Bjorn's stern face darkened. "Boys should be quiet, watch and listen, not squawk at everything like baby birds."

Harry frowned. "I've been called a snake and a weasel before, but no one's ever compared me to a bird. I suppose you would be a bear. Isn't that what Bjorn means? Ironic that you got mauled by one. Did you not have your wand on you?"

Bjorn turned his head and spat onto the ground. "I have no use for your silly sticks, fugleunge."

Harry's eyes widened. "Really? You must be a squib, then. Why does the ministry let a squib transport prisoners?"

Bjorn growled. "Not all wizards use wands."

"What do you focus your magic with, then?"

"This." Bjorn drew a huge knife from his belt and set it on the table. Harry made an impressed noise. The razor sharp blade curved to a wicked point, and the handle was white, mottled with odd brown markings.

"What's the handle? Bone?"

"Mammoth ivory," Bjorn muttered around half a buttered roll. He could consume a roll in two bites, and had already eaten several.

"And the metal?"

"Steel."

Harry frowned. "I thought wand materials had to be pure. Isn't steel a mix of iron and carbon?"

Bjorn snorted. "What's pure about a unicorn hair or a phoenix feather? They shit and piss, too. The strength of a wand is in whether it suits the wizard. A north-man needs more than a twig to defend himself."

Harry had a brief mental image of Dumbledore's phoenix familiar splattering the top of the old man's head with flaming shit. His mouth quirked into a smile.

"Did they let you use that at Hogwarts?" Harry inquired.

"I didn't go to Hogwarts, fugleunge," Bjorn announced, sneering.

"Where did you go, then? Durmstrang?"

Bjorn made a dismissive noise. "I learned from my far and mor, just as they learned from theirs."

"Home-schooled, then."

Bjorn nodded shortly.

"I'm home schooled, too," Harry offered. "The other kids hated me so my dad withdrew me and let me take classes by owl."

Bjorn sneered again. "My far would have spit on me if I ran from a fight. You south-men are cowards and weaklings."

"I'm not a south-man."

"You aren't a man at all."

"I mean," Harry snapped, annoyed, "I must have some northern blood or something, because I love the cold."

"You're like a blushing bride, fugleunge, who loves her husband's sweet words until he has his way with her at last."

Harry scowled at being compared to a naïve virgin girl, mostly because the comparison was warranted. "I am not. I don't know how to explain it"—he broke off, frustrated. When he began again, it was in a lower tone, glancing from side to side to be sure no one was listening. The mess hall was mostly empty now, save for a trio playing cards before the roaring fireplace, and James and the Wizenwarden talking heatedly at another table.

"It's like I belong in the cold," Harry murmured, leaning closer to the massive, dire-faced man. For some reason, he hoped that this person could understand, perhaps even offer insight. "Do you know what I mean? It doesn't hurt me even if I walk barefoot in snow or going swimming in the middle of winter. In fact, I like it. It's comforting. And I can make things cold. Look." He touched the side of Bjorn's tankard of beer with one finger, and focused. The beer froze solid within seconds.

The north-man stopped eating and narrowed his eye, examining Harry appraisingly.

"Do you think I'm a freak?" Harry asked apprehensively.

"No," Bjorn answered immediately, but continued thinking. After a while, he said, "There is a story told by men of the north, especially by sailors and miners and the like—those who live where the sun does not rise or set for months. Not a tale that wizards know. They say that sometimes a man who is buried does not stay buried. Sometimes he walks again, bringing storms with him and freezing all he sets his eye upon, and driving men to madness and death. He is called draugr."

Harry shivered. "Is it real? Have you seen one?"

"I, no. But I know a creature like it, who brings frost wherever he goes, and drives men mad."

"What creature is that?"

Bjorn gestured at one of the walls with his tankard. "No one knows how they came here, fugleunge. Only that they feast on despair and death. Oh, these south-men will swear the creatures do their bidding, and perhaps they do, but after their own fashion. Never doubt that. It's only after their own fashion. If they took a notion to it, they could devour all our souls."

"The dementors?" Harry breathed. "Don't the patronuses guard the village?"

"The strength of a patronus lies in the strength of the memory used to cast it. Tell me, fugleunge, how happy do these men seem to you?"

Harry paled. Yet, strangely, another part of him felt excitement at the notion that the dark, mysterious creatures might decide to run rampant someday.

"You should learn to conjure your own patronus as soon as you can," Bjorn advised sternly.

"But I'm underage."

Bjorn spat on the floor again. "Fuck your 'underage'. I was doing magic as soon as I could hold a knife, as my forefathers have done for a thousand years. Free magic, it's called, because it bows to no laws but those of nature. You don't need any money or schools or books to learn it. Just find yourself a tool that suits you and get to it."

"But how?" Harry asked pleadingly.

Bjorn shrugged. He had cleared a truly massive amount of food, and now was merely nursing his beer. "The way all magic is done. Concentrate on what you need. Concentrate so hard that everything else is forgotten, and then push your magic through your magical focus—your wand, if you like. If it's a patronus you want, then feed a memory to your magic, the happiest one you have."

"But I can't buy a wand until I'm eleven."

Bjorn scowled. "I said you don't need money. I use a knife for a focus, but my father used a walrus tusk. My brother, a reindeer antler, and my wife, a living branch of rowan. Some even use their familiars. You'll know when you find the right thing."

"You're married?" Harry asked, curious as always.

"That," Bjorn growled, sticking his knife through his belt again, "is a tale for another time." He pushed his bench back from the table and stood. "May you sleep without nightmares, fugleunge."

"What does 'foogloonga' mean, anyway?" Harry asked, also standing and trailing after the north-man as he strode to the door, where he collected his leather cloak and hat.

Bjorn laughed with a noise like the rumbling of distant thunder. "It's what you are," he answered mysteriously, and exited the mess hall, roughly banging the door shut behind him.

Harry resolved to owl Flourish & Blotts for an Icelandic dictionary. Or perhaps a Norwegian one.

"Haven't heard that man laugh in years," a reedy voice said from behind Harry. He turned and saw that James and Wizenwarden Oakes were the only two men still in the hall. "He likes you, boy. Better watch yourself."

"Why? Is he dangerous?" Harry inquired innocently.

"Is he dangerous," the warden scoffed. "I once saw that man fight a polar bear with his bare hands."

"I'm not a bear," Harry pointed out.

"No," the warden agreed. "You're a birdling. That's what fugleunge means."

"Harry," James broke in. "This is Wizenwarden Oakes. Warden, this is my son, Harry Azrael."

"The angel who steals away with the souls of men in the night?" The warden cackled. Harry hated the man instantly, but strove not to show it with his face. "You've come to the right place, then. The dementors will greet you like a brother."

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Harry learned what it meant to live on the Arctic Circle when the sun rose at four in the morning. Even with his shades drawn and a set of bath towels thrown over them, light leaked into the attic apartment and he couldn't sleep, though his body was too weary to do anything else but lie abed. So he dragged his sheets and pillows downstairs, and made himself a nest in the cellar, curling up atop two sofa pillows. It was blessedly cold and dark down there, and Harry felt that he could hibernate there all summer if he chose.

Harry woke to the sound of James frantically calling his name. Sighing, he rose and scrambled up the ladder into the main room.

"There you are!" his father exclaimed, fists uncurling. "I thought you'd been taken by the dementors or that awful boat captain."

"Bjorn?" Harry asked defensively. "He wouldn't do that."

"He's more bear than man," James warned ominously.

"You're only saying that because he yelled at you," Harry declared as he shut the trap door behind him and moved into the kitchen area to pour himself a bowl of muggle cereal. "He's actually very nice. He told me how to protect myself from dementors."

James folded his arms warily. "The only way to ward off dementors is with the patronus charm."

Harry nodded, pouring the milk. "He said I should learn it."

James sighed, running a hand through his ever-unruly mop of hair. "I wish you could, lad, but it's against Ministry law to get a wand or perform incantations before you're of age."

Harry shrugged. "Then I'll do it without a wand or Latin. Bjorn told me how."

James examined his son sceptically. "I knew it. He was putting funny notions into your head, wasn't he? The warden told me he's got a lot of queer ideas."

"They're not queer, just different."

James frowned. "I wish you could make a patronus, Harry. There are usually only three guarding the village, and they save the strongest ones for the prison itself. But I don't want you messing around with that sort of thing. It's dangerous. Got it?"

"What will I do if a dementor does come here?" Harry asked, secretly thrilling at the idea.

James puffed out a breath. "I tested our talking mirrors last night, and it's just as promised; they don't work here. The only magical items that work on Azkaban are wardstones and wands. But the warden says you can call to a patronus, and it will transport a message for you. You're not to do it unless there's an emergency, mind."

Harry murmured assent and began to eat his cereal.

"I want you to pick some new owl courses, today, Harry, and make one of them History. And none of that goblin wars nonsense that's in vogue with hawkish types. Real history that will help you understand why things are what they are." Harry nodded pensively. It was a good idea. "Other than that, take whatever you like, though a language would be good."

"I'm going to start Old English. Middle English was too easy."

"Fine. I put the catalogue on the coffee table." Harry glanced over at the small table that was wedged between two sofas without even an inch of space between. "Let me know what you've chosen before you send the owl off. I don't want you taking classes from any more Death Eaters." He glared forebodingly at Harry, who shrugged and scowled. "I'll be back at eight."

Harry glanced at the clock, which displayed 7:30 A.M. James grimaced.

"The shifts are twelve hours with an hour break in the middle. It's longer than I'm used to, but at least I don't have the night shift. They say the prisoners scream in their sleep." His face seemed to age at the thought, and Harry felt a pang of sympathy. "Don't leave the village, all right, Harry? If you get bored, you can go and see Warden Oakes' daughters. They live in the biggest house—Number 1. I'm sure they'd jump for joy at someone new to play with."

Harry made a face but hid it behind his fringe, which was trailing into his milk. James plucked the stray lock out and scourgified it.

"And one more thing, Harry. I want you to put those sofa pillows and whatnot back where they belong. You're not to sleep in the cellar. If people found that out, they'd think I was abusing you, and I can't afford any more trouble."

That's not my fault, Harry wanted to protest, but he wisely kept his mouth shut.

"Have a good day, son," James said, leaning over to kiss the top of Harry's head. "I love you."

Harry blushed at this most unfamiliar of endearments. "I love you, too, Dad," he mumbled into his spoon.

James messed up Harry's long black tresses playfully, and departed.

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Harry, as instructed, chose new classes. The easiest to choose was Old English 1. He hoped it would be more challenging than Middle English, which he could understand for the most part without any translation. Next was History of Ancient Britain, since Harry figured he may as well start at the beginning. Then, inspired by Bjorn's story of dead men bringing storms and madness, he chose Magical Creatures 1. Finally, because of James' dire opinion of the Ministry—and he would know, since he worked for them—Harry selected An Introduction to Modern Wizarding Law.

That done, Harry took a book up to the attic and read by a window, glancing out occasionally when a soul came nearby. These were nearly always birds, but rarely humans. Harry read An Illustrated History of Azkaban, which seemed to have been written chiefly to cater to the public's taste for the grotesque, but was nonetheless informative and well-documented. Its section on dementors was seriously lacking, however—it was barely two pages long.

Around noon, Harry fixed himself a sandwich and ate on the tiny attic balcony. After lunch, he sent off to Flourish & Blotts for the longest book they could find that was solely about dementors, and for a dictionary of the language in which 'foogloonga'meant 'birdling', whatever that might turn out to be.

Next, he wrote a letter to Remus assuring his uncle that the island was beautiful and they were settling in nicely. After that, he put on his cloak and went outside for a walk about the village. A low stone fence marked the boundary of the tiny settlement. The stones were grey and white, large and small, stacked tightly without mortar, and dappled by yellow lichen and green moss. Harry walked along the inside of the fence, enjoying the stiff, salty breeze and the roar and murmur of the ocean.

On the side of the village farthest from the prison, there was a gap in the wall and a narrow footpath leading towards the sea. After checking that no humans were nearby, Harry turned down the path and walked for ten minutes until he reached the end of an outcropping that jutted into the sea. There were no railings or safety measures to keep him from falling into the water, and Harry was momentarily dizzy as he leaned out over the hundred foot drop to see what he could see.

The cliff was composed of solid rock split into dozens of layers with varying widths and colours. An endless procession of sharp-peaked waves hurled themselves against the face of it, licking up the face in a spray of foam, before falling back to reform and try again. Harry had always loved water, cold and dark and swaying, but he didn't think he would like to be dashed against the solid rock cliff. Harry watched, hypnotized, and thought that the sea was at war with the stone. Though the stone seemed implacable and impermeable, in time, the sea would wear the stone away into sand.

Eventually Harry moved on, following another branch of the footpath that led south along the edge of the island and away from the prison. There were no trees on the island and Harry found himself admiring the wide open vistas this granted. He wandered at a leisurely pace, stopping occasionally to admire the small yellow and purple flowers that grew amongst the wild grass, or to observe a bird foraging in the water below. It seemed there were many nests in the nooks and crannies of the tall cliffs, as a multitude of tiny glowing souls were crowded along the rim of the island. There were plenty of fish in the water, as well, though their souls were even smaller than the birds. Far off in the dark sea, two larger souls, almost as large as humans, twined about one another in a slow dance. Harry knew them for whales.

After half mile or so, the footpath veered off the edge of the cliff, and Harry was so distracted that he almost walked right off it. The situation puzzled him until he realized that there was a small strand below him. But how was he meant to get to it? Magic, obviously. He frowned at the rough rock cliff and wondered whether he could climb down. Then he saw a pattern of unnaturally sharp rocks in the weather-beaten rock and realized that someone had carved a set of precarious steps down to the sand.

With an uneasy trembling in his gut, Harry picked his way down the cliff, holding onto each handhold so hard that his fingers cramped, and easing his weight onto each step at a snail's pace. More than once he had to kick aside a nest of grass and twigs or freeze a furiously defensive bird whose children he had slaughtered. And the accumulation of bird-shit was disgusting. He made it down to the sand, however, and spent several minutes furiously scouring his hands clean in the seething breakers. The salt-water was blissfully frigid and invigorating. Harry waded into it up to his knees and grinned. He felt oddly as though the ocean welcomed him, and he knelt to give it a kiss, feeling foolish but also satisfied.

"Give me a wand," he murmured into the waves. "Something I can focus my magic with."

Around him, the dark, foamy water seemed to draw back, holding its breath, and Harry said, "Give me a focus, and I'll let you taste my magic." The sea seemed to hiss angrily, and Harry's stomach trembled. He had no idea what madness had possessed him to promise such a thing, but it wasn't much madder than talking to water to begin with.

A massive wave surged forward, then, all the breath that the sea had been holding rushing out in one blast, and knocked Harry off his feet. He spun in darkness and foam, flailing wildly for purchase and finding none. He was sure for a wild, fevered moment that he would die, but with another great surge, the sea spat him back out, and Harry landed back on solid ground. He felt the water recede, dragging him with it a few inches and scraping his delicate skin on the sand and gravel, but it let him go.

Harry lay with his face on wet sand, gasping and trembling, unable to move. There was a piercing pain in his hand, and his heart was pounding so hard that it seemed liable to break free of its cage. It drummed a tattoo of both fear and excitement. Harry lifted his hand and stared at it dumbly.

Driven clear through Harry's palm so that it protruded from either side was a branch of white coral, as long as Harry's hand and as thick as his little finger.

It heard me, Harry thought wildly. It knows me, now. It has tasted my magic by tasting my blood. The thought made him both shiver and laugh a bit hysterically. He felt a strong urge to keep the encounter secret, as though he had engaged in a sordid tryst. James would think it dark magic. Perhaps it was dark magic. Harry had never heard of anything like what had just happened, except in legends and fairy tales. He wondered briefly if he was dreaming, but surely the pain would have woken him.

Harry cradled his injured hand with the good one, biting his lip and blinking away tears. The pain was both sharp and dull, and when he tried to flex his hand, the pain radiated up his arm and he felt faint. As this sudden flare of pain subsided, however, he felt a powerful rush of something he could only describe as pleasure. It shot through his veins like liquid gold, making his muscles go limp and his eyes flutter.

Breathing deeply, and filled with sudden resolve, he pressed his fingers flat into the sand, and stepped down on them as hard as he could with one boot. Then, before he could think it through too much, he yanked on the branch of coral. An unrecognizable shriek of pain tore from Harry's throat, and he shook violently. He let go of the branch, leaned over, and vomited.

Harry rocked back and forth, quietly whimpering his pain, for an indeterminate amount of time. It wasn't until the sun touched the sea and the light grew red that Harry came to his senses. There was no way he could remove the branch without medimagic. He picked himself up and staggered on rubbery legs to the cliff.

As he climbed, the sea behind him seemed to hiss with laughter.