A Wizard's Warning
WizardsGirl : HP/Beowulf (2007, Movie!Verse) x-over. Harry is Grendel's Caretaker (For this prompt I went thorough Internet Search Hell to find the movie, just to watch it – as the movie rental place here just didn't have it - and I just want to say – cảm ơn bạn "XemPhimOnlineS".com!/Thank you "moviesonline".com, in Vietnamese!)
- tries to protect him from Beowulf after Herot
- Grendels Mom has chained Harry to the cave or placed a cursed collar or something on him, so that he's unable to leave without her permission (something she will never give, as he is tachnically a "Treasure" and she is a hoarder by nature).
- Harry heals Grendel/ is nursing him back to health.
- Harry is determined to fight Beowulf himself, using Griffindors sword (which he'd been able to summon to himself as he is the heir of Griffindor).
- mild-to-PROTECT THE CHILDREN-rated Slash between Beowulf & Harry
- Beowulf could still have Dragon-dude with Grendels Mom.
0o0o0
'Don't touch the Royal Dragon Horn, Harry.' Hermione had said – and Harry? He hadn't listened. If he closed his eyes tight he could still hear her, her droll amusement, she wasn't taking herself seriously. Harry hadn't taken her seriously, it was lore, and old, and no one thought it was magical anymore – if ever it had been magical. The thing about magic is it can't be measured, and it gives and takes at a whim.
It took Harry to a time he didn't know, a place he likened to hell (underground, check, lake with evil depths, check, fire –only occasionally seen, cold – usually) and the Lady.
The Lady who owned him, to whom the Royal Dragon Horn belonged by her own birth-right, and laid claim upon a horde of gold and treasures any goblin king would be in awe of.
"Wizard." The Lady called, stirring from the depths of her lake. She was still displeased with him for throwing the Royal Dragon Horn away before she'd found him.
"Yes, my Lady?" To call her anything else would be an insult Harry could not afford, and what was a title of royalty was its own truth – the Royal Dragon Horn was hers by birth-right, by blood-right, as she was as far as he could figure a Royal Dragon. About them, Harry could only guess.
Then again, his best friend's brother Charlie, he loved dragons – to the point where he went on and on rambling about them if he'd gotten the least bit drunk. There had been a lot of drinking after the war ended the war that had been going on since before Harry Potter was born. So he knew some things, they horded treasure (check – as her lair is a mountain full of it, complete with lake) they breathed fire (he hadn't seen it, and really hoped never to) and at least the Royal Dragon Lady, she shape-shifted. They were also fiercely protective of their eggs, their hatchling-children.
"Where is my son?"
Also a yes.
"My Lady - Grendel did not heed me, he was driven to silence Herot's hall." Harry keeps his eyes low, upon rocks and dirt, he inhales softly to smell damp and earth. They are underground, within a cave where no one can hear (but oh, how they hear the humans) it's the sight of the Lady's lake he avoids. She stirs there. She stretches forward, toward him.
"Pray then wizard, that he returns." Her words growl and hiss, as they should, she is no human. To look up at her would be to admit fear, admit wrong – and that is something Harry must not do. He nods though, obediently.
Grendel returns, and there are two men he drags behind him. He has tasted of mortal blood. Harry closes his eyes, feeling sick. If ever there was a way of keeping him from leaving the Lady's mountains, it is out of Harry's grasp now. This day the Lady warned him of, and knew would come.
"Grendel, what have you done? What have you done, Grendel?" She sounds kind, does the Lady.
"Mother?" Grendel is brought up short upon the path, and goes quick and eager to the lake's edge.
"Fish and wolf and bear, and sheep or two, but not men." The Lady goes on, coming closer. Harry studies the dead men, what they wear – what they might have looked like, living and breathing and not so white with terror. He has asked the Lady before, what time he is in, and always she has answered 'my time'. As if no other time should exist for him.
"Men? They are small." Grendel makes a gesture toward Harry, for certainly Harry is small. Tamed.
"Men, Grendel. They have slain so many of our kind." Demon slayers, dragon slayers – is there a difference? Harry checks to make certain these men are dead, but knows better then to ask for them to be buried. Grendel will feast and eat well tonight. Harry shakes his head and reminds himself he must not eat any offered meat (and it will be offered, with golden goblets of wine-red blood) not unless he knows what it comes from.
"The men screamed! The men bellowed and screamed! The men hurt me, hurt my ear." Grendel cradles it, as if to keep sound from coming. Harry would try a spell, but no works upon them. His wand is no threat to the Lady Royal Dragon and her offspring. She lets him keep it, as a token of her favor.
"Was Hrothgar there?" This is a warning, and Grendel knows better then to offer harm to that man, that man is his father. The Lady told Harry so, that she – a Royal Dragon – will only breed sons for Kings. No son will come into his full heritage as a Royal Dragon unless he succeeds his father, by usurping or slaying.
One day Grendel will take Hrothgar's throne, but he is not ready – he is too young, as both the Lady and Harry know well.
"I did not hurt him, I did not hurt him, no." His denial is quick, eager to please her.
"Good. Good boy, and tender." The Lady, pleased, croons and sooths her son. She is not angry – and at that, Harry breaths in relief, he dares never to interrupt them. And escape would end badly, he does not know where (when) he is, and the Lady would fetch him back with displeased ease.
"Mother..." Grendel sighs, as he is soothed to sleep.
0o0o0
"Wizard, why do you not eat?" More and more often, Grendel has gone out to hunt on men. He does not bring them into the caverns, but brings them – cooked – into the caves to eat with Harry. Though the Lady is his mother, the Lady has left the raising of Grendel to Harry – from egg to hatchling to this half-shifted form in mimic to Harry. A accident that the Lady does not forgive, but lets be a lesson to them both.
"I am not hungry." Harry answers, for its true – the sight of burnt flesh (fingers, toes) sickens him.
"If you do not eat, Mother says you will die. Why do you not eat of the meat I bring? Are you not proud of me? I am strong, I hunt for us…" Harry hears, and understands, and the sickened feeling makes him nauseous. He must not be sick, or Grendel will be distressed.
"Grendel, of what breed am I? What kind of being do you see when you see me?" Harry begins, trying for simplicity. Grendel is not stupid, but he is young, and naive. Harry had raised him, knows exactly how old Grendel is despite his size.
"You are my wizard." Grendel snorts, as if that is enough. Harry closes his eyes, all this time, and Grendel had brought the meat thinking Harry needed to eat, would eat for Grendel – would eat to live. Harry had thought Grendel merely bloodthirsty. He's been a fool, and knows it.
"I am a man." Harry says softly, and Grendel's blue eyes are wide with surprise.
Grendel does not go out again, not until new men come.
0o0o0
"Do you hate me?" Grendel asks softly, touching Harry gently upon the shoulder. Harry's quarters are small and cramped, but Grendel still fits if barely. They are within the Lady's treasure chamber, the heart of the mountain. There are tunnels everywhere, and they crisscross the mountain range. Escape would be easy, if it were not so unthinkable. Harry usually stays close to here, not out of choice, but because he is collared and chained – he has never found the other end of the chain, but it is – he thinks – somewhere here, for here he feels most comfortable and at home. As if he can find his space to breathe.
"Why ever would I?" Harry asks in turn, confused. Grendel can't help what he is, and Harry has taken care of him so long he feels as if it does not matter. In a way the Lady can not claim, Grendel is his.
"I thought you did, I killed those like you – to eat them." Grendel squirms a little bit, so his arm wraps about Harry, protective and possessive. Harry pats it, giving his attention to what Grendel is saying – and trying to say.
"It is not alright, but I did not know them like I know you. I do not hate you Grendel, but I should have told you." It is Harry's mistake, that he hadn't, and he wonders if it would have made a difference from the start – or only endangered his life, and that of Grendel. Harry isn't blind to the Lady's ruthlessness; she protects her once-mate Hrothgar even as she pushes away her son, punishes him for taking a human shape too early and having an outside ear drum. She could fix him, Harry is sure – but she does not.
"They are not like you, my wizard; they are loud and know no manners, they fear, they flee. Weak." Grendel hisses, and Harry sighs.
"They would kill you." Harry tells the truth, and knows it – only he hopes it will make Grendel think, will make him warty enough to give up this hunting.
"Why?" Grendel honestly seems puzzled, and the Lady will never say, so Harry does.
"You have killed so many of them." Grendel knows his father is Hrothgar, knows his face – has faced him. He is the one human in all the world that Grendel fears, for the Lady had told him not to harm him. Harry – sometimes – hates her for it, for he feels – but does not say – that it makes Grendel so careful and cautious where Hrothgar is only a old man.
It makes him hesitate and gives him a distraction that Grendel could otherwise not have, it might keep safer not to care about his mother's wishes – but he does – oh how he does.
"Do not fear, wizard – I will not let them so near my hide. You will ever be safe with me to protect and provide for you." This is a child's promise, but it makes Harry smile – and Grendel is pleased with himself.
0o0o0
"There was a dozen virgins
Friesians, Danes and Franks
We took them for some swifan
And all we got were wanks."
Grendel did not know the meaning of the words, but a song was being sung. He turned, half snarling a warning none heeded.
"Oh, we are Beowulf's army
Each a mighty thane
We'll pummel your asses
And ravage your lasses
Then do it all over again."
Blue eyes opened, peering out of the cave. From the heights of the mountains, he saw the hall Herot lit.
"The prettiest of the virgins
she was so fair and sweet.
I told her I'd a organ
For where to spread my seed."
The snarl became a growl, and there was more then warning rumbling in it.
"Oh, we are Beowulf's army
Each a mighty thane
We'll pummel your asses
And ravage your lasses
Then do it all over again."
Grendel glanced about, and saw not his wizard and not his Mother –he was alone. He listened then, for his own sounds were going unheeded.
"The oldest of the virgins
she was a vandal lass.
I showed her my mighty weapon
and she showed me her ass."
This was a warriors song, and this an army singing, and there was no army that Grendel had ever met before, only men, heroes whose songs were briefly sung before their blood was spilt.
"Oh, we are Beowulf's army
Each a mighty thane
We'll pummel your asses
And ravage your lasses
Then do it all over again."
Was an army to be feared, where single man invading to lay claim to a name in a hero's song he did not?
"The fattest of the virgins
I knew her for a whore
I gave her all my codpiece
And still she wanted more."
This land was his, but Grendel cared not for it's people, this army could do what it wanted with them – and their women.
"Oh, we are Beowulf's army
Each a mighty thane
We'll pummel your asses
And ravage your lasses
Then do it all over again."
Then again, there was but one man that Grendel claimed, that he cared for – that was his – and it was his wizard. Perhaps this army would fight him, and perhaps win – and what then became of his wizard?
"Her sister was from Norway
She cost me 20 groats
She showed me there was more ways
Than one to sow my oats."
Grendel listened this time, and though it hurt his ear, he heard what he thought their answer would be.
"Oh, we are Beowulf's army
Each a mighty thane
We'll pummel your asses
And ravage your lasses
Then do it all over again."
It was a cruel world, a cold world, but what right had they to threaten was not theirs to claim, to tame? The wizard was his, was his Mother's.
"Her mother was from Iceland
And she was mighty hot
She'd need a whole damn iceberg
To cool her burning twat."
At that Grendel howled – to harm the wizard was one thing, but his Mother no man would dare threaten while he had a ear to hear. In a blaze of blue fire Grendel came to them, this Beowulf's army.
"Oh, we are Beowulf's army
Each a mighty thane
We'll pummel your asses
And ravage your lasses
Then do it all over again"
0o0o0
Harry woke, and woke alone and knew Grendel gone. He went quickly to the Lady (for maybe there was still time) to find where Grendel had gone. What he found made him cold, and sick – for Grendel, he was dying. A arm torn off, and weeping.
"Grendel. My son. My poor son." The Lady spoke, there was no blame in her voice, only pain.
"Mother. They hurt me, Mother." Grendel whimpered, blue eyes still gleaming with life. It was fading, fading fast.
"Sleep now, my son." The Lady pleaded, and Harry shook his head – took a step forward. He dared this time – dared to get between them. The Lady's eyes came upon him, would keep him kneeling before her on the ground like something frozen. It was a warning he did not heed.
"He murdered me, Mother." Grendel blinked back tears, shuddering – from the corner of his eyes he saw Harry, and reached for him with his one remaining hand.
"Who murdered you, my son?" The Lady asked, softly, a murmur, a threat.
"He ripped off my arm." Grendel pained by the reminder, flinched back to touch his shoulder. Where it was wet with blood and gore, where there was no limb. Harry had stopped, because if Grendel named him as the murderer – he would not live long enough no matter how the Lady favored him for his wizard bloodline.
"He will pay, my darling. Who was the man?" This the Lady demanded, this she would have from her son before his death.
"He was so strong. So strong." Dying, Grendel was dying –and Harry was doing nothing.
"Who was the man?" Harry shuddered, for the Lady had asked this from the start, and would ask it until the dying breath. She would not let Harry come near until she had a answer, and knew it was not him.
"His name was Beowulf." Grendel started to close his eyes, and Harry went quickly (ignoring the Lady's eyes) to his side.
"My wizard, Mother will keep you alive." Grendel whimpered, a promise Harry knew would not be kept.
"No," Harry said softly, taking his wand and putting it near where the wound pulsed, "you will live, Grendel. It is my turn to keep you safe." Harry closed his eyes and put his magic and soul into that one thought, of safe, of alive, of living and life. Magic did not work against the Royal Dragon, but perhaps for, there was a chance.
"Beowulf." Hisses the Lady, and Harry glances to her, wondering what she sees. For now her son lives, and will keep living until Harry can do no magic or dies in the trying.
"I need his arm, my Lady – or the healing will not make him whole." The Lady nods her noble head, and goes on swift wings to where Beowulf and Hrothgar lay unknowing. Harry does not think of what she'll do in revenge, as is her right, but she fetches back the arm before dawns light.
"What of Beowulf?" Harry does not ask after Hrothgar (for the Lady would not harm him, that is her sons task to claim his heritage) – but Grendel's eyes peer up at his Lady Mother with cruel curiosity. He is his mother's son, as much as he is his fathers. He understands her where Harry does not.
"He comes to us for his blood-price." Grendel smiles, self-satisfied by his Lady Mother's claim: Harry bandages arm to shoulder, and does not think of what using his magic has done to him. His hands shake, and he know he must eat – but he is not hungry. It is much like shock (it is shock?) using up his magic with reckless will and seeing Grendel near lost beyond his saving.
"What will you do to him?" Harry asks, as he is lying down beside Grendel. He didn't know he was cold (and wet) until the warmth of Grendel settles and sooths him. That Grendel is so warm, so alive, like a flame is a good sign.
"A son he might have taken from me, so I take his son from him." The Lady settles back into the dark of her lake to wait, and for a while Harry sleeps – while he can.
0o0o0
"Waken, now – good - but do not move." It's hissed, a warning, a plea - in an unfamiliar voice. Harry opens his eyes to see him, a man that must be named Beowulf, for none other would the Lady let inside her lair.
There is a sword's blade at Grendel's neck.
"Please." Harry begins, feeling tears take his words away. He wants to say, do not do this – or, will you but spare him! But he can not, will not, for there is a hand suddenly on his mouth, covering it – it is rough with calluses - big, and thick fingered.
"Shush, easy lad – I'll get you out of this." He whispered in Harry's ear, soothingly: Beowulf is close enough to smell, to touch and taste. That is what gives Harry the idea, he opens his mouth to bite, but his tongue catches on the skin of Beowulf's palm. Beowulf inhales, sharp and surprised – and Harry does not bite down, for what use is it?
His wand, he sees it, near the lake edge.
The hand is taken away, and Beowulf eyes him, suspicious. This is his chance to have his say, and Harry takes it.
"Anything, anything - Beowulf –if you but spare the child..." Grendel does not stir, too deep in his healing sleep. The Lady, she Harry can feel watching after so many months of being under her eyes. If she likes what she sees, she will intervene, or not – trusting her wizard to know his duty and keep her son and himself alive. Harry puts his body between where Beowulf kneels, and Grendel lays, child-like and curled at his side toward Harry.
"This monster, this freak and demon – you call a child." Beowulf does not believe it, does not want to. Beowulf though, has not seen the Lady.
"My friend." Harry tilts his chin up in defiance, determined that Grendel will wake – and not die while murdered in his sleep.
"You lay with monsters, not man. What of a man that other men call a monster?" Beowulf sneers, sure that Harry will turn away, and he will have his way. Beowulf would kill his monster and go away – leaving Harry for the Lady. What does not occur to him is that Beowulf intends to kill the Lady, for it is laughable.
"If that is your demand to spare his life…" Harry meets Beowulf's eyes, but those eyes look him over, as if to determine how much bedding him is really worth. Then they flick to Grendel.
"He will not wake. He is in a healing sleep." Harry does not know that, but it is better to reassure Beowulf then leave him with questions that can not be answered.
"Is he really?" Beowulf breaths the words against Harry's lips, the sword against Grendel's neck eases away.
"I do not kill the helpless, be they monster or man." Beowulf mutters darkly, seeing the surprise and hope on Harry's features. His fingers brush Harry's cheek carefully, skin pale from being kept in the mountain, but with a flick of his thumb he brushes wild black hair aside behind Harry's ear.
Lips press to the side of his mouth, trailing to his check, a tongue circling, entering and invading at his ear. Harry shivers, not shuddering, and Beowulf chuckles, low and pleased by Harry's response.
"I'll take the deal you made me, and more." Beowulf promises, husky and eager. His lust is for pummeling, ravaging, but there are more ways to go about that then battle and blood. He draws Harry closer in, for a kiss, invading and victorious, and Harry sunk deep down in the feeling, the flooding of surrender welling up within him. He let the peace of it surround him, silence any protesting, willingly wanton in surrendering.
"Best be silent." Beowulf hissed, with a quick glance to the sleeping Grendel. It did not take much effort for Beowulf to shed his clothing away, and all Harry wore were his black robes which Beowulf shoved eagerly up and out of his way. Beowulf's hands reached for Harry's hips, bruising and swift he had the slighter man underneath him –there was no question in this. Beowulf was panting, quickly and eager, his breath warm on Harry's hot face. With a knee for a wedge he was between the wizard's thighs, seeking, rocking to tease Harry into obeying his silent demand.
Beowulf's fingers pressing then to Harry's lips for entry, this Harry granted him, tongue playing with the long digits. A quick indrawn breath and a low groan, the fingers were stolen away and rubbing into to another place, between his thighs, between his butt cheeks.
Fingers flexing and stretching into him, rough but still damp from his own saliva, Harry could not help but squirm and arch, if it was away or toward, he did not know. Still he kept in mind Beowulf's words, and no words escaped him. Harry could not help the sounds he made. Beowulf's other hand was upon his mouth, their eyes meeting over it in silent agreement.
Beowulf took his fingers away from the depths of him, one of Harry's legs over his shoulder – he kissed that knee, tenderly. It took none of the brutality and force from the deed; it was rough, but a force quick to enter. Harry didn't know if that was worse or better, to have done it slow or quick or not at all - moaning in more pain then pleasure.
Together they closed their eyes and breathed in sync, waiting and feeling each other inside and out. Harry's breath caught in his throat, for he'd felt Beowulf twitch with eagerness within him. His cheeks burned, meeting Beowulf's eyes, and the leer was there waiting for him to see it plainly. He was wanted.
Beowulf wanted this, and that is why they did it, Harry's pleasure or pain would not matter in the end. Harry found a relief in that, and a challenge, he'd enjoy it Beowulf be damned.
His hips canted, and Beowulf grunted – surprised or pleased, Harry could not tell and did not care to know. Like a hammer, like blows, Beowulf thrust in and out of him. There was no gentleness in this, and Harry did not ask it – would not ask it even if he could speak for Beowulf's hand over his lips.
Harry's mouth opened under that hand, not to moan for more- though he thought that and groaned brazen in need, his tongue licking at the palm of Beowulf's hand, urgent and quick as any thrust he'd been given. Beowulf moaned above him, shuddering and heaving. Again their eyes met in silent agreement, a challenge this time. Beowulf determined not to spend himself first and Harry decided just the opposite would be fact to prove their pleasure in this was not made alone.
"You're hot, and tight, and mine." Beowulf growls, and Harry's felt bruised and tender (bruised until tender, until seared pain becomes hot pleasure) and can not help but close his eyes against the sight of Beowulf, feeling keenly the weight upon him, the pressure within. Possessively, demandingly, Beowulf puts his tongue and teeth to sucking and biting at Harry's neck, as Harry's lips he dare not uncover by his own hand.
Through his own spread fingers, Beowulf hears one word the wizard whispers.
"Please." The first word Harry had ever spoken to him, a plea. Again.
"Yes!" Beowulf grants, the permission for himself or for Harry he doesn't know. Buried in deep, Beowulf cries out. He can not help himself, though his teeth sink into Harry's flesh, sound escapes him. He goes still, and knows Harry is still underneath him, he moves to put himself between Grendel and Harry without thinking of it, bodily keeping Harry close. They are both spent, and Beowulf does not care to know which found pleasure in the other first. They breathe together, hearts pounding in time to each breath.
"You bring me treasure with one hand, and prove you are a thief with your next." Harry freezes, breathe catching in panic. He had known, all along that the Lady watched and waited for them to finish this, that he'd forgotten was a mark in Beowulf's favor – though the man would not now (or ever?) thank him for it.
"Show yourself! What are you?" Beowulf called out into the dark of the cave.
"Lady..." Harry rises from the ground, guilty but feeling the need to stand on his own feet, for strength.
"Silence my wizard; I know to whom you have given heart and body, though your soul belongs to me alone. Are you the one they call Beowulf? The Bee-Wolf. The bear. Such a strong man you are with the strength of a king. The king you will one day become.." The Lady comes out of the lake, smiling and naked in mortal seeming. Her skin is gold and that gives away her nature, if Beowulf would only see and believe his sight.
"His soul is his own. What do you know of me... Demon?" Beowulf protests with a hiss, his sword in hand. The Lady is not threatened by it, does not even look to it. Her smile seeks a sword of a different sort. Harry, his face flushed, knows – and looks away.
"He is no mere mortal man, my wizard. You would do well to learn from him, Beowulf. I know that underneath your glamor you're as much a monster as my son, Grendel." With the tip of the Lady's tail she touches Harry's cheek, possessively. Her smile is smug, for Harry does not protest this invasive touch.
Beowulf strikes at her, fury in his eyes.
"My glamor!" She is gone from their sight, from the glow of the Royal Dragon Horn, but they are not alone. Harry puts his hand upon Beowulf's sword hand and shakes his head; slowly she draws near, her eyes judging them and her smile weighing.
"One needs glamor to become a king." For two sons, the Lady would allow this one to live – Beowulf, she senses, would be king of his kin.
"A man like you could own the greatest tale ever sung. Your story would live on when everything now alive is dust. Beowulf... It has been a long time since a man has come to visit me." Shark like, inhaling, she circles him.
"I need no sword to kill you." Beowulf realizes, for her heart she offers in bedding him, in loving him, and cruel as she is she makes him think that the likes of her would die of a broken heart, as a mortal man might.
"Of course you don't my love. You took a son from me. Give me a son, brave thane. Stay with me. Love me... Love me... and I shall weave you riches... beyond imagination. I shall make you the greatest king that ever lived. As long as you hold me in your heart... and this golden horn remains in my keeping... You will forever be King. Forever strong, mighty... and all-powerful. This I promise. This... I swear..." The Lady offers her embrace, and Beowulf takes her: the sword a melted thing between them.
It is not something Harry judges him harshly for, can think to accuse him by - for the Lady draws both down into her arms, netting both at once, drowning them with words that she hears sung from their heart's desire.
That is how it begins: the Royal Dragon Horn given into a Royal Dragon's hands.
0o0o0