'Man's wolf to man' and we devour
ourselves. The enemy could not
have made a greater breach in our
defenses.
~ In Distrusts of Merits by Marianne Moore
The January weather was cold even for the Norsemen. Frost formed where the water lapped at the platform posts, and a northern wind traveled over the mountains, bringing with it a fresh chill. The students huddled in groups, feeding off warming charms, hot chocolate, and quilts emblazoned patriotically with their school's emblem. Hogwart's strange insignia was crude next to the Golden Songbirds and Red Hart Skull of Durmstrang and the heavily stylized golden and ice blue B of Beauxbatons.
Dyre stood in Draco's old swimming trunks and a long-sleeve tee that used to belong to James. Diggory and Delacour were in equal states of undress, jumping up and down while rubbing their arms for circulation. The filthy green of the lake was unmarred by the temperature, no different than the first time Dyre had emptied the galley bucket so many months ago. Dark and murky and unbreachable.
Gillyweed slicked his hand, making his palm even colder with moisture. It had been delivered to him that morning by Glock, the swallow that Dyre had given Professor Snape. He had planned to pull the oxygen from the water, an enchantment not so different than a bubble charm but much more taxing. It had taken a long internal battle before he had accepted the plant. Out of all the debt he owed, he supposed a bit more could hurt him little.
Dumbledore was speaking to them, but his gaze remained far off, crossing the length of the lake. The day even looked cold, flurries descending from the beaten sky. Dyre had easily deciphered the meremish in the egg, though British meremish was certainly a different dialect than Scandinavian meremish. What was most troubling was not the depth and chill of the lake but wondering what had been stolen from him. The most obvious choice had been the dagger set, but the dirk remained at his hip and the case in the possession of Morgan in the forest.
He startled slightly when something brushed his neck, but it was only Cetis, Draco's glass wyvern. Draco had taken to the creature much more heartily than Dyre had expected. It was always furled around the boy's neck, watching his interactions with a lazy but guarded eye. Dyre looked over his shoulder and saw Draco watching him. The young lord was standing beside his mother, a fleece scarf shielding his neck from the wind and his hands stuffed in his pockets. His eyes were bright though, wind-blown hair like whipped frosting, ears sharing the shade of a cherry. Dyre's fingers rose to pet the head of the wyvern, which hummed regally in response.
And realization of what lay in the watery depths hit him like an uppercut. It couldn't be possible. She was bound to the Tower, to never set foot outside those grounds. It was forbidden. But Dyre knew that the Maiden could speak only a word and every law and precedence that had founded their age could be overruled.
The wyvern flew back to its owner. Dyre knew of the riddle only a few horrible seconds before Dumbledore told Delacour and Diggory. It was enough only for him to stuff his mouth with the gillyweed.
The burn was immediate even before it hit his stomach, slithering much too slowly down his throat. Pressure ripped his neck. Cartilage grew and stretched awkwardly between his fingers and toes. A second pair of membranous eyelids bubbled beneath the first, stinging wickedly. He ignored it as well he did the cold and pulled the shirt over his head.
He knew the moment when the crowd was exposed to his back. There were gasps and shouts, the moment of the start of the second tournament stolen. Dyre jumped off the dock, a crack signaling the clock only a sparse moment before he hit the water.
An hour. An hour to retrieve Yrsa and an hour before the gillyweed dissolved in his stomach.
Odin, please. If you love him any, not Yrsa.
o.O.o
Draco was in a state of shock. His back. Merlin.
He might have expected whip marks, hex slashes, burn blasts, anything. Not the crest that burrowed crudely into muscle, like a long parasitic worm. The insignia of Durmstrang. And along the spine, Merlin, it was as if someone had tried to pull out his vertebrae. The skin along the bone was indented with the impression of fingers, dissecting the ugly songbirds and the skull of the deer, nose disappearing into the waistband of his swimming trunks.
He felt his eyes prickle, his hand over his mouth to fend nausea. His mother put a hand at the base of his neck, fingers achingly cool amid the fleece.
"You knew," he said. "Merlin, did… did Karkaroff do that?"
Her lip pinched, but that was the only sign of emotion that she gave. "I don't know, Draco. There are runes in the space along his spine. I could not read them, but they looked like compulsion spells."
Draco shut his eyes and pressed his hand closer to his mouth, sucking in his abdomen to control the gag reflex.
"Mother," he started but slipped off, unable to speak.
Narcissa's gaze ran up to the judging panel, where James and Lily had gotten into a heated argument with Karkaroff. Draco left his mother's side to talk to Victor, who was already speaking urgently with the Granger-girl that Dyre had invited to the Yule Ball. They were soon joined by another boy from Gryffindor, a lean child with a kind but clumsy face and baby brown curls. Pomela had joined the argument in the judging box, and Narcissa wondered if she too should content herself with watching Karkaroff flounder.
When she had first seen the mark, she had raged. The lines were too artistic to be anything other than a spell, and the malevolence that leaked through the furrows could only be spawned from Dark and ancient magicks. Despite the depth, which simply had to interfere with his muscles, Dyre walked with no great strain, though she was sure at times that it moved beneath his clothes. The level of sophistication involved in such a thing was far beyond Igor Karkaroff. Far beyond even Dumbledore, she supposed.
Versed by her mother in nearly every Dark art imaginable, her fingers had hesitated even to hover. She was not sure what resided in the marks, was not sure if such a thing could be called evil, but the form it had taken outdated even Durmstrang. It scared her.
As she watched the surface of the lake, Cissy darted from the pole where she had been keeping guard and hovered by her shoulder. Narcissa held out her hand and gave a faint smile.
As she cooed to the creation, two meremen broke the surface of the lake, Delacour unconscious in their grip. Her skin was red and puckered with the grip of grindylows. Dumbledore abandoned the judging deck, Madam Maxime at his side. He conversed quickly in meremish as the giantess lifted the girl out of the water. Madam Pomfrey was at her side in only a second, swaddling her in blankets and mending the bruises along her arms and legs. Poppy woke her and shoved a Pepper-Up in her open mouth before she could protest. She choked, spewing half the potion across her lap, where it steamed. When she caught her breath, she started rattling frantically in French, motioning to the depths that hid her little sister. Narcissa watched the hubbub from a safe distance, unbothered the stream of crowding French. Dumbledore left the mere and assured her that the young girl would be returned at the hour's end completely unharmed, his assertions swiftly and sternly backed by the headmistress, though Fleur looked no less aggrieved.
Toward the end of the hour, Diggory surfaced, the Chinese girl in his arms and a boyish grin on his face as his classmates cheered. In a dramatic fashion, he surfaced just as the clock chimed, signaling the end of the hour.
Narcissa searched the waters.
A murky blob was drifting towards the surface, and she strained her eyes to see, holding out her wand. Draco and the Granger-girl rushed to her other side. The blob surfaced, revealing a young girl not much older than Fleur's abandoned sister. She was alone.
The teachers quickly flooded the lower deck, combing the water with their wands for signs of Dyre. The girl searched around her, ignoring the calls to swim to the platform. Narcissa watched as she drew in a great breath of air and despite all reason, dived back down into the freezing water. Before she could grab him, Draco wrapped his head in a bubble charm and dove. Her shout went unheard, but James was close behind him, throwing off his robes.
Lucius was beside her in an instant. Cissy darted across the surface of the lake, joined a moment later by her husband's falcon. Beatrice made a quick dive, swooping over a spot in the water, marked a second later by her little hummingbird. Narcissa warped a ball of light and launched it with undeniable accuracy across the lake, holding the spell even when the water tried to extinguish it. Lucius touched the top of her hand lightly, adding his silent support. She clenched her jaw and held the spell steady, waiting.
o.O.o
Dyre's main hindrance was not the crowd of grindylows the waited to ambush him from the kelp or the intense cold. It was the darkness. Without a wand, he had no way to illuminate the water, and the winter sun yielded almost no light so far into the water. He had removed his dirk and having slaughtered the few grindylow that attempted to attack him, used the blood to guide him to the largest concentration of magic in the lake.
So far, the kraken had made no appearance, but he suspected that it had gone deeper into the mountain caverns to rest for winter. It would explain why Dumbledore had wanted to host this event in January rather than when the weather was more agreeable.
Dim light greeted him from between the kelp. He gripped the handle of the dirk between his teeth and gave a mighty kick, weaving his arms to escape the kelp field. The weeds parted and he rear sharply. The mere were watching him from rocky hovels. Warriors of both genders, androgynous breasts shielded by long stretches of porous rock, shells, and bone, tightened their hold on serpentine spears.
Dyre stared back at them with amphibious eyes. They were not so different than the mere that inhabited the Crystal Lake, if a little less hostile. He could see mothers pushing their young back into the hovel, babes more fish than man and white membranous eggs. Their crude city squatted in large hills of uprooted limestone, surrounded by browns and dark greens. Talismans wavered on thin strings of kelp, making no sound against the current.
Dyre approached the nearest warrior. The male tightened the grip of his weapon, thick bulbous eyes observing him warily. Dyre sheathed his dagger, hovering. He inclined his head and slipped past the guard into the city, passing below the creature's waist so that his neck and back were exposed.
Eyes followed him. Only once did he stop again, before another guard who pointed towards the center of the city. Not trusting in his pronunciation of British meremish, he merely inclined his head gratefully and swam in the general direction that he had pointed.
There were guards posted in a circle around the captives. Diggory was already busily cutting the cords that held down his Yule Ball partner. Dyre watched the guards, noticing how none seem inclined to hinder him. They were here for the protection of the captives it seemed. Of course, Dumbledore wouldn't want innocent charges victimized by the creatures that the competitors were supposed to face.
Dyre spotted Yrsa instantly. Her adept tunic floated around her, limbs stiff. Her brown hair was nondescript in the dirty city, not as blaring as the blonde child next to her. Dyre swam to her. Softly, he touched her face, unimaginably disturbed by the lack of color in her face.
Diggory freed his captive. He gave Dyre a swift look and struck against the lake floor, catapulting to the far away surface with the girl in his arms. Dyre watched him go, feeling time running out.
He cut quickly through Yrsa's bonds and gathered her in his arms. He made a dash for the faint light of the surface, the burn of the magic of the gillyweed fading into his bloodstream. He was sure he was going to make it. He knew it would be after the appointed hour, but he was already crafting the oxygen from the water around his nose.
He was so close.
Something flashed by his side. The quick motion startled him, and the last burst of speed from his webbed feet and hands were wasted. He scanned the darkness. The light of the city below and the sky above were both too far away. He could see nothing but sloppy green. A screech echoed through the water.
It was a knucker.
He propelled himself upwards, but as he knew it would, a tentacle sharp with fins snared his ankle, breaking it. He forced the water to expel Yrsa to the surface and unsheathed his dagger. The creature was in close range now, and he could see the distorted features. The long body of an eel, lethal with pinioned fins, coiled in black scales, the length of the world for all Dyre knew. Distorted eyes, milky with the blindness of cold, unfathomed regions, perched above a mess of crooked teeth jutting in monstrous proportions and angles.
In the moment when the knucker attacked, Dyre slashed his dagger and lost track of the magic holding air around his nose. The water's buoyancy skewed his perceptions, and the knife slid off the creature's flank rather than its head. The teeth fastened on his side and ripped. He screamed, bubbles rising in place of his voice. Brown water swarmed suddenly with blood, the red of his and the inky blue of the creature.
With another inhuman wail, its tail bashed against him, throwing him through the water. Dizzy from the pain and the lack of oxygen, he barely managed to grab the creature's tail. The fin tines tore open his palm, but he channeled enough magic to burn through the scale. The knucker howled again and retreated.
A last puff of oxygen left his lungs, the light disappearing from above him. The dirk started to slip from his fingers, and the last thing he remembered was thinking that it was such a shame to lose his first blade.
o.O.o
Yrsa searched the water, easily filtering air and discarding the excess hydrogen in a stream of angry bubbles. Dimly, she tasted blood in the water. The trail was not hard to find. Dyre floated in a sea of transparent red and thin black, an empty hole of ripped flesh exposing his ribs. She grabbed him by the shoulders and shot towards the surface.
Yrsa crashed violently into air. A beacon of light was leading fellow divers to her, and though they cried out frantically, she could not understand them. The platform was crowded with people, the lower level swarmed with students.
Dyre wasn't breathing. With a curse, she pulled a crude wave behind them, rolling them towards shore. Her control faltered and the wave crashed. She curled around Dyre's body, trying to take most the fall as land hit. She ended atop him, sand and pebbles skinning sticking to her wet hair and clothes.
"Harald!" she shouted, leaning over his face.
A man pushed her aside. He opened the boy's mouth and breathed. Yrsa pushed him out of the way with a growl. Forcefully, she grabbed the water in his lungs, hand raised above his sternum. Concentrating hard enough to make her temple and jaw tender, she followed the path of his throat. It made it all the way to the back of mouth when he sputtered. He surged upward, spewing the water and coughing.
Wasting no time to relief, she stifled the flow of blood from his side and disinfected the wound, making his body seize in shock. She grafted the skin haphazardly, eager only to allow him enough strength to live. Dyre suffered the torment silently, the back of his head pushed into the rocky shore of the Great Lake, teeth clenched.
Finally, she released the spell and fell again his chest. "Harry, you idiot!" she screamed in Icelandic. "Don't you ever do that again!"
"Yrsa," he groaned.
She pulled up, her face shining with tears, gritty rocks stuck in a long streak over her cheek. She pulled his hand up to cradle her face, leaning into the gesture with abandon.
"I'm not dead," he whispered.
"Of course not," she said, pressing a kiss into the heel of his palm. "I won't allow it."
o.O.o
Yrsa had a classic beauty. With pale flesh like porcelain, she looked like a winter doll. Chestnut curls made a thick curtain around a cherubic face and down her back, tangled in misshapen braids and hand-blown ceramic beads. Her blue eyes were bright with magic, deeper and darker than the Malfoy-grey and Dumbledore-egg beryl. She stood only at Draco's chest, her white tunic clinging to curves she had yet to grow into.
James had carried Dyre to the infirmary, sitting him on the same bed he had occupied after the first tournament. Madam Pomfrey was not far behind them. She fussed over the break in his ankle and the huge portion that had been taken out of his side, though Yrsa had already safely taken him from death's threshold. There was nothing left for her to do but relieve the inflamed flesh, heal the bruises, and take the rest of the liquid from his lungs.
The girl stood like an awkward reminder of a time they were not privileged to. The austere grace in her movements were outdated and unapproachable, the emotion in her eyes cool as a misted mirror. She had not spoken a word of English and save only a few sharp exchanges with Dyre had spoken barely any Icelandic either. No one knew what to do with her.
Dyre suffered the prods of Poppy's wand, three healing poultices, and a Pepper-Up before the elder Healer granted him fit to leave. Yrsa was first to spread her hand across his chest and help steady him off the bed.
Dyre surprised them all by enveloping her in a sudden, tight hug. He whispered softly into her hair, something that even without translation they could easily understand. He pushed her away gently but firmly and looked her over for injury. She shook her head, added a wry twist of her eyes, and responded in the same tongue.
Her gaze suddenly sought them out, landing a few moments longer on James and Lily, who stiffened in response. The girl posed a question, the language sliding over her tongue like a bitter poultice. Dyre's face faltered, his gaze growing heavy as he responded, voice soft and gentle in comparison. Her eyes widened, and she sent a look of pure hatred to Lily and James. Dyre grabbed her arm and forcefully turned her from them. He spoke quickly in Icelandic, followed by the girl's frustrated arguments.
Frustrated, Severus cast a translation spell on the two of them.
"…not like that," Dyre said.
"I would have nursed you," the girl said, giving him a look full of emotion.
Dyre's green eye sparked like wet kindle, his brow drawing over his gaze. "You were not here."
She wrenched her arm away. "Is that my fault? I told you to take me with you!"
"It is forbidden," he said softly, allowing her to rail at him.
"Is it forbidden now?" she said, taking a step forward. "I am here, aren't I? You could have taken me then."
He shook his head. "The Maiden would not have allowed it, nor would Karkaroff. It is forbidden for you to be here."
"It is forbidden for you to be in the Tower," she spat. "That has never been a problem for you before."
"It is different, Yrsa," he said calmly, making motions to soothe her.
She drew away from him, blue fire spitting wildly in her eyes. "It is no different."
The two stared at each a long moment before Yrsa looked away, wiping her eyes. With no hesitation, Dyre drew her into his arms. She quieted almost instantly, her eyes drifting shut against his chest. When Dumbledore opened the door, they stayed so, moving only to lift their heads.
"Dyre," the old man sighed, the relief evident in his eyes. Leopold hopped along his shoulder, singing a short happy trill. "I do believe the fates have cursed you with a most interesting life."
Dyre gave a small nod, loosening his grip enough for Yrsa to turn in his arms. Dumbledore smiled at her.
"It is a pleasure to meet you again, young adept."
Yrsa gave him a cautious stare. "Banebreaker," she said in heavily accented English.
"Headmaster," Dyre said suddenly, but before he could continue, Dumbledore revealed a dagger from his sleeve.
"The mere believe that this belongs to you. Rather generous of them to return it, but you do make a mark on people, young Dyre," he said, offering the dirk.
He took the dagger, touching the blade reverently to his chest. "Thank you."
"Harald," Yrsa breathed, eying the dagger in his hand with awe.
Dyre sent her a rare, brilliant smile. "I was able to participate in Holmgang, love."
Beneath her inquisitive eyes, he presented the blade. Her fingers hovered over the edge, not touching. "It's beautiful," she said. She licked her lips. "And was it given beneath the full rights?"
Dyre gave a happy nod, appearing his age. As he tucked the dagger back into his belt, Yrsa turned her gaze back to James, this time a mixture of surprise and approval coating her luminescent eyes. When she looked back at Dyre, her face shone with proud.
"You are a warrior."
Dyre gave her a sweet look and moved his hand along the fringe of her hair. "You have grown, heart."
"Of course I have," she huffed. "My craft is much perfected."
"Pride, Yrsa," he chided.
She snorted. "Pride is a woman's only friend. Especially when her husband seeks to placate her with winsome words."
"There is no placating to be done with you," he teased. "I say only that you were a great deal shorter when I left Iceland," he said, petting her head. She batted his hand away, and he smiled. "Yrsa, I want you to meet…" He trailed off, gaze resting on the spot where Draco had been standing. He looked around and instead was startled to find the betrayed eyes of his family and the haughty eyes of Narcissa Malfoy.
He quieted and grabbed Yrsa's arm. She blinked then focused her gaze on their audience. Her expression rose in a sneer, and she moved to stand between them and Dyre before the boy pushed her behind him.
"Yes, Dyre," Narcissa said snidely. "Please introduce us to your wife."
Dyre's face closed off into a mask.
"Narcissa," Dumbledore started in warning.
"Don't act like you don't know what we're saying," Severus interrupted, voice slick across the infirmary. "Did you think your conversation would be private just because you decide to speak in a foreign tongue? There are translation spells, you stupid boy."
"Severus, that will be enough," Dumbledore said, raising his voice enough to cut the man off.
Hermione and Victor chose that unfortunate moment to enter the infirmary. Victor took one look at Dyre and limped across the room. He grabbed his arm and pulled him and Yrsa towards the door. No one moved to stop them, Dumbledore's furious gaze forbidding comment. Once the doors closed, he spoke.
"I had the opportunity to chose Draco for the tournament. I chose Yrsa instead because I thought Dyre would enjoy seeing her."
"Didn't you see that?" Severus hissed. "He is married."
"To an adept of the Tower?" Dumbledore said. "They are forbidden to marry."
"So it was a joke?" Lily ventured.
Dumbledore gave a sad shake of his head. "I know nothing of the relationship between Dyre and that girl. All I can say is that I'm ashamed of you." Protests rose and he cut them off. "You haven't acted like this since you were my students," he said quietly. "I can honestly say that I did not expect this."
"You saw the way they interacted," Sirius said, gesturing to the space they had taken.
"And did you not think once to ask Dyre what that girl meant to him before you accused him of infidelity?" Dumbledore snapped, losing his temper. "Knowing everything you do about his life, did you honestly think it necessary to attack him in such a cruel manner?"
"It was hardly cruel," Sirius mumbled, glancing at Narcissa.
Dumbledore's nostrils flared, and for a moment, they truly thought he would strike him. Instead, he turned and left the infirmary. In a rare display of rage, he slammed the door, making even Lucius jump. They floundered uncomfortably in the infirmary, the pressing eyes of Madam Pomfrey too much a judge.
Severus stormed out in an impressive display, Glock sweeping down from the rafters after him. They dispersed on his heels. The guilt settled in slowly, and only gradually did they begin to understand what they had done.
In one fell swoop, everything they had achieved in the last months evaporated. It took so little to upset the boy's pride, so little for him to think he'd been abandoned by the world.
What had they done?