All For Lightspeed! IV
…
The remains of an old chalk boundary line were a dusty smear beneath Harry's feet. He glanced up, adjusting his glasses, and struggled to pick out the shape of what once must've been a 'Quidditch' pitch. Harry didn't quite know what Quidditch was, being too busy with books since he entered the wizarding world, but he knew it was played on brooms, and was very dangerous. After learning it was a contact sport, it hadn't taken much eavesdropping to figure that out…
Halt End's grounds were certainly large enough to ride a broom around (and wasn't that a weird idea), though now rows of strange trees and queer plants filled most of the space where planned gardens once reposed. One of them, he decided, would surely pluck any prospective broom-rider right out of the sky… and probably eat him, or something. Or turn him into a vole or a two-headed badger. Magical flora was odd like that.
Hedwig was no different. She'd arrived that morning (Amanda had cooed at her beauty, while Hercules had fussed). Hedwig certainly hadn't fussed over Harry.
Chuckling to himself, he continued his walk, enjoying the rays of the late August sun - and making sure to keep his distance from, well, almost all the plants. He didn't fancy turning into a vole. Warm air tugged at his hair, and blew his borrowed summer robes aflutter, sending an assorted range of strange and foreign scents his way. Magical flora even smelled unfamiliar.
But it was far from unpleasant. He closed his eyes and took a deep whiff. How could he have imagined this just a few months ago, locked in a cupboard?… It was a different world. Not just a world of splendour, but an old world too. A world of wonder that moved at a gentle stroll.
So relaxed was he, that his mind wandered further. He wondered - what was Uncle Vernon doing now? Sweating away in his office perhaps, while Aunt Petunia gossiped with her toad-like friends. What was Dudley doing? What could Dudley look forward to even, except perhaps a life of bullying and being bullied, forever trying to climb a ladder whose rungs he was too stupid to see…
Meanwhile, he and Hercules had been playing exploding snap in a castle. Exploding snap. In a castle.
It was a strange game, with cards detonating in a harmless but loud bang if neither player was quick enough to tap the identical cards with his wand. Harry had won almost every round, except the ones he let Hercules win (which was a very occasional thing). He had longer arms, a real wand (Hercules had borrowed a comically-shaped faux wand from a collection of Lord Quirinus' old toys), and - most importantly - Harry had been practising his giswiftēn* wand movements since the day he'd found the exercises in Tricks to Ensnare and Tips for Victory .
One of his many DADA books had mentioned such exercises, and another had hinted at their nature, but all his textbooks (he'd bought the recommended tomes up to the fourth year) were infuriatingly vague in describing the movements themselves. The anonymous author of Tips and Tricks described the giswiftēn as a series of drills invented by the Goths as they came into contact with the wand-wielding Romans. He honed them daily.
Crack.
Jumping, Harry's reverie was interrupted as warm laughter startled him out of his thoughts. Turning to the source, he saw Edward Lyle, his dark eyes glimmering with humour, resting a glinting axe on his broad shoulder. He wore only a white v-taped vest and matching open-legged breeches. Even so, sweat was pouring off him.
"Harold," he said. "I didn't notice you there. Good thing the tree isn't ready to come down yet." He gestured towards the skeletal birch between them. "I might've squashed you."
Harry's gaze followed the silver trunk up to its branches, which were shining like peculiar silver baubles. A magical tree, then… And then the implications of Edward's words hit him, and he shivered, imagining the thing coming down in his path…
"It's my fault," he said weakly.
Edward shook his head. "It's mine." He took a cloth from a pocket and dabbed at his brow. "It's my work to be vigilant. Logging's a dangerous thing."
"Yes," Harry said, glancing back at the vaguely shimmering tree. "Especially when the trees want to kill you."
Immediately, Harry knew he'd made a mistake. Only a Muggle - or a muggleborn - would find the thought of semi-sentient trees weird.
"Norway's full of trees," Edward pointed out with a frown. "You don't have any Janson Spruce or Acre Pine on your homestead?"
Harry shrugged, very aware of the reddening of his cheeks. "I, er, my mum wanted me indoors, and she wasn't really a fan of Herbology."
"Hmm," the older man said. His face was so open it was inscrutable in its own way. "That's a shame. Herbology's an undervalued vocation. We depend on plants more than anything else."
"I agree," Harry said, not really caring. He hadn't much thought of Herbology. It couldn't be used in duelling. That axe, though… "Say, why're you cutting down this tree with an axe? Couldn't you use a cutting charm?"
"Don't think a charm would cut this tree down," Edward grunted good-naturedly. "Maybe a curse. Either would ruin the purity of its magic. Zeno the Green wouldn't be happy."
Harry was becoming too interested to care about his cover. "Zeno the Green?"
He winced as Edward ruffled his hair. It was already messy enough, and his hand had slipped ever so close to the Hideaway Patch that covered his scar…
"Your mother really kept a tight leash on you, lad. Zeno's Laws of Magical Purity of course."
Edward went on to explain, in brief, the background of Zeno the Green*. A Greek of Citium long before the birth of Christ, he was a great lover of all things that grew, their proper care and harvesting. While wizards had long known (or Edward told him) of magical plants' delicate nature, Zeno organised and classified the rules that governed their proper cropping. His ideas were long superseded now, with many discoveries having been made since, but the principle remained the same. To Harry's mind, this explained the Dagworth sacks, which he suddenly realised were likely a lot more expensive than they looked.
"... And that's," Edward finished with a smiling flourish, "why I use the axe. The head's an orichalcum-silver alloy."
Harry watched the strange, shining metal carefully. From a distance, it had looked no different than steel, but up close he saw thin red lines branching across the metal, intertwined with even fainter shades of white.
His focus was soon interrupted, and he realised that he'd been staring. "Say, why don't you have tea with me and my family?"
Harry blinked. He knew the Lyle's lived in a cottage somewhere on the grounds, but had never expected to see it. Edward's offer had come out of the blue… And what about Eric? He could do without the man sneering at him over the table.
Edward seemed to read his mind. "Eric's dining in the castle tonight, don't worry."
"I don't really mind him," Harry said quickly.
"You don't have to lie, Harold," Edward replied, unbothered. "My brother's a hard man to like, I know that better than any. Do you accept? I promise Sarah's a good cook."
It wouldn't hurt, Harry thought… "I'll come, but I'll have to tell Lady Cybeles first."
Edward waved that away. "Don't bother lad, I'll make sure she knows. I have to see her before noon anyway. I'll see you at six?"
He held out his hand to shake. Harry took it cautiously. It was very calloused. "At six," he agreed.
...
...
After he and Edward parted ways, Harry struggled to relax. He wasn't particularly nervous about his visit to Lyle cottage (no more than he was nervous about any wizarding meal, during which he might make some obvious error); rather, it was Edward's reminder of the time that sent a lead weight straight to his stomach. Six o'clock . Six o'clock was six hours from September 1st, and September 1st was the day he went to Hogwarts.
Or, the day he was supposed to go to Hogwarts. The chances of him catching the Hogwarts Express were slipping away with every passing moment. It was infuriating when he really thought about it. He'd only ever wanted to buy a duelling aid, not find himself in some circle of suspicion! None of it was his fault. It wasn't his fault that Lady Cybeles was struggling to manage her household; it wasn't his fault that Eric gambled and schemed, and practically breathed mistrust; and it wasn't his fault that Amanda, despite her loyalty to Lady Cybeles, was obsessed with her dead husband.
Nor was it his fault that Lord Quiri-
Oh wait, that was his fault. Beneath the Hideaway Patch, his scar itched.
Nevertheless, he'd done all he could. While everyone else seemed content to watch and wait each other out, Harry felt he'd tried his best. He wasn't Sherlock Holmes or Poirot* (and the thought of his tiny moustache on Harry's upper lip was hilarious), but at least he'd uncovered something of what was going on at Halt End. Just not enough.
"Harry!"
Harry jumped, heart in mouth, spinning on his heel. Hercules was grinning at him from across the hall.
"Harry?" he croaked.
Hercules bounced on his heels. "Short for Harold, don't you like it?"
His heart thus returning to his chest, Harry sighed and put on a smile. "I like it. Did you enjoy your lesson with Lady Cybeles?"
"It was boooooring," Hercules whined, pouting. "We went on about Valentine-thingies and sponges and royal forests, and it all sounded like goblin to me!"
Note to self, Harry thought wryly, never ask Hercules for political advice. Sponges? Valentine's Day? Whatever Lady Cybeles had taught, Hercules seemed to have misunderstood practically every word.
"Can we explore Harry, please?"
Harry didn't want to explore. Harry wanted to go to his room and cry, and day-dream about Hogwarts. But with Hercules' big eyes looking at him imploringly… he had been asking since they arrived…
Harry relented. "Sure," he said. Perhaps it would take his mind off things?
As it turned out, it did. Halt End was bigger than big; it was vast . Corridors led to corridors that led to rooms that led to corridors. About half were replete with paintings. The other half were scarred by black marks on the walls, like skeletons of paintings past. Not lost, Harry knew, but sold. Every painting, after all, was of a person, and every person was of interest to at least two families. Other paintings must've been of historical interest. Each possessed the memories of the person they represented, as Harry understood it, at the time they were painted. Who knew what they might say, what they might know?
Not that Harry had spent much time in discussion with them. The Rosier paintings refused to converse with him beyond pleasantries. Their knowledge was reserved for members of their family.
In the abandoned sections of the castle, tapestries were even rarer. Furniture was slightly more common, though those pieces that remained were unsalvageable. A few sharp edges set his mind whirring. At least half a dozen chair legs looked to have been smashed, and almost as many table legs. To Harry's mind, it spoke of a fight, rather than slow decay.
If there had been some conflict in the castle, it was long in the past. Excluding the commonly used passageways to the Owlery, the Library and the like, Halt End was covered in a thick layer of dust. Harry had used a blowing charm to try and clear the rooms they were exploring, only to whip the room, and themselves, in a storm of grime and dirt.
Harry and Hercules escaped the room, laughing and sneezing.
That had led them to the entrance to the dungeons, which were barred by yet another runic entrance. Harry thought they, like everything else in the wizarding world, must've had a proper name, but Hercules didn't know it. Neither of them had dared approach, but Harry stood close enough to shine Lumos -light upon an unfamiliar notching on the door. A small, detailed rose was carved into the wood, crossed by two canopied trees in the background.
"What's that?" Harry said, pointing with his wand.
He expected Hercules to babble as he usually did, but the younger boy greeted him with silence. He was staring at it forlornly. "Th-my crest," he said. "The Rosier crest."
Harry's brow furrowed. His mind cast back, trying to recall similar images around the castle. He drew up blank. "Why haven't I seen it before?"
"We don't use it," Hercules said. There was something new in his voice now, something more than melancholy... "Not until we have our Wizengamot seat back from Rossecourt. Someone must've forgotten about this door."
But his brother, Damian . Mander's croaking lament echoed in his mind. Ah, clever, witty Master Damian! He was no satis-fied second son .
"I see," Harry said lamely. "Were those Rosiers troubled by the Dark Lord's fall?"
Hercules harrumphed like an old man. "Were they heck!" He shrieked boyishly. "Imperius curse, the Dark Lord's threats. Whoops, I've accidentally murdered a Muggle!"
That, Harry thought, was a bit extreme, coming from the mouth of an eight-year-old. Then again, what sort of people frequented Rosier's Trifles? And what was the Imperius curse?
"I think we should leave," Harry decided. "We can't go any further anyway."
Hercules agreed, and they returned to the turret to play Exploding Snap. Harry won.
...
...
They played for an hour. At first it was a fast hour. Then, it was a slow one. Exploding Snap was entertaining for fifteen minutes. Not so much for fifteen rounds. Harry was bored by round ten, but Hercules, by virtue of his age, was entertained by almost anything. Especially anything that exploded. Worse, the repetitive nature of the contest allowed Harry's mind to wander, where it quickly centred on the time. It was already a matter of hours until September 1st. It made his stomach cramp, which in turn made him wonder if he'd be able to eat any of Sarah's food.
That in turn made him wonder what she was cooking. Gander's meals had been pleasant, if strange. Would Sarah also bombard him with unusual ingredients? Not that they were supposed to be unusual to him at all…
Harry sighed, glancing at the clock. He felt like he'd been doing both a lot lately.
He finished his last game with Hercules (letting him win, which made it 10-6), and said his goodbyes.
Down the turret he descended, through the lobby and under the gatehouse. Apparently, the portcullis mechanism had stopped working five years before. He made his way in haste to Lyle cottage, following Edward's instructions exactly. He found it as the sun was just descending below the treeline, casting an ermine glow upon the scene.
A lumbering oak shadowed a small, comly cottage in a clearing. Chickens clucked in their pen, and geese were left to roam (vaguely, Harry wondered how the Lyles prevented them from entering the forest to be eaten by some God-forsaken creature). In shape, the cottage reminded him of the house of the Order of Life, though Edward had washed his a very pale blue which seemed to glint and glimmer in the fading light.
Happy puffs of smoke curled from the chimney, and the scent of savoury poultry wafted from the brightly stained, widely opened windows. Then, the door creaked open. "Harold," Edward said brightly, ushering him forth. "Come in lad, come in!"
The doorway opened straight into a homely kitchen, the kind that might've made Aunt Petunia sneer. Harry had heard his aunt fawn over marble countertops. These were pale, shining timber, dented with long use. Emily Lyle was leaning against one.
The hearth dominated the space, where a broad pot that looked older than some American states bubbled gently. Before it stood a table whose sides meandered like gentle waves, and whose grain implied it was cut from a single, vast tree. It was certainly magical. Could technology do that?
Harry didn't know.
"Oh, Harold!" A pleasant voice exclaimed. Edward's wife, Sarah, had looked up from her herb dicing and was smiling earthily at him. She set the knife down and curtsied. "It's a pleasure to meet you dear, Edward's been talking about the young man who shares his love of plants."
Plants? Harry didn't even think of bursting her bubble. With her smiling eyes, he couldn't even imagine uttering a bad word in her general direction.
Instead, he smiled back. "It's nice to meet you, Sarah."
Sarah gave Edward a theatrical wink. "They're always so polite when they want feeding."
While Harry squirmed, Edward grunted. "Guesthood in Halt End is hard work, with our mouldy rooms and leaky roofs."
And our lurking traitor, the words went unsaid.
Sarah laughed at off as, Harry imagined, she would laugh in the face of all struggles. "Go on then children, to the table, dinner's ready."
She ushered Harry to the table, going as far as to pull out a chair for him. Harry sat, uneasy at being fussed over. Emily sat opposite. She, he couldn't help but notice, was carefully avoiding his eyes.
And while Sarah returned to her cooking, and Edward retired for a moment to another room… they sat alone. It didn't take long before a distinct sensation of discomfort crept upon Harry. At first, he tried to ignore it, swinging his legs idly under the table, examining the knick-knacks on the wall, the strange spinning globes, the animated toy brooms the size of children's fingers which were zooming around those strange globes, the occasional painting whose occupant stared down at him in curiosity. One of them had incredible eyebrows, which forked up like the bend of a smile. He too was smiling down at them.
They could only distract him for so long. The discomfort had become awkward. Swallowing, he opened his mouth to try and start a conversation, only to be interrupted by Edward heaving the pot from the fire onto the table. It smelled delicious, but not like anything he'd smelled before. Was this going to be something weird?
"Venison," Edward said to him. "With long-fire carrots and cool potatoes."
Harry looked at the pot. Venison he'd never had - but it was a normal dish. At least, it was something he'd heard posh people ate. But the carrots? Fire carrots? And how could potatoes be cool? Well, he reminded himself, everything the Rosiers had given him was tasty so far, so why would the Lyles be any different?
Sarah passed the plates around the table, and ladled hearty helpings onto each of said plates. Harry's steamed gently, smelling richly of gravy. Stewed venison, as it turned out, looked rather like stewed beef, though whiter on the inside. The carrots looked like… carrots... and the potatoes like potatoes. It was tempting to dig in, but he had been very cognizant of Lady Cybeles' advice. Prayers.
Edward led them in worship. And there was no invocation of Satan, or Pentagrams, or the deaths of small children. For that Harry was relieved… but simultaneously bemused, because the prayer was in Latin. He said 'Amen' to something he didn't understand.
Still, he decided, taking a luxurious forkful of venison, how bad could it be? It was better than offending them. They had only been nice to him, and they seemed like nice people. In fact, the longer he stayed there, the more Harry began to feel a warmth beyond the savoury stew. Though the meal was taken in near silence, the Lyle household was far from uncomfortable to be in. In fact, it was… warm. Soothing. The clicks and clacks of knives and forks were like a gentle tinkling stream in a hushed, reposed woodland. It was companionable.
It was certainly nothing like the real forest that surrounded them, where the venison they were eating had no doubt originated.
The carrots, as named, were oddly… hot. Not spicy, no, there was no paprika heaped onto the outer skin as Aunt Petunia would do to disguise her poor cooking. No, the heat was inside, somehow. The potatoes, predictably, were the opposite - and they also weren't. The crisp shell was warm, but the soft mash of the inner core was soothing, and cool without being cold. It should not have worked.
Yet it did.
The accompanying drink, on the other hand, was something that tasted strongly of apples but wasn't apple juice. It was definitely fruity, and there was plenty of it in a big tankard for each of them. The cool, sour flavour contrasted beautifully with the savoury stew. But more than once Harry looked at it askance. It wasn't cider, was it? That was alcoholic...
Eventually, the meal wound down, with little more uttered than the stereotypical 'pass me the salt' (Sarah had hmphed jokingly at that). Harry and the Lyles had eaten the lot.
"That was fantastic," Harry said, once he had lowered his fork for the final time. You were supposed to compliment your hosts, right? And he had good reason to. His whole body felt pleasantly warm, as though he'd sat in a hot bath. Not that he'd had many of them.
"Oh thank you dear," Sarah said. "We have afters if you'd like some?"
Harry was about to demure, but Edward beat him to it. "Of course, he wants some love!" He slapped Harry playfully on the back. It almost made him faceplant his plate. "He's a growing boy!"
"That he is husband, that he is."
So it was that Sarah set off, with the sort of efficiency reserved for housewives, for strawberry tart and cheese crackers, and Edward began to talk. He spoke to his daughter first, asking her if she'd finished all her homework.
Emily rolled her eyes. "Yes father," she groaned, exasperated. "Weeks ago, you ask every other day."
"I only want the best for my girl," Edward replied. He turned to Harry. "Did you know, my daughter here is the best student in her year? Top grades in every class - and only one more year to go, right when it matters!"
She still wouldn't meet Harry's eyes. "Er, I didn't know," he said. "We, er, haven't had the chance to talk. What house is she in?"
Emily tensed like she'd been hit. Edward didn't seem to notice. "Ah, there aren't any houses at Wyrmhood Harold - not that you'd know that, going to Hogwarts and all."
Wyrmhood? Harry thought. There were other magical schools? Was that why she didn't want to talk to him? Why? "Oh," he said, trying his best to sound like he understood. "I see, I just thought…"
As he spoke, there was an awful moment when he saw Emily's face twist in anger, her rage building with his words. " That we're all as lucky as you!? " She cut in bitterly, huffing. She swept a scornful look around the room, focusing on Harry and then her father. She stormed out, her chair almost clattering to the floor.
Harry watched her stomp out, passing Sarah in a flash. He turned to Edward, struggling to meet his gaze, while what felt like cold fire burned through his veins. It was adrenaline, Harry knew; it made his hands shake. He could never deal with people shouting at him. "What-, I, er, I'm sorry f-for upsetting your daughter sir."
Edward shook his head and took a long gulp of his drink. "It's okay, lad. I shouldn't have brought it up - she's been sore about it ever since she had to go. I went to Hogwarts you see, and my brother, and Amanda. The Rosiers paid for us all, but times are tough, and they'll be tougher if Caudicus' shop shuts down… It was either her or Hercules." Edward shrugged hopelessly. "What could it be helped? The heir must go to Hogwarts."
He took another long swig, while his wife returned with dessert.
She placed a large strawberry tart between them, whose pastry gently simmered without heat. "Have you upset Em again, Edward?"
Harry tensed. Would Edward tell the truth?… but the older man winked at Harry. "I have it seems," he said, sardonically sombre. "Wrymwood, you know how it's gone."
Sarah shook her head. "That girl…"
"She's got your fire."
"You kept my fire under control."
Edward laughed. "You needed it, love…" He looked over the table theatrically. "But where are the crackers?"
His wife raised an eyebrow. "Coming when I'm ready, not when you're hungry. Eat your tart husband." But she did leave again for the crackers.
Edward watched her leave, a fond and distant glint in his dark eye. "I couldn't extinguish it all…" he said wistfully. "Anyway," he grinned, breaking from his reverie. "You came to talk herbology, so let's talk herbology.
Harry'd actually come because he was asked to, but he didn't say that. Instead, he listened as Edward began to lecture, with the head seat as his lectern. He first spoke about Zeno, continuing their earlier topic. He spoke about his life, his mysterious birth, his interactions with Muggles (which, to Harry, seemed a great deal more open than today), and his theories. Zeno had had a lot of theories, and most of them were wrong. However, the few that were - broadly - correct had changed the wizarding world.
Then the groundsman began to discuss the practicalities of caring for flora, and how Zeno's theories impacted his day-to-day activities. Harry, who enjoyed gardening the most out of all his chores, couldn't help but be swept up in his enthusiasm. When Edward spoke about plants, his whole demeanour changed. Animation lit up his face, and he began to gesture as he spoke.
He only grew more animated as he continued to drink.
He lectured mostly on the magical purity of plants, and the difficulties in retaining the magic with which they were imbued while harvesting. Apparently, many things could impact the harmony of a plant's magic - especially spells. A wizard, he said, could swipe a tree down with a cutting curse (as they had previously discussed), but the magic of the curse would interact with the magic of the tree. What would come of that interaction was not always totally predictable but, usually, the purity of the tree's magic would be damaged. A damaged tree meant a damaged ingredient, and a damaged ingredient meant an impotent potion.
"I see," said Harry, while Edward finally took a longer break from his lecture. He was finishing his fourth tankard of what Harry had decided was definitely cider. Truthfully, Harry did see. At least, he got the gist of it. Magical plants were better harvested by hand. The rest of what he understood, he knew he'd forget by tomorrow morning. "I saw your brother squeeze a plant once when it tried to attack him."
The mention of his brother brought a tightness to Edward's face. "Bah," he said, waving his hand. "My brother's wasted as a mere gardener."
Sarah, who'd also sat quietly and listened, frowned. "Edward," she said warningly.
"What?" Edward said defensively… and drunkenly. "It's true . You saw him at Hogwarts, what a curse-breaker! By his fourth year, he was better than me in my seventh, and I took Defence Against the Dark Arts as a NEWT!"
NEWTS, Harry knew, were something like a wizarding A-level.
"All that keeps him here is that loyalty to a dead man! He should be out there-" Edward gestured angrily toward a window, his voice booming, "-in Egypt or Sumeria or Assyria, cracking the Hidden Cities, not slaving away for the memory of a dead man, gambling and cheating to make ends meet! For the great Lord Quirinus, who got himself killed - off galavanting, fighting for a madman, for what!? So Halt End can decay, so Hercules can be left with a ruin!? Well, bugger that, I'll not have that for my brother!"
Edward finally ran out of breath. Harry stared at the table. Though the shouting wasn't directed at him, the deep bellowing had brought that cold fire back again.
"I'm sorry," he said shortly. "Excuse me."
He stormed out in exactly the same manner his daughter had before him.
Harry kept his eyes on the table, admiring the grain of the wood. What was that about? Did Eric Lyle really admire Lord Quirinus that much? Drink had loosened his tongue; Edward's resentment had poured out like water from a leaking tap. First slowly, then all at once. Harry pushed the thought around his head and kept his eyes on the table.
"I'm sorry you had to hear that," he heard Sarah say.
He kept his eyes on the table.
She reached over to touch him on the shoulder but stopped halfway. "Harold," she said softly, coaxing his eyes up. "He didn't mean it, and it wasn't directed at you anyway." She gave him a warm smile. "He has this rant at least once a month. Do you understand?"
Harry nodded numbly. The cold fire was finally spluttering out.
The floorboards creaked by his feet. He glanced down, thinking nothing of it… and then a glint caught his eye. Something he hadn't noticed before was half hidden under a rug, perhaps uncovered by Edward's stamping as he'd marched past. It was blue, and small.
No.
It was azure , and delicate . And shaped like a hairpin.
Harry's mind spun back to the first day he'd come here, to that first meal…
"Sarah," he said, forcing his eyes away, a sinking feeling in his gut. "Aside from Eric, do you have many visitors to- to your cottage?"
Sarah blinked. "No," she replied, obviously bemused by the topic change. "The odd old friend, a few of the merchants who pass through the Methýdrion. And Lady Cybeles and her handmaiden visit on the Feast of Fools*."
Harry didn't know what the Feast of Fools was, but he reckoned it only happened once a year.
"Oh, right."
That sinking feeling became like an anchor, ready to drop him to the bottom of Haltmere. What was Amanda Soothe's hairpin doing in Lyle cottage?
...
...
The thought followed him as he made his way back to the castle. It twisted and turned in his mind. How could the hairpin end up there? What sort of logical explanation could there be?
Right in front of you , Harry's mind whispered. Why can't it be what it is? Harry grimaced. Surely there was another way it got there? Maybe Amanda was just visiting, and… and the hairpin just fell off. And she didn't notice. "That's impossible," Harry whispered to himself, as if afraid to speak it out loud. The grounds were silent. There was no one else to hear, but he whispered regardless. "Think Harry - Harold, there must be some reason."
But the reason his mind returned to was not the reason he desired. He dawdled back to the turret. Once he got there, he'd have to go to sleep… and once the day was over, he'd be late for Hogwarts. But his feet carried him inexorably onwards, closer toward failure…
At least until he arrived at the antechamber beside the dining room. The steady clink of knives and forks and slow conversation wafted in through the door. Harry found his hand reaching, unbidden, for the hairpin in his pocket. He'd picked it up while pretending to tie his shoelace. It was cool to the touch, but seemed to burn like molten lava.
If they were, if Edward and Amanda were having… he searched for the word… an affair , then that… that probably made him the traitor too. If Lady Cybeles were told, then perhaps he could arrive at Hogwarts right on time…
Harry shook his head. No, he decided shakily, even that's not proof. He made to ascend the turret, but his feet refused to move. Tell the truth , that same voice said. Tell the truth.
"Oh God," he said, forgetting his wizard swear. "I've got… I've got to tell the truth. I've got to tell the truth. I've got to tell the truth."
But then his legs carried him toward the stairs. I can't do it, Harry thought. I just can't do it.
He made it five steps before stopping. A painting was staring at him, a painting he'd never noticed before. It seemed like it had been pushed away, almost hidden from sight, for it was hung so high that it almost touched the ceiling.
Accusing eyes were staring down at him, and a smile that now seemed mocking. They were dead eyes - the eyes of Lord Quirinus Rosier. He'd been looking down at them all along…
Harry turned back and barely hesitated before he strode through the door.
Lady Cybeles, Amanda, Lyle, and Hercules were sitting at the table. Their meal seemed less impressive than that first feast, all they all turned to him. Harry stiffened, but it was too late to retreat now.
"Harold," Lady Cybeles said, smiling tightly. "What a surprise. Have you come to join us?"
Harry drew closer, closer enough that they'd be able to see… it. "N-not exactly Lady Cybeles." His voice sounded weak to his own ears. He struggled to gain control. "I, er, I… I was having te- dinner-" he corrected himself recalling late that witches and wizards always called tea 'dinner'* "I was having dinner with the Lyle's a-a-and I- I found… this."
He held out the hairpin, which glimmered like mercury in the light. "It was on th-the floor, h-hidden under a rug."
For a moment, time seemed to stop. Everyone looked at the bauble in Harry's hand, and Harry felt like dropping it, like running out of the castle and into the forest, never to be seen again. Maybe this had been a bad idea, maybe it meant nothing, ma-
"Eric!" Lady Cybeles shrieked. "Stun him, stun him at once! Take him to the dungeon!"
Harry didn't even have time to think how much this had backfired before a red light came at him. Then there was nothing.
...
...
Boom. Boom boom. Boom. Boom boom.
What was that? Harry thought foggily. Boom. Boom boom. Boom. Boom boom.
A thin prick of light entered his vision. It slowly widened as his eyes fluttered open, becoming a circle, then a white-plastered wall. The sound, he then realised, was the sound of his own heart… And he'd been stunned.
The realisation seemed to make all sensation return to him all at once. The sheets beneath him; the heaviness in his head; the soreness in his throat. Stunning symptoms, his mind supplied. The DADA books said they were worse on people unused to being stupefied. Harry wasn't planning on being stunned too often.
All his memories had come back too… " Take him to the dungeon… " he muttered. Looking around, this was not a dungeon. It was a room, a totally empty room, excluding the single-sized bed. Where was he? Surely it had been Lyle who'd moved him, as it was certainly Lyle who'd stunned him. Why hadn't he taken him to the dungeon? Was this better, or worse?
Better because Lady Cybeles took mercy on him and changed her mind, not wanting to expose him to the cold and damp, or worse because Lyle had disobeyed his lady's orders for his own designs? Harry shivered. Lyle was not a nice man.
Would he arrive soon? Was he watching? Harry peered around, searching for… something. There was nothing, only the marks where furniture had once sat, now likely sold. He was, he decided, in an empty part of the castle, and Lyle wasn't around - or he'd already be there.
There was little else to do but explore the room. He checked the door first. It was locked, of course, and stern. A crudely indented rose, overshadowed by two trees, was carved about three-quarters up the timber. He gave it a thud, then shook his stinging hand. It had not budged an inch. An adult wizard wouldn't be able to break it down without a wand. Harry wouldn't even be able to break it down with a wand.
The walls were next. They were plain, almost formless in rectangular conformity. His inspection lasted less than ten seconds.
Last of all, he examined the window. They were shuttered, hinged on two great hinges set on black bands that met in the middle. They did not give either - and yet they did flex, just a little. Just enough for Harry to observe a flash of dusty red light leak from the edges of the window jambs. It was still evening then. It was still October 31st…
The thought made him crash back onto the bed. It made him want to curl up and cry. It was still a day from Hogwarts, from all the things he'd read about. From the deep red Hogwarts' Express, from the Black Lake, and the dreaming spires. From the redoubtable houses, the secret pathways, and the black forest.
But he was stuck at Halt End, with its lonely mere, ruined corridors and forest of death. And he was all alone. Harry felt wet tears run down his cheeks and onto the sheets. They pooled in little puddles by his ears. If only, he thought, if only he hadn't been so tempted…
The Lightspeed burned in his pocket like some sort of acid. He wanted to throw it away, to hurl it so hard it would disappear into some distant ocean - no, so hard that it'd break up in the atmosphere! He'd not even gotten to use it! Harry curled up and sobbed.
He sobbed for his dreams. He sobbed for his failures. And most of all, he sobbed for his own stupidity. His throat tightened quickly, then his limbs went weak. Finally, the tears ran dry; and so did Harry's soul. He felt strangely free, like a falcon unburdened by gravity, as though his mind could stretch across the stars…
So with that mind, and that weight released from his shoulders, he began to think. Why did Lady Cybeles react so badly? What did it matter to her if Amanda and Edward were having an affair? She liked Amanda, it was true - the girl imitated her too. Wasn't imitation the greatest form of flattery? Harry's nose curled. He swore he'd heard that somewhere.
But just because they liked each other, that didn't mean she couldn't do anything, wrong, right? After all, the hairpin was the strongest evidence anyone had of wrongdoing in the castle… and if Amanda was doing one thing wrong, didn't it imply that she was doing something else wrong too? Guilty, traitor, guilty… just like Mander had accused.
And only Harry had heard Mander's shouting. He sighed. He'd been stupid. His own logic didn't really work - and worse, he realised, there was the note. The note! He'd not even thought to mention the note… he should've told Lady Cybeles about the note first, told her about Mander, then showed her the hairpin… then she might've understood. Then she could've made a proper decision.
A decision that didn't involve panic, or putting him in a dungeon. Merlin, he was glad Eric hadn't done that. What was even down there anyway? Rats? Worse? Maybe the things from the forest had found paths in, perhaps there were wild things down there, and Fae, and Acromantula…
Harry lay for a while, strangely calm, imagining all the things that might, but probably weren't, in the Rosier dungeon.
That was until he heard the boots. Clack, clack, clack went the metalled heels. Harry recognised the sound. Lyle was coming. He shot off the bed and tried his best to wipe his tears with the back of his sleeve. He stared at the door, waiting for the fear to turn his stomach to mush.
It hit him like a sledgehammer when the lock turned.
The door swung open, revealing Lyle, tall and sleek, blocking the doorway. He wasn't smiling. He was usually smirking. Which, he thought tremulously, was worse?
"Hello Skarsgard," he said.
"Lyle," he replied warily, eying his wand-arm.
Then Lyle chose to smirk. He stepped out of the doorway.
Harry stared.
"What're you waiting for? No trick."
Harry felt like his veins were about to explode. Everything screamed danger, like Lyle was baiting him to move. He felt like a cornered mouse. "Of course it's a trick."
Lyle laughed and stepped into the room.
Harry stepped back toward the bed.
"Of course it isn't. I might be an evil man, but I'm an honest one."
He prowled around Harry like a big cat and sat on the bed. Now there was nothing between him and the door. Run, a voice said… but quietly. He didn't dare move. Who knew how fast Lyle was, or what he'd do? He still remembered that plant, the utter indifference on Lyle's face as his own blood had ran down his hand as he squeezed it into submission.
"If you're so honest, why were you passing notes to the merchants?"
Eric barked out a laugh. It made Harry jump. "You saw that, did you? Clever boy. I always knew there was something different about you, ever since young master Hercules told me about the creature in the woods. You showed bravery that day." He smiled mockingly. "You showed bravery today too."
There was no responding to his sneering. Harry did his best to ignore it. "You didn't answer the question."
"If I answer, you'll think better of me," he said. His tone had turned teasing at the flick of a wand. "I'm not sure I want that. You're so fun to annoy."
Harry said nothing.
"Fine, lad, fine. It was a bailiffs' note, signed by me, from the August Guild of Bailiffs and Reeves. Bah, bunch of coffee drinkers!"
There was a moment's befuddled pause.
"Oh!" said Eric, laughing genuinely this time. "You grew up in some Merlin-forsaken hut in Norway, I forgot! Yes, yes. They're men who come to collect debts. The Rosier's debt in this case, specifically. They take what's valuable, and leave what isn't."
He made a flamboyant, wide-sweeping gesture. "My room."
Harry followed his hand to the white walls, to the mark where a nightstand once stood, to the ghost of a painting's frame… the room was empty. His room was empty. This was Lyle's room. This meant the Bailiffs had sneaked in some night and taken all of Lyle's furniture, all his belongings… instead of the Rosier's valuable potion's ingredients.
"Why? "
"Why?" Eric said. All the mockery fell from his face like so many lone-shed tears. His voice, for once, was straight as an arrow. "For Lord Quirinus. For the Rosiers. For young master Hercules."
And finally, Harry saw some glimpse of the truth behind that mocking smile. It made his head spin; it was as though Lyle were reforming before his eyes, the subtle glimmer in his gaze morphing from malice to mischief, his smirk from disdain to amusement…
"I… I, so… who?"
Eric looked down for a moment. "There's a reason Lady Cybeles panicked when she saw that hairpin. They're a set of two. You found hers."
"What!? "
Now it was not just Eric. Now the whole world was spinning, or was that the room? His legs felt like jelly, his head like a fluffy cloud. He crashed onto the bed. Eric steadied him.
"I'm sorry kid - for the surprise." He smirked lopsidedly. "I can't help myself."
Harry grinned back weakly. "So, did she-"
"Yes… and yes."
"But- why?"
A traitor and a cheater; it seemed unimaginable. Cybeles Rosier was the head of the house, at least at Halt End. Harry didn't know much about wizarding nobility, but he knew enough. For her to betray her own family… "Why would she do that, what would she have to gain?"
"Nothing," Eric said, his features hardening once more. "Nothing except lies. The Ministry… even the Gampists like Malfoy despise us - they'd love to see us crushed, they scheme from the solars of their pixie-built Grecian manor houses… Yes, she's been promised something. Perhaps a re-chartering of the forest, perhaps a stipend. All in return for betraying Caudicus, and thereby squeezing shut an outlet of 'dark' artefacts." He took a long, sad breath. "I couldn't get much from her… her babbling."
Harry swallowed heavily. Lady Cybeles had never seemed the most… lucid. She always took him as slightly fragile, like a beautiful vase - and Harry had knocked the stand. He'd made such a mess… "Where… where is she now?"
"In a strong-room with my brother. Amanda's keeping an eye on the door. They could hold out for a long while - these old walls are still strong. The aucta scutum* gave this place such life once… but eventually, we'll wear them down."
Harry didn't know what the aucta scutum was. Nor did he want to know just what sat at the centre of Eric's heart when he uttered that word - brother . What could the younger sibling think of the older now? Now he'd betrayed their shared, departed lord… Now one had brought ruin to the house they were pledged to serve. His mind was then cast to the crest carved into the door just a few feet away… that wasn't bad workmanship from a carpenter - that was Eric, reminding himself of his allegiance whenever he woke.
Then he thought of Edward, red in the face, ranting… For the great Lord Quirinus, who got himself killed - off gallivanting, fighting for a madman. Harry frowned. Was it all a ploy, mere revenge? I'll not have that for my brother! Did Edward even love Lady Cybeles?
A great pang of… something ran through him. Harry didn't have the words to describe how he felt. Tired, perhaps? No, it was more… but he was tired. Tired of all the waste, all the pointless fighting… He decided it didn't really matter how Edward felt about Lady Cybeles. "What will happen to them - after they've been… caught?"
There would be no arrest for them, no Aurors. That was for sure.
"The old families have their own ways, Harold. You don't need to know."
You don't want to know, he said without saying.
"And Hercules?"
Eric smiled wryly. It was one of those new smiles Harry had never seen from him before. "I was wondering when you'd ask. He's with Emily and Sarah - somewhere safe. They already know everything."
Sarah's kind eyes flickered through his mind. Her soft company; her warm voice. She wasn't as pretty as Lady Cybeles, Harry thought, but she was nicer. Why would Edward throw it all away?
Eric spoke before Harry could reply. "Here," he said, thrusting a crumpled bit of paper at him.
Harry took it gently, trying to unfold the yellowed edges. "What is it?"
"Instructions," Eric said. "For your Lightspeed. After all, wasn't that what you were after?"
It was like cold water had been thrown over his head.
"Oh." He put the note in his pocket in a daze. "Thanks."
Eric barked a laugh and ruffled Harry's hair. The show of affection was coarser than his brother's, not so practised. If there were competitions for such things, Harry reckoned Eric wouldn't win any medals. But it didn't matter. Unlike Edward's affection, it was real.
The older man stood, brushing imaginary lint off his robe. The teasing smirk returned to his face, though it now seemed quite so harsh. "You should leave now Harold. Haven't you got a train to catch?"
Harry blinked, a rush of excitement propelling him to his feet. "I have," he said. "I should get going."
He made it close to the door before realising… "Wait, where should I go?"
"Don't you remember? Follow the golden ribbon. The Order of Life will return you safe and snug to Diagon. Don't worry about your owl. I've already let her out. She's a feisty girl."
Harry paled. This was the second time he'd had to rely on someone else to let Hedwig out.
Darkness was fading in by the time Harry had left the Lyle cottage, and the world was turning grey. As though nature herself knew of the ghastly goings-on at Halt End and had decided to hide the Rosier's misdeeds from prying eyes, blotting out the dying light with a vast silver hand. Harry crept through that semi-darkness silently, at first searching for the glint of gold along the first path.
But through the empty night shouts came, and screams, and insults. Harry bit his lip, his eyes flickering between the shadow-strewn forest and the silver-touched castle, above which a gentle crescent moon hung. He shouldn't, he thought, Eric had said… it would be dangerous… and why risk being unveiled? But those sounds. They could only be the clashes of a duel.
Though his mind told him to be sensible, his heart, his soul told him otherwise. The two warred for a moment… and his feet carried him, unbidden, toward Halt End. He halted by the gatehouse, as the sound of battle rushed forth toward him. Somehow, the strongroom had already been broken.
Eric and Amanda, Lady Cybeles and Edward, were dancing in the ward. Eric was a whir of motion, his brother a statue, blocking and parrying from a position of repose. Peeking around the gatehouse wall, Harry even saw Edward conjure a flock of sharp-taloned birds who swooped at Eric. Eric proceeded to engulf them in an intense, but surely tiring, ball of fire.
The duel between Amanda and Lady Cybeles was somewhat less advanced, at least to Harry's judging eyes. They were throwing hexes and curses at each other, trading flashing lights like darting deer. Neither seemed to be able to hit the other; both were teary-eyed, and both lamented as they fought, each an echo of the other.
Harry watched it all keenly, trying his best to grasp some rhythm, some understanding of the art of duelling. His gaze centred mostly on the brothers; they were the superior duellists as he understood it, and theirs was the more spectacular clash. Soon Eric revealed that he too could implement conjuration into battle as he willed to life a snarling wolf, which leapt at his brother with deadly ferocity. All the while, curses pounded at Edward's unyielding shield - which appeared, somehow, to draw force from the earth itself.
But Edward could not shield the spells and the wolf at once. His shield withdrew with a snap, searing into his wand, from which came a great beam of light. But the beam was flung not at Eric; red power seared into the night sky, cutting a cloud in twain. His wand had buckled upwards in his grip. The force had been too much to control.
All the while, the wolf drew closer…
And then, a white mist descended. The Deacon, Harry frowned? What could he want here…
"Enough!"
The voice boomed through the mist. It was the voice of a man; the voice of command. It made Harry feel as though his bones were rattling. The wolf vanished at once. Amanda and Lady Cybeles ceased their squabbling, and everyone watched as the mist condensed into a figure.
"Enough," said the ghost. His visage was the final piece of a decade-old puzzle. The picture finally became clear; his door opening by itself at night, the hairpin found in an easily noticeable place… He was strong once , Hercules had said, almost a poltergeist…
His ghostly brow had refined, aristocratic features, paired with sharp cheekbones, a strong jaw… and elegant, dimpled cheeks.
"No more," Lord Qurinus commanded, as though he were still alive. "The thing is done. The truth is uncovered."
He turned to his wife in judgement. "I do fault you little, my lady. My absence has been an affront to your mind; my demise has turned your thoughts to ruin. I loved a woman who exchanged poetry with me, who stood by me with good sense when I was lost. That woman is gone, and I pity the shell which has wandered these halls since my death.
"To Amanda and Eric; to you I owe this house's future. Your loyalty is what our kingdom of wizardkind was once made of. I honour you, as you have honoured me. Guide Hercules well. Keep to him good counsel and honest friends.
"To Edward Lyle, I scorn you. Whatever punishment is put upon you will pale in comparison to what you deserve. You have impinged your dignity and shredded your vows for resentment, which has eaten you as the maggot eats the apple; from inside to out.
"And to Harold Skarsgard, wherever you may be , I wish you good fortune."
Then he was gone, leaving a wailing lady and a defeated man, and a Lightspeed sitting in Harry's pocket.
END OF HARRY POTTER IN:
ALL FOR LIGHTSPEED!
Glossary:
*Giswiften is Old High German for 'swift'. Perhaps you could pay attention to the origin of the etymology of magical concepts as the story moves forwards.
Zeno the Green is also Zeno the Stoic. Born in the Greek colony of Citium in Cyprus, his ancestry is unclear - Citium was inhabited by Greeks and Phoenicians. His father even had a pun name, meaning 'forgetful' in one language and 'mindful' in the other. He is described as 'dark-skinned', though that is a term relative to the skin tones of the Greeks at the time (it is commonly thought that they had lighter features now more associated with more northern peoples than they do today). It might also simply be an allusion to his tanned, grizzled exterior, which he gained during an ascetic life (though he was very wealthy).
*Zeno's youth was adventurous in its own way (you need only read his wikipedia page), and he eventually came to found the Stoic school of philosophy, settling down in Athens. A full outline of his life would be as long as this chapter, so I'll stop here.
*Here, Harry will be referencing David Suchet's Poirot, which first aired in 1989 and is an iconic 90s British show. In the books, Poirot's moustache is massive - like Sir Kenneth Branaugh's recent films - while Suchet wore a short, thick and petite handlebar moustache. The show was a great success, and ran intermittently until 2013, though later series were… 'modernised' (read: they lost their humour, and scarred the historical setting with modernisms).
*The Feast of Fools was an early mediaeval feast day celebrated on the 1st January. Akin to the Roman Saturnalia (though no connection is yet proven), master-servant relationships were flipped. We don't actually know much about the Feast of Fools. It's quite mysterious - as an unofficial feast-day, very little was written about it.
*In real life, northerners tend to use dinner, while southerners use tea. Midlanders tend toward tea. Harry is a southerner.
*Latin for Augmenting Shield. Aucta is the second-person singular present active imperative (woo)... and scutum is… well, I'm sure most of you know.
A/N:
The hidden hand of Halt End is revealed! Or is that, hidden hands? And Harry gets away just in time.
Harry's first sight of Hogwarts will be in the next chapter. What friends will he make? Which enemies? What house will he call his own? Find out next time, in the next instalment of The Duellist …
Take care of yourselves,
JoustingAlchemy