The Letter from a Faerie Lord
Previous chapter: Harry and Susan quest for the Stone, attempting to stop Gabriel, and whoever else tries, from stealing it. They succeed, but only after Harry nearly dies in a struggle against Voldemort. He has, however, lost Gabriel's friendship; and, in a moment of weakness, takes a small section of the Stone for himself.
Harry sipped at his drink as he watched the comings and goings of Diagon Alley from his table outside Florean Fortescue's Ice Cream Parlour. It was early July, and the summer was hot and humid. He'd only been back at the Leaky Cauldron a few days, having wanted to leave platform nine and three-quarters straight for the Alley, but circumstances had proven otherwise.
Before the Hogwarts Express had departed, the Headmaster had sent him an owl with an unwelcome - albeit predictable - message.
Forgive me, it had said, I am becoming forgetful in my old age. I should've raised this topic in the hospital wing, but the concern of Ms. Bones was enough of a distraction to addle my old mind.
I must press upon you, Harry, the necessity of remaining with the Dursleys for the next three weeks. I know you have been staying at the Leaky Cauldron outside of term-time (and I have no trouble with that - Tom's stews are exceptional, so long as you avoid the pea soup), but the protection we discussed, your mother's protection, is a bond of blood. When she passed, I believe that protection transferred to her sister, your aunt. The protection grows stronger when you live under the same roof, eat the same food, and share the same space. Conversely, if you remain too distant for too long, I believe that this protection will fade, then break. No matter how unpleasant, I would ask that your mother's sacrifice not be discarded in vain.
Enjoy your summer Harry,
Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore,
Of various Orders and awards (it has been a long day, and I am not a fan of the auto-quill)
PS. There is a small curiosity shop two doors down from Madam Malkins. I think you might enjoy it.
The letter had not been well received. It only solidified Harry's suspicion that it was the Headmaster who had sequestered him with the Dursleys. If so, had he known about his mother's protection even then? And though Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia weren't nice people, they could be civilised. Harry knew it - he'd seen them talk to people other than him. How was Professor Dumbledore to know they'd keep him in a cupboard?
There must've been a reason. In fact, the protection was reason enough. It'd saved him against Quirrell, hadn't it?
Uncle Vernon had picked him up from King's Cross, grumbling all the while. Harry could already see where this was going, so, on the way back, he had tried to convince his uncle to make a pact. He had explained his situation, and promised to leave as soon as possible; in return, he asked that the Dursleys leave him alone for the three weeks. They'd haggled over his chores, and landed on a compromise. Harry would cook breakfast and half the teas, but would otherwise be left alone. They'd even shook hands (at a traffic light, of course), which was surprising. Uncle Vernon usually disdained touching him at all.
Those weeks had passed quietly at first. Harry finished his homework, did his chores, and remained mostly in his room. Dudley was still bigger than him after all - though the gap had narrowed, at least in height - and was eager to make up for lost time with a shove and a kick. Harry didn't intend to give him the satisfaction.
And slowly, Harry's frustration had grown. His homework had long been completed, and finding distractions was difficult. Re-reading the first year section of Magical Drafts and Potions quickly became mind-numbing. Hogwarts: A History was a little better. For a while he had occupied a portion of his day to correspondence with Susan - and daily deliveries of the Prophet.
Eventually his uncle had grown irritated with the ingress and egress of Hedwig, and those deliveries were reduced to twice a week. Not that Harry really ever understood most of the news he was reading; he understood the words of course, but their context was totally lost on him. Why did it matter that the Ottoman Empire's Grecian policy had changed? Or that Norway was altering the regulatory standards regarding warding? Muggles didn't even have an Ottoman Empire!
Worse, Susan's letters had suddenly ceased too. That had been upsetting. Alan had avoided him on Express; Susan was likely his only remaining friend… excluding Wayne, who he wasn't sure about, and Hercules Rosier who didn't even know his real name.
Thereafter, isolation had quickly set in; the walls seemed to draw near, until he began to consider leaving the house for a walk. Even getting beaten up by Dudley was beginning to look appealing compared to the desolate loneliness of Susan's absence.
Yet when his boredom had broken, it was not by way of a sudden, apologetic letter, or Dudley's fist, but by an intruder. Harry had been sitting on his bed, listening to the Dursleys try their best to charm the visiting Mason family (who were, in some way, important within Grunnings Drills, the company for which Uncle Vernon worked), when a small creature had popped out of his wardrobe.
It had been around three feet tall, with large-bat like ears, and equally large - though less bat-like, eyes. They were green, and had stared up at him in undisguised awe and admiration. He recognised it as a house-elf.
Harry had stared down at it too, bemused. "Er - hello," he remembered saying.
-Back in the present, Harry sipped his drink a little harder; he knew elves were supposed to be commanded, but he never had the confidence to dare.
In response, the elf had fallen to the floor in a bow, the very end of its long, thin nose scraping the carpet. Harry had watched it closely. It'd all been very strange. Only later would he note just how ragged, how frayed, the house-elf's clothing - a mere pillowcase - had been.
"Harry Potter!" it had said in a squeaky voice. "So long has Dobby wanted to meet you, sir… Such an honour it is…"
At the time, Harry had blinked. It'd taken him a moment to realise the reason behind the creature's reverence; some wizards, he'd thought at the time, revered the Boy-Who-Lived. Why wouldn't some house-elves do the same? … They were just a lot more… reverent in general. "Well, thank you, I suppose."
After briefly checking that Hedwig hadn't been awakened by the creature's high-pitched voices, he had returned to his place on his bed. "So, what's your name?"
"Dobby, sir. Just Dobby. Dobby the house-elf," Dobby had said.
That hadn't been unusual; house-elves tended to have odd names like that. "Nice to meet you," Harry had said, "I-
"-Nice?" Dobby had squealed back, "nice? No one has said it is nice to meet Dobby before!"
Dobby's voice had definitely carried down the stairs.
His own stupidity made Harry wince even now. Dobby was clearly ill-treated and excitable. Uncle Vernon would not have been pleased if his charm offensive had been defeated by a magical creature.
Even worse, Dobby had begun to jump up and down on his skinny legs.
"Dobby - Dobby stop that!" Harry had said, trying his best to hold him in place. But Dobby was stronger than he'd expected, and only flailed harder his excitement. "Dobby, please be quiet - or you'll get me in trouble."
Thankfully, Dobby had suddenly stopped, and hung his head. Harry had taken that moment to gulp down a steadying breath and review everything he knew about house-elves. They were used to being ordered around; and this one in particular had not been well treated. Pleasantries, he had decided, would only further excite him. "What're you doing here, Dobby?"
Dobby's ears had twitched in response, and he'd wrung his hands. "Oh, well, sir… Dobby has come to tell you, sir… it is difficult, sir… Dobby wonders where to begin…"
"At the beginning, Dobby."
"Oh, of course sir, stupid Dobby, always making a mess, Dobby is… well, Dobby knows, that is, Dobby is aware… Dobby is aware that terrible things will happen at Hogwarts." His large green eyes peered up at Harry, earnest and fearful. "Terrible things. Harry Potter must not go back there."
At first, Harry hadn't actually understood those words. They were so absurd, so incomprehensible, that they had, in fact, not been comprehended. Then, when it had dawned on him what Dobby was suggesting, it'd taken all his restraint not to react immediately. "... Why," he eventually said, "why shouldn't I go back to Hogwarts?"
"There is a plot, Harry Potter sir." Dobby whispered conspiratorially, "A plot to make most terrible things happen at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry this year."
By then, Harry had run out of patience. "What plot? Who's plotting it?"
Dobby had trembled, made a strange gagging noise, then headbutted the wall. Repeatedly. Loudly.
"Stop!" Harry cried, pulling him back. "I command you to stop hurting yourself."
That, surprisingly, had worked. Dobby stood still, massaging his bruising, oversized head.
"You can't tell me then, I understand." Looking back at it from the Leaky Cauldron, Harry now truly understood; Dobby's family were involved in some form or fashion. He wouldn't have to be ordered not to discuss the plot with anyone not involved - the bond between house-elf and master would understand if Dobby had betrayed his families' trust without the need for orders. He had been pushing his luck even visiting Harry at all. It was quite brave of him.
At the time, Harry had considered trying to question Dobby, working around his bond in such a way that the plotters could be implicitly revealed. If not for the Masons downstairs, Harry might've done it. Instead, he'd shifted his focus. "Dobby," he'd said slowly, still considering his strategy. "I understand that you are worried about me - however, I don't think you've entirely thought this through. What happens if I don't go to Hogwarts this year?"
Dobby had opened his mouth, closed it, then squeaked, "Then Harry Potter will be safe!"
"Yes," Harry had replied. "Then the Headmaster will wonder why I haven't arrived, and he'll arrive here and take me to Hogwarts anyway."
"Harry Potter cannot let that happen!" Dobby had cried (Harry winced - that was loud). "Harry Potter must be safe!"
Harry had shook his head. "I can't," he'd said. "I've got no way or where to run. Even if I wanted to avoid this danger, too many people would be looking for me. Besides, I can tell the Headmaster what you've told me, and all my friends-" friend, his subscious contradicted spitefully, "-will be there. We can protect each other."
Dobby had practically wilted, like a flower in a hurricane. For a moment, it'd made Harry guilty.
"Friends… friends who don't even write to Harry Potter?" Dobby had ventured, an obvious final gamble.
Even weeks later, the recollection sent a shiver of anger through him.
At the time, it'd taken him a moment to realise what Dobby had said. What it meant. "Sorry?" he'd said. "What do you- have you been stealing my letters?"
Dobby stared at the floor and shuffled his feet. "Dobby only did it for the right reasons. Dobby is… Dobby is sorry."
He pulled out a wad of envelopes from his ratty pillowcase and placed them on his bed. Harry could make out Susan's neat handwriting, Wayne's lazy, looping scrawl, and even Hagrid's tiny scribbling. He'd looked at them, then at Dobby, then back at the letters, his jaw clenching and unclenching. He felt like he could've hit the elf right across his oversized head. "Thank you…" he bit out. "Thank you for returning them. I'll tell Professor Dumbledore about your warning, and my friends."
Dobby had nodded solemnly and popped away by elven Apparition.
Harry shook his head, looked to the blue summer sky, and took another sip of Crisp's Crisp and Sparkling Apple Juice. He'd already sent a letter to the Headmaster; he'd done all he could, so why was he still obsessing over Dobby's visit? Harry hadn't met many house-elves before, but Dobby hadn't seemed all there. Wasn't it possible that he was overstating things - making a curse from a jinx, as wizards tended to say?
On the other hand, could it be that Dobby wasn't exaggerating at all, that he was just eccentric? Was his love of 'the Boy-Who-Lived' propelling him to a genuine act of bravery - and it was indeed brave, he was risking everything if the plot was real…
Harry sighed and looked at his empty ice cream tub. It had been smooth and sugary, but Mr Bellows was still superior in his mind, albeit less popular. His mind turned to his plans. He'd bought his new textbooks immediately (the new Defence books were… weird), but he still needed new robes. In fact, he wanted to have a good long chat with Madam Malkin about wizarding fashion. The various styles of robes were baffling; Muggle fashion seemed to fix itself on one type of casual wear and one type of formal wear at a time. Wizards were all over the place. What was going on there, why-
-His musings were interrupted by what looked like… a flying ball? It was swooping on long, vulture-like wings, but its body seemed impossibly rotund. Harry squinted; it was… getting closer. No, he realised, it was coming to him.
And it had a letter in its… paws? Claws?
The whole street seemed to stop as it dived by Potage's Cauldron Shop and arrived with a heavy thunk on Harry's table. Up close, Harry saw that it was a squirrel. Its beady eyes were looking at him curiously, its tiny nose twitching. And it did indeed possess two, vast black wings set upon its back, which were a very different colour to its russet red fur.
It squeaked, took Harry's glass in its paws, and with two great twisting heaves flew off, impossibly heavy.
Harry sat, amazed, staring as it vanished into the distance. He didn't even care about his apple juice. The street around him went back to its normal business. Eventually, he turned his attention to the letter. "Thanks," he muttered. The envelope was… strange. Cream-coloured, with an unusual, leathery texture. Harry tried to unseal it, only to realise it'd been glued shut. Rolling his eyes, he took a discreet glance around and cut it open with a severing charm. Inside was a sheaf of thick parchment. Harry began to read.
Greetynges,
I hope this lettre fynde thee in goode spirytes. May thine enmyes suffre horryble ylles, and thyne frendes be blyssed. May thy shepe growe fatte, and thy serfs fynde themselves merye. May thine apple-trees be fruitfulle, and may thy welle give plesant watere.
I writen unto thee in regard of thy valiant condite. Not agaynst that dedless fool, may the cloudes spit upon hym, and the bestes, and the devyls, but in the defence of the lytel lord. Thou defended hym ably agaynst one of my children; and proude and spiryted thou werst! I wolde bestowe the honour of a reward upon thee for thyne efforts, Harry Potter of Bellbight Halle.
Meet me at Larkin Woode, by the poole, in thre dayes, and I shall bestowe a gret boon upon thee.
Merye tymes!
Tom Blue of Lark-Inn
By the sixth reading, Harry had finally grasped its meaning. Except that he really hadn't. What, by Merlin's ever-growing beard, was this? He didn't remember saving anyone from a child (and why would he have to?), and who was Tom Blue?
… And how - and why - did he have a squirrel-bird as a messenger?
Tom the barman didn't have an answer, nor, as far as he could tell, any of the books in Flourish and Blotts. He considered venturing into Knockturn in search of more expansive texts… but he couldn't go as Harry, and it'd take a lot of effort to become Harold Skarsgard once more.
With little else to do, Harry filed it away as a problem for tomorrow. He practised spells from his second year textbook, struggled through the second section of Magical Drafts and Potions, then readied himself for bed.
Just as he was putting his books away, the deep beat of a knock sounded on the door. Harry paused, his breath catching, his hand darting to his wand. Perhaps the visit from the squirrel-bird had unsettled him, but that didn't sound like Tom's knock, or that of Violet the cleaning lady. It was too loud, too strong, too powerful.
Harry crept toward the door. It didn't have a spy-hole. "Hello?" he called out warily, wand in tight-gripped hand.
"Good evening to you," said a voice beyond the door. It was muffled, and deep - a man's voice. "This is the abode of Harry Potter?"
There was no threat in the voice - only a cool, calm command. "It is," Harry replied. "What do you want?"
The voice paused before answering, "We believe you received a letter today, delivered by a strange creature. You are in danger. We can help you."
Now it was Harry's turn to pause. Could he trust them? This was all very suspicious… and dozens of people saw the squirrel-bird. Half of Diagon Alley, he thought, could know by now.
On the other hand, something did strike Harry as dangerous about the letter and its author. His messenger was unnerving, and the message worse.
His hand hovered above the latch, but hesitated. "Who is we?"
"The Huntan," the voice replied evenly. "We are associated with the Ministry."
The Huntan? Harry searched his memory - and then, slowly, unlatched the door, and let it swing open.
Three men in elegant, flowing robes were waiting patiently in the corridor. Their sleeves were long and wide, and reminded Harry somewhat of Muggle university gowns.
One of them stepped forth, holding his wand passively in two fingers - the precise opposite, Harry recognised, of a duelling form. "Thank you, Harry Potter, for trusting us." He slid his wand into his belt, which was the origin of many of his robes' elegant folds.
"If you'd really wanted to," Harry replied, "you could've broken the door down. I wouldn't be able to stop you."
The wands of the other men, Harry noticed, were also tucked into their belts. Was that supposed to be a sign of peace? He'd never read that in a book before.
The one to Harry's left, who wore burgundy, looked up and down the corridor. "May we speak inside?"
Harry frowned, glad that he'd stowed his portion of the Philosopher's Stone away in Gringotts. If they wanted to hurt him… He stepped back. "I don't think I'm much of a host," he apologised, "but I can ask Tom for something if you want."
"Tom has already fed us," said the one who had not already spoken. He wore a dark blue. "His son and I were classmates."
Tom the barman's son, Harry knew, hadn't gone to Hogwarts. Interesting. "Not the pea soup, I suppose?"
Their apparent leader chuckled as he sat at Harry's humble table. His… coworkers followed suit. "That recipe is a Dark Creature unto itself. But we did not come to discuss gastronomy. I am Eadric, and these are my companions Edmund-" he gestured toward the blue-robed man, who was blond and proud, "-and Godric." Like his likely namesake, Godric was the owner of a full head of flaming red hair. He smiled at Harry, and the expression reached his eyes.
All of them were young, but not too young, and healthy. They gave a grave impression, as though a great weight was borne equally on their shoulders.
While Harry sat opposite them, and Eadric continued, "I promised an explanation, did I not?" He placed his wand on the table, his colleagues mirroring him, then reached into his robe pocket to reveal a small book.
Harry accepted it when offered. The leather was plain and black, and titled simply: Monsters.
"We combat the dark," Eadric explained, "defending Muggle and wizard equally against the things that haunt the wild places of the world. We may slay no man, but give no quarter to man's foes."
Harry brushed his fingers across the embossed letters on the book's cover. Eadric was waiting patiently for him to respond. "Tom Blue is - is one of these things you fight?"
"Cold Tom Blue is a faerie," Edmund said gently. "An old and powerful faerie. Older than the stone beneath our feet, than the rivers that flow through this kingdom, than the Cambrians above our heads - or so he would boast."
"Bah," Godric dismissed. "Oberon himself is not so ancient."
Eadric silenced him with a look. "Regardless, Cold Tom Blue is one of the most capricious fae-folk to spring from English soil. And he has contacted you; we have heard tell of his chimera messenger."
Harry tried to recall everything he'd learned about the true fae, or the faerie folk as they were often called. Quirrell had mentioned them in breathy tones (though who knew what he really thought?), while Hike in Creatures of Land, Sea and Sky ranked them the greatest of the Fallax - the deceivers, the tricksters. Others, the author had warned, classified them with the Deuli… the lesser gods.
A surge of terrible dread washed over him. He felt sick. "Cold Tom Blue… he doesn't want to give me a gift, does he?"
The three Huntan shared a significant look. Edmund leaned forward, his eyes sharp with interest. "Is that what his letter promised?"
Realising he was close to vomiting, Harry took a long, deep breath. The faerie isn't here, is he? He measured himself. He can't hurt you. The panic withdrew like the ebbing of the tide - right there, just out of reach, but always threatening to return.
"I can show you the letter, if you'd like?"
"Please," said Eadric.
Cold Tom Blue's letter was in the draw of his desk. He heard the Huntan murmuring to each other - just a little out his earshot - as he fetched it. He didn't understand them, though their words weren't quite foreign… They were familiar, somehow, yet incomprehensible. They stopped when he returned, and Eadric took the strange envelope warily, grimacing as he touched it.
He read it in silence, then passed it to Edmund, who, after a few moments, passed it to Godric. He looked it over with a cursory eye. Godric said something to his colleagues - something unpleasant, by his expression.
Edmund shifted in his seat, while Eadric froze Harry with a stare. "Have you heard," he asked, "of erklings?"
Harry tried his best to think, but his mind felt foggy. "No," he eventually said.
"They're… children," Eadric said. "They were human children once, stolen by fae. To be transformed into an erkling, a faerie takes them to Fairie-land and… twists them, changes them body and soul, and fills them with malice. Have you come into contact with such a creature? Childlike, but - not?"
How could he, he thought? Nothing at Hogwarts-
Nothing at Hogwarts.
"Oh," he muttered to himself, as the wave of fear crashed upon him once more. He suddenly remembered the forest that surrounded Halt End, the spell-path, and Hercules wandering toward its edge…
If he hadn't been there, what would've become of Hercules? And what could he tell the Huntan? They were Ministry officials. Could he explain that he'd pretended to be someone else to obtain a Lightspeed - a restricted object? … An object that no longer seemed to improve his duelling ability, he added irritably.
"I, erm," he began, flailing for an explanation. "Are… are you interested in anything any- any wrong… wrong outside Tom Blue?"
Harry wished he could sink into the floor. What had he just implied? This was stupid, he was going to get in trouble-
"-No," Eadric said, smiling lightly. Amusement shone through his voice. "Unless you've murdered someone and dug a shallow grave."
Quirrell's melting face flashed through Harry's mind before he forced himself to laugh. "Not as I recall." He thought back to the events at Halt End. He didn't need to explain everything, right? After all, they were only interested in the… creature… the erkling, Harry corrected. "So you see," he began, "I was outside Mr Bellows Ice Cream Parlour - you know, the one down Lance Lane, by the novelty shop? Well, I was there when Euan Montague and Alexander Kneen duelled, and…"
Harry explained his journey to Halt End without pause. He didn't try to conceal his quest for a Lightspeed, but did stop once they arrived at the castle. They didn't need to hear the Rosier family troubles.
The red-haired one, Godric, looked at his colleagues. "Well this is most serious," he said gravely.
Edmund gave a solemn nod. "Indeed, a Lightspeed - contraband of all things!"
Harry's heart clenched.
Godric frowned, stroking his gingery beard. "The Birdcage, I think, for the rest of the summer - tis' the only solution."
What? His lungs seemed to grasp desperately for air as his heart began to quicken. He remembered those cells, the emptiness of them… and what would Susan think, would she even want to be his friend when she heard? She was supposed to visit him tomorrow…
… Then Godric burst out laughing, while Edmund snickered.* Eadric shook his head, and elbowed the red-haired man in the ribs. "Ignore these two fools," he said. "You've got heart, lad. We don't care about the Lightspeed. They should be in every household, not just the purview of rotten Aurors and lickspittle Ministry employees."
"Sorry," Godric added languidly, "Eadric is right - you've got doxy. A normal wizard would've frozen, child or adult."
"Indeed." Eadric straightened, looking Harry straight in the eye. Judging.
Something was coming, Harry felt, something he wasn't necessarily going to like…
"You have another opportunity to show that boldness Godric mentioned. We want you to help us kill Cold Tom Blue," Eadric said, as if he were discussing the secondary effects of dittany, or the changes in cauldron shape over the late Roman empire. "We would usually leave beings like Tom be - they are capricious, but not always malicious. Honest as holly, we do not understand them; they can sleep for aeons, then appear again as though they'd taken just a nap. They have no reason we comprehend. They are almost impossible to track, and are defeated only by fool-hardy bravery - it is a… Herculean task. But Tom has forced our hand.
"You see, the fae of England - if they are of England - do not, as a rule, create erklings. Tom Blue has broken this tradition, and the creatures he is… manufacturing are more terrible, more multitudinous than their Bavarian cousins. It is an army, it must be; he is rallying a host from the blood and bone of Muggle and wizard child alike."
Harry stared at him.
"Of course," Edmund added, "we are not asking you to kill him yourself - that would be unreasonable; a fae is no troll, as impressive as that feat was. We ask rather that you allow yourself to be transported to Fairyland, so that you can lead us to his brugh*.
"I can see you know little about the fae - do not worry, for few do. Faeries, you see, live in another world, a world beyond our own." He inclined his head toward the cheval mirror by the dresser. "A world beyond the reflections of our own. We think that time is slower there, and all the roads are wrong. North need not lead south, nor south north. The top of Nevis* might be the lowest circle of faerie hell."
Harry stared.
"But each inch of land in Britain corresponds to an inch of land in Faerie," Godric added, seemingly oblivious to Harry's astonishment, "that we know, though those inches are not laid out as we might expect. We want you to accept Cold Tom Blue's invite. Then it is merely a matter of tracking you - objects have been developed for just this purpose. We also have our ways to break the veil betwixt the worlds; a portal will open, and as we enter, you leave. And thus will end the terror of Cold Tom Blue"
Harry stared.
"A-Are… are you all insane?"
Glossary:
*The technique of the bully, you might say. There is a great skit about this on an old episode of QI - type 'David Mitchell, the technique of the bully' into a certain famous video website and it should appear.
*In folklore, a brugh is a fairy's lair - an old Irish word which can be translated to mansion or palace. In this instance, it's referring usually to a mound or barrow.
*At over 4,000 feet, Ben Nevis is the tallest mountain of the British Isles.
A/N:
Another chapter, another arc! This time, it seems that Harry is heading to a world of irrationality, a place that is impossible for wizards to understand. What lies beyond the mirror? Who can say.
What I can say is that Cold Tom Blue is a reference to a famous author's work, and a particular favourite of mine. The lore in their book resembles what's been laid out here… though they, of course, are borrowing from mythology and folklore. Anyone know the book and author?
Feel free to review with your thoughts - and point out any typos or grammatical mistakes!
See you next time,
JoustingAlchemy
PS. This chapter is a chapter ahead on Discord: /mw2vyjM45m (go to the + symbol, join a server, then fill in the template with the above character string. Or copy-paste it from my profile, or the description of this story.
On P-atreon this story is two chapters ahead, which is best found through Google.