The Letter from a Faerie Lord II

Last Chapter: Harry is visited by Dobby that he manages to handle more calmly than in canon. He returns to his room at the Leaky Cauldron, where he receives a letter from a strange being called Tom Blue. Soon after, three members of the Huntan arrive at his door. They explain that the Huntan is an organisation whose purpose is to protect mankind against dark magical creatures, and that they want Harry to help them kill Cold Tom Blue.

Harry Potter sat at his favourite table in the Leaky Cauldron. Leaning against the balustrade of the first floor gallery, his seat oversaw all the traffic of the inn. Below, A French wizard was exclaiming something to Tom, who was chuckling gamely in turn… though by his expression, Tom had no idea what the Frenchman was saying.

At that moment, Harry didn't care. He wasn't interested in the inn, nor in the stew slowly cooling in his bowl.

Licking his lips, he instead took a great gulp of pumpkin juice, then another. He'd been speaking - uninterrupted - for what must've been half an hour. Susan was his only real link to wizarding society; she was the only one who could advise him. But to advise him, she had to know what she was advising him about, and for her to know what to say he had to tell her what had happened.

At first, that'd been nerve-wracking; but once he began he couldn't stop, the words seemed to flow as if from a cracking dam. At first at a trickle, then in a pouring rush.

Yet as he weaved his story, he could tell Susan wasn't taking it well. Describing how he'd sought a Lightspeed, how he'd been pulled into the problems of the House of Rosier… The blood seemed to drain from Susan's face by the word, until the faint freckles that dusted her nose stood out like stars in the night sky. He'd avoided revealing the more personal details about the Rosier family, of course, but that was little relief when began to discuss Cold Tom Blue's letter, ending with the visit from the Huntan.

"... And so called them - no, I asked them if they were all mad."

He licked his lips and took a big swig of his drink.

Across the table, Susan rubbed her forehead. She'd gained a tan over the summer, which displayed her faint freckles more prominently. But at that moment, Harry wasn't looking at her freckles; he was focused on the anxious frown that stretched her lips, the furrowing of her brow. She was going to give him the look.

Harry looked at his stew to avoid it.

"I should ask you if you're mad," she scolded. "What in Merlin's might were you thinking? Do you have any idea what would've happened if they'd figured out who 'Harold Skarsgard' really was?"

That seemed uncharitable - though Susan had never met the Rosiers of Halt End. She could go only by reputation. On the other hand, it was true that he'd been extremely foolish, so he stayed quiet and took his reprimand.

"And how do you even manage to get in these situations anyway? First the Rosiers, then Quirrell, now a faerie?"

Harry shrugged helplessly. "I never…"

He couldn't finish the sentence, for it didn't quite align with his thoughts. He'd told himself that he was being naive when he sought a Lightspeed, that he knew nothing at all about the wizarding world - about the-Boy-Who-Lived. But had he really been so oblivious?

… Or had some part of him been searching for risk, for excitement?

Harry sighed, mirroring his friend. It was useless to think about. "And what can I do about this faerie - and these Huntan people?"

"I would like to say that you should ignore the letter and move to another inn," she said immediately, "but you can't. The Huntan have a reflection on you, and-"

-A what?"

"S-sorry? Oh, right - a reflection, like a foe-glass reflection. They've got information to hold over your head."

"Right."

Harry had no idea what a foe-glass was, but he got the message.

"And," Susan finally continued, "the faerie probably won't leave you alone either. Working with the Huntan… is… is probably your best bet. Even if they are lunatics."

That didn't sound appealing. But then again, none of his options did. "What do you mean, lunatics?"

"That one who called himself Edmund? He's Edmund Eeyrie - my cousin Peter went to school with him. He used to say that Eeyrie was so old-fashioned he'd make You-Know-Who blush."

Having seen You-Know-Who in the flesh, Harry couldn't imagine him blushing. He didn't think Susan would appreciate him mentioning that, so he didn't. "What do you mean, old-fashioned?"

"In a sort of keep-the-Muggleborns-down kind of way," she said. "He's related to Arthur Eeyrie, who leads his own faction in the Wizagamot."

Harry felt his brows furrow. "I thought that was Draco Malfoy's father?"

Susan shook her head while, below them, Tom laughed loudly at someone's joke. "They despise each other. I can't pretend to be an expert, but I think Malfoy wants to burn Eeyrie out the Ministry."

"Like the Huntan?"

"My aunt once called them a 'vestigial organ'. The Huntan were important about a thousand years ago, before the Ministry had even been founded."

Harry snickered. "Is Malfoy's father a vampire?"

Susan punched him playfully on the arm. "Silly; we've just moved past hunting dark creatures. Lucius Malfoy - Lord Malfoy, to be formal - leads the Gampists, while Arthur Eeyrie - another lord - leads the Eeyrians."

Harry already knew asking for an explanation of the differences between the two would be fruitless. Wizarding politics was a cauldron of history, feuding and families. What each party actually believed was almost totally opaque, like wandering through midnight woods.

Like the Dark Forest, or the woods that surrounded Halt End. Those had been coming to mind quite often in the last few days… wait a moment, Harry thought, his mind lurching into a sudden connection; "Are are Rosier family Gampists or Eeyrians?"

"I'm…" Susan paused, "I'm n-not sure. Gampists, I think?"

Interesting. Harry finally remembered to take a spoon of his stew. It was still warm. "Interesting," he said. "Because the Rosiers of Halt End seemed to hate the Rosiers of Rossecourt. They complained that Rossecourt stole their Wizagamot seat…"

"-And you think one side of the family are Gampists, and the other Eeyrians? It's possible, but to be honest… I've got no idea. My cousin's supposed to become head of the Bones family, and even he didn't start studying politics seriously until he was fourteen or fifteen.* He doesn't like it."

Conversation seemed to wither away then, and the sounds of the Cauldron became more prominent. Tom the barman was still laughing with a few grubby wizards at the bar; a large family was eating quietly behind them, making only occasional comments. The clink of cutlery, the scrape of chairs on the flagstone floor, the crackling of the twin fireplaces - all rose to prominence. Harry closed his eyes and relaxed into the atmosphere.

Then he realised, "We've got a bit off topic, haven't we?"

Susan laughed sheepishly. "I think we have, but I can't really advise anything more than I have. Unless you're willing to get into trouble, you'll have to trust the Huntan."

Harry raised his brow. "From what you've said, I don't think I can trust them. Are they even any good as wizards?"

"Peter said Edmund was a great duellist - other than that…" Susan shrugged.

Anxiety gnawed at Harry's gut. Between a malicious faerie - who likely wanted to turn him into an erkling - and a bunch of maniac blood-purists, what was he supposed to do?

…

…

With no answer obvious, Harry and Susan spent the rest of the day enjoying Diagon Alley. First they were attracted to the big ships - Flourish and Blotts, where Susan ordered the year's textbooks to be sent to her… manor (she was very excited about the new defence teacher, some guy called Lockhart), then Magical Menagerie. Susan wasn't intending to buy an animal, but it was fun to watch the strange creatures in their cages.

For a while thereafter they went window shopping, spending particular time outside Quality Quidditch Supplies. Pride of place, sleek and black glossy, was the new Nimbus offering, the 2001. Harry and Susan stared at it longingly. "Have you ever thought about joining the Quidditch team, Harry? You're really good at it."

Harry answered without taking his eyes off the broom. "It'd get in the way of the Quidditch," he said distractedly.

For a moment, there was no reply. Yo-you, um, might have more time this year, w-with, y-you know?" Her voice dropped notably. "No club."

Harry finally turned to face her; Susan had withdrawn in on herself, her gaze to the ground. Memories of Alan and Gabriel hung over them like storm clouds.

Harry shook them away. "I'll still practise," he said. "We still have the… duelling aid, and Hogwarts has plenty of rooms."

But Susan only seemed to shrink further. "I'm not good enough to give you a challenge."

"We'll find a way," Harry replied, with a confidence he didn't quite feel. He knew a lot of other people from the Self Defence Club. Surely a few would want to practise? … But then again, did he really know them, or just know of them?

Over the summer, he'd been thinking through McConnell's accusations- and he was right, to a degree. He had kept himself isolated. He just had to come out of his shell and-

-Susan suddenly took his hand, his thoughts left unfinished. "Come on," she said, "let's go to Madam Malkins."

Harry groaned, his maudlin thoughts forgotten; he grumbled all the way, even attempting a distraction via Sugarplums's Sweetshop. But Susan was resolute: they were going to Madam Malkin, even if she had to drag him.

Which she did.

Harry couldn't help but recall every complaint he'd heard Uncle Vernon utter about women and clothes shopping. Eventually they stopped. Madam Malkins Robes for All Occasions had a tasteful facade, clad in golden-he'd timber. A pair of mannequins inhabited the shop window, draped in expensive ermine robes - one female, ther other male. Occasionally they would change pose, which was rather creepy.

Susan tugged at his robe. "Come on."

Harry sighed, and let himself be moved.

But as it turned out, clothes shopping with Susan wasn't so bad. She didn't spend too long obsessing over outfits as Harry feared and, well, wizarding clothing was still interesting. With more experience, he could see that fashion in the wizarding world was… disparate. It was as though magical Britain had decided to adopt all the historical Muggle fashions, adapt them to magic, then pick and choose what they desired.

Harry ended up with a new set of soft, breathable summer robes. Robes being a catch-all for wizarding clothing, he hadn't actually bought a robe - rather, a navy tunic made of an impossibly light, oddly cool wool, in combination with a pair of comfy, and with puffy, black breeches that drooped down to his calves. They too were cool to the touch, and had very spacious pockets. Harry tucked them into his boots.

But then it was Harry's turn to lead. He'd spent hours and hours exploring Diagon, and was excited to show Susan everything he'd found - especially Mr Bellows Ice Cream Parlour (better than Fortescue's, he constantly asserted).

"That's where Montague and Kneen fought," he pointed as they enjoyed their ice creams. "Right there, in that yard."

Of course, no remnants of the fight remained. It was just a cobblestone yard now, surrounded by a square of whitewashed timber buildings. "Who's job is it to clean stuff like that up, anyway?"

Susan paused mid-bite, swallowed, then answered, "The store owners, through insurance. We don't really have towns or cities now, but when we did, I think… I think the owner owns the section in front of his shop. It's still like that in places like this."

Harry felt his brow furrow. Now that he thought about it, it was curious that wizards didn't tend to live together in towns or cities - with a few notable exceptions. "Why don't wizards have cities?"

"Too dangerous," Susan immediately answered. "Even Muggles Might notice thousands of wizards in one place. Magic alters everything around it; the more magic, the greater the warping. Or so my aunt says."

Harry thought of Hogwarts and agreed.

Soon after, it was time for the parlour to close, and they realised the time. Susan pouted; but Harry felt a distinct buzz of unease in his chest, right next to his heart. Susan had to go… and he was an afternoon closer to his confrontation with Tom Blue. They made their way back to the Leaky Cauldron.

A young woman with neat, braided hair was waiting for them. Susan was expecting her, and she introduced herself as Allison Tide, Madam Bones' aide. He supposed the Tides were as to the Bones what the Lyles were for the Rosiers. Allison was very excited to meet the-Boy-Who-Lived, embarrassing them both - albeit for different reasons.

Susan smiled shly, biting her lip. "So this is goodbye then, at least until Hogwarts."

If you survive Cold Tom Blue.

Harry tried to smile; he suspected it came out more like a grimace. "I'll make sure to write. Hopefully they'll reach you this time."

Susan did her best to smile back. Her eyes were beginning to glisten. "B-bye Harry."

"Bye Susan - and it was nice to meet you, Allison."

Allison's cheeks reddened - Harry had no idea why - while Susan waved sadly. He felt… empty as they departed. So much had changed so quickly, most of what he'd built of himself had slipped away, and now… now his own stupidity had returned to torment him.

"Susan!" he called, just as she reached the door.

Susan turned, her scarlet hair whipping.

"Has… has Alan sent you a letter?"

Harry watched as her face fell. She shook her head silently, and he saw the heart-rending glimmer of tear-tracks on her cheeks.

Allison looked on, her brows furrowed in confusion.

He's chosen Gabriel over us, Harry thought glumly. But how could he not? The Jorkins were his only connection to the wizarding world. He felt his shoulders slump, and the emptiness inside him grow heavier.

It did not disappear over the next day. He sat in his room, aimlessly meandering between tasks, never finishing anything. It was curious, Harry he considered then, how motivated he'd felt during the quest to safeguard the Philosopher's Stone - even at their lowest, when they had no obvious way of smuggling the monitor onto Gabriel's person.

Now, even with a somewhat clear path to take, why did he feel so… drained? He glanced at his open textbook, The Standard Book of Spells, Grade Two. A good quarter of its pages were still pristine, still unturned. Just like they had been the day before.

Harry sighed, turning his gaze to the ceiling. It was still cream. He couldn't concentrate. Everything was spinning, twisting around his head, clouding his thoughts, muffling the spark that had always driven him forward after he had found his goal.

"Merlin damn it all."

He didn't sleep that night, seemingly not a wink.

The day dawned breezy, and unexpectedly grey; it was as though a great ashen slab were hovering over London. Harry ate his usual wizarding porridge at his customary seat in the gallery of the Leaky Cauldron, washing it down with a goblet of willow water. The cool, soothing extract calmed his churning stomach.

He'd only just finished his meal when, as planned, Tom the barman told him that a package had been delivered - with his name on it. It was long and tapering; Harry took it to his room, where he unwrapped it unenthusiastically. He knew what to expect; he and the Huntan had already discussed this.

But Harry, in shock, almost dropped it; the smooth, shining fore-handle was black, sleek - and glossy. He stared at the name embossed in the wick - the bulbous section right at the end of the handle - which read, in shining silver letters, Nimbus 2001. He couldn't believe it. Had Eadric lent him his own broom?

Harry unwrapped the rest very gently, taking great care not to damage the tail-twig array. Around one of the centre of the handle another, much smaller, package had been wrapped, which he left alone for the moment. The broomstick's crossbars* gleamed a brilliant silver, as though they'd never been used. He could almost feel the enchantments humming in glorious harmony, ready to cut through the air. The Nimbus was built for speed. Harry had the irrational desire to mount it right then, to fly out a window and soar… to forget about it all…

He restrained himself and read the letter instead.

Dear Mr. Potter,

it said, in neat, cramped handwriting

Thank you for agreeing to aid us in our task. The Huntan has been searching for a method to defeat Cold Tom Blue since before I joined; this is our first prospect in some time. It will do this country a great deal of good if he is destroyed.

Even so, you have shown yourself valiant in willingness to lend us your aid. We know what we are asking of you; it is not something we would ask lightly, especially of a child. Please do not be offended - but you are, it is a plain fact, and we are most aware of that. If we were not so desperate, we could not in good conscience ask this of you.

You deserve more than we can give; as a token of our thanks, please accept this Nimbus 2001. I am told it is the fastest broomstick on the market. It is yours in perpetuity. We hope to see you at Larkin Wood by noon.

Eadric Ascalone, Third Rank Commander of the Huntan

Harry didn't know what to make of it. The broomstick was an amazing gift, but why had it been given? Was it a bribe? An attempt to gain favour, to ensure he didn't go to the Aurors? Harry seriously doubted the Huntan were supposed to be putting children in danger; their plan was unhinged, even for the relaxed standards of the wizarding world.

But he couldn't go to the Aurors anyway, because then he'd have to explain the whole story surrounding the Rosiers - including revealing why he went to Knockturn Alley in the first place…

Or maybe it was just a gift. Perhaps Eadric was rich, and didn't know its worth? Perhaps Edmund Eeyrie had bought it, even - Susan did say his family was politically connected. Politicians were usually rich, right?

Harry placed the broom reverently on his bed, and untied the smaller package. This one fit comfortably inside his hand, and weighed perhaps a little less than an apple.

Inside was another letter, a cross on a chain, and a compass. The latter first drew his eye; it was a golden compass, whose needle never seemed to point north. The casing was resplendent; tiny runes had been carved, interlocking - Harry swore he saw them dancing - on the surface, which shone with a luminescent red-gold glow.

It was beautiful.

Harry let it fall into the palm of his hand, then gasped; it was like the hairs on his neck had suddenly pricked, like lightning had struck through the nerves in his body! Was that magic he'd just felt?

The feeling quickly faded and, disappointingly, he couldn't bring it back. He read the second letter instead.

The compass is a Lumenfaerum, Harry Potter.

This writing was different - loopier, and larger, but no less neat.

Guard it well; it is your connection to our world. No matter what strange roads you travel in the lands of the Fae, we will always be able to follow your presence through this compass. When you reach Tom Blue's brugh, smash the glass, and it will open a portal through which you may leave and we may enter.

Do not hesitate to do so. Do not look back; do not consider returning. We three might not survive this battle; it is crucial that you leave the field of battle open for us.

The cross is an Aegiscrux; a shield-cross. It has been enchanted by the deep-well of Saint Collen, Denier of the Fae. Wear it, and the glamour of the fairyland will be dulled to you, and Cold Tom Blue's strange magic will waver with its presence. Never remove it, and never let him see it.

I wish you good luck, Harry Potter.

Edmund Eeyrie, Third Rank Lieutenant of the Huntan.

Harry briefly examined the cross; it was small, and silver, and glinted as though studded with diamonds, though the metal was bare. More impossibilities. Harry quickly put it on, hiding it beneath his tunic. He didn't feel any different, but that was probably the point. Cold Tom Blue would surely sense something obvious.

He stowed the Lumenfaerum in his pocket beside his wand, especially glad he was wearing a belt; the instrument felt heavy in his breeches. Finally, he carefully re-wrapped the Nimbus. It would do no good to draw attention to himself.

That left… Harry searched for some other task, something to postpone the inevitable, and found… nothing. It was time to go. Nerves crackled through his system; he felt himself wavering between feeling sick and being sick. He touched his brow. It was clammy - sweaty even.

Harry took a long look around room ten, the Leaky Cauldron. His room. He saw with new intensity the four-poster bed, the washbasin, the desk he'd had installed. The cream-white ceiling above and the emerald-green carpet below. It had been perfect.

He said a silent goodbye, took the Nimbus in hand, and left.

Ten minutes later he was airborne. He'd kicked off from the Cauldron's roof, unafraid of Muggle detection. The Nimbus 2001 came with strong notice-me-not charms, among other enchantments meant to deceive CCTV cameras and the like. He had been more worried about a witch or wizard noticing a child flying alone over London but, after a few minutes, he realised that no one was interested.

Eadric had reassured him as much; as long as he flew high enough, the authorities wouldn't care to mind. That wasn't particularly easy advice to follow, however. Though Godric had spelled the Nimbus to nudge him in the right direction, his gaze was constantly distracted by the sights. Big Ben loomed in the distance, as did that massive skyscraper Justin had mentioned at the opening feast. It was tempting, ever so tempting, to just lean towards them, to take a closer look…

He couldn't, he knew. Instead, he decided to let the broom direct him to enjoy the flight. Though the sky was grey, the air was still warm, and the wind blew pleasantly through his hair and across his cheeks. The nausea withdrew, replaced with the familiar serenity of flight. Perhaps I should join the Quidditch team, Harry thought, if there isn't a duelling club anymore…

It was equally impossible not to enjoy the Nimbus. The broomstick was like lightning beneath him, twitching with his every move. At first it had seemed a little too much, a little too reactive - like a car that would swerve with the slightest touch of the wheel - but he soon became used to it. The best brooms, Harry understood, could be controlled by the shifting of weight as much as force; the 2001 was practically precognate. He could just begin to lean and the broom would lean with him.

He was disheartened to see the suburban sprawl of London trickle away beneath him, where it was replaced by the gentle green farmland of the Home Counties. He flew over a quilted-patchwork of fields, interspersed with small villages and, to his counting, three modest manor houses. One of them he swore was a magical house.

After perhaps half an hour, the broom began to lean down. The Nimbus, he realised, was pointing toward a particular copse of trees. It wasn't really a wood… but then again, hadn't Cold Tom Blue been sleeping for hundreds of years? How would he know that Larkin Wood was now barely more than a ring of willow trees?

Harry descended swiftly to a nearby field; he almost didn't feel the ground as he touched down. In fact, he didn't really feel anything at all, as though a barrier had been erected between him and the world. All the anxiety, the excitement - even physical sensations seemed to dim as he drew close to Larkin Wood.

The sky was still grey as he approached the trees, which drooped with that sombre bearing common to all willows. Their weeping, slender branches stirred gracefully in the breeze.

Melancholy, Harry thought distantly, they were melancholy. It was as though they had seen something, something they remembered through the long years to their wooden hearts; a horrible thing they could never forget.

Strange sorrow was all he felt as he wandered through the willows, his focus caught by a darkling glint between the trees. Drawing near, he saw that it was a pool of clear water, reflecting perfectly the silver sky above.

It was special, he knew. Somehow. The pool… it scratched the corner of his mind. What was special about it? The place… no, not exactly.

Leaning over, he watched his own bespeckled reflection, and searched his foggy mind…

The water? Yes, that's what a pool was, wasn't it? Faeries loved water… it was a passageway, a way to other worlds, to their world… They loved… what did they love about water?

Harry saw his brow furrow.

That was right! They loved reflections.

Harry saw himself smirk… though he hadn't moved a muscle.

His mind cleared suddenly, like dew before the sun. "Oh," he said, too surprised to panic.

A pale hand reached from the water, as quick and graceful as a serpent, and grabbed him by the face.

A/N:

He's not even in the land of the fae, and already he's in trouble. Not looking good at the moment; how effective will the Huntan's protections prove to be? You'll be finding out next time, in the The Letter from a Faerie Lord III…

Glossary:

*Unless it's done really well, I dislike the tropes around child-politics common in Harry Potter fanfiction. It turns characters into little calculators.

*The foot-crossbars seen in the films aren't actually in the books… but they look awesome, and make sense, so I'm keeping them.

PS.

Have a great day, and so some shilling:

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