Snake-Song

Last Chapter: Harry journeys with Tom Blue through Fairyland, and discovers in the bowls of Larkin Wood the fae's terrible purpose. He flees, and is saved by Herne the Hunter, who recounts a prophecy to him. He returns to the realm of man, where he falls asleep in his room at the Leaky Cauldron. He wakes the next day, relieved and pleased, and notices an array of books the Huntan must've gifted him on his desk.

Harry's fingers were just an inch from Muscular Wizardry when his hand snapped back, like a child caught raiding the cookie-jar (not that he had ever been able to experience that slice of Americana at the Dursleys). A foreboding whoosh of wide-spanning wings blew in from the window.

Half expecting the squirrel-bird-thing, he turned to see, instead, a very angry Hedwig.

Harry froze. He'd been beyond her magical senses for Merlin knew how long… and this was not the first time he'd upset her. "Um, hello Hedwig? Good-" he ventured, "gir-L- ouch!"

Hedwig's beak was no blunter than the last time she'd pecked him. In fact, as he would rue for the rest of the day, it was very sharp; and never had she been so angry before. She buffeted him with her vast wingspan and displayed her displeasure in a method most violent.

Then she dropped a letter in his lap, and wouldn't let him out of her sight.

Harry took it with stinging hands, recognising Susan's neat handwriting. His eyes flicked towards his new, precious books, laid out neatly on his desk, then back to the letter. They were tempting, oh so tempting!

But then he broke the seal and read the letter.

Dear Harry, it began.

Please return this letter with one of your own, as soon as you return. It's awful waiting for you, wondering what's happening over… there. I would give you more advice (I've been reading), but by the time you read this you will already be back.

Here her writing narrowed, and her classical neatness faltered.

Please please answer. I've been writing every day, and always Hedwig returns with the letter unopened. I just hope you're well.

Susan.

A confusing blend of emotions settled in Harry's stomach, feelings he couldn't quite define. Every day? He let the thought simmer for a moment, placed Susan's letter carefully on his desk, removed his outer robe, and settled atop the covers of his bed.

Whatever he had felt soon melted away like the morning dew. It was as though Fairyland had seared away his mind, leaving an empty, beautiful hole - a great nothingness in which he could lose himself. Harry, though he was wide awake, relaxed into the black. He felt his head tingle, as though little electric currents were passing through his temple.

They shocked him into action. He sat up, suddenly riding the trailing edge of an explosion of energy. Suddenly he knew there was so much to do, and so little time to do it in.

Really, the first item on the menu of the day should've been a menu - he was starving, and needed to see Tom; on the other hand, the Huntan's gifts called to him. Blood purists or not, if they thought they could fight Cold Tom Blue, they were powerful. Any knowledge they recommended was worth its weight in gold. Real gold, not the leprechaun kind.

He sat and flicked through Muscular Wizardry. The author, the ironically named Alaric Strongsong, had a great deal to say about fitness. He even discussed Muggle scientific theories on the topic, which were up-to-date until about ten years ago. Pages were filled with exercise routines, explanations, practical tips and, most intriguingly, more than one section on 'Paraphysiology'. Apparently, magic gifted witches and wizards particular - though slight - physical advantages over Muggles.

Strongsong wrote as though the theory was in contention but, to Harry, it made sense. Did that, he wondered, mean the reverse was true - that physical fitness affected magical power, too? Either way, he was brimming with energy, and too restless to continue reading.

Tom the barman must've been wondering where he was for… however long he'd been in Fairyland, so Harry jumped up from his chair and made his way downstairs, his ears picking up the familiar din of conversation with every step he took. The Cauldron was a cauldron of noise that day. He spotted many children, older and younger than him, trudging behind their oblivious parents. Once, Harry would've envied them, resenting the love they took for granted, but he'd grown out of that even before Hogwarts. The Mirror of Erised only presented to him what he knew he could not have.

Tom saw him from across the room, his eyes widening in such a way that he looked like a very surprised walnut. "Mr. Po-!" he said, stopping himself before he attracted the attention of the whole room. Instead, he waved him over with a thin, though large, hand.

"Young master," he said in a half-whisper. " You've been away almost a month. Thought you'd gone t'yer Muggle family for the rest of the summer."

Harry shrugged, painting a smile on his face. It was sometime in August, then. Losing a month was unpleasant, but no less than he'd been expecting. "I've been away with friends," he said, surprising himself with how easy the lie came to his lips. "It was a last minute thing."

"No matter, young master," said Tom. "Yer paid for the summer, so the summer you shall have."

Some things, Harry thought happily, never change. The sky would be blue, the grass green, and Tom the barman (but certainly not Tom the cold) could always be depended on. "Thanks Tom. Is there a table available? I think I'll take my dinner downstairs."

His customary place was free, and Harry sat gladly. He ate his steak and ale pie, massacred his chips, and even enjoyed his carrots. All the while he was absorbed in the hustle and bustle around him. So much movement, so much activity! After the strange silences of Fairyland, with its singing flowers, eerie vistas, and melancholy glens - never mind his brief sojourn in a cell - Harry was glad to hear every moment of it.

The pie, as it turned out, did not weigh him down; quite the opposite in fact. He felt even more invigorated than before he ate and, intending to work off the energy, he set off for a walk around Diagon.

The Alley was brimming with energy. Children darted off from their parents, groups of grandmothers chatted outside Madam Malkins, while hawkers slipped through heaving crowds, selling who knew what. They looked a little like cooked pigeons on sticks.

And all of it was a riot of colour, a contrast of plainer Muggle clothing and multitudinous magical garb, with its seeming hundred styles of robes. Harry wandered through it all, no less awed than his first visit - more even. It was a deeper wonder now, induced by a greater understanding. He felt like he stood at the very crown of a great mountain, whose foggy slopes were only just beginning to clear. He was part of something greater, and only now was he beginning to truly see.

His ponderings were interrupted by a booming crash just inside Flourish and Blotts. Harry - and what felt like half the Alley - peered at the shopfront, a timber take on a classical portico. Was that a bookcase falling over? The thought of it crushing someone was faintly worrying though, with magic, wizards could fix most ills fairly quickly. It was, Harry had realised quite a while ago, part of the reason the magical world was so permissive.

Soon an elegant, ashen-haired man swept out of the shop, brushing down his equally elegant - and doubtless vastly expensive - robes. A more familiar figure followed in tow. Draco Malfoy, looking rather miffed… which, Harry thought, his eyes turning to the older man, means that is Lucius Malfoy.

Wicked cane in hand, the patriarch of the Malfoy family (or was it house, Harry wondered?) cut precisely the sort of figure he imagined. Traditional; cold; intimidating. He was tall, his long hair neatly groomed, his cheekbones prominent and pointed. And he wore an expression that could've been carved from ice.

Harry watched him leave, and frowned. He'd heard much about Lucius Malfoy, leader of the Gampists in the Wizengamot, but this was the first time he'd seen him. Susan had called him a Death Eater, a follower of Voldemort; last week, Harry had joked that he must've been a vampire for his opposition to the Huntan.

He could believe both notions to be true.

A few minutes later, the Weasleys - seemingly the whole clan - followed Malfoy out the door. They were as different to the Malfoys as could be. Ragged of robe - quilted with repairs, even - and very, very ginger. Not red. Ginger.

Their own patriarch, judging by his age, was patting himself down, grimacing as his wife berated him. "Arthur!" she scolded shrilly, for half the Alley to hear, "brawling in public, what must Gilderoy Lockhart think, of all the stupid things-"

She carried on, and on, and on. Harry gladly tuned her out, and watched, instead, as Arthur Weasley's face first froze - not unlike his apparent foe - then crumpled against his wife's verbal volleys. Blood was dripping from his lip.

His children, too, stood in various states of embarrassment. The little girl looked like she wanted the cobbles to swallow her whole, while Ron Weasley's face was slowly approaching the redness of a particularly vivid tomato. He was in Harry's year at school. Harry couldn't remember speaking to him.

Percy Weasley, an older prefect (he couldn't recall which year) was attempting - and failing - to match Lucius' stoicism, and instead just looked rather constipated. Fred and George seemed humorously torn between anger and laughter. They caught his eye and winked.

Harry couldn't help but grin back. He considered visiting Flourish and Blotts to speak to the-apparently-present-and-apparently-famous Gilderoy Lockhart (after reading some of his books, Harry was even less sure why Susan was so interested in him - they read… strangely), but thought better of it. 'The Boy-Who-Lived' would only cause a scene, the idea of which made him feel ill.

Instead he wandered away from the commotion and up to Quality Quidditch Supplies. The wide glass window displayed in prominence a sleek ebony broomstick, whose silver stirrups were polished to a mirror-shine. He recognised it at once. It was his broom, the Nimbus 2001. Or… was it? Eadric had gifted it to him, but he'd left it at the pool before being dragged into Fairyland. Would he ever get it back? Only, he knew, if Eadric, Edmund and Godric lived.

Harry pressed his face close to the glass. His 2001 had been fantastic in the air, eager and smooth - after he'd gotten used to it - but the homing charm had dampened his enjoyment. Now his thoughts flew, imagining what it might be like to soar by the clouds with his Nimbus beneath him. He'd be able to touch the sky, to sense the air breathing, billowing around him, and he'd be free, free as a wisp of wind… He could almost feel it, and he and Alan-

-Harry's thoughts soured at once. Alan hadn't written to him once. Alan wasn't going to write to him, he knew. And though he did not know it, he suspected Alan would never speak to him again.

His breath caught, then released in a painful rasp. All the churn of Diagon Alley, the flow of life, suddenly seemed as dead as Quirrell then, as dead as the troll he'd killed. As dead as Daniel Lane's spirit.

He returned to room ten, the Leaky Cauldron, and tried to banish those thoughts.

And banished they seemed to be. Half an hour later, he was back on an even keel, and trying to make sense of Wanderings With Werewolves, one of Lockhart's many…books. The more he read, the more he wasn't sure how to classify them. Certainly not as textbooks, nor really as history books. Every paragraph he read unsettled him somehow, in some way he couldn't quite describe.

He read deeply until nightfall, attempting to understand what was so wrong, until his gaze was caught by the erratic flight of a moth, fluttering through the room. Its drooping black wings settled on Susan's letter, prompting an unpleasant twinge in Harry's chest. "Oh," he said to himself. He slammed the book shut; the whoosh of air jolted the moth into flight. "Oh, damn. Damn it Harry, you idiot!"

He still hadn't replied to Susan's letter.

It took another half an hour to coax a reluctant, clingy Hedwig to deliver the letter. Exhausted, Harry stripped himself to his underclothes and flopped on his bed. He was asleep within moments.

Time seemed to pass in an instant; and he woke to singing. Suddenly lucid he stood, paused, then peered out through his window. Where was that noise coming from?

Harry had read about mermaids, and how they sang beneath the waves; that was how he imagined this singing. Distant, haunting, a melody It was hard to understand, as ephemeral as a long-past twilight. He strained his ears, knowing he had to hear.

There was a voice, too, equally distant but slowly sharpening; "-gar," said a hauntingly familiar voice, " -pol… ance… na… ays… lit… im… all… shall… agon… ock…"

Harry frowned. He'd heard that voice before, he knew he had! But where? He bit his lip, thinking; but no matter how hard he thought, he could not remember. His mind felt all foggy.

Turning away from the window in a huff, Harry threw himself back on his bed.

Daniel Lane's grinning face - his human, innocent face - stared back beneath his eyelids. Harry cried out, flinging himself upright. What on earth!?

"Harry," said a voice behind him.

Harry's blood froze like black ice, and his body with it. He could feel it, the presence behind him, but he didn't dare turn. What hadn't he thought it through? He never considered what would happen if the Huntan failed to kill Cold Tom Blue…

Slowly, like a condemned man, he turned.

He met Cold Tom Blue's wintery eyes- saw the black stone knife gleaming in his hand-

-No!-

- and leapt out his bed, throwing his covers all over the floor. Harry looked around stupidly. The moon was casting a silvery light through a gap in his curtains, revealing a silent, empty room. There was no Daniel Lane, no singing flowers, and no Tom Blue. Harry let out a shuddering breath, and realised just how hot he was. His hair clung to his forehead, and his silk pyjamas - enchanted against the heat - against his back.

"It wasn't real," he told himself. "It wasn't real. Herne saved me. He saved me."

He remembered vividly Herne's stern, dark eyes, staring out at him like black pits, their colour obscured by his prominent brow.

The thought did not induce the sort of lingering fear the fae did, but there was a certain… unease. Harry hadn't read much - or any, really - Divination (it being, he knew, a third year elective), but even he recognised a prophecy when he heard one. What Herne the Hunter had told him was definitely a prophecy, albeit one that might be fulfilled by anyone.

Might've, Harry corrected. Now he'd heard it, it was his.

"One will be chosen," he murmured into the night, "One of many and more."

Nor could he forget the warnings. "Long do the monsters fight,

To reach from the land of deepening sighs…"

Whatever it meant, it was nothing good. But he could do nothing about it, so he did his best to go back to sleep.

Which, for the next few days, continued to elude him. Nightmares hung around his secret thoughts, revealed only by the night. Occasionally he saw Quirrell, melting beneath his touch, and often heard the strange songs of Fairyland. Neither scared him, yet dread built like a gathering storm as he dreamt. The cold eyes of Tom Blue were always waiting for him, always watching.

Harry's daylight hours were mixed. At times he was composed; at others, the fairy of Larkin Wood haunted his every thought. He wished for a letter from the Huntan confirming their survival, and feared a letter from their foe.

Neither were forthcoming and, slowly, Harry regained his wits. The nightmares withdrew, and September drew closer.

Now excitement replaced his fear until, on the eve of the new school year, an unfamiliar owl flew through his window. Harry put down Muscular Wizardry (he hadn't started his training yet, knowing he lacked for space, but was designing his routine based on Strongsong's recommendations) and let the owl hop onto his desk.

It dropped a letter and flew away.

Harry Potter, it read simply in familiar cursive.

Harry leapt to his feet, his chair clattering to the floor behind him. "YES!" he cried, ecstatic. "YES!"

It didn't matter if they were blood purists; it didn't matter if they had other motives; it didn't matter if he'd triggered a prophecy!

The Huntan - or Edmund, at least - was alive! Tom's illusion had only been that, an illusion!

And if they were writing, that meant they'd won!

"YES!"

–

–

The next morning, Harry readied himself eagerly for Hogwarts. He packed his trunk neatly (perhaps the only useful thing Aunt Petunia had ever taught him), leaving his favourite satchel at the top, and hummed a nameless tune as he donned his Hogwarts cloak. It was brand new; he'd treated himself to a black satin cloak from Twilfitt and Tattings, who prided themselves as Diagon Alley's most exclusive clothes emporium. Harry thought their robes were often a bit much, but he couldn't deny the way his new cloak draped over his shoulders, nor the shimmering of its surface.

He was still humming - and quite badly - as he skipped down the stairs of the Cauldron. Just like last time, Tom the barman was waiting for him, a familiar clay pot in hand. "Young master," he said, offering a pinch of floo powder.

Harry took a handful. It was precisely as he remembered; grey and green all at once, and coarse like pulverised glass. He gave Tom a nod, stepped before the fire, and called out; "Platform Nine-and-Three Quarters!"

The heat died as the fire flared bright emerald; Harry stepped inside in haste. This time he was fully expecting the glimpses of the realm that laid beyond, the vast enveloping flame. He closed his eyes, held his breath, and bent his knees.

And then a whorl of smoke stung at his eyes, and he blinked away the tears, revealing the splendour of the Hogwarts Express. A wave of fondness overtook him at the sight of the great engine, whose polished surfaces were gleaming red in the morning sun.

This time he'd arrived earlier, intending to beat the rush. His gamble had paid off. There were a few other students milling around, chatting to their parents, but no great crowd. Harry hurried onto the train before that could change, claiming the third right side compartment from the back as his own. That was where he and Susan had arranged to meet.

He hefted his trunk onto the luggage rack - noting, unsurprised, that it was faintly vibrating, just like last time he'd used the floo - and whipped out Muscular Wizardry.

It must've been ten minutes before he saw someone pass the door, then another five before someone peered into his compartment. An older student, by the look of him. Harry barely took his eyes from his book.

At least until the door clacked open.

"Harry!"

He had only a moment before Susan's arms embraced him in a hug. Warmth and discomfort both brought a pained smile to Harry's lips. Susan was his best friend - perhaps, his traitorous subconscious whispered, his only friend - but he wasn't keen on being touched. He was glad when she withdrew.

"You're okay," she said, sighing in relief. "Thank Merlin you're okay."

"Not Merlin," Harry replied. He took her trunk and placed it beside his, then sat back down. He hadn't explained what had happened at Larkin Wood over the letters; Susan must've been itching to know. "Herne, Herne the Hunter."

Susan took the seat opposite, her expression puzzled. "Herne the Hunter? He's an old wives' tale."

"Then an old wives' tale saved my life." Harry said. Did she really think Herne wasn't real? "I saw him - I spoke to him."

Susan's puzzlement turned to a worried frown. "Harry, you've got to tell me what happened. Did you reach Larkin Wood?"

And so Harry told her. He related how he had found the pool, how its glamour had overwhelmed the Aegiscrux of Saint Collen, how Cold Tom Blue had been waiting for him on the other side. How he'd been friendly at first, how he'd led him through Fairyland. Then how the fae had revealed the truth. His chest grew tight as he spoke about what happened next… about the fate of Daniel Lane, and his flight from Larkin Wood.

He ended, of course, with the appearance and words of Herne the Hunter.

Susan was staring at him by the end of it, her blue eyes wide. "Harry…" she said. "Harry, Herne is old even by wizarding standards. Most people think he's a myth - the leader of the Wild Hunt. I don't know if this is good or bad, honestly."

Harry shrugged. He'd already thought it through. He didn't know either, and had had weeks to come to terms with that. "Herne and the Huntan are connected, aren't they?"

Susan replied with a pointed look. Of course, her eyes seemed to say. "The Huntan claim their order was established by Herne, and that they are his Wild Hunt." She paused in thought for a moment. "In spirit, I mean. As I said, he's not thought to be a real person."

Harry couldn't help but smile. "But he is."

"Yes," Susan said. She wasn't smiling. Quite the opposite, in fact. "He is - leading the Wild Hunt, a collection of the spirits of the dead - elves, faeries, great men of days past. They say doom follows them… that they are harbingers of war."

Harry glanced towards the compartment door, more worried her words would be overheard than about the words themselves. "His prophecy," he said quietly, "sort of said as much."

But Harry didn't care. His blood was thrumming with a sensation he knew from every duel he'd ever fought. Excitement. Thrill.

At that moment, the thought of war didn't faze him. He felt like nothing could; not even when he locked eyes with Alan through the glass of the compartment door.

His grey eyes were stormy, inscrutable, and his mouth was set in a thin line. They stared at each other for a moment. What, Harry thought, was he going to do?

Harry himself didn't know what he felt about it. A strange feeling was fluttering through his chest.

Then Alan turned his gaze down, melancholy, and walked further down the train.

Harry sighed. Susan held her head in her hands. "That's that," he heard her mumble.

It wasn't intended for his ears, but he replied anyway; "That is that."

And he didn't know what to think. Confusion, emptiness - all of them were swirling around his thoughts - yet simultaneously he felt… invigorated. Alive. It was filling the hole Alan's absence was digging.

He basked in that queer euphoria as he rode the Hogwarts Express, splitting his attention between his books and the views out the window. The Express cruised through the broad plains of the midlands, up the northern moors, and into Scotland. Through the valleys and hills of the lowlands she rolled, when the sky was darkening, and up into the mountains and lochs of the highlands.

Harry was deep into a section on Paraphysiology (this time suggesting that a wizard's wrist was unusually flexible and strong, specifically to allow for more elaborate wand movements), when the door opened with its customary clack. It jolted him out of his study and threw him back to the present.

A small girl - tiny, even - was standing coltishly by the entrance. Harry's eyes were drawn to what felt like half a dozen places at once as he struggled to take in her appearance. There was just so much to look at, even by wizarding standards. First to catch his eye was her dirty-blonde hair, which reached all the way down to her waist. It hung thickly, and Harry couldn't help but imagine how difficult it would be to wash. Then there were her bright purple robes, spotted with clashing orange flowers.

But his eyes rested on hers. Silver they shone, like twin moons. They were large, wide, and seemed somehow otherworldly.

And they were also nervous, wavering, and close to tears.

Harry and Susan glanced at each other. Susan shrugged.

"Hello?" Harry ventured.

"Hello, Harry Potter," said the girl. Her voice was mellifluous, older than she looked, and somehow distant. Like she wasn't really there. "Have you seen my trunk? I think the Wrackspurts might've taken it."

"Er…" Wrackspurts? Harry looked for help, but Susan seemed no less lost than he. "I'm sorry, I don't think I have. I'm sure the House Elves will find it somewhere on the train."

Susan nodded, her braid dipping. "That's how all the luggage gets to Hogwarts. I'm Susan, what's your name?"

The girl blinked, seemingly coming back to herself. "I'm Luna," she said, more presently. "Lovegood. Luna Lovegood. Nice to meet you, Susan.*

Luna closed the door, sat beside Harry, and pulled out an unfamiliar newspaper from her colourful robes. The Quibbler, the title read. She proceeded to say absolutely nothing for the next five minutes. Harry and Susan practically had a conversation through expressions.

Who is she?

I don't know.

What do we do?

I don't know.

She needs to put her Hogwarts robes on.

I know.

Do we tell her?

Do you want to tell her?

Harry yielded. "Luna," he said. "Do you want to put your uniform on? We'll leave the compartment for a moment to give you some privacy."

"Okay," Luna said.

Harry and Susan filed out. The corridor was empty.

"She's been bullied," Susan murmured once the door was shut.

Harry agreed; why else would someone change compartments so late in the journey? And how could she mislay her trunk? "She's a little odd," he said. "But nice, I think. We can look out for her."

"And if she's not in Hufflepuff?"

Harry shrugged. It wasn't his job to-

-he grimaced, and turned away, keeping his eyes squarely down the corridor.

"What?"

Without turning, Harry pointed to the door. Lovegood had forgotten to close the curtain across the compartment door. It was a good thing he'd noticed so early.

"Oh." Susan said hollowly. "Morgana's sake…"

She went in to close the curtain while Harry wandered down the corridor.

A few minutes later, Harry, Susan and Luna were all back in the compartment, all wearing their school robes. Susan made a few attempts at conversation, but Luna answered shortly, seemingly content to sit in silence. Harry suspected there was more to it than that; whoever she'd spoken to before coming to their compartment, whatever had been said, had shaken her. The silence was a way to steady herself.

Harry let her; he dove back into reading, this time going over the second year section of Magical Drafts and Potions. He wasn't going to give Snape an excuse to criticise him, even if he didn't care for the subject.

Time passed gently.

It was dark by the time Hogwarts emerged in the distance. The castle flickered with a hundred torchlights, beckoning. Wayne had once said the escarpment atop which Hogwarts stood was called Hugh Hill. He didn't know if that was true, but it made the castle look like a fairytale - the happy kind, of course.

Harry peered eagerly through the window, feeling yet another swell of almost incomprehensible emotion.

Yet this time, he knew enough. It was more than excitement, more than anticipation.

It was belief.

Whatever Herne had warned of, and Dobby before him, whether they were separate threats or one and the same, he'd deal with them. Him, his wand, and his wits; and, of course, Susan, who mirrored him, staring with wide blue eyes as Hogwarts began to loom above them.

He was home. He was going to learn more magic. Nothing could go wrong.

Glossary:

As Luna hasn't yet had years of bullying to isolate herself, I think it's fair to characterise her less eccentrically at this point in time.

A/N:

This was a gentler chapter after the excitement of the finale of Letter from a Faerie Lord. I find these sort of sections interesting, from a structural perspective. Though they're not as pulse-pounding as plot heavy, climactic chapters - or even chapters of build-up - I think they're key to letting a story breathe. Without slower chapters, faster chapters would lose their impact. It would be like always drinking coke, and never water, when sugar turns sour in the mouth.

NEXT TIME:

Harry settles into a new routine at Hogwarts and finally meets the renowned Gilderoy Lockhart. What a wonderful wizard he will prove to be, right?

Read it next time on The Duellist… or on D-iscord, where it is already out; or read that and the chapter thereafter on P-atreon (which is, at this moment, up to Halloween).

Take Care!

JoustingAlchemy

D-iscord link: /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.)

PS. Thank you in particular to Story341, who named Wayne Hopkins as one of his favourite characters. Considering he's practically my own creation, I'm chuffed.