Ah yes. Lockhart, secret agent of the wizard deep state.
Spells in Silence (Harry Potter)
- Thread starter Silently Watches
- Start date
I've seen him be a secret agent for the Magical CIA
The terrible irony is that when he wrote the book series about it he had to market it as fiction.
punster lv1
Killjoy - cheerful shitposter - ignorant pedant
The idea that Lockhart serves interests aside from his own is pretty wild. Also an incompetent-narcissistic-gloryhound-buffoon masquerading as a wandering-rural-hero-slash-novelist is a weird choice of cover for a black-ops hit-wizard. Like, by itself, wandering hero makes for a good cover but... That would require him to either have fooled his employers into thinking he isn't almost too incompetent to function, or to have a good reason to pretend to be incompetent when he became a Hogwarts Professor (and to let two second years defeat him with his own tactic). Because again he is noticeably incompetent, at least when you're not thinking with your sexual organs.
In the story I mentioned (The odds were never in my favour), it's implied that his books were something he was ordered to write as part of his cover, to both give him an excuse to travel across the world, and allowing him to hide his actual level of competence (which is still not as high as his hero persona is pretending to have, but is noticeably better than his fraud persona is supposed to be.
It's basically a double bluff where the first layer of obfuscation is just good enough that people who can see through it become convinced that the second layer is the real thing, where they let their guard down and stop really looking any further.
iirc, it's also stated that Hogwarts was the longest he had ever had to stay in one place and that the hero persona would definitely be seen through by the end, leaving the fraud persona as his public face.
It need not be a cover. Maybe he is simply blackmailed into doing it by Agent of Deep Wizard State who knows he's a fraud. Or it's mutually beneficial: Deep State gets rid of a troublemaker, Lockhart gets a new story.
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I think it has less to do with refusing to seperate and more to do with not being part of the patriarch faction which decided to use the refusal to seperate as an excuse to slaughter them.
Additionally people seem to have this perfect view of druids. Some peace loving hippies, who were one with nature. Which isn't really what they were historically. I see it as far more likely that Hazel will find out stuff that will make her go: well those druids over there really deserved to die. The wizards that did it were good people. Which makes sense in a way. Send your political opponents that are against slaughtering the group to engage with the worst of sub-factions, while you go about killing those that would have good PR.
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I wonder if Hazel can do a Munchausen and move herself using her ghost hand. Probably not... but if she did she wouldn't need a broom... for short flights, anyway...
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- Location
- France
- Pronouns
- She/They
I think it's a good old case of not being able to lift yourself by your own bootstraps
Ch. 46, Meeting Your Heroes
Silently Watches
Professional Stalker
- Location
- Right behind you
"I think we should have time on the evening of January nineteenth," Pomona said, looking over a calendar of the upcoming year with Miss Smith. "It's the full moon that weekend, and it would be interesting for the group to see what effect that has on Bursting Bellblossum bulbs and flowers. I believe I have a batch growing off-season in Greenhouse 15, but if not there are ways to get them to mature in time."
"Wouldn't that interfere with their magical properties, though? You taught us that a few years back."
She smiled at the young woman's question. "Indeed, but that is only an issue if we wanted to use the plants in potions or to ward off blood beetles. Since we don't need it for anything but a demonstration, using enriched soil and a quick-growth charm will not create any true consequences—"
The greenhouse door opening cut her off, and Pomona glanced up from the calendar. She had thought all the members of the Gardening Club were already present, so unless it was another staff member who wanted to speak with her or one of the club members, she could not think of anyone who might have a reason to be here.
Spotting a very familiar first-year with a staff was still a surprise.
"Oh good." She turned to look a Miss Smith, who brushed a lock of purple hair behind one ear. "Potter seemed to have an interest when I invited her, but I wasn't sure if she would come to a meeting before the end of term. I wasn't looking forward to tracking her down after the holidays."
"I think I know what you mean. She can be quite…" Pomona had to discard a few inappropriate terms before settling on, "elusive."
Ignoring her club leader's own choice of words – although in the privacy of her own mind, she agreed that 'bleeding ghost' was an apt description – Pomona had to admit she had no idea how Miss Potter accomplished it. She had wanted to have talk more with the girl to give her additional nudges to returning to her classes, but whenever she went looking or sent one of the prefects to find Miss Potter, the girl was absolutely nowhere to be found. At first she was sure it was just happenstance, but there was no way that could be the case.
The only way Miss Potter could be this hard to find was because she did not want to be found.
Not for the first time, she wondered why in the world the Sorting Hat had thought Miss Potter was a Hufflepuff at heart. Her work ethic was impeccable, had to be in order for her to accomplish what she had despite the handicap of not being able to cast proper magic, but friendliness? Loyalty? Pomona had seen no signs of these traits.
Not that it was entirely the girl's fault. Some of it, possibly most, was due to her own attitude, but Severus was not helping. She still did not understand how being out after curfew deserved having a full hundred points taken away from her house, and Severus refused to elaborate. She had complained to Minerva because he was being completely unreasonable, but if she were honest with herself she did not expect the punishment to be reverted. That was ultimately the headmaster's call, and Albus had not overturned Severus's punishments for a very long time.
In that light, with Hufflepuff house barely hiding their fury at a member who seemed unconcerned by their anger and possibly unaware of even why they were angry in the first place, to see her coming out of her shell at all and interacting with somebody besides Miss Perks was a relief.
"How did you find her and convince her to come to the meeting in the first place?" she finally asked Miss Smith.
The prefect gave her a shrug. "Finding her wasn't hard. I noticed her tutoring Perks in Potions and sat down with them. I didn't need to convince her to do anything, either, just made the offer and explained what the club was about."
Pomona's eyebrows rose. "Considering nobody else can even find her, that is more of an achievement than you realize."
"Not really. I'm almost certain she avoids the other prefects. That she hangs around when I'm nearby just means I haven't burned that bridge yet."
"You almost make it sound like her attitude is everyone else's fault." Her tone was not accusatory, necessarily, but she knew it was incredulous. As she had overheard some prefects saying a few years back, when one person acted like an arse, they were just an arse. When everyone was like that, it was more likely to be your own doing.
And Miss Potter certainly had a number of people turned against her.
Miss Smith frowned and looked at nothing for a moment. "From what I understand, she turned the rest of her year against her on the first day because she was 'telling stories'. Because she's the Girl-Who-Lived and wants to play it up? Because she wanted attention? Nobody knows for sure. That attitude then spread to several other years to varying degrees. Personally, I'm wondering how tall those tales really were." She looked up and met Pomona's eyes. "Nobody likes being called a liar, and it doesn't leave a good first impression."
That was more than a little ominous, and Pomona cleared her throat to start the meeting so she would not have to dwell too long on it.
She was even happier now that Albus was finally back from Geneva. Both because the world did not have to worry about Greece, Turkey, and Venice starting a three-way war over some unclear but undoubtedly small issue and because he could now be the one to deal with Miss Potter. She and Minerva still did not see eye to eye about how best to handle the girl, but if Albus Dumbledore of all people could not get a straight answer out of Miss Potter about what it would take for her to go back to Minerva's class, no one could.
The sooner that talk happened, the better as far as she was concerned, but Albus had insisted that it would only happen after the start of the new term so he could catch up on everything else that had happened during his absence. Perhaps he would have made time if Miss Potter had signed up to stay at the castle for the holidays, but instead she was headed back home to her family.
It was a massive relief, honestly. A peaceful holiday, and then next term everything should be back to normal.
"Come on, Hazel! We don't want to be late!"
Hazel rolled her eyes with a smile as she followed Sally-Anne out the front doors of the castle. They might not have been the first ones out the door, but there were still many more students sitting around behind them. Some of them were staying at the castle for the holidays, but surely not all of them. They had plenty of time.
Not that she was going to bring that up. Sally-Anne had been excited since she awoke about going back home and seeing her parents for the first time since coming to the school, and Hazel had no reason to burst her bubble. Instead she simply walked along as her friend climbed into a white carriage hooked up to a black, nearly skeletal winged horse. The creature turned its head to stare at her with cold blue eyes before pulling its lips back to reveal a mouth full of sharp needle-like teeth.
Pleasant, she thought sarcastically to Morgan as she climbed into the carriage next to Sally-Anne. I will never understand wizards. You would assume they would think twice about using zombie horses to pull their carts, but nope, clearly not.
Sally-Anne rattled on for the entirety of the short ride from the castle down to the train station on the far side of the grounds about what plans her family had and the traditions she was looking forward to take part in, and the cheer was infectious enough Hazel could not help but smile along.
It sadly did not change the worry and slight dread in her heart at her own plans.
Arriving at the station, Hazel tapped Sally-Anne's shoulder and motioned for the blonde to come with her off to the side. 'I hope the holidays are everything you wish them to be,' she wrote honestly, 'and I'll look forward to hearing all about them when you get back.'
"Get back?" asked Sally-Anne. "What do you mean? W-Why are you talking like you're leaving now? We still have the train ride to London, except you aren't coming with me, are you?"
She shook her head in answer to the unvoiced question. 'I have my own things I need to take care of, and riding a train for eight hours would hinder that. Once I talk to a couple of people here, I'll head out my own way.'
"W-Where are you going?"
'France, then Ireland.' She felt it when Sally-Anne picked up on her frown, causing her to shake her head. 'I told myself a long time ago that I wasn't going to head to Ireland for a couple of reasons, but now I have to. I'm not looking forward to the journey, nor what I'm going to find there.'
"What is she talking about? If you already know what's there, then why…?"
'Because some things we have to see with our own eyes in order to accept them.' She waved off whatever words Sally-Anne had coming to mind, not interested in hearing them even should the other girl not say them out loud. 'It's something personal that I can't put off any longer.'
"…Does it have to do with your necklace?"
Hazel's hand rose to brush against the iron pendant she had picked up from the razed village in Wistman's Wood, surprise shooting through her. She had not expected her friend to pick up on that. Unsure what to write, she simply gave Sally-Anne a nod.
Sally-Anne frowned and looked away, fingers twining and untangling in turn. "When you come back, are you going to tell me what it's about? She has been tight-lipped about it ever since she got it, and it's starting to worry me. Something's wrong, but I don't know what or how to help."
She raised her hand to respond, but her fingers pulled back before she started writing anything. Discussing the details of what had happened to the druids was not something she planned on doing with the wizards surrounding her, but it was not as if Sally-Anne was truly a witch like most of their classmates. She had grown up in the wider world just like Hazel had. Sally-Anne, Mister Filch, Marvolo, even Professor Flitwick; those who were strange and outsiders in some way were the only people she thought she might be able to trust with these discoveries.
'I can,' she finally agreed.
"Okay. I'm still not sure about all this, but Hazel knows what she's doing. Be safe?"
'Didn't plan on doing anything else.'
Sally-Anne nodded a couple of times, then without warning she stepped forward and wrapped her arms around Hazel in a tight hug. "I guess I'll see you when we get back, then. If you can, maybe ride the train back here so we can talk?"
A series of soft pats to the other girl's back was her response, and finally Sally-Anne let go of her and walked onto the train, though not without a few backwards glances. Alone again except for Morgan, Hazel sighed and breathed out a cloud of grey smoke.
That went better than I was afraid it would, she admitted to her feathered friend. She spun on one heel and started walking back towards the castle. Mipsy had been more than willing to pack a basket with as much food as it could magically be made to hold when she made the request the previous night, so now all she had to do was pick it up and make her way to the forest outside of Compiègne to share it with the commune. It had been a while since she had seen her friends living there, and she even made sure she asked for enough food to be packed to lay out a feast even if Fenrir and his people were visiting while on their rounds of helping out their fellow werewolves.
A day there, maybe two, then it would be time to resume her trek through the Emerald Isle.
Wind rushed through Hazel's hair as she held on for dear life. This was not the first time she had hitched a ride on a train, but those she had ridden in France had been far smoother on their tracks than this one was. It almost made her regret choosing to ride on top of the train rather than between the cars, no matter how uncomfortable she knew traveling in such a way could be.
Thankfully, she did not have to live with her mistake for much longer. She could see the road she had marked on her map for the next leg of her journey. Pulling both her legs under her, she sprang from the top of the train car—
—and dropped into a roll as the ground appeared directly beneath her. Getting her clothes soaked through from the damp ground was not her first choice, but it was better than falling flat on her face. Whenever she jumped from on top of a vehicle, she did not continue moving at the same speed as whatever she had been riding, but the transition from moving to still could throw off her balance nonetheless. Pushing herself to her feet with the aid of her staff, she let her magic wring her clothes dry before she and Morgan continued down the gravel road.
For all her previous fears about encountering malicious creatures in Ireland, her trip had been surprisingly uneventful. So much so that she was forced to wonder about what all kinds of spirits and creatures had been included in the curse beneath Glastonbury Tor that locked away the road the 'Great Lords of the Fae' had used to travel to the mortal world. She had yet to encounter anything fae-esque, not even another redcap trying to bludgeon her to death!
The fog drifting around her diffused the already soft dawn light into something ethereal, appropriate for her destination she supposed. The entire reason she was here in Ireland in the first place was to visit Moycullen Bog. On the surface, it was nothing special; a marsh that lay a short distance west of Galway. She doubted there was much to find there, at least with her eyes.
Several centuries earlier, that would have been a different story.
She already knew that when the Grand Patriarchs had remade themselves into the Wizengamot, there was a scattering of other magic-users who did not want to go along with this plan of yoking themselves to a bunch of rich wizards. Wizards she could only guess were even bigger jerks than the not-fabulously-wealthy variety. This refusal to give the self-styled nobles the time of day was enough to be considered rebels against the wizards' new way of life, and conflict ensued.
And as far as she could tell from the very few books that even went mentioned the subject she had found in the Restricted Section, the final battle between the wizards and those who refused to follow along happened right here, in this very bog. While the Irish wizards revolted against their English overlords earlier than the rest of the country had, back in the thirteenth century it was still firmly under English rule, so it was not too terribly surprising that the English wizards had pursued the druids – and presumably anyone else who felt similarly to them – across the Irish Sea. Dissent towards their proclaimed right to rule could not be tolerated.
That was were the story ended. No further details were given, but at that point Hazel did not need much more information. The fact that this was the last conflict between the two groups said more or less everything there was to say.
Elfriede had mentioned how the hags overall despised wand-wavers, and Fenrir was just one of many werewolves who held a grudge against the wizards who had cast them out of society because of their curse. If the wizards of today treated them even a fraction as badly as those of the past had the druids, she could not blame anyone for hating the wizarding world and anyone associated with it.
She felt pretty angry herself.
The vast moor she found herself walking through looked not all that different from any other she had seen on her travels, and it was neither plaque nor tombstone nor even scars in the trees that told her she had arrived at her destination. It was a figure in the distance. A figure who at first blush looked like a cloaked wizard out on a walk in the early morning light, but no wizard she had seen thus far had clothing that melted away into the mist itself or was capable of fading out of sight and reappearing several feet away.
Hazel eyed the obvious spirit warily, but the fear that even earlier this year had filled her when she encountered humanoid spirits was weak and far away. Was it her experience with how threatening her star knife was to spirits? Was it the fact that despite trying to eat her on multiple occasions, she found them less dangerous than her fellow humans? Or was it the fatigue from spending the last few days pushing herself to get to Moycullen as soon as possible?
Honestly, it did not matter overmuch. So long as it did not try to harm her, she was willing to live and let exist.
After the spirit wandered out of sight, she continued for another hundred feet or so, then she crouched down and let her fingers sink into the marshy ground. Closing her eyes, she took several deep breathes before reaching out past the veil of banal reality. Show me what you are hiding, she demanded, anger and hope and desperation at finally seeing the truth overwhelming her good sense. Show me what happened here all those centuries ago!
Hazel opened her eyes, not sure what she would find. The world that greeted her was cloaked in fog, just as the real world was, but instead of a blue sky above she saw bloody red with a pitch black sun shining on the horizon. That black sun still burned away the fog near her, and as that fog cleared she finally saw them. Heavy wooden posts buried in the ground, horizontal lines carved into them spelling out names in unreadable runes. Dozens stood in front of her, each one erected in memory of someone who had died in this bog.
The fog continued rolling back, and as it retreated she saw more posts. Dozens became hundreds that became thousands. A field of the dead stretching out to the horizon and beyond. Genocide on a scale she had only read about before, and all of them her own people.
She threw herself back to run away from the vision that she had asked for so foolishly, and the motion pulled her out of the way as clawed fingers slashed through the air. The misty spirit from before stood in front of her, and while it had no face proper what stood for its eyes glared at her with long-buried fury. It reared back for another swipe, but before it could lash out again she met violence with violence. A swing of her staff slammed against the spirit in its chest, and the man made from fog was shoved several feet away.
Hazel shot to her feet before the spirit could recover from the blow, her star knife already glittering in her other hand. A flick of her wrist sent it flying into the shoulder of the entity. She was not expecting the subsequent explosion of air, as if the spirit was a massive blimp squeezed into the form of a man. It was enough to throw her off her feet and rolling her along the wet ground once more.
Furious twittering came from near the spirit, and still laying on her back she looked over to find Morgan hovering in the air and lashing out at where the spirit's face would be. The spirit was trying to ward her friend away, but strangely it seemed far less willing to hurt him than her.
She supposed that was not much of surprise. She would rather hurt a wizard than an animal defending their human, too.
Raising one hand to her mouth, she whistled between her fingers. It was a skill she had started working on not all that long after discovering a way out of Hogwarts, one that required only a few minutes' research but far more hours' worth of practice. It was not even something she intended to use to command Morgan, just something to call for help should something happen to her again. Like, say, a couple of bigoted wizards thinking they had the right to attack her on a staircase just because she was different.
Regardless of why she originally wanted to learn how to whistle, Morgan heard the signal and retreated from the spirit. Only as far as her shoulder, though, and once his perch was secure he hissed back at her attacker. Climbing back to her feet, she looked over her opponent. The shoulder she had attacked was gone, as was the arm it was connected to and a semicircle where most of the spirit's chest and a chunk of its abdomen had been. It was as if an enormous mouth had clamped on and taken a bite.
I was not the one looking for a fight, she warned the spirit, but that does not mean I can't or won't defend myself. We can keep going until one of us is dead, or you can walk away. Your choice.
Despite the fact that she had no voice and had never learned to talk, the way the fog man turned to her made her think she had been heard nonetheless. How was it that spirits and animals could understand her when no living being could? That was something she just could not explain, nor did she have much hope that anyone else could.
The spirit had no face, not really, but the two swirls of mist that sat where eyes would on a human face shifted as if looking her up and down. They then froze when they landed on her staff. Drifting upwards, it raised its remaining arm and pointed at the length of maple.
No words nor thoughts came to her, and yet she understood what it wanted. I crafted it myself. I found a tree that vibrated with magic and struck a bargain. A promise that I would take one of its seed pods and plant it in good soil far from that forest, and in return it would let me take one of its branches. I needed neither chisel nor wand to make it, only my will and the time to let it get to know me.
The fog man staggered towards her, the edges of the injury she had caused growing ragged as she watched, as if it was trying to heal and restore itself. She had no doubt the spirit could do so – her star knife had burned away a substantial portion of Peeves, but after several weeks he seemed to be back to normal if a little jumpier than he had been the first time she encountered him – but not quickly enough to achieve anything if she needed to end it right now. Another star knife appeared in her hand, but still she shifted her grip on the staff so she could stretch it out towards the spirit.
You can look, even touch if you want to, but no funny business.
If her suspicions were right, letting the spirit examine her staff might even let them achieve some measure of peace. This would not be the first spirit she had encountered that had been born from a mass grave, but unlike the scoured clearing this was not a variety of species who hated humanity as a whole. This fog man hated wizards specifically, and for a perfectly understandable reason.
Except she was no wizard.
The fog man ran its hand over the head of the staff and up and down the shaft, the motions gentle as if long-forgotten memories were bubbling to the surface. After several minutes it stepped back only to stare at her once again. This time, however, its thoughts were its own. She could not tell quite what it wanted.
Despite her concern, it did not appear to desire an explanation or a response to some unheard question. Instead it moved, not backwards nor to the sides but outwards until it had faded into the fog surrounding them. Alone again, Hazel sighed before turning to glance at the bird sitting on her shoulder. She expected Morgan to make some sound, but he was turning his own head back and forth to look all around them. Something still had him on edge, but despite looking around herself she saw nothing out of place.
What's wrong? The fog man is gone. It's just us here—
A gale sprang up from nowhere, the fog spinning like a tornado and wrapping around her until she could barely move. What are you doing, she demanded. We had an understanding!
The winds did not respond, but something shifted. She felt a pull on her neck, and a moment later the iron pendant she had found at the ruined village in the depths of Wistman's Wood was floating gently despite the roaring wind. A dim light ignited in the depths of the black metal, growing brighter until the pendant burning a brilliant red as if it had come straight from the forge.
As the glow reached its peak, Hazel felt a large pair of hands press against her shoulder blades. A deep voice started speaking, unintelligible words rising and falling in a regular cadence. Like a prayer, or an incantation.
She tried to jump away, but her feet could no longer feel the earth beneath her. Aiming at a pitch of ground she could barely see through the grass and dirt whipping in the wind, she tried pushing herself there, but no matter how her mind strained the winds refused to release her. Let me go!
Her mental scream went unheard or unheeded. The voice grew stronger, echoing in the winds that were nearly enough to deafen her. It was loud enough that her bones rattled with each word.
And then… it all stopped. The voice was silent. The winds vanished, dropping Hazel to the ground from where they had lifted her a foot or so into the air. Her staff was the only reason she did not collapse. Morgan flew frantically around her, his fear at what had happened warring with his fear for her safety.
And her skin tingled with some strange magic.
Morgan, I… I don't feel so good—
A spark flashed into existence and raced across her nerves, leaving only unbearable pain behind. Her legs gave out beneath her. The ground raced up towards her.
And day became night as she was engulfed in darkness.
…Oh dear. I'll need to work on the next chapter a little faster than this one, won't I?
"Wouldn't that interfere with their magical properties, though? You taught us that a few years back."
She smiled at the young woman's question. "Indeed, but that is only an issue if we wanted to use the plants in potions or to ward off blood beetles. Since we don't need it for anything but a demonstration, using enriched soil and a quick-growth charm will not create any true consequences—"
The greenhouse door opening cut her off, and Pomona glanced up from the calendar. She had thought all the members of the Gardening Club were already present, so unless it was another staff member who wanted to speak with her or one of the club members, she could not think of anyone who might have a reason to be here.
Spotting a very familiar first-year with a staff was still a surprise.
"Oh good." She turned to look a Miss Smith, who brushed a lock of purple hair behind one ear. "Potter seemed to have an interest when I invited her, but I wasn't sure if she would come to a meeting before the end of term. I wasn't looking forward to tracking her down after the holidays."
"I think I know what you mean. She can be quite…" Pomona had to discard a few inappropriate terms before settling on, "elusive."
Ignoring her club leader's own choice of words – although in the privacy of her own mind, she agreed that 'bleeding ghost' was an apt description – Pomona had to admit she had no idea how Miss Potter accomplished it. She had wanted to have talk more with the girl to give her additional nudges to returning to her classes, but whenever she went looking or sent one of the prefects to find Miss Potter, the girl was absolutely nowhere to be found. At first she was sure it was just happenstance, but there was no way that could be the case.
The only way Miss Potter could be this hard to find was because she did not want to be found.
Not for the first time, she wondered why in the world the Sorting Hat had thought Miss Potter was a Hufflepuff at heart. Her work ethic was impeccable, had to be in order for her to accomplish what she had despite the handicap of not being able to cast proper magic, but friendliness? Loyalty? Pomona had seen no signs of these traits.
Not that it was entirely the girl's fault. Some of it, possibly most, was due to her own attitude, but Severus was not helping. She still did not understand how being out after curfew deserved having a full hundred points taken away from her house, and Severus refused to elaborate. She had complained to Minerva because he was being completely unreasonable, but if she were honest with herself she did not expect the punishment to be reverted. That was ultimately the headmaster's call, and Albus had not overturned Severus's punishments for a very long time.
In that light, with Hufflepuff house barely hiding their fury at a member who seemed unconcerned by their anger and possibly unaware of even why they were angry in the first place, to see her coming out of her shell at all and interacting with somebody besides Miss Perks was a relief.
"How did you find her and convince her to come to the meeting in the first place?" she finally asked Miss Smith.
The prefect gave her a shrug. "Finding her wasn't hard. I noticed her tutoring Perks in Potions and sat down with them. I didn't need to convince her to do anything, either, just made the offer and explained what the club was about."
Pomona's eyebrows rose. "Considering nobody else can even find her, that is more of an achievement than you realize."
"Not really. I'm almost certain she avoids the other prefects. That she hangs around when I'm nearby just means I haven't burned that bridge yet."
"You almost make it sound like her attitude is everyone else's fault." Her tone was not accusatory, necessarily, but she knew it was incredulous. As she had overheard some prefects saying a few years back, when one person acted like an arse, they were just an arse. When everyone was like that, it was more likely to be your own doing.
And Miss Potter certainly had a number of people turned against her.
Miss Smith frowned and looked at nothing for a moment. "From what I understand, she turned the rest of her year against her on the first day because she was 'telling stories'. Because she's the Girl-Who-Lived and wants to play it up? Because she wanted attention? Nobody knows for sure. That attitude then spread to several other years to varying degrees. Personally, I'm wondering how tall those tales really were." She looked up and met Pomona's eyes. "Nobody likes being called a liar, and it doesn't leave a good first impression."
That was more than a little ominous, and Pomona cleared her throat to start the meeting so she would not have to dwell too long on it.
She was even happier now that Albus was finally back from Geneva. Both because the world did not have to worry about Greece, Turkey, and Venice starting a three-way war over some unclear but undoubtedly small issue and because he could now be the one to deal with Miss Potter. She and Minerva still did not see eye to eye about how best to handle the girl, but if Albus Dumbledore of all people could not get a straight answer out of Miss Potter about what it would take for her to go back to Minerva's class, no one could.
The sooner that talk happened, the better as far as she was concerned, but Albus had insisted that it would only happen after the start of the new term so he could catch up on everything else that had happened during his absence. Perhaps he would have made time if Miss Potter had signed up to stay at the castle for the holidays, but instead she was headed back home to her family.
It was a massive relief, honestly. A peaceful holiday, and then next term everything should be back to normal.
xxxxxxxxxxxxx
"Come on, Hazel! We don't want to be late!"
Hazel rolled her eyes with a smile as she followed Sally-Anne out the front doors of the castle. They might not have been the first ones out the door, but there were still many more students sitting around behind them. Some of them were staying at the castle for the holidays, but surely not all of them. They had plenty of time.
Not that she was going to bring that up. Sally-Anne had been excited since she awoke about going back home and seeing her parents for the first time since coming to the school, and Hazel had no reason to burst her bubble. Instead she simply walked along as her friend climbed into a white carriage hooked up to a black, nearly skeletal winged horse. The creature turned its head to stare at her with cold blue eyes before pulling its lips back to reveal a mouth full of sharp needle-like teeth.
Pleasant, she thought sarcastically to Morgan as she climbed into the carriage next to Sally-Anne. I will never understand wizards. You would assume they would think twice about using zombie horses to pull their carts, but nope, clearly not.
Sally-Anne rattled on for the entirety of the short ride from the castle down to the train station on the far side of the grounds about what plans her family had and the traditions she was looking forward to take part in, and the cheer was infectious enough Hazel could not help but smile along.
It sadly did not change the worry and slight dread in her heart at her own plans.
Arriving at the station, Hazel tapped Sally-Anne's shoulder and motioned for the blonde to come with her off to the side. 'I hope the holidays are everything you wish them to be,' she wrote honestly, 'and I'll look forward to hearing all about them when you get back.'
"Get back?" asked Sally-Anne. "What do you mean? W-Why are you talking like you're leaving now? We still have the train ride to London, except you aren't coming with me, are you?"
She shook her head in answer to the unvoiced question. 'I have my own things I need to take care of, and riding a train for eight hours would hinder that. Once I talk to a couple of people here, I'll head out my own way.'
"W-Where are you going?"
'France, then Ireland.' She felt it when Sally-Anne picked up on her frown, causing her to shake her head. 'I told myself a long time ago that I wasn't going to head to Ireland for a couple of reasons, but now I have to. I'm not looking forward to the journey, nor what I'm going to find there.'
"What is she talking about? If you already know what's there, then why…?"
'Because some things we have to see with our own eyes in order to accept them.' She waved off whatever words Sally-Anne had coming to mind, not interested in hearing them even should the other girl not say them out loud. 'It's something personal that I can't put off any longer.'
"…Does it have to do with your necklace?"
Hazel's hand rose to brush against the iron pendant she had picked up from the razed village in Wistman's Wood, surprise shooting through her. She had not expected her friend to pick up on that. Unsure what to write, she simply gave Sally-Anne a nod.
Sally-Anne frowned and looked away, fingers twining and untangling in turn. "When you come back, are you going to tell me what it's about? She has been tight-lipped about it ever since she got it, and it's starting to worry me. Something's wrong, but I don't know what or how to help."
She raised her hand to respond, but her fingers pulled back before she started writing anything. Discussing the details of what had happened to the druids was not something she planned on doing with the wizards surrounding her, but it was not as if Sally-Anne was truly a witch like most of their classmates. She had grown up in the wider world just like Hazel had. Sally-Anne, Mister Filch, Marvolo, even Professor Flitwick; those who were strange and outsiders in some way were the only people she thought she might be able to trust with these discoveries.
'I can,' she finally agreed.
"Okay. I'm still not sure about all this, but Hazel knows what she's doing. Be safe?"
'Didn't plan on doing anything else.'
Sally-Anne nodded a couple of times, then without warning she stepped forward and wrapped her arms around Hazel in a tight hug. "I guess I'll see you when we get back, then. If you can, maybe ride the train back here so we can talk?"
A series of soft pats to the other girl's back was her response, and finally Sally-Anne let go of her and walked onto the train, though not without a few backwards glances. Alone again except for Morgan, Hazel sighed and breathed out a cloud of grey smoke.
That went better than I was afraid it would, she admitted to her feathered friend. She spun on one heel and started walking back towards the castle. Mipsy had been more than willing to pack a basket with as much food as it could magically be made to hold when she made the request the previous night, so now all she had to do was pick it up and make her way to the forest outside of Compiègne to share it with the commune. It had been a while since she had seen her friends living there, and she even made sure she asked for enough food to be packed to lay out a feast even if Fenrir and his people were visiting while on their rounds of helping out their fellow werewolves.
A day there, maybe two, then it would be time to resume her trek through the Emerald Isle.
xxxxxxxxxxxxx
Wind rushed through Hazel's hair as she held on for dear life. This was not the first time she had hitched a ride on a train, but those she had ridden in France had been far smoother on their tracks than this one was. It almost made her regret choosing to ride on top of the train rather than between the cars, no matter how uncomfortable she knew traveling in such a way could be.
Thankfully, she did not have to live with her mistake for much longer. She could see the road she had marked on her map for the next leg of her journey. Pulling both her legs under her, she sprang from the top of the train car—
—and dropped into a roll as the ground appeared directly beneath her. Getting her clothes soaked through from the damp ground was not her first choice, but it was better than falling flat on her face. Whenever she jumped from on top of a vehicle, she did not continue moving at the same speed as whatever she had been riding, but the transition from moving to still could throw off her balance nonetheless. Pushing herself to her feet with the aid of her staff, she let her magic wring her clothes dry before she and Morgan continued down the gravel road.
For all her previous fears about encountering malicious creatures in Ireland, her trip had been surprisingly uneventful. So much so that she was forced to wonder about what all kinds of spirits and creatures had been included in the curse beneath Glastonbury Tor that locked away the road the 'Great Lords of the Fae' had used to travel to the mortal world. She had yet to encounter anything fae-esque, not even another redcap trying to bludgeon her to death!
The fog drifting around her diffused the already soft dawn light into something ethereal, appropriate for her destination she supposed. The entire reason she was here in Ireland in the first place was to visit Moycullen Bog. On the surface, it was nothing special; a marsh that lay a short distance west of Galway. She doubted there was much to find there, at least with her eyes.
Several centuries earlier, that would have been a different story.
She already knew that when the Grand Patriarchs had remade themselves into the Wizengamot, there was a scattering of other magic-users who did not want to go along with this plan of yoking themselves to a bunch of rich wizards. Wizards she could only guess were even bigger jerks than the not-fabulously-wealthy variety. This refusal to give the self-styled nobles the time of day was enough to be considered rebels against the wizards' new way of life, and conflict ensued.
And as far as she could tell from the very few books that even went mentioned the subject she had found in the Restricted Section, the final battle between the wizards and those who refused to follow along happened right here, in this very bog. While the Irish wizards revolted against their English overlords earlier than the rest of the country had, back in the thirteenth century it was still firmly under English rule, so it was not too terribly surprising that the English wizards had pursued the druids – and presumably anyone else who felt similarly to them – across the Irish Sea. Dissent towards their proclaimed right to rule could not be tolerated.
That was were the story ended. No further details were given, but at that point Hazel did not need much more information. The fact that this was the last conflict between the two groups said more or less everything there was to say.
Elfriede had mentioned how the hags overall despised wand-wavers, and Fenrir was just one of many werewolves who held a grudge against the wizards who had cast them out of society because of their curse. If the wizards of today treated them even a fraction as badly as those of the past had the druids, she could not blame anyone for hating the wizarding world and anyone associated with it.
She felt pretty angry herself.
The vast moor she found herself walking through looked not all that different from any other she had seen on her travels, and it was neither plaque nor tombstone nor even scars in the trees that told her she had arrived at her destination. It was a figure in the distance. A figure who at first blush looked like a cloaked wizard out on a walk in the early morning light, but no wizard she had seen thus far had clothing that melted away into the mist itself or was capable of fading out of sight and reappearing several feet away.
Hazel eyed the obvious spirit warily, but the fear that even earlier this year had filled her when she encountered humanoid spirits was weak and far away. Was it her experience with how threatening her star knife was to spirits? Was it the fact that despite trying to eat her on multiple occasions, she found them less dangerous than her fellow humans? Or was it the fatigue from spending the last few days pushing herself to get to Moycullen as soon as possible?
Honestly, it did not matter overmuch. So long as it did not try to harm her, she was willing to live and let exist.
After the spirit wandered out of sight, she continued for another hundred feet or so, then she crouched down and let her fingers sink into the marshy ground. Closing her eyes, she took several deep breathes before reaching out past the veil of banal reality. Show me what you are hiding, she demanded, anger and hope and desperation at finally seeing the truth overwhelming her good sense. Show me what happened here all those centuries ago!
Hazel opened her eyes, not sure what she would find. The world that greeted her was cloaked in fog, just as the real world was, but instead of a blue sky above she saw bloody red with a pitch black sun shining on the horizon. That black sun still burned away the fog near her, and as that fog cleared she finally saw them. Heavy wooden posts buried in the ground, horizontal lines carved into them spelling out names in unreadable runes. Dozens stood in front of her, each one erected in memory of someone who had died in this bog.
The fog continued rolling back, and as it retreated she saw more posts. Dozens became hundreds that became thousands. A field of the dead stretching out to the horizon and beyond. Genocide on a scale she had only read about before, and all of them her own people.
She threw herself back to run away from the vision that she had asked for so foolishly, and the motion pulled her out of the way as clawed fingers slashed through the air. The misty spirit from before stood in front of her, and while it had no face proper what stood for its eyes glared at her with long-buried fury. It reared back for another swipe, but before it could lash out again she met violence with violence. A swing of her staff slammed against the spirit in its chest, and the man made from fog was shoved several feet away.
Hazel shot to her feet before the spirit could recover from the blow, her star knife already glittering in her other hand. A flick of her wrist sent it flying into the shoulder of the entity. She was not expecting the subsequent explosion of air, as if the spirit was a massive blimp squeezed into the form of a man. It was enough to throw her off her feet and rolling her along the wet ground once more.
Furious twittering came from near the spirit, and still laying on her back she looked over to find Morgan hovering in the air and lashing out at where the spirit's face would be. The spirit was trying to ward her friend away, but strangely it seemed far less willing to hurt him than her.
She supposed that was not much of surprise. She would rather hurt a wizard than an animal defending their human, too.
Raising one hand to her mouth, she whistled between her fingers. It was a skill she had started working on not all that long after discovering a way out of Hogwarts, one that required only a few minutes' research but far more hours' worth of practice. It was not even something she intended to use to command Morgan, just something to call for help should something happen to her again. Like, say, a couple of bigoted wizards thinking they had the right to attack her on a staircase just because she was different.
Regardless of why she originally wanted to learn how to whistle, Morgan heard the signal and retreated from the spirit. Only as far as her shoulder, though, and once his perch was secure he hissed back at her attacker. Climbing back to her feet, she looked over her opponent. The shoulder she had attacked was gone, as was the arm it was connected to and a semicircle where most of the spirit's chest and a chunk of its abdomen had been. It was as if an enormous mouth had clamped on and taken a bite.
I was not the one looking for a fight, she warned the spirit, but that does not mean I can't or won't defend myself. We can keep going until one of us is dead, or you can walk away. Your choice.
Despite the fact that she had no voice and had never learned to talk, the way the fog man turned to her made her think she had been heard nonetheless. How was it that spirits and animals could understand her when no living being could? That was something she just could not explain, nor did she have much hope that anyone else could.
The spirit had no face, not really, but the two swirls of mist that sat where eyes would on a human face shifted as if looking her up and down. They then froze when they landed on her staff. Drifting upwards, it raised its remaining arm and pointed at the length of maple.
No words nor thoughts came to her, and yet she understood what it wanted. I crafted it myself. I found a tree that vibrated with magic and struck a bargain. A promise that I would take one of its seed pods and plant it in good soil far from that forest, and in return it would let me take one of its branches. I needed neither chisel nor wand to make it, only my will and the time to let it get to know me.
The fog man staggered towards her, the edges of the injury she had caused growing ragged as she watched, as if it was trying to heal and restore itself. She had no doubt the spirit could do so – her star knife had burned away a substantial portion of Peeves, but after several weeks he seemed to be back to normal if a little jumpier than he had been the first time she encountered him – but not quickly enough to achieve anything if she needed to end it right now. Another star knife appeared in her hand, but still she shifted her grip on the staff so she could stretch it out towards the spirit.
You can look, even touch if you want to, but no funny business.
If her suspicions were right, letting the spirit examine her staff might even let them achieve some measure of peace. This would not be the first spirit she had encountered that had been born from a mass grave, but unlike the scoured clearing this was not a variety of species who hated humanity as a whole. This fog man hated wizards specifically, and for a perfectly understandable reason.
Except she was no wizard.
The fog man ran its hand over the head of the staff and up and down the shaft, the motions gentle as if long-forgotten memories were bubbling to the surface. After several minutes it stepped back only to stare at her once again. This time, however, its thoughts were its own. She could not tell quite what it wanted.
Despite her concern, it did not appear to desire an explanation or a response to some unheard question. Instead it moved, not backwards nor to the sides but outwards until it had faded into the fog surrounding them. Alone again, Hazel sighed before turning to glance at the bird sitting on her shoulder. She expected Morgan to make some sound, but he was turning his own head back and forth to look all around them. Something still had him on edge, but despite looking around herself she saw nothing out of place.
What's wrong? The fog man is gone. It's just us here—
A gale sprang up from nowhere, the fog spinning like a tornado and wrapping around her until she could barely move. What are you doing, she demanded. We had an understanding!
The winds did not respond, but something shifted. She felt a pull on her neck, and a moment later the iron pendant she had found at the ruined village in the depths of Wistman's Wood was floating gently despite the roaring wind. A dim light ignited in the depths of the black metal, growing brighter until the pendant burning a brilliant red as if it had come straight from the forge.
As the glow reached its peak, Hazel felt a large pair of hands press against her shoulder blades. A deep voice started speaking, unintelligible words rising and falling in a regular cadence. Like a prayer, or an incantation.
She tried to jump away, but her feet could no longer feel the earth beneath her. Aiming at a pitch of ground she could barely see through the grass and dirt whipping in the wind, she tried pushing herself there, but no matter how her mind strained the winds refused to release her. Let me go!
Her mental scream went unheard or unheeded. The voice grew stronger, echoing in the winds that were nearly enough to deafen her. It was loud enough that her bones rattled with each word.
And then… it all stopped. The voice was silent. The winds vanished, dropping Hazel to the ground from where they had lifted her a foot or so into the air. Her staff was the only reason she did not collapse. Morgan flew frantically around her, his fear at what had happened warring with his fear for her safety.
And her skin tingled with some strange magic.
Morgan, I… I don't feel so good—
A spark flashed into existence and raced across her nerves, leaving only unbearable pain behind. Her legs gave out beneath her. The ground raced up towards her.
And day became night as she was engulfed in darkness.
xxxxxxxxxxxxx
…Oh dear. I'll need to work on the next chapter a little faster than this one, won't I?
another amazing chapter, thank you very much, this story is excellent with fascinating world building
FictionPack
Monochromatic Ursine
- Location
- Tennessee
- Pronouns
- He/Him
Just minding my own business before HANGING OFF A CLIFF!!!
That spirit must be blind to have missed the staff bigger than the girl holding it.
The teachers definitely have a record of kids that actually got on and off the train.... right?
That spirit must be blind to have missed the staff bigger than the girl holding it.
The teachers definitely have a record of kids that actually got on and off the train.... right?
0th Law
The Promethean Rose
- Location
- 5 Minutes into the Future
- Pronouns
- They/Them
Don't worry, there's no need to rush!
...I'm quite happy, hanging half-way down this cliffside.
Yeah, that went about as well as planned.
Welcome back. Yeah when nobody believes her why should she try to get to know them.
Welcome back. Yeah when nobody believes her why should she try to get to know them.
FictionPack
Monochromatic Ursine
- Location
- Tennessee
- Pronouns
- He/Him
Because they wear yellow obviously!
Silently Watches
Professional Stalker
- Location
- Right behind you
Mmhmm. On the plus side, she now has a full hand's worth of humans who believe her about her weirdness! (What aspects they know about, at least.)
feauxen
I know everything and nothing. I'm very confused.
- Location
- Yes.
- Pronouns
- Human/Person/Thing
You'd damn well better! I hunger to know the details of this...inheritance? This whatever it is that a battlefield full of slaughtered druids has granted her.
Also, I'm amused by the idea that she goes stumbling back into Hogwarts a few days after leaving, less coherent (to wizards anyway) than she usually is and looking like she lost a fight with a bog, brimming with an 'unnatural' energy that no one can quite figure out but which hates wizard magic. She'll probably just go back to the hags or the werewolves if we're being real, but it's a funny idea.
- Location
- Hell
Aww, not even a tidbit? I liked seeing Hazel interact with the Werewolves, maybe even see if the magic lessons she had been sending borne any fruit.
PrognosticHannya
Far Too Enthusiastic About Etymology
- Pronouns
- She/Her
It's going to be interesting to see what the heck Hazel just inherited(?) from the bog spirit, but I bet it's something that'll let her level the playing field.
Jcc10
User-Script Designer
- Location
- Cyoria, Eldemar
If it was a mass grave, they probably saw it coming. So they might have had time to set up a hail-marry Bargen to hand something out to whichever druid managed to make it to the site. The question is what is going to be handed off?
While I love Hazel discovering her own magic. She really needs... Not spells necessarily. But a list of fundamental lessons, or even just a lesson plan or cliff-notes so instead of discovering the entire magic system from first principals, blind. She can rediscover them by re-tracing a very rudimentary map consisting of the important magic niches to fill and basic ideas on how to do so.
It's got to be better than the current plan of guessing.
But if it's not some form of knowledge. What might it be? Some form of blessing perhaps? Eh, I guess we will have to just sit around and sing the jingle.
While I love Hazel discovering her own magic. She really needs... Not spells necessarily. But a list of fundamental lessons, or even just a lesson plan or cliff-notes so instead of discovering the entire magic system from first principals, blind. She can rediscover them by re-tracing a very rudimentary map consisting of the important magic niches to fill and basic ideas on how to do so.
It's got to be better than the current plan of guessing.
But if it's not some form of knowledge. What might it be? Some form of blessing perhaps? Eh, I guess we will have to just sit around and sing the jingle.
EFW3
This is Walter Wireless signing off!
- Location
- Charleston
I realize that part of the fun of this story is that the teachers not getting what Hazel can do, and as the second half of the school year goes on the curtains will start to be pulled away. But I kinda wanted a teacher to see Hazel disapperate and be extremely confused.
I'm thinking that was some druid version of a baptism. The spirit deciding to give her whatever proper rites are necessary to be considered a proper druid, that no-one else is left to give her.
It could have a magical effect on her. Or it could just be symbolic. The pain part of whatever magic was done certainly fits with many ancient rites of passage.
- Location
- Who even cares?
I'm mostly waiting for something happening that makes everyone realize that no, she wasn't lying about anything at any point up to now about what she can do and where she learned it.