fic: drawing down the moon ch.1 (hp)

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Drawing Down the Moon

Chapter I

Once upon a time long ago in a faraway land, there lived a boy on the edge of the woods.

His one-room house was built of roughly hewn logs laid one atop the other chinked with moss. Against one outside wall was a pile of snow-covered firewood, and a little stable leaned against the other side. The boy lived alone with his snowy owl named Hedwig and a small but beautiful black mare called Scathach, whose name had been given to her before he had been born and so its meaning remained mysterious to him.

But even with the companionship of Hedwig and Scathach, the boy was lonely. He vaguely remembered his parents, but they had been executed when he had been just over a year old by the people in the nearby village, and his two guardians had disappeared one day when he had been eleven after having gone to market, and never returned. It was rare that he went into the village for supplies, for whenever he did he was met with wary looks and sometimes hostile glares; so he spent his days largely without the company of another person, content to confide in Hedwig and groom Scathach and keep his little cottage clean and in good repair.

It was his eighteenth winter now, and he stood in the middle of the frozen garden at the back of his cottage and surveyed the icy plot with a critical eye. The past autumn had proved to be an unusually poor harvest, all the more so considering it had been his garden, and now the winter plants he normally grew were struggling where they used to flourish.

“Damn,” he muttered to himself, unmindful of the biting cold that tried to creep freezing fingers beneath his deerskin cloak. Hedwig was perched on his shoulder, and hooted sympathetically.

“I don’t know what we’re going to do, Hedwig,” he sighed, reaching up to stroke her feathers. “It’s far too late to try and replant, and I have no doubt that we’ll run out of poultices before the season ends.”

The boy had developed a sort of uneasy rapport with the villagers; by providing the necessary medicines and cures, he received tolerance for his presence and enough payment to keep him relatively comfortable. It helped being the only person within a reasonable distance that knew anything useful about Healing, and the town's only apothecary had a bedside manner that left something to be desired.

The owl hooted again.

“I know that’s bad,” he grumbled. “But I don’t see what we can do except hope that maybe people won’t be the usual lot of fools and get themselves ill.”

She gave him an incredulous look—at least as much as an owl can, anyway—and he laughed, if not a little cynically.

The feeling of cool water running down his back made the boy turn sharply.

Recognizing it as a ward being set off by an approaching person, he made his way to the front of his cabin and stood beside the snuffling Scathach, patting her reassuringly as his sharp green eyes picked out the growing shape of a villager on a horse.

He waited patiently for the rider to stop a few meters away, panting harshly and shivering in the cold even beneath his layers of furred clothing. It was obvious that the boy, Seamus Finnigan if he recalled correctly, was nervous, not only from being so close to the Forbidden Forest but being in the presence of one such as himself.

The boy was slightly annoyed when Seamus crossed himself before speaking, still keeping his distance.

“Mr. Potter, the Father is ill,” he said, still gasping for breath. “He sent for you.”

Instant concern arose in Harry Potter’s chest.

“What are his symptoms?” he demanded shortly, already mentally running through the small inventory of remedies in his care.

“He is feverish,” Seamus began. “His sleep is fitful, and his sweat cold.”

Harry paused. “Has he been wounded in any way?”

“Not that I know of. He was helping some of the men with a barn-raising a few days ago, though some of the wives advised against it."

Harry swore in the Old Tongue, causing Seamus to blanch and cross himself again with renewed fervor.

“Tell him I will come as soon as I can.” And without further hesitation, Harry dismissed the other boy and turned on his heel into the log cottage.

“Helping raise the barn,” Harry muttered to himself, shoving several little sealed clay pots and bunches of dried plants into his leather knapsack. “In this cold, no less. What was the old man thinking?” He grabbed several other items and a large woolen blanket that he had woven himself, then burst back outside.

Swiftly untying Scathach’s hobble, he murmured, “Ready to ride, love? Father is ill, and from the sound of it, it is serious.”

The black horse snuffled, breath misting, and Harry swung easily onto her bare back with the small pack held firmly over his shoulder. He cast a significant look at the nervous villager.

“Ride quickly.”

The two horses took off at a swift gallop, the safest that could be managed in the snow. Wind made Harry’s cloak billow, but he did not feel the cold like most; instead, the chill soothed the glowering fire that always seemed to be smoldering inside his heart, fueled by the hatred and wrath that swelled always just beneath the calm exterior.

Scathach’s powerful body rippled smoothly beneath him, and a small smile, despite his worry, appeared on his wind-bitten lips. The mare moved over the ground with nearly supernatural grace, like oil flowing over wet slate, and for someone who had often watched the birds in flight with envy and longing it was the closest to freedom he would ever feel.

All too soon the thatched roofs of the town came into view, laden with snow, and the clean whiteness beneath the horses’ hooves gradually turned a weary brown from churned mud and the soles of human boots. The two boys slowed their mounts to a quick trot as they reached the mud-slicked road that ran through the middle of the town, and Harry quietly followed Seamus Finnigan to the largest of the buildings, sitting in its place of honor in what passed as the town square.

As he left Scathach freestanding just outside the doors of the church, Harry was all too aware of the stares and whispers that traveled through the murmuring crowd. But he ignored it with practiced ease, and set his mind on the Father.

Hedwig settled on his shoulder as he ran up the steps of the church and slipped between the wide double doors, finding another, smaller crowd of people gathered in front of the pulpit. They separated upon seeing him, and Harry knelt on the ground beside the shivering body.

The Father smiled weakly at him, cornflower blue eyes brightening at his appearance.

“Harry,” he rasped.

“Hush, Father,” the Healer murmured, gently squeezing the wrinkled old hand. He unrolled the blanket and tucked it around the shaking frail form, knowing without having to speak that though the blanket appeared thin the old man knew there was a charm upon it to keep it warm. “Can you tell me what brought this on?”

“I’m sure Mr. Finnigan told you about thebarn-raising.”

“He did, and if you weren’t so old I’d smack you,” Harry teased softly, keeping his voice low so that the surrounding villagers would not hear and take the joke the wrong way. “What possessed you?”

“Merely wanting to help some of my people.” He coughed, and a spot of blood flecked his lips.

Harry froze, eyes widening at the sight.

Oh no.

“Father, have there been any sort of symptoms before this? Sneezing? Chills? Coughing?” Harry struggled to keep his voice level.

But the Father’s eyes softened in knowledge. “Aye, child. Coughing.”

“Why didn’t you call me before this?” Harry hissed.

“Didn’t want to bother you with an old man’s aches and pains.” He coughed again.

Harry bit his lip. “I’ll do the best I can—“

“Harry, I know what it is,” the Father murmured. “I know that you have no cure for so late a stage of this disease. But it is my time now to return to God’s Kingdom. I have lived a very long life, and I have watched you grow into an incredible young man. I have every faith in you that you will one day find the Path that makes you happy.”

“No, Father—“

“What’s wrong with him?” someone demanded, but both ignored the intrusion.

“I knew your parents well, Harry, and although we held not the same practices, we held the same faith. I loved them like my own children, as I love you.”

The words wrenched at Harry’s heart, who had not heard such sentiments since he was little.

“Now, dry your tears, child, I won’t have you crying over me,” the Father smiled, and Harry was surprised to find warm tracks falling down his cheeks. Gently, he drew the thin old man into his arms in a brief embrace, and carefully laid him back down. Then he stood, automatically schooling his face into neutrality as he addressed the worried villagers pressing close.

“There is nothing I can do,” he said flatly, voice echoing in the still sanctuary. “We have waited too long, and my medicines cannot heal him now.”

There was stunned silence, until a woman cried out in protest, pushing her way to the front and grabbing Harry by the tunic.

“No! You’re a witch, use your magic to heal him!”

“I use only my knowledge of Earth’s plants to heal, milady,” Harry said coldly, grasping her hands and releasing her hold on him. “I’m sure even the strongest magics cannot heal him now.”

And that was true, for while Harry could manipulate magic with a powerful sixth sense, he rarely used it in his Healing merely because he was terrified of making the malady worse. In this case, he feared that using such strong and destructive magic like what he had at his fingertips would cause the Father to die in agony.

And isn’t that the greatest irony of all, that a Healer’s magic can work only destruction?

“Devil worshipper!” the woman shrieked, prodding at his chest with bony, work-worn fingers. “I knew you were against us all when you were born from my cursed sister!”

Harry resisted the urge to slap the blonde, horse-faced woman. “Milady, please have some respect for our elders before the cross of God.”

Scandalized, the woman made to retort, before another villager took her by the shoulders and pulled her back.

“I’m sorry,” he said aloud, emotion publicly coloring his voice for the first time since arriving in the town. Then he knelt again by the dying old man, and gently kissed his brow.

“I have faith that God will receive you with open arms, Father,” he whispered.

The Father coughed again, more blood decorating his lips, and he smiled weakly with a small chuckle. “And may the Goddess smile upon your Path, child,” he murmured back just as quietly.

Feeling his heart breaking all over again, Harry abruptly turned and left the small church, unwilling to stay and watch Albus Dumbledore, the last living person who had ever held any love for him, die.

xxx

The Healer was sitting just outside of the local tavern, The Three Brooms, and being given a wide berth by the townspeople when a horrible cry went up from the direction of the nearby church.

His grip tightened on the pint he held, threatening to break it.

Goodbye, Father.

“Come along, Hedwig, Scathach,” he sighed wearily, eyes dry as he stood and patted the horse’s haunches. The owl, still perched firmly on his shoulder, pecked his cheek lightly and hooted soothingly, ruffling her feathers. Harry mustered a tiny smile.

The ride back through town was tense, but so many had been called by the funerary wail from the church that the majority of the town was not there to see him leave; the few that were, however, gave him dirty looks, and some called out insults and stinging taunts.

“Going the way his parents did, I’d wager,” one older, larger spinster, vastly different in appearance but not demeanor from the pale and bony woman in the church, whispered none too discreetly, light eyes glitteringly malignant. “Just like my animals. If there’s something wrong with the brood mare, then there’s something wrong with the spawn.”

Harry bit back a snarl, knowing that this spiteful woman might have been one of his guardians had things turned out differently. He had the Father to thank for keeping him out of the clutches of his mother’s sister and her family, and as it was everyone involved pretended they knew nothing of the other.

But his control slipped just a little.

“Ah! Hell-fire!”

The large woman screamed as the hem of her cloak erupted into flame, and the people nearby hurriedly stripped her of it and threw it into the snow.

“Demon! Beast of the Abyss!” she cried, pointing a ragged finger at Harry. He smirked at her, not knowing that the dying flame of the cloak was echoed in the verdant brilliance of his eyes.

Then he lightly slapped his mount, and Scathach broke into a gallop that took them away into the dying light of the town towards the Forbidden Forest.

xxx

Journal of Harry James Potter, Healer and Witch.

The Year of Our Lord Sixteen-Hundred and Forty-Two, mid-winter.

It seems to me that the only difference between people and the beasts is not the notion of a reasoning intelligence, for I have met many who possess less reason than their livestock; it is the superfluous nature of our being. One will never see a wolf driving away her young because they howled a witch-like phrase, or a doe beating her foal because he refused to follow a faith that was not his. The animals of these forests act only in what is necessary for survival, whereas we humans, self-proclaimed paragons of logic and truth, seek to drive ourselves either to madness or destruction.

I am their Beast, it appears. And like any Beast, I will wait for eternity to be free of the prison that my captors place around me, and fly away forever.

xxx

Draco Malfoy was bored.

“Father, are we not there yet?”

“Draco, do have some dignity,” Lucius Malfoy drawled dangerously, narrowing his eyes at his son. “Whining does not become a Malfoy.”

The young man rolled his eyes as soon as his father returned his attention to the papers his servant was showing him and gazed out of the window of the carriage past the velvet curtain, watching the countryside roll past. Hills covered in a soft blanket of snow reflected the light of the setting sun, sending them awash in a blaze of color, but he merely made a face at it.

He hated the country.

He greatly preferred the ordered elegance of the court, where it was all much more civilized. But as his father was at the beck and call of the provincial Lord, he had had little choice but to accompany his father to the province’s borders to collect the taxes that had not been paid in far too long.

While his father seemed to take great amusement in terrifying the peasants, Draco found it all rather droll.

“Sir, we are approaching Hogsmeade,” the driver called.

Wonderful, Draco thought caustically. I swear I’m going to end up smelling like the pigs when I get back to the Palace. Pansy is going to have a heart attack. He smirked; perhaps having to endure such filth would not be so bad if his betrothed died from the shock.

The brief change in expression would have been unnoticeable to anyone else; but to Draco, who had developed an incredible ability for finding such things in a life of intrigue, looked curiously at Lucius.

“Is something wrong, Father?”

“What do you know of the Potters, Draco?”

The blonde blinked at the seemingly incongruous question. “The Potters? Weren’t they a family that rebelled against Lord Voldemort?”

“They were, and they were very dangerous. But our Lord drove them into exile, until they were executed by the very people they had been trying to save.” A ruthless smile made Lucius’ chilling appearance seem demonically handsome. “Poetic irony, wouldn’t you say?”

“They were fools,” Draco shrugged. “I don’t see what relevance they would have; they’re hardly the only ones that have gone against our Lord.”

“Ah, Draco,” Lucius said chidingly, “you must look past your disdain for our inferiors and see them as they truly are.”

“And what are they, Father?”

“They are the very root of our power. They live to higher those few exceptional beings and serve them in the quest for ultimate power. They live to die for us, Draco, remember that. But some of them seek to rise above their station, and they must be destroyed for the good of all and for the maintenance of our natural hierarchy.”

“But how could two peasants have been so threatening?”

“Because they had the power of the Devil behind them, and so were abominations even in the very eyes of God. Satan is the ultimate tempter, my son. He will promise you anything in return for your complete subservience, and so they had to be eliminated.”

“Then they’re dead.”

“But even a single remaining seed of ergot can destroy a wheatfield. We are approaching their birthplace; we cannot take chances.”

xxx

On the far edge of town was a small cottage. It was normal, as far as cottages go, except that its occupant was what made it unusual.

The man was tall and thin and sallow, with brooding dark eyes and a tongue sharp enough to reduce the most brave of men to tears. He lived alone by choice, and made his living as an apothecary for the town of Hogsmeade.

Most customers preferred to browse his small shop in the middle of the village, finding his manner as less than warm, but some of his less reputable customers would rather call on his services at home.

“Thank you, Severus,” Rosmerta sighed, her heavily made-up face sad. “My girls truly appreciate your help.”

Severus Snape said nothing, but continued putting away his bottles and dried herbs.

“You know, Severus, you are always welcome—“

“I feel that my life is quite difficult enough without the chatter of young women ruining what little peace I do have,” he snapped, cutting her off.

Rosmerta sighed again and nodded, leaving a few gold coins on the heavy, scratched oaken table and adjusting the many chains of jewelry that draped her small frame. “I will be here again next month, at the same time. And Severus…I truly am grateful.”

The man just grunted a noncommittal reply, trying to get the woman that reeked of perfume and carnal sin out of his cottage. Without another word, Madam Rosmerta left, taking the vials of contraceptive potions with her.

Leaving a small bundle of sage to burn on the table to chase away the cloying musk, Severus let himself fall into the sheepskin cot that hung by the fireplace.

Another day, another business transaction, another girl that lost her honor to an anonymous stranger.

Oh, what a hypocritical world, he thought without amusement. All in a day’s work.

Raising an arm, he let the sleeve of the dark-dyed tunic fall back, revealing the pale flesh of his left arm. Severus stared at the mark he found there, wondering how many years of nightmares and self-loathing he would have to endure before the ink faded away like a bad memory.

As one of the only villagers that had been born and bred out of the immediate region, he had a much better grasp on the larger picture than most.

The country was divided into four provinces, said by legend to have been the work of the great war-chieftain Merlin to represent the four physical elements, and four provincial kings ruled beneath a single royal leader. The five rulers then held Council on the first day of every year—October thirty-first, or Samhain in the Old Tongue. This system had been in effect for so long that many people had even forgotten it existed, too wrapped up in their own mundane, hard-working lives to bother with state matter or politics, and the current council had long ago forgotten its pagan origins. Severus would not be surprised if none of the villagers of Hogsmeade could name their sovereign ruler.

But there was, as with every system of government, the danger of corruption.

One of the four provincial leaders, a religious zealot and an obsessive, controlling man, had his eye set on the royal throne, and his network of subterfuge and espionage stretched far across the nation and deep into the Imperial Palace itself.

Severus had escaped from the man’s clawed grasp years ago, during the upset of the Rebellion, and had been concealed in the village ever since, surreptitiously watching a certain black-haired, green-eyed boy for any signs of the power his parents had once had.

All he had seen was an irritable, immature boy with a bad temper.

Had he been a religious man, Severus might have prayed for help.

The sound of hooves roused him from his cot, and he made his way towards the single small window next to the door, wincing as shooting pains raced up his leg. It sounded like too many horses to belong to any one villager, and looking out, he saw that that was indeed true.

May Set have mercy on us all.

Six horses guided a black carriage decorated with familiar green heraldry, surmounted by another crest. He grasped the windowsill, potion-stained nails biting into the old wood.

Lucius Malfoy.

 

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