Precious Fae Prince
“Come away, O human child!
To the waters and the wild
With a faery, hand in hand,
For the world's more full of weeping than you can understand.”
- W. B. Yeats
“ “My precious elf!” Lily called for her darling child. He had escaped to the gardens in the back of their castle to play with the flowers and talk to the fishes that swam in their fountains. Hosta ran to his mother in no time, smiling and laughing all the way. He was only eleven years old, but he had never had a single bad thing happen to him. His innocence was still there, he had yet to feel the cruelty of the world around him. He hugged his mother, his head right under her small chest as he listened to her breath, a comforting sound. She ran her fingers through his hair with pristine, trimmed nails. Jonquil, formerly known as James Potter, walked to stand behind his wife. His arms encircling her waist with his hands resting on Hosta’s shoulders.
“They’re here, the Dark Lord and his council,” Jonquil pressed soft kisses to Lily’s neck before backing away. The kingdom was run by Lily and the defense was handled by Jonquil who had, at one time, been an Auror in the wizarding world. Lily led their son inside and sent him up to his room to get dressed, as most fae didn’t wear clothes in their homes or in their community. There was nothing sexual about their nudity, but these were outsiders who were visiting and they were the most disturbed sorts of people. So Hosta ran up the stairs up to his room and put on a dress-like shirt and some jewelry that denotes his status as Prince. He was skipped and hopped downstairs, equally excited.
Hosta was never allowed friends as a younger child, he wasn’t allowed to go outside the castle walls or stray from their garden. He only had contact with his family, godfathers (whom rarely visited anymore) and his tutors. He was completely shy to the outside world and this would be the first meeting he was allowed to attend. His mother had told him stories of a boy who had saved the world before being whisked away to his rightful place. A place without sadness, without loss, without cruelty and without destruction. He liked this place and that place was his home now. He couldn’t remember a time outside of his mother’s stories, he couldn’t remember the times he wasn’t here in the fairy realm in the castle.
Joining his mother, sitting at her side in a smaller throne, he waited patiently for his father to bring the visitors in. Soon, and he wasn’t left wanting for long, a tall man, warped by dark magic, taking on the appearance of a snake-like demon rather than a human, and a following of humans, or people he assumed to be humans, hidden under black cloaks and masks made of bone with carvings to show their status in the Death Eater ranks. Hosta leaned forward but his mother’s hand on his chest made him sit back in place.
“You come before the queens of the fairies in search of help, in search of assistance. What do you have to offer us in return for our forces and influence?” Hosta turned to look up at Lily who seemed a complete different person than his mother. She was strong, her voice harsh with control whereas he was used to her soft tones and cooing. He was almost frightened by her severe tones and contorted face, her eyebrows arched in something seeming like anger. The Dark Lord, the snake man, bowed lowly before the people behind him followed. He stood back up, but the rest continued to bow.”
Lest We Bleed Ourselves
“The alchemist of the West has turned stone into glass
But my alchemy has transmuted glass into flint
Pharaohs of today have stalked me in vain”
-Muhammad Iqbal
" It was 1958 and Titus was on his knees in front of the altar his beautiful wife would likely waste away praying at.
“Please,” he begged for the thousandth time, “please, grant us a child. I offer to you everything,” there was a long moment of silence. There was nothing. Once again he was met with the mocking silence. It was the curse of being pure-blooded, it had gotten so terrible that both of the children on his ancestors’ sides had become sterile. He didn’t know if it was him, or if it was his wife, who had a fair amount of inbreeding in her family as well. All in the name of stay pure. He just wanted a son, a daughter, an anything. He wanted a child to love and to spoil with affection and gifts, someone that would make his wife happy because she wasn’t happy. No. She had been happy for a long time, since they were married after their time at Hogwarts but then she stopped being happy. It had been two years, and no sign of having a child. Nothing the healers could do, not potion, no spell, nothing was allowing them to have a child and it was depressing.
“Please,” he begged for the thousandth time, “please, grant us a child. I offer to you everything,” there was a long moment of silence. There was nothing. Once again he was met with the mocking silence. It was the curse of being pure-blooded, it had gotten so terrible that both of the children on his ancestors’ sides had become sterile. He didn’t know if it was him, or if it was his wife, who had a fair amount of inbreeding in her family as well. All in the name of stay pure. He just wanted a son, a daughter, an anything. He wanted a child to love and to spoil with affection and gifts, someone that would make his wife happy because she wasn’t happy. No. She had been happy for a long time, since they were married after their time at Hogwarts but then she stopped being happy. It had been two years, and no sign of having a child. Nothing the healers could do, not potion, no spell, nothing was allowing them to have a child and it was depressing.
Titus stood up, about to leave the altar when a sickle vibrated and shook off the altar and onto the floor. He picked it up and once it was in his hand he saw a man, he was much like he would assume a God to look like, or a demon even. He set the sickle down and rubbed his eyes, but the figure didn’t leave.
“It’s a nice home you have here,” it said, a spidery finger dragging across the top of the altar in a superficial inspection. “You asked for a child, you would be will to give me anything I want in return, would you not?”
“Yes, yes, anything!” He didn’t know who or what this person (if it was a person) was but he had come when he called, so he must have the power to gift them with a child of some sort. The figure waved his hand and a chair dragged along the hardwood floor and slowed to a stop behind him. He took a seat and crossed his legs. He was wearing a robe or a cloak, something that looked like a dress as it was close but it was much to masculine to be a dress like the ones his wife wore. It had to be a robe. Was this a wizard? He didn’t look like a wizard, he definitely didn’t act like a wizard."
Zombie Queen
" Darkness. That’s all there was. With a thud and an excruciating amount of pain, he was back in his body. His soul mingled with his body and finally, after hours of paralysis, Harry Potter sat up and threw his legs over the medieval bloodletting table. What the hell were they going to do to his corpse? That was very disconcerting. He frowned as he looked around the rooms. The contents were unnerving to say the least, but he wasn’t going to linger. He needed to get out of wherever he was and he needed to get out fast. He felt a chilly breeze and shivered, hugging his arms around his body. When his hands slapped against his bare skin, he realized he was completely starkers. He groaned, knowing him, of course it had to get worse. He grabbed a coroner’s robe (even the coroner’s wore robes? That had to be unsanitary or something) and put it on. It smelled like dirty socks and farts after eating chili. It wasn’t pleasant, but that didn’t matter. He just needed to get covered up.
Thank God Hermione lived close to here, which he discovered was the Ministry of Magic, and by that he meant in London. He knocked on the Granger’s door after walking there, bare feet slapping against warm concrete still heated from the day’s rays, and receiving many odd looks for wearing a long trench-coat like robe with large pockets and overall disgusting look. He looked like a homeless person only homeless due to being unable to function in day-to-day life rather than not having the money. So, when Hermione answered the door, he was very relieved.
“Harry!” She exclaimed, dragging him through the door and up the stairs into her room. She slammed the door shut after tossing Harry on the bed. He knew Hermione was strong and he knew that he was scrawny, but damn, she could have dislocated his shoulder for Merlin’s sake. He looked up, rather sheepishly.
“Do you have any clothes I can wear?”
“How are you alive? You’re dead…”
“Obviously not, but I am naked and I’m sure you don’t want to see that,” he looked around her room and ignored the Dark Arts books that littered the unoccupied space on her bed and her desk (she also had a pile stacked beside her bed on the floor, it was nearly as tall as Harry when he stood up to his full height and he wasn’t that short). She nodded and left the room. Whatever Hermione was saying to her, presumably, parents was muffled by the door although there was a silencing charm to keep the noise out of the room while she could still listen to what happened outside of her room. It was interesting, and Harry didn’t even know that silencing charms could be manipulated like that. Hermione came in a moment later with a handful of her father’s old clothes. He handed them to Harry who was quite used to old, used clothes. The only difference with there were that they were nice and fit comfortably rather than being four sizes too large. Hermione cleared her bed off, putting her books in a second trunk, very clearly not the trunk she took to Hogwarts, she hid it in her closet and was very private about her life. She didn’t want Harry to see the Black crest on the trunk so she hid it with her body as she rearranged her books.
Taking a seat beside Harry, Hermione stared at her best friend for a moment before throwing her arms around him and hugging him. She started to cry into her father’s shirt.
“You wouldn’t believe what Professor Dumbledore said! You wouldn’t believe what any of them said. It was horrible,” she couldn’t stop herself from weeping. Harry tried to comfort her the best he could, so he awkwardly rubbed her back with a nervous smile dancing his lips. He gingerly pulled her off of him and wiped away her tears away. She was quick to recover herself but her cheeks were puffy and her eyes were bloodshot, clear signs she had been crying.
“What did they say?”
“What did they say?”
“Terrible things,” she said, “How you were attention-seeking and a bully. That you mocked those who weren’t as wealthy as you and that you used your fame to get everything you wanted. That was just Ronald. What Mrs. Weasley and Professor Dumbledore said was much worse. Professor Dumbledore was sure you killed your family and then yourself. You’re a criminal because he testified that you were working with the Dark Lord. Mrs. Weasley said that Ginevra was pregnant with your child and that she needed access to the Potter accounts to pay for the baby. The worst part was nobody but me stood up for you and when I did, they called me a liar!”
“I’m sorry, Mione,” was all Harry could say. She pushed him over playfully before crawling up into her bed and resting her head on her pillow. “If I had known, I wouldn’t have died… how did I die, exactly?” "
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