Avalon - Chapter 81 - Invaders

Invaders

“It does you proud to see them doing so well, doesn’t it?” Owain asked, looking upon the smaller gathered groups as they set to work.

“It does,” Harry agreed.

Upon receiving their wands and taking a few days to get used to possessing one once more, most of the able-bodied men had signed up to join Harry’s group of pseudo-aurors, and each had been keen to begin working on the surrounding farmland.

In the two moons that had passed since, they were progressing well in both and managed to shake much of the lingering trauma they’d endured whilst being enslaved.

Of course, it was not something they would ever fully recover from, but they were thriving now and proving to be an excellent addition to Godric’s Hollow.

Harry had indeed had his reservations about arming them at first, but all who had received one had been as good as their word.

These people were not seeking anything but to enjoy their freedom, earn on honest living, and find another home after theirs had been destroyed by the lavers.

Harry could not begrudge them for it and helping them had been quite the boon to all. In return, they were working a considerable bit of land that had mostly been unused for many years and had bolstered the number of patrols that were sent into Britain to maintain the peace between muggles and magicals.

All round, it was a most beneficial arrangement, and most had become close friends with the villagers.

“Still, there are those we could do without,” Owain spoke once more, nodding towards the two spies that remained among them.

Harry equally detested their presence, but as he had pointed out to Owain, it was best to have them here knowing what they were doing rather than exposing them too soon and be blind to the machinations of their enemies.

Nonetheless, they would be absent soon enough, something both were eager for.

“I know, I know,” Owain sighed as Harry shot him a knowing look. “I still don’t like the bastards.”

“Nor me, but it will be worth it. Their worlds will come crashing down around them.”

“You said that with a little too much glee for my liking, Potter.”

“We may as well get some enjoyment out of their suffering.”

Owain nodded his agreement.

“You’re not wrong, but I’ll feel better when they’re gone, and so will Hook. He’s not stupid, Harry, he’s watching them as close as us.”

“Because he’s not a bloody ignorant prat,” Harry chuckled, gesturing for the man to join them.

Hook did so, frowning at the two men as they went about watching the others not so subtly.

“Are we going to keep pretending we don’t know what they’re doing?” he asked irritably.

“Not for much longer,” Harry assured him. “We know who they are and why they’re here.”

“But you’re letting them stay?”

“Only temporarily. We need them to see certain things to pass on to their masters.”

“You’re playing them at their own game.”

“Correction, Hook, you ugly shit, we are beating them at it.”

Hook shook his head.

“Imagine being insulted by a cripple,” he huffed.

“I’m no cripple!”

“Yes, you are!”

“Alright, bloody hell,” Harry interjected, knowing that if he didn’t the back and forth would continue indefinitely. “You’re a cripple, and you’re an ugly shit. Now that is established, maybe we should let them eat before they drop. They’re no good to anyone if that happens.”

Hook nodded and returned to the large gathering of men to dismiss them, and Harry watched the man closely.

He seemed to be happy enough, even after the conversation he’d had with the man and Gwyneth not so long ago.

Flashback

“This all feels so serious,” Gwyneth said lightly, though the concern in her tone was anything but. “Would you like some tea, Harry?”

“No, but thank you for offering,” he replied. “You’ve really made something of this place.”

“I did very little,” Gwyneth declared, looking towards her husband fondly. “Hook did everything you can see.”

“But you make it a home,” the man replied. “Come on, Potter, let’s not waste time with all this ceremonial shite. What’s happened?”

“Nothing as such,” Harry sighed. “It recently came to light that Arthur’s wife has been having an affair. “She has been banished from Camelot, but she never provided him with an heir.”

“And you would like Maxim to…”

Harry held up a hand and shook his head.

“I want nothing of the sort. I promised you the day we found you that I would keep you and the boy safe. I stand by that, and I would never ask anything of you that would go against my promise. I’m just seeing what your thoughts are on the matter. I do not know if Arthur will have more children, but the kingdom will be plunged into war again if he perishes without an heir. No decisions need to be made now, but it is something Maxim should be prepared for, for when he inevitably discovers the truth of who sired him.”

Gwyneth swallowed deeply as she nodded.

“For all I care, none need ever know that you and he are here, or even who he truly is, but these kinds of secrets tend to get out, and for your son, it is a big one. I would not want him to wrongfully hold it against you, or that he might assume he is to inherit the throne. To a degree. I think it is best if you are honest with him and ensure he is prepared for all eventualities.”

Gwyneth deflated and Hook gave her shoulder a squeeze.

“We will discuss it, Harry,” the man assured him.

“That’s all I ask. Believe me, I’m not trying to see him groomed to replace Arthur when the time comes. I’m just hoping to avoid any unpleasantness in the future.”

End Flashback

It had not been such an easy conversation to have, but he’d meant what he’d said to both Hook and Gwyneth. If Maxim was to discover the truth of who his father was, it could be problematic.

Harry certainly did not wish for him to follow in the footsteps of Mordred in the tales of the King of Britain.

No, that would not do.

Still, he wasn’t going to press the issue.

If and when Hook and Gwyneth decided the boy should be made aware of the truth, he would be there to help them in any way he could.

For now, however, he had a multitude of things to occupy, no less than the two blasted spies he had tolerated the presence of for long enough.

(Break)

He’d always seen Lord Rookwood as an unshakeable man, a talented and logical person of such brilliance when it came to magic, but as Myrddin looked upon him now, he seemed to be troubled, fearful even.

He watched as Willan took another sip of his wine and shook his head before placing his cup on the table.

“You know something,” Myrddin said simply. “Something the others do not.”

“I am not so certain I do,” Willan responded, swallowing deeply before licking his lips. “I think I know something or perhaps thought I did. I cannot say I know what I know anymore.”

Myrddin frowned as he took in the man’s countenance.

He was indeed uncertain, concerned about such, and disturbed by what he evidently deemed to be a failing of sorts.

“Tell me what you think you know,” he urged.

Willan chuckled humourlessly before draining his cup and pouring himself another.

“It was me that told Potter all he needed to know, well, I didn’t tell him. He took it from me, Myrddin just by looking into my eyes. I could feel him up here,” he explained, tapping the side of his head. “I could feel him in my mind, perusing my innermost secrets as though I was a book to be read.”

The explanation was concerning.

Although the study of the mind arts was well known among the more accomplished magicals, so few possessed any true ability in it. Of course, Myrddin was well-versed, but the only other he could think of equally so was Slytherin himself who was a pioneer in the practices.

He did not doubt that Willan was telling the truth, but the doubt in the man was most curious.

“But you are not so sure.”

Willan shook his head.

“It is as though it was a dream, and yet, oh so real. I remember what it felt like, what he did to me, and how easily he did so. He saw you all in my mind, even you.”

That certainly explained how Arthur had discovered his involvement. Potter had inevitably told him, though since the man was aware of each of them involved in the ploys to see an end to him, Myrddin knew they needed to tread carefully.

Despite his best efforts, he’d been unable to glean anything else of the Crow other than the rumours that had been spread for several years now. For the better part of more than five of them, he’d been oddly absent, and Myrddin had often found himself wondering just what the man had been doing.

Potter was not one to simply live in peace, so, where had he been?

Such thoughts continued to plague him, though he never found himself any closer to the answers he sought. Harry Potter had always been something of an enigma, but the mysterious man was growing to be more concerning with each passing day.

Already, he had amassed himself quite the following, and if he had indeed liberated the slaves as Flint’s spies revealed, that number would only increase exponentially.

Myrddin would not deny that Potter had something of a magnetism to him, something that inspired others, so much so that they were willing to throw their lot in with him.

Although it hurt his pride to admit it, Arthur aligning himself with the man all those years ago had been an inadvertent stroke of genius. Potter’s reputation only continued to grow, and with it, his influence; something his cohorts were determined to put a stop to.

Whether they could or not remained to be seen, but to that end, Myrddin needed to speak with them once more, needed to understand what steps had been taken to bear the fruit they were hopeful for.

Now, more than ever, Potter was a threat to not only those that recognised it on the Wizard’s Council, but to the entire body, and with Arthur’s backing, he might just find himself at the very top of Wizarding Britain.

No, Myrddin could not allow that.

His own vision for the country was becoming rather precarious, and to see it come to light, Potter needed to be neutralised, one way or the other.

(Break)

She watched as Taran pulled himself to his feet using one of the chairs at the kitchen table, his legs trembling as he gripped the wooden back in a meaty fist.

The little boy beamed proudly and Morgana clapped, scooping him up into her arms and pressing a kiss on his cheek.

“Oh, you are a clever boy,” she declared.

Taran giggled, his smile only making him look more like his father, though Harry’s own had been absent recently. With everything he was once more dealing with, Morgana understood.

Perhaps one day there would be a semblance of peace for the man, but as things were, it wouldn’t be as soon as she hoped.

“He is a clever boy,” Helga agreed, tickling the babe under his chin.

Taran giggled once more and held his arms out to the woman.

He was very fond of Helga and had developed quite the soft spot for her.

“Of course he’s clever,” Salazar sighed. “Look who his mother is.”

“And father,” Morgana reminded him.

Salazar snorted.

“Potter might be a damned fine wizard but I wouldn’t say he was always so clever. If he was,  he wouldn’t have found himself in half the situations he has over the years.”

“True,” Morgana conceded as the squirming Taran was handed back to her.

He wanted to be back on the ground again to continue his exploration of the kitchen. The boy had been crawling for some time now, and was often rather restless, though she had learned not to turn her back on him even for a second.

The last time she did, he’d managed to escape to the garden where he’d proceeded to crawl after a baby Thestral.

Fortunately, the creature had not seen him as food, but it was a lesson learned, even if Harry had found the entire situation quite hilarious.

“Harry is clever in his own way,” Godric defended, watching as the babe pulled himself up onto his feet once more. “He’s courageous, but not stupid with it. He’s calculated.”

“Because he learned from me,” Salazar returned with a grin, wincing as Taran fell onto his backside.

“Bastard!” the boy cursed, eliciting a bout of laughter from both men.

Morgana was not so impressed, her nostrils flaring.

“Oh, I’ll be having a word with that husband of mine,” she vowed. “And Peverell for that matter. He’s just as bad, and you had better watch your tongue, Godric,” she warned. “Your language is terrible.”

“Mine?”

Morgana hummed and shook her head at her laughing child.

Yes, Taran was just like his father in many ways, she just hoped he would not find himself in so much trouble, though with him spending so much time with Harry, it was all but inevitable.

“Bastard,” Taran repeated, and Morgana narrowed her eyes as both Salazar and Godric laughed again.

(Break)

It was a deeply disturbed Myrddin who arrived at the rather resplendent home of Marcus flint, his brow creased in a frown as he entered the parlour room the man liked to host his guests in.

Once more, he felt that same odd sense of tension emanating from those gathered, though none more so than Willan Rookwood.

The man appeared to have lost weight in recent weeks, and the dark circles around his eyes spoke of his troubled sleep. To most, it would appear to be nothing but the fatigue of a busy man, but Myrddin knew better, and soon enough, the others would to.

It was not something that could be kept from them, not if they wished to stand a chance at the seeing the Storm-bringer tumble.

Where Rookwood was troubled so, Flint seemed anticipatory, as though he already knew something the others didn’t. For Myrddin, it was not something that boded well.

Already the man had proven he was willing and capable to act without consulting the others.

“What have you done, Marcus?” Myrddin probed.

The man frowned at the accusive.

“I have done nothing as such,” he assured the others, “but I have learned something, and may have used to the situation to our advantage.”

“In what way?” Nott pressed.

Marcus grinned.

“I had a visit,” he revealed. “The Irish are wroth and wanted to know if I had heard anything pertaining to the missing slaves. I may have pointed them in the direction they needed to look. They have nine hundred men preparing to right the wrongs done to them.”

Myrddin frowned thoughtfully before nodding.

He was not pleased that once more, Flint had taken it upon himself to act against Potter without consulting the others, but in this instance, he may have chosen the correct course of action.

With such vast numbers, those that have aligned themselves with the man could well be wiped out entirely, and at the very least, their numbers cut down, all without any of those gathered here losing a single man of their own.

“That could certainly be to our benefit,” he agreed cautiously. “It is quite the force, and Potter certainly doesn’t have those numbers in his ranks.”

“And his men won’t be as well trained,” Rosier added.

Myrddin hummed as he leaned back in his chair.

Even if all did not go to plan, it wasn’t as though such a thing could be linked back to them. The Irish had their own quarrel with Potter after all.

If anything, it was rather a stroke of genius for Flint to share what he knew with their brethren across the sea. Still, Myrddin could not deny that there was an undercurrent of unease, though that was nothing knew when it came to anything pertaining to Harry Potter, and Owain Peverell for that matter.

Both were dangerous and should never be underestimated.

Nonetheless, there appeared to be no drawback to what Marcus had done.

Even thinning the number of Potter’s men would be quite the boon to them. Yes, Marcus may have done quite well.

“So, our problem might just solve itself,” Gaunt declared, grinning from ear to ear.

Myrddin was not so sure they could expect complete success from the Irish. Potter had proven time and again that he was nothing if not resourceful and would undoubtedly have contingency plans in place.

Even so, facing such odds, especially if the Irish were clandestine in their approach may prove to be a little too much to contend with, even for a man such as Harry Potter.

Still, Myrddin was only cautiously optimistic.

Until Potter was weakened to a point he was no longer a threat, he would make no assumptions, and even a lone Potter was a dangerous, dangerous man indeed.

“What is it?” Flint huffed as a frantic knock sounded at the door to the parlour.

His two spies all but crashed through the door, both positively alarmed by something, and as Flint stood and glared at the duo questioningly, Myrddin could see that it was not mere alarm that plagued them.

They were utterly and undeniably terrified.

“Well?” Flint demanded. “Spit it out, damn you!”

The two men shared a look with one another, one of uncertainty and disbelief, but the paleness of their complexions spoke of nothing but fear.

“P-Potter,” one of them stammered. “He…”

He broke off and shook his head, and collapsed to ground as Flint struck him down with a heavy blow.

“Pull yourselves together!” he growled irritably. “Now, explain.”

The man continued to stammer, and Myrddin released a deep breath and cast a calming charm on him.

“Relax,” he urged. “Just think of what it is you wish to say and I will see it for myself.”

The spy swallowed deeply, and Myrddin slipped into his mind with ease, though a part of him wished he hadn’t. What he saw was akin to the rumours that had always surrounded the Peverells, only this time, it was not mere hearsay, but a harsh and harrowing truth.

Myrddin cursed under his breath and took a sip of his untouched wine.

“Well, what is it?” Flint snapped.

Myrddin could only shake his head, and took a moment to calm his warring thoughts beginning an explanation he would not have believed himself had he not shared in what the two spies had seen occur.

(Break)

He looked on as the cloaked and hooded figures entered the churchyard in a line, each holding a long and lit torch aloft, bathing the area in an ominous, flickering glow,

They formed a circle around the perimeter and said nothing whilst Owain and Harry looked upon them before raising their arms.

“Come Death, come,” Harry murmured, just loud enough that his words could be heard.

Those gathered echoed the words, and as Harry brought his wand to bear, Owain followed suit, the only sound to be heard for several moments being the gently crackling flames of the torches surrounding them.

“We call upon you for your blessing, to ask that you look after us in our times of need, that your presence will bring us comfort as we bring those who wrong us to justice.”

“Come Death, come,” the torchbearers intoned.

“We ask that you show mercy to those we hold dear but are merciless with our foes whom we will send to you.”

“Come Death, come.”

“We ask that you watch over those of ours you have already claimed and guide us in our darkest of moments. Come Death, come.”

The coldness that swept through the churchyard extinguished al of the torches, and only the glow of the moonlight remained. Still it grew ever colder, so cold that it felt as though the blood would freeze in their veins.

Worse than the chill, however, was the appearance of the large, hooded figure that materialised before them.

It was bigger than any man they any had laid eyes upon, its aura as oppressive as it was stifling. The thestral that appeared next to it only added to the rather fearsome apparition, and it pawed the ground irritably as it gazed upon both Harry and Owain.

After a moment, it laid down and the figure offered them a bow of acknowledgement before vanishing, leaving behind only that permeating chill that would linger for a while at least.

Owain clapped him smartly on the shoulder as he guffawed.

“Do you think they fell for it?”

Harry nodded.

“I’d be surprised if they didn’t shit themselves.”

Owain grinned and wrapped an arm around him.

“Did I ever tell you that you’re a damned genius? Having that figure bow to you was brilliant.”

Harry frowned and shook his head.

“I didn’t make it bow, I thought you did that.”

“No, it was your job to conjure the figure, and… shit, I was supposed to snuff the torches. Sorry, I was too caught up in what you were saying. That was good.”

“I just made it up as I went along,” Harry said dismissively. “So, you didn’t snuff the torches, or conjure the figure?”

“No, the figure was your job,” Owain reminded him.

“I know,” Harry huffed, “but it appeared before I could do it. I thought it was you. The magic was the same as yours.”

Owain shook his head.

“Harry, I swear to you that I had nothing to do with it, and if you didn’t snuff the torches, it means something else did.”

Harry eyed the man for a moment before nudging him with his shoulder.

“Don’t fuck around,” he chuckled nervously.

“I’m not,” Owain assured him. “I didn’t conjure the figure, especially not the bloody thestral, and I didn’t get rid of the torches. The magic that did it was felt like yours, so I thought you’d modified the plan.”

Harry turned and looked towards the church in the distance, and shuddered as a wave of the cold magic ran down his spine as he grasped the elder wand up his sleeve, felt the weight of the ring on the chain around his neck, and coolness of the cloak against his skin where it was concealed within his robes.

If Owain was telling the truth, which Harry was beginning to suspect he was, then something else other than what they had intended occurred in the churchyard, and he swallowed deeply at the thought.

“It bloody bowed to you, Harry. Whatever it was, bowed to you.”

“DEATH!”

They both turned sharply towards where the voice had sounded from, and watched as a large raven took to the sky from a nearby tree.

“Did that bird have white eyes?” Owain asked curiously.

Harry had seen it to, had thought it was a trick of the devilish moonlight.

“What the hell happened?” he murmured, looking towards the church once more.

“I don’t know, but if you’re not fucking around, then we unintentionally did something we probably shouldn’t. Bloody hell, Anwen won’t like it.”

“You’re going to tell your wife?”

“Fuck no,” Owain snorted.

“Then maybe it is best if we forget what happened?” Harry suggested, grimacing as the cold magic washed over him once more.

“We both know that isn’t going to happen, Harry. You don’t think that was…”

Harry held up a hand.

“Don’t say it, Peverell,” he warned. “Don’t you bloody well say it.”

“You mean Death,” Owain called after him amusedly as Harry headed back towards the village.

“Why did you have to do it?” Harry grumbled. “We could’ve just pretended it didn’t happen.”

Owain shrugged and wrapped an arm around his shoulder once more.

“I’m not so worried,” he said dismissively. “Would you like to know why?”

“No.”

“Because it was you it bowed to, Potter. You are Death’s friend, or his chosen, or something else. I don’t know, but what I do know is that it was you it was looking at.”

He sounded a little too gleeful for Harry’s liking though any amusement Owain felt faded as they reached the village to find it in a state of panic.

The people were hurrying almost aimlessly from one place to another, unsure of what to do, and it wasn’t until the two of them spotted Darragh, Lars, and Claude and hurried towards them did they get an explanation.

“Ships,” the latter explained.

“Slavers?”

“No,” Darragh broke in gravely. “It’s the Irish and they’re coming this way.”

“How many?”

“Nine ships.”

“So, around a thousand people,” Owain mused aloud. “We’d best take a look. You three, get this lot calmed down, we will take it from here.”

Without waiting for a response, both he and Harry apparated to the cliffs by the coast the very same vantage point they had rained down arrows upon the last of the Irish that made it here so many years prior.

“Well, shit,” Owain cursed irritably. “There will be a lot of them.”

Harry’s nostrils flared.

“A lot of them dead,” he vowed, sending off a few patronuses before removing the metal shield from within his pocket and touching the tip of his wand to it. “We have a little time to prepare for them.”

Owain nodded as his own hands twitched towards his wand and sword.

“We must secure the village first.”

Harry nodded and the two of them apparated once more, setting to work the moment they landed.

With a wave of his wand, Harry activated the plethora of protections he and Owain had put in place over the years. If any wished to make it into the village itself, they would have the damndest of tasks ahead of them.

More than likely, any who tried would be killed before they could comprehend what was happening, but they would not be solely relying on such measures.

No, Godric’s Hollow produced fighting men, and they would meet their foes on the beach, where the sand would run red with the blood that was inevitably spilled.

“Fighting men,” Harry said fondly as those garbed in his grey robes arrived, not hesitating to answer his emergency call to arms.

They might well be outnumbered, but the land here was theirs, and the Irish had no idea just what would be waiting for them before they even set foot on the Welsh coast.

“Ready?” Harry asked Owain, who needed at all those still arriving.

“Come Death, come,” he murmured, shooting Harry a rueful grin.

Yet another wave of magic washed over Harry as he spoke the words, and he could feel it emanating within himself and the Hallows he carried.

“I wish you hadn’t have said that,” he sighed, drawing his sword in anticipation, and sliding the elder wand into his hand. “Come Death, come,” he agreed, not even attempting to resist the influx of magic that followed his plea.

(Break)

His expression shifted immediately as the ethereal crow faded into nothingness, and Godric drew the sword he kept by his bedside. It had been many years since he’d done so, and yet, the blade remained as sharp and gleaming as the day he’d been gifted it.

Shaking his head, he snorted humourlessly to himself.

He was far beyond an age he should be fighting.

He’d spent much of his formative years doing so wherever he could find need of his sword and wand. It had been something of an addiction until he’d found a further purpose in life.

Still, he would never be a man to shy away from a call of need, especially when it came from the village that had been named for him.

With a nod to himself and a wave of his wand, he was dressed for the occasion, and as he made his way towards the entrance hall of the castle he’d helped built, he was greeted by the waiting Salazar and Helga.

“The Irish,” the former said simply.

Godric nodded.

“We will be outnumbered.”

Godric laughed as he shook his head.

“With Harry, being outnumbered means nothing. He will already have a plan.”

“Of course he will,” Salazar declared proudly. “I taught him to always have one for all eventualities.”

“But you’re nervous.”

Salazar nodded unashamedly.

“Not all of us are as seasoned as you, nor do we enjoy the spilling of blood, even when it is necessary, but the boy needs us.”

“Or maybe it is us that needs him,” Helga interjected with a sad smile. “If we were to fall, he would be here for the students, but if he falls…”

“Then the future of the school is uncertain.”

“The future of Britain is uncertain,” Helga corrected. “He may not realise it, but it is him that will shape much of the world yet to come.”

Godric laughed as they exited the castle.

“And he says he wants peace.”

“He does,” Morgana declared as she stepped out of the shadows beyond the steps leading towards the front doors. “But there will be much conflict before that.”

“You’re coming?” Salazar asked.

Morgana nodded.

“I’ll help Helga, and Harry if he needs it. If that damned fool thinks I will sit back and do nothing, he has another thing coming. I’ll leave this one with Anwen. They will be safe in the village.”

“How can you be so certain?” Salazar worriedly.

“Because Harry is not the only one who has put protections in place there,” Morgana answered, her silvery eyes glowing quite ominously in the moonlight.

(Break)

He eyed those that had gathered, and Harry couldn’t help but think if he had become something akin to the Tom Riddle of his own time and place. These men here followed him with an unwavering loyalty he couldn’t quite comprehend, even those that had only arrived in Godric’s Hollow a short while ago.

He too was disenchanted with how magical Britain functioned, but when he truly pondered it, he realised his motivations were much different to those of his former adversary.

Riddle sought only power, and Harry wished for nothing but peace and justice in an unjust world.

“We’re with you, Harry,” Claude assured him, gesturing to himself and the other slavers that had recently swelled the ranks of Harry’s men.

With the others from the village who would not be left behind, there was just over five hundred of them in all, many having fought on this very beach the last time the Irish came.

This time, however, they were not here in an attempt to take the land, but to punish Harry for what he had done on their shores.

He nodded as the men waited for his instructions, and as his gaze swept over the approaching ships, he felt such an overwhelming sense of protectiveness towards them and the very dirt beneath his feet.

“Then let us again remind them of why none will ever take this place for themselves,” he declared. “I’ll be back in just a moment,” he added thoughtfully, offering Owain a nod before taking to the sky.

If the Irish were spoiling for a fight, they had come to right place.

(Break)

Owain could only shake his head as he watched Harry hurling towards the incoming ships. He had taken to learning to fly the same way the man did, and could do it well enough, though not so well that he would take such a risk as to use it as a form of aerial attack.

“Archers,” he called, readying for the inevitable landing on the beach below. “The second they disembark, I want you to make it rain upon them.”

Those tsked with doing so readied themselves to fire volley upon volley of arrows from their bows, and Owain’s hands once more twitched towards his wand and sword.

“What did we miss?” Morgana asked as she, Godric, Salazar, and Helga arrived.

“Just Harry being Harry,” Owain snorted, pointing in the vague direction of his friend. “Ah. There he is,” he added as he watched one of the ships being suddenly engulfed in a sickly green fire.

Despite this, the Irish aboard the others were not deterred, and if anything, their approach became much faster, so much so that in less time than Owain had expected, they were spilling onto the sand having only lost one ship more.

“ARROWS!” he bellowed, waving his wand to ignite the tips.

There was something rather dangerously beautiful about seeing dozens of the fiery projectiles descending to the ground below, yet the proceeding screams were something he’d never get used to.

Still, the Irish pressed on, charging forward wielding their own wands and other weapons of a les refined nature.

“ARROWS!”

Another salvo followed, along with more screams soon after.

However, as expected, such a tact was not to last until all of their enemies had fallen. Although many had, their enemies would soon be out of sight and unable to be struck down similarly.

No, now was the time to engage them, and as Owain turned towards the men behind him, each had already drawn their sword in preparation of the inevitable order.

With a nod, he raised his own, feeling that same, cold magic flood his veins that always came when battle was upon him.

“FORWARD!” he roared, leading the charge as had the Peverells that came before him.

(Break)

It was with a sense of deja-vu that Harry removed his sword from the ground he had stabbed it into whilst he waited for his enemies to approach, much like he did when Riddle had attacked Hogwarts.

Still, this was not the school, but a place of equal importance to him, and as the first of the attacking Irish landed with a splash into the shallows waters, he raised his wand, only pause as he felt a magic he knew intimately wash over the sand beneath his feet.

He looked on with morbid curiosity as the first men off the ships charged forwards, only to be still as dozens of enormous spike shot from the ground, impaling several of them.

Shooting a glance towards the cliff above, he spotted Morgana, cutting quite impressive figure as she twirled her wand between her fingers.

With a shake of his head, he readied himself once more, and sprang into action the moment the spikes were destroyed by a myriad of spells to breech them.

Ducking beneath a wild swing of an axe, he all but cleaved the first of the attackers in two through the abdomen, spinning to avoid a thrust from a spear.

Dispatching of the second with an unavoidable blasting curse to the face, Harry cast a ring of fire around himself as the unmistakeable sound of his own men clashing with the invaders sounded.

Jumping through his own flames, he smashed the pommel of his sword into the skull of one of the Irishmen. The man collapsed with little more than a grunt, and Harry took a brief moment to breathe and survey the scene around him.

Despite the initial onslaught of arrows and Morgana’s efforts, they were still outnumbered, but they were fighting cohesively in groups, fending off the rather wild and disorganised efforts of the Irish.

The training he and Owain had put the men through was paying dividends, but the fighting was not over yet, and if they were to win decisively as Harry wished, he knew that a drawn-out battle would not be in their favour.

Pondering his next move, he nodded to himself as he removed the head of another attacker, and brought the elder wand to bear, wielding it as though it was a lasso to gather up some sand.

When he’d accumulated enough, he readied himself once more, his nostrils flaring as he spotted his first targets.

“Come Death, come,” he murmured gravely.

(Break)

He had almost forgotten what it was like to be in the heat of battle. The last time he found himself here, he’d almost been killed by the Dane Cnut, but it was like he’d never stopped fighting at all.

His reflexes remained as sharp as his blade, and his wand as familiar with the violence as he himself.

Thrusting his sword through the guts of an overzealous foe, he kicked the man away before lowering himself to the ground to relieve another of one of his legs.

Next to him, Godric was locked in battle with an enormous man who fought with an axe in each hand that would undoubtedly take someone of normal size to use both just for one.

It was a sudden influx of that cold magic he had grown accustomed to over the years that pulled him from his own bloodlust, and Owain’s eyes widened at the sight of the cloaked figure, much like the one he’d seen in the churchyard, formed from sand.

It swung its mighty scythe with practice eased, cleaving through swathes of the Irish, who quickly fled from its path.

Not that running proved to be so wise.

The figure continued to bear down on them and Harry followed, felling man after man unfortunate enough to be within striking range of his sword. Those who were not were quickly felled with spells that would only result in a miserable death.

“OWAIN!” Hook called.

The man was pinned down with only four others remaining from his group of ten, and Owain hurled himself forward into the mass of attackers, swinging his blade in a bid to free them.

He hissed in pain as a large gash was opened across his shoulder, but he managed to keep hold of his wand, though he found himself sent sprawling across the sand as screams rent the air.

His ears were ringing, and he could taste blood in his mouth, but the sight of Harry standing amongst a gathering of corpses, covered in blood made him forget his own discomfort immediately.

What he’d done, Owain could not be certain, but his eyes glowed an eerie white; not unlike the raven they’d seen that had squeaked its eerie warning.

It was quite the sight to behold, and as he raised his wand towards the taken aback Irish, a black fire erupted from the tip. Instead of immolating them, however, it passed through, leaving only desiccated corpses in its wake.

Upon seeing this, the Irish decided they would flee, only for most of the ships to explode in a shower of wood, torn fabric from the sails, and hot pieces of metal that sizzled in the damp sand.

Still, they held the advantage in numbers, and yet, their morale had been all but squashed from what they had witnessed.

“Drop your weapons,” Harry growled.

He too had not escaped the battle unscathed, though his wounds appeared to be rather minor.

Owain managed to push himself to his feet, wincing from the dull ache in his shoulder, and he breathed a sigh of relief as the attackers did as they were bid, each throwing their weapons down in defeat.

“I’m too old for this,” Godric murmured from his left, his breathing laboured as he favoured his left leg which had been cut deeply. “Still got the bastard though,” he added, nodding towards the larger man he’d been fighting with.

He was now bereft of one of his arms, and his head remained attached to his by only a few sinewy threads.

His death had not been clean, but much the same could be said for most who had perished here.

The sand was stained with blood, and limbs were scattered among the hundreds of dead.

Still, Owain took some comfort in seeing that most were the attackers, but even the loss of one of his men was unforgiveable.

Swallowing deeply, he approached the unmoving Harry, who was glaring at what remained of the Irish forces, grimacing as he felt the magic all but rolling off the man.

Cautiously, he placed a hand on the shoulder of his friend, whose eyes shifted back to their natural green.

Whatever had happened to him since the figure had answered their inadvertent summoning, he didn’t know, but it was an unnerving as it was reassuring when it came to what happened here tonight.

“What do we do with them?” Owain asked, nodding towards the unhappy Irish.

Harry’s nostrils flared.

“They will only attack again if given the chance,” he said gravely.

Owain nodded his agreement.

No matter how many times they were turned away, they always came back, whether it was only a year later or closer to ten, they never truly learned their lesson.

“We cannot keep them prisoner,” he pointed out.

“Who said anything about prisoners?” Harry returned callously. “We lost good men here, Owain, and they would’ve slaughtered us all with a second thought. Let us put an end to this once and for all.”

Harry was right.

Had the Irish triumphed here, they would’ve attacked the village, murdering and raping their way through the elderly, women and children there at their leisure.

He nodded his agreement, and Harry’s expression darkened.

“What do we do with them?”

“We send a message,” he murmured. “One they will not be able to forget. It is the only way to ensure they do not come back, a message to all who might think they can land here with ill intent. Save one of the ships, Owain. We will have need of it.”

He stepped forward and relieved the remaining Irish of the weapons they had dropped at their feet, stacking them into a large pile.

What he had planned, Owain could not be certain, but Harry was pulling no punches nor playing no games.

To him, this attack was personal, and whoever had ordered it would undoubtedly soon receive a reminder that it was foolish to cross the Crow, the Dragon slayer, or any other hated moniker that had been bestowed upon the man that stood before them once again victorious, yet as humble as he’d always been.