Heroes (Edit, Not Update)

Chapter 16 ~ Meetings

Dahlia gave Bluebell the day off and she and Hermione spent hours talking and getting to know a bit more about each other and their worlds. Dahlia was fascinated by Hermione’s stories about her early years at Hogwarts and the adventures she’d had as a child. She faced death at twelve years old, experiencing dangers that would have made any adult go weak in the knees. She certainly was an extraordinary woman, witch or not.

”It must have been wonderful to enter a world like this one, where wizards and witches formed a cohesive society, and there was legal redress, ruling bodies, organization,” Dahlia said wistfully. “There are no cities that are peopled by sorcerers in our world, no ‘Ministry’ to make laws and administer justice. It must have been so nice to be welcomed into such a society.”

Hermione sighed.

”You’d think so, but the wizarding world is no utopia, Dahlia. It has the same difficulties, weaknesses and prejudices of other societies. There are separations in class, distinctions made between one type of wizard and another,” Hermione said as they sipped tea.

”Types of wizards? What do you mean?” Dahlia asked her.

”Well, you have pureblood wizards and witches who come from purely magical bloodlines that go back for generations. They are considered the elite of our world. Then there are half-bloods who have one magical parent and one Muggle or non-magical parent, or . . . a Muggle-born parent, like me.”

”Muggle-born?” Dahlia pressed.

”A Muggle-born witch or wizard is a person who is born from two non-magical parents,” Hermione said, “basically, they are considered the bottom of the totem pole, although outright shunning is a thing of the past. Both of my parents are . . . normal. Neither of them have magic.”

Dahlia frowned.

”Surely they don’t discriminate against you, Hermione,” she said, unable to believe that the wizarding world had this kind of class system when it was clear they were all gifted with magic.

”Oh, not now. I’ve ‘proven’ myself, and attitudes have changed quite a bit, outwardly,” she said, a bit of ice in her voice. “But during Voldemort’s reign, all Muggle-borns were targeted. He believed in pureblood superiority and that people like me had no place in the wizarding world. Almost as if we were abominations.”

”Like we are to the clerics,” Dahlia replied. “I guess this Voldemort would have hated sorcerers as well. We’re always born to ordinary people. It is rare to have more than one sorcerer in a family, and rarer for sorcerers to have magical children. In fact, many of us never become parents because we are destined to outlive our offspring.”

”How long do sorcerers live? Wizards and witches can live up to the age of two hundred. Some live a bit longer,” she said.

”We can live five hundred years,” Dahlia said, “and our aging process goes dormant when we reach the age of thirty, then resumes in our late three or early four hundreds.”

Hermione blinked at Dahlia. So she would look as if she were only thirty for the next few centuries? Amazing. Witches and wizards had long life spans, but they still aged.

”That’s a long time,” she said softly, thinking such an existence had to be rather lonely and contained. They would have to find ways to conceal their youthfulness, possibly even fake their deaths and start new lives elsewhere, leaving everything behind. How hard that had to be.

”Yes. Yes it is,” Dahlia replied. “But, we need the time in order to stop this war. Maybe we can figure it out.”

”Why has it gone on so long, Dahlia?” Hermione asked her.

”Because sorcerers are not organized. Unlike you, we have no sorcerer societies. Our allegiances are tied to the land of our birth, and we are governed by those lands. There’s nothing to bring us together. Everything about our magic requires us to be independent and self-motivated. Finklenook Institute has only been in existence for two hundred years and is the only place sorcerers congregate, but even then it is competitive and we look to advancing ourselves and . . . and being remembered for our discoveries. This makes us even less social, afraid our research could be stolen and compromised,” the sorceress replied.

”But there has to be some unity. I mean, you do protect young sorcerers and train them,” Hermione said, “and you said there are groups who fight clerics.”

”It’s purely on a volunteer basis,” Dahlia said, “we recruit help and it isn’t easy. Most sorcerers look at us as troublemakers and upstarts. They want to know why we look for clerics and blame us for the escalation of cleric attacks in the past few years. But it isn’t us. It’s technology. It’s easier to communicate and find people now, and the clerics know how to use that technology effectively. But because of advances in science and technology and educational opportunities, our magic is more effective. Two centuries ago it was nearly impossible to create a functional living creature because we didn’t have the knowledge. As the sciences advanced, so did we. Today, we can create better weapons, better creatures, and better forms of transportation. We’re capable of standing up to the Antimage’s forces now . . . if only we could organize and access Damar, two things we’re unable to do at this point in time.”

Dahlia sounded quite frustrated, her brow furrowed and her eyes dark. Hermione sympathized. She placed a cautious hand on the sorceress’ shoulder comfortingly.

”Stay focused, Dahlia. Never stop believing that there’s a way to do what needs to be done,’ Hermione advised. “Many believed Voldemort could never be stopped, but he was. The clerics can be stopped too.”

Dahlia nodded, and the two women sat in silence for a few minutes before Hermione got an idea, something that might improve Dahlia’s spirits.

”Didn’t you say you and Artimus originally came here to visit London?” Hermione asked her.

”Yes, although Artimus came along under duress,” the sorceress replied, “he’s not wild about England. If an area doesn’t have something potentially dangerous snarling at him from the bush, it’s not worth visiting as far as Artimus is concerned.”

Hermione laughed.

”Well, how about I skive off work tomorrow and we visit London proper. That way your stay won’t be a total waste. I could show you about,” Hermione said enthusiastically. “A girl’s day out.”

Dahlia’s face lit up.

”I’d love to! Thank you, Hermione,” Dahlia said, then she frowned slightly.

“Somehow I don’t think Mr. Snape will take kindly to you ‘skivving off,’ she said, wrapping her mouth around the unfamiliar term, although its meaning was clear as day.

Hermione gave her a sly little smirk that Dahlia immediately recognized as the smirk of a woman who knew how to ‘handle her man.’

”Don’t worry about the Headmaster,” Hermione said confidently, “we’re going to London tomorrow. Believe me.”

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When Artimus and Kreacher arrived at the stables, Poppy was completing her daily examination of Steede’s leg, Hagrid standing by, petting the horse’s flank. Steede was now turned in the sling and facing the back wall. He was to be adjusted daily to protect him from getting lesions. Artimus hurried in, concern on his face as Poppy put her wand away. She saw the anxious sorcerer and smiled. He had such concern for his animal.

”How is he?” Artimus asked without the courtesy of a greeting. But Poppy understood.

”His leg is coming along nicely, Mr. Rogue, although he was a bit skittish about being turned in the sling. We had to use a Levicorpus spell, and well . . . he didn’t like it,” she said to the sorcerer as Steede snorted.

”Didn’t like it,” didn’t begin to describe how uncomfortable he felt. Hagrid just managed to avoid getting kicked by the horse’s good hind legs as he struggled mid-air and the giant rearranged his bindings.

”In two more days he’ll be off and running. It helps that he was in such good shape to start with. Obviously you take very good care of your animal, Mr. Rogue,” Poppy said with a smile.

”I appreciate your help, Madam Pomfrey. Steede is very important to me,” Artimus said to the medi-witch, lifting her hand and kissing the back of it gently.

Poppy drew her hand back, blushed and tittered as Artimus lifted an eyebrow at her.

”Oh my,” she said, flustered, and grabbing her medi-bag. “You’re very welcome, Mr. Rogue”.

She hurried out of the stable, Hagrid looking after her with a broad whiskery smile. Then he looked at Artimus with twinkling eyes.

”Yeh made ‘er day doing tha’,” the half-giant said, patting Steede on the flank. “I got ter go. Got class. Steede’ll be good as new, don’ yeh worry ‘bout it.”

”Thank you, Hagrid,” Artimus said to the huge wizard as he left the stable, greeting Kreacher on his way out. The old elf nodded at his acknowledgement. The Hagrid was always kind to him.

The moment Hagrid was out of earshot, Steede starting complaining.

”Artimus, I can’t wait to get out of here. They . . . they horse-handled me, had me dangling five feet off the ground with absolutely NO support! Horses aren’t made to ‘dangle.’ It was both frightening and humiliating,” the familiar said with a derogatory snort. “I feel sullied.”

Artimus grinned.

”Sullied? Oh, come on Steede. They were just helping you. You should be grateful. You know, a lot of horses in your condition end up in little tin cans with gravy,” the sorcerer told him.

”Yes. Just another sign of human mistreatment. The least they could give us is a proper burial,” Steede groused. “Instead, we’re canned and processed through some smelly canine’s digestive system. That’s gratitude for you.”

”Well, you don’t have to worry about that Steede. When the time comes, you will be buried with honors, I promise you,” Artimus told the horse, feeling a bit cold inside at the thought of losing him to time.

“Well, that’s a small comfort,” the horse snorted. “Where’s Dahlia? She hasn’t been to see me. I know I’m not that pompous construct she gallops around the realm with, but don’t I even warrant a “how are you doing?” I mean, I helped save her life too, you know.”

”I’m sure Dahlia will be in to see you, Steede. She’s just giving us a bit of space right now while learning all she can about this world,” Artimus replied, pulling out his wand and creating a padded bench to sit on. He sat down, reached into his pocket and pulled out a joint.

Steede’s nostrils flared immediately as he scented the pungent marijuana.

”Artimus! Where on earth did you find weed?” the horse demanded of him.

Artimus ran his lips over the small, rolled cigarette, moistening it slightly before tearing off a bit of the twisted end and inserting it into his mouth. His dark eyes shifted to Kreacher, who moved a bit closer. He always had liked the smell of the herb when it was burned. His master Regulus Black smoked it from time to time, as did Bellatrix, although hers had a strange, acrid odor to it . . . as if something had been added. He didn’t like that scent much at all. He was right not to like it as the additive was specially treated Deadly Nightshade which made the smoker experience hallucinations and visions.

”My concierge Kreacher acquired it for me. He works magic in more ways than one,” Artimus replied, the joint bobbing between his lips as he pulled out a Zippo lighter and lit it. He drew in luxuriously, removing the joint from his mouth and studying it as he held the smoke for a moment, then exhaled.

A sense of peace and mellowness settled over him as Kreacher sniffed the air appreciatively. Artimus’ gleaming eyes flicked over to the house elf for a moment, then he offered the joint to him.

”Have some?” he asked.

Kreacher’s ears flattened at first as he looked at the smoking cigarette. No one had ever offered him any of the sweet-smelling herb before, and he slowly reached out and took the joint from the sorcerer, looking at it before inserting it between his lips and drawing in carefully, holding the smoke as he saw Artimus do. In a moment, his bat-like ears began to flutter and his eyes grew bright as he exhaled. He actually smiled as he handed the joint back to Artimus.

”I likes that,” Kreacher said in a clear squeaky voice with no hint of croak at all.

Both Steede and Artimus looked at him in shock before the sorcerer nearly fell off the bench with laughter.

This was definitely good weed.

***********************************

At seven o’clock precisely, Kreacher took Artimus to the Grinning Gargoyle that guarded the entrance to the Headmaster’s office. Both he and the sorcerer were back to their normal state, having smoked three of the four joints, then munching out on treats from Hogwarts kitchen. Kreacher made quite a stir among the other elves when he spoke to them as he collected food in a big basket.

”What happens to your voice?” one elf inquired as the others gathered around him.

”What? Nothing happens to my voice,” Kreacher squeaked back at him, scowling as he winked out with the food.

The house elves looked at one another.

”Kreacher smells like the Filch,” another elf said, shaking his head as the scent of weed lingered.

The elves returned to work preparing for supper. They weren’t sure what Kreacher was up to, but they’d keep his secret. Besides, he was much nicer than usual. Normally, the house elf was bad-tempered and surly, snapping at the others to stay out of his way. He didn’t do that this time.

Maybe he’d keep up whatever it was he was doing.

Artimus studied the Grinning Gargoyle and the deep gouges in the stone. He looked about and didn’t see a door or an office

”Why are we here, Kreacher?” he asked the elf.

”This is the way to the Headmaster’s office,” Kreacher croaked, his bullfrog voice fully restored.

Suddenly, the gargoyle leapt aside, Artimus pulling his wand in reaction as he stared at the statue, which had gone stiff again. The wall it blocked suddenly grew a seam, the wall dividing into two sliding doors that opened, revealing a stone spiral staircase that slowly corkscrewed downward.

Artimus watched as Severus Snape appeared, standing stiffly as the staircase ground to a halt, the dark wizard facing the sorcerer, his black eyes flicking toward his drawn wand.

”Have you come to visit or to duel, Mr. Rogue?” he asked with a slight glitter in his eyes.

Artimus put his wand away.

”Your living statue startled me,” the sorcerer said, eyeing the gargoyle, which stood unmoving.

”To the uninitiated, I imagine it would have that effect,” Snape purred. “Come join me on the stairwell, Mr. Rogue. Kreacher you are relieved of your duties for the time being. You will be summoned when Mr. Rogue is to depart.”

”Yes, Headmaster,” Kreacher replied, bowing and winking out.

Artimus joined Severus on the landing and the spiral staircase began winding upward. He saw the gargoyle leap back into its original position before the walls closed.

Snape’s large nostrils pulsated a bit as he stood beside the sorcerer. He narrowed his eyes slightly.

”Mr. Rogue, you have the distinct odor of Filch on your person,” he observed.

Artimus’ brow furrowed.

”Filch?”

”Yes. Argus Filch. Our caretaker and Dungeon Master,” Severus replied, arching an eyebrow at him.

”I haven’t met him,” the sorcerer said, looking upward at the high ceiling of the tower as they rose.

”By the scent of you, Mr. Rogue, I believe that despite not meeting him, you have acquainted yourself with his stash,” the Headmaster replied, a small smirk on his face.

”Oh,” Artimus said shortly.

So that’s where Kreacher got the weed. Whoever Filch was, one thing was for certain . . .

He had great taste in marijuana.

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A/N: So Artimus and Snape are going to have a little sit-down and Hermione and Dahlia are off to Muggle London on the morrow. What do you suppose will happen there? Heh heh. Anyway, thanks for reading.