Heroes (Edit, Not Update)

Chapter 8 ~ A Truce of Sorts

Bluebell and Kreacher returned with the food requested. Bluebell returned first. Dahlia’s honeydew melon was succulent and sweet, at the perfect point of ripeness. She pulled a copy of “Wizards and Witches of Note,” sat down and began reading while enjoying her melon. She’d take a bath after she finished eating.

Kreacher reappeared about three minutes later.

”Kreacher returns with the Rogue-things food,” the house elf muttered in his bullfrog voice, offering the plate and cup to Artimus, who frowned blackly.

”What the hell is this? I can’t eat this! It isn’t cooked!” the sorcerer snarled at the house elf.

Indeed there were two running raw eggs and several pieces of raw bacon on the plate, although the coffee smelled delicious.

”The thing musts be more specific. Kreacher cannot read its thoughts. It wants eggs, bacon. Kreacher brings eggs, bacon. Kreacher does his service,” the elf muttered.

”Take it back and bring me cooked eggs and cooked bacon, and I don’t want them burned!” Artimus said to the elf, taking the coffee from him.

Kreacher bowed, gave him a withering look and winked out.

Dahlia had been laughing but quickly shut up when Artimus frowned at her, while Bluebell looked at the wizard with flattened ears.

”If you think he’s so funny, maybe you should take Kreacher,” the sorcerer said to her.

Dahlia shook her head.

”No way. He’s your house elf,” she said.

”Hopefully, not for long,” Artimus muttered, plopping into an armchair, scowling.

His stomach growled.

Suddenly, Dahlia sat up, staring at the book.

”Artimus, Kreacher’s in here,” she said in disbelief.

Artimus looked around the room.

”I hope he brought me a decent meal,” he said darkly.

Dahlia shook her head and rose from the chair, walking over to Artimus and kneeling beside him, tapping the book she was reading.

”He’s in here, Artimus. He’s a war hero!” she said to the sorcerer.

Artimus looked and indeed there was Kreacher looking baleful, the locket of Regulus Black around his neck.

Both sorcerer and sorceress read Kreacher’s Tale, which had carefully been recounted by Harry Potter. At the Final Battle it had been Kreacher who led the Hogwarts house elves into battle against the Dark Lord’s forces. Artimus and Dahlia didn’t know who the Dark Lord was, but it was clear Kreacher had played a vital part in his downfall.

”He’s a hero, Artimus, and they have him acting as a servant. No wonder he’s so unpleasant,” Dahlia said to the sorcerer, who looked thoughtful. It seemed a terrible way to reward the elf’s service. How unfair was this world?

Kreacher returned with Artimus’ breakfast, now properly cooked and offered it to Artimus, who took it and said, “Thank you, Kreacher.”

Kreacher looked up at him, but didn’t say anything. Just stood there sullenly, waiting for more commands.

Artimus studied him, then put his meal down on the coffee table.

”Kreacher, I’ve just learned you are a war hero,” he said to the elf. “I don’t understand why these people would make you serve others when you’ve done so much for them. But, I respect who you are and what you’ve done. We are facing a war in our own world and many have been sacrificed. It is an honor to meet a true hero, and I will try not to have you do too much for me. I think it is . . . demeaning.”

Kreacher looked up at him. It had been a long time since anyone acknowledged him as a hero.

“And I am sorry I spoke so harshly of you,” the sorcerer added. “Please, forgive me for that. I would have never done so if I knew who you were and what you accomplished for this world. I am very sorry.”

Artimus really was a decent sort, and he hated injustice of any kind. He didn’t understand that house elves lived to do service. Kreacher being in this position just seemed unfair to the sorcerer.

Kreacher stared at Artimus. He had apologized to him and acknowledged him as a hero.

”What . . . what is you called if not Muggle or wizard?” the house elf asked him.

”I’m a sorcerer. I have magic, just not magic like you are used to. I come from someplace else and am here by accident,” Artimus replied. “First I was attacked and then my horse was badly injured. Now I’m being forced to stay at Hogwarts for four days until he’s healed and was already angry when I met you because I would like to go home. I would have been angry no matter how good your service.”

Kreacher nodded. He understood about wanting to go home. Even now he missed Grimauld Place although it wasn’t the same anymore. He blinked up at Artimus.

”Sorcerer. Sorcerer Rogue is your name. Kreacher will uses it,” the house elf said, his entire demeanor changing. “But Kreacher gives good service to Sorcerer Rogue. That is a house elf’s purpose.”

”I don’t want to take advantage of you, Kreacher,” Artimus said to the elf, who gave him a half smile.

”You shows Kreacher respect. Respect is rare. Everyone is ‘Kreacher do this’ and ‘Kreacher do that’ not caring anymore. I will serves you well, Sorcerer Rogue. Whatever you needs I will provides,” Kreacher promised.

Dahlia’s eyes watered a little. Poor little guy. So underappreciated.

Artimus started to bring the cup of coffee to his lips.

”No!” Kreacher cried, flicking a finger at it and making it fly out of Artimus’ hand.

Artimus’ brow furrowed as Kreacher magically emptied the cup.

”Kreacher puts one very large sugar in the coffee,’ the house elf said apologetically. “I will gets more.”

Kreacher had added two thirds of a cup of sugar to the coffee. Artimus would have been on a sugar high the moment he took one sip.

The house elf winked out to get him a proper cuppa.

And that was how Artimus Rogue and Kreacher reached an understanding.

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”The Headmaster is in here too, Artimus. There are four pages about him,” Dahlia said, leafing through the book, “and Hermione Granger is in here as well. They’re both war heroes.”

”What’s it say about Snape?” Artimus asked curiously as he chewed his bacon.

”That he served as a double agent for something called “The Order of the Phoenix” for almost thirty years,” Dahlia said, scanning the text “He provided information that saved many lives, and was forced to take the life of a former Hogwarts Headmaster named Albus Dumbledore on the wizard’s orders. Snape was hunted for his death by everyone on the side of light. He provided aid to someone named Harry Potter who was destined to meet the Dark Lord and destroy him. Without Snape’s help it would have never happened.”

Artimus listened.

”Many people believed him to be a traitor and he wasn’t trusted by many. It also says he was often tortured to the point of death and had to be pieced back together, and yet he never faltered in returning to the tyrant who treated him so badly. At the Final Battle he was almost killed, the Dark Lord turning on him and allowing his snake to bite him. Hermione Granger saved him by giving him a blood transfusion.”

“Nearly thirty years as a spy,” Artimus said thoughtfully. “that’s a long time. No wonder he’s so unpleasant . . .”

”He might be unpleasant, but he’s a courageous man, Artimus. One worthy of respect,” she said softly. “I wish we had someone like that to help us against the Antimage.”

”Ours is a different kind of war, Dahlia, and a very old one. There is no way a sorcerer could infiltrate the ranks. They would be found out immediately. Clerics are raised in Damar, and they kill any sorcerers born there. The Antimage has no mercy even for his own people.”

”Yes, I suppose it is different,” Dahlia said sadly. “Although the deaths and misery are the same.”

”But we’re working on it Dahlia. The plans we are developing could open a way to Damar. If we could enter Damar, we might be able to raze it to the ground,” Artimus said.

Dahlia sighed.

”But we have no army, Artimus. You know sorcerers rarely work together. No one would join a magical army. They’d rather meet the clerics when they encounter them. Some sorcerers never run across them in their lifetimes. To them it’s hit or miss. As long as they survive, they don’t care about anyone else.”

”There are the other Protector groups, Dahlia. When the time comes and the plan is completed, we can send an emissary to ask for their aid. Perhaps they will join us,” Artimus said soothingly.

Dahlia didn’t say anything. The Protector groups didn’t associate with one another at all. They ran independent of each other and consisted of volunteers. And there was no magical government that handled sorcerer affairs. Almost all of them lived in the normal world, with the exception of those that attended Finklenook, which was in the magical realm and the few that homesteaded the magical land, like Matilda Hagg and Rubin Fezwig.

Feeling rather glum now, Dahlia closed the book, intending on reading more later.

”I’m going to take a bath, Artimus,” she told the sorcerer, who nodded.

”I’m going to go check on Steede,” Artimus replied, then looked at Kreacher.

”You don’t have to come, Kreacher. I can find my way back to the stables,” he said to the house elf, who firmly shook his head.

”Kreacher must stays with Sorcerer Rogue. It is my duty. Kreacher can takes you faster than walking,” the elf said, catching Artimus by the hand and disappearing with the startled sorcerer.

Dahlia looked at the empty space with round eyes, then down at Bluebell.

”What just happened?” she asked the little elf, who smiled.

”They goes. That is how house elves travels. We comes and goes,” she replied, “now I will draw the Miss’ bath.”

Bluebell trotted into the bedroom, then into the bathroom

”They just goes. Amazing,” Dahlia said, following Bluebell into the bathroom, pulling up her tunic as she walked.

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After making out a tentative schedule for her meeting with her Gryffindors for next week, Hermione grabbed a copy of “Hogwarts a History” and returned to the dungeon area to see how Dahlia and Artimus were getting on.

She knocked on the door.

”Come in,” Dahlia called.

Hermione entered the room and found Dahlia seated at the desk, reading. Bluebell sat on the floor next to the desk, and nodded at the Headmistress as she entered. Dahlia was now dressed in a light blue, beaded cotton blouse with long, rather swishy sleeves, and her hair was pulled back and braided into a long brown braid that hung halfway down her back. Hermione couldn’t see it, but she also wore a long, light floral skirt and sandals. Wooden bracelets hung on both wrists, and she wore a long beaded necklace made of wood, the beads interspersed with tiny elephants. She looked up at Hermione and smiled.

”I see Bluebell brought you clothing,” Hermione said, looking at the sorceress. She liked the way she looked, kind of retro and hippieish. It was evident Dahlia went for the natural look.

”Yes, and exactly what I asked for, although I had to describe it in detail,” Dahlia responded, looking at Hermione curiously.

Hermione looked around.

”Where is Mr. Rogue?” she inquired.

”Down at he stables with Steede and Kreacher,” Dahlia replied.

”Oh,” Hermione said, looking rather uncomfortable. “I’m afraid he’s going to be stuck with Kreacher for the duration of his stay. The Headmaster did not want to reassign him.”

To her surprise Dahlia smiled at this.

”That will be fine with Artimus,” she said shortly.

Hermione looked incredulous.

”Are you sure? He wasn’t very happy with Kreacher when I left earlier. I thought he’d prefer another elf,” Hermione said, wondering what was going on here.

Was Artimus some kind of masochist who liked being mistreated by the help?

”Well, that was before we found out that Kreacher is a war hero. But I can’t blame him for not being friendly. Why do you treat him the way you do, making him do menial labor? He deserves more than that,” Dahlia said in a disapproving voice, her hazel eyes darkening at the perceived unfairness.

”Oh, we don’t make the house elves work, Miss Joiner. It is their nature to provide service. Every house elf lives to find a good master and provide service for the rest of their lives. They take great pride in it,” Hermione explained.

”Are they paid?” Dahlia asked.

”No. They’re bound to service,” the witch said, swallowing a bit. She knew how it sounded to the sorceress, like it did to her years ago. Enslavement.

”Bound? You mean Kreacher is a slave?” Dahlia asked, openly frowning now. She knew Hogwarts was a bit medieval, but had no idea it was this backwards. Slavery?

”No, no he’s not a slave, believe me,” Hermione said hastily, then she explained the history of house elves, how they were once warlike creatures, powerful and destructive who waged war on human wizard and almost defeated them. But the elves were defeated and bound into servitude. Eventually, they learned to like it, because before there was work, there was always war and death. When they weren’t fighting humans, they were fighting other tribes and among themselves. They had actually been dying out because of this in-fighting. A very popular saying among the elves was “If there be’s no work, then there be’s no elves.” They truly believed work helped them to survive as a race and for the most part were grateful for the change of lifestyle.

Dahlia still wasn’t sure if this explanation were true and looked down at Bluebell, who had been listening and nodding as Hermione told her history.

”Bluebell,” Dahlia said to the little elf, “would you like to be free?”

Dahlia was startled by the look of horror on the little elf’s face.

”Oh no, Miss! Oh no! Bluebell never wants clothes, Miss, never wants to be free!” the elf squeaked in a horrified voice, trembling.

Dahlia blinked at her.

”Clothes?” she said, confused.

”When a master frees a house elf, he gives it clothing of its own as a symbol of it. Most house elves believe it is a great shame to receive clothes and be cast out of their Master’s house. I only knew of one house elf that desired freedom and got it, living happily and receiving pay for his work. His name was . . . Dobby,” Hermione said, her eyes becoming a bit wet at recalling the loyal house elf who gave his life to rescue them so long ago.

Bluebell looked a bit ashamed about Dobby. To the house elves, he was no role model and believed to be a bit . . . insane. Kicked one too many times by Lucius Malfoy.

Dahlia slowly shook her head.

”This is one strange world where creatures love to be slaves. It sounds a bit like they’ve been overly subjugated to me,” she said to Hermione.

Hermione smiled.

”You know, when I was a student here, I felt the same way. I actually started a group called S. P. E. W. It stood for ‘Society for the Promotion of Elfish Welfare.’ I had buttons and everything, but not many people were interested in joining, although I forced in a couple of members. I wanted the house elves to be free and receive pay.”

Bluebell looked up at Hermione with undisguised horror. She did what?

”I even used to hide clothes around Gryffindor Tower, little hats I’d make, so they would find them and be freed. They ended up refusing to clean our tower,” Hermione said. “Even Hagrid who loves all kinds of creatures told me to leave them alone. Finally I realized it was a lost cause and gave up. I couldn’t force freedom on them.”

”SPEW?” Dahlia said, disbelievingly. “You actually called it SPEW? That’s hilarious.”

She started laughing as Hermione turned red.

”Well, the acronym had to spell out something catchy,” she murmured, which just made Dahlia laugh harder as Hermione stood there, crimson-colored.

Finally, Dahlia stopped and looked at her red face.

”I’m sorry. It’s just it was funny,” Dahlia said apologetically wiping her eyes. Then she looked at the book Hermione carried. It was large.

”What’s that?” she asked the witch.

”Oh. It’s ‘Hogwarts, a History.’ It will tell you all about the school, how it was founded, who ran it, information about former Headmasters, teachers, students etc. It’s very interesting reading,” Hermione said, putting it on the desk and sliding it over to Dahlia, who suddenly became sober.

”The book I’ve been reading is very interesting too,” she said to Hermione, respect in her eyes. “You’re in there. You’re a hero who helped bring down the Dark Lord with Harry Potter.”

Hermione flushed.

”That was a long time ago,” she said, “and I didn’t do that much. I just helped.”

”Just helped. You went through quite a bit . . . being captured and tortured by the enemy, hiding out while Death Eaters searched all over for you, saving Professor . . . Headmaster Snape,” Dahlia said softly. “I’m honored to meet you. We have no recognized war heroes where I’m from, though clerics are constantly engaged and sorcerers saved.”

”You’re involved in a war, Dahlia?” Hermione asked.

Dahlia nodded.

”Yes. It’s been going on for two thousand years,” the sorceress said sadly.

”Two thousand years! Dear gods . . . that’s two millennia! How could a war last that long, and why doesn’t anyone know about it?” she asked the sorceress, both horrified and intrigued.

“It’s a long story and started by a misunderstanding really. It began back in the time of the occupation of Jerusalem. There was a sorcerer named Cletus who misled people into believing he could resurrect the dead, when he could only heal very ill people who had slipped into a coma and were presumed dead. He knew he wasn’t raising them, but enjoyed all the attention and wealth being piled on him, so although he never said he actually resurrected them, he didn’t say he didn’t. He acquired a ring from someplace that gave him the healing power. Legend has it he stole it off a stranger, but the writings are sketchy.”

”So, what was the misunderstanding?” Hermione pressed.

Dahlia sighed and continued.

”A man was crucified by the Romans who had a lot of zealous followers, and they came to Cletus demanding he resurrect him . . . Cletus refused, trying to use the prophecy about the man to get out of it, but his refusal made the zealots angry and they tried to kill him and take his ring, saying only someone in cahoots with the Dark Powers of the world would refuse to do such an act. Cletus was hunted and eventually killed, his ring taken and war declared on all sorcerers as a result by the zealots who dedicated all their generations wiping us off the face of the earth. It didn’t matter that the prophecy was true and the man rose on his own, because the zealots missed the whole thing, they were so focused on finding Cletus. By the time they returned to Jerusalem, he was gone. And this made them furious and they blamed sorcerers. If they had remained faithful and waited, everything would have been fine. They never trusted the prophecy and so made sorcerers their scapegoats.”

”That’s terrible,” Hermione intoned, shaking her head as Dahlia went on.

“Eventually, the zealots broke off from the rest of the followers, relocated to a protected area and formed the City of Damar, where they practiced their own twisted faith. They’ve been as good as their word, developing a way to enter the magical world and ways to identify us in the normal world. We have no way of identifying them. They are human and many live in the normal world, having jobs, driving, co-existing with other humans, but always on the lookout for sorcerers. When they find them, they take them to Damar and often kill their families.”

Hermione was fascinated.

“But why do they kill their families? Aren’t they sorcerers too?” Hermione inquired, thinking the magic was passed down genetically, like in their world.

”No. A sorcerer can be born to anyone, and there’s no guarantee a sorcerer’s child will have magic. It’s kind of hit or miss. Usually there’s only one per family when they are born. There are volunteers among us that comb the hospitals and schools looking for these children and we cast protective spells to hide their signatures from the clerics, who also linger around these places, hoping to get to them before we do. After we protect them, we periodically check on them until they reach the age of thirteen, when we collect them and take them to ‘camp’ where we teach them the basics of using their magic. Then they are left to educate themselves so they can become more efficient at using it. If they manage to get a few degrees under their belt, then they try to gain entrance to Finklenook, where they can experiment with magic in a controlled environment and access the latest developments and research, while contributing to magical knowledge.”

”What, there are no schools to teach the children?” Hermione asked, amazed.

Dahlia shook her head.

”Sorcery is a lonely pursuit. Unlike you, we have to learn how a thing is put together before we can create it, which is why we all have degrees in various fields. And our creation magic is governed by the Rule of Seven. The most a creation can last is seven days, and only seven of the same object can be created at one time. Of course we can make them of shorter duration if we choose. Then are spells that are proactive, such as blast, lift, move and others which don’t require anything more than the order to be given. But the ability to create temporary constructs is very important to us.”

”The Rule of Seven. That’s why Hagrid’s bonds disappeared when they were in prolonged contact with you. Your rules of magic kicked in, and since Hagrid’s magic wasn’t strengthened by knowledge, it couldn’t maintain itself. It also explains why our spells didn’t affect you the way they do us. This is absolutely fascinating, Miss Joiner.”

Imagine, a school full of brilliant sorcerers, all working toward the improvement of magic. To Hermione, that sounded like heaven. There weren’t even universities in the magical world.

”No more fascinating than a world where witches and wizards can just create things without knowing how they function, only that they do,” Dahlia said in response.

”We really need to sit down and talk. I’d love to know more about your world,” Hermione said excitedly.

”I see you like to learn,” Dahlia replied, smiling. “You would have made a good sorceress. I’d like to read a bit more about your world before we do that, so I can have a few questions of my own answered.”

”Fair enough,” Hermione replied with a bright smile. Knowledge was afoot.

Witch and sorceress stared at each other in silence for a few seconds, then Hermione decided to take the plunge with a tentative offer of friendship in the form of an invitation.

”Dahlia, would you like to come to supper with me in the Great Hall? We have excellent food and you could see our students close up,” Hermione offered.

Dahlia considered. More than likely Artimus wouldn’t leave Steede until nightfall. He doted on that horse. It was better than eating alone, and the sorceress was very hungry.

”Do you have green tea?” she asked as they exited her rooms.

”I’m sure it can be provided, although you might want to try our pumpkin juice. It’s very good,” Hermione suggested.

Hm. Pumpkin juice. Dahlia wondered if it tasted anything like carrot juice, which she loved.

Once in the Great Hall and seated at the staff table alongside Hermione, she cautiously sniffed, then lifted a glass full of the thick, orange liquid to her lips . . .

Blech!

It didn’t.

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A/N: Had to do more background and a bit of connecting between Dahlia and Hermione as well as give the background to the war. Thanks for reading.