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Chapter Text

 IT was, at first, a strange place to be. Mrs. Baird’s was a quiet establishment, and very old at that, open since the roaring twenties. But Holly doubted Inverness would have been all that lively in such times. The city was hardly any size at all compared to the vast streets and towns that made up London as a whole. But the bed-and-breakfast, oddly enough, reminded Holly all too much of home.

There was hardly anything left of Hogwarts by the time Voldemort had been defeated, and the golden and red colours that were crafted elegantly across the long drapes and painted walls were a comfort. The owner, Miss Hamilton, the great grandaughter of the late Mrs. Baird was a pleasant girl, and only a few years older than Holly, herself. 

Miss. Hamilton truly was lovely, but more often than not, reminded Holly far too much of Hermione. 

“You can’t go out in that weather, Lady Peverell. It's pouring cats and dogs out there!” Never more had Holly regretted taking up the name Peverell to escape from her past, how was she to know the blasted vault was an esteemed Imperial   house? Let alone that it came with a ladyship, which was rather obvious to most with the massive hunk of gold that rested on her fingers. As it were, House Peverell was generously popular amongst the Scots. For reasons that Holly knew not. 

Lady Peverell was a title that was far more than a curse, it followed her wherever she went. And as a witch, she could not take her oath back as the lady of her House. Peverell had been the means of changing her identity, a new beginning. One, in the end, which had become not what she wished for. A burden perhaps. The moment she had placed that ring on her finger, it was her duty to be a Peverell. And only a Peverell. A blessing with a curse. 

“You know my name,” stated Holly with a raised brow. “You recognised the name Peverell. I noticed.” And she truly had, Miss Hamilton had stared at her in wide wonder, reminding her far too much of the young children that had died amongst the ruins of Hogwarts. Ash and rubble. They, too, had been in awe at such a name as Potter. It settled bitterly in her stomach. “How did you know?” Holly asked. 

Miss Hamilton, for that was all Holly knew her as. The young woman hadn’t wished to speak of her first name, “It must only be Miss Hamilton to you, my lady.” Holly had thought it strange at first, and even now, she still considered it to be. Hamilton tucked a stray blonde curl behind her ear, nervously shifting from one foot to the other. She did that a lot. 

“The Peverells were old friends of the Clans, for hundreds of years,” Hamilton had smiled stiffly. As if she were unsure that such things were to be spoken off. Perhaps it was taboo? But, surely not, for whatever reason would it be so? 

“The Clans?” Blinked Holly in bewilderment. She knew there were some left in the wizarding world, especially the McGonagalls’. She had read about them in the library at first, the swords and shields of men. Even her Professor had puffed her chest in pride when she had caught the book Holly had been enthralled in. There was, of course, the Peverell Tribe. Holly had never been able to put her fingers on that, they had neither been a Clan or Scottish. It had, more often than not, left her in wonder. It was because of her fondness for the lands of Scotland that she had decided to travel, to see more. And Holly wouldn’t lie to herself, it was her desire to see the lands of Inverness where the Peverells’ had once travelled. Holly, herself, could almost be considered Scottish. She had the accent, but that would mostly be attributed to growing up in the prosperous lands of Loch Arkaig. Where Hogwarts had once stood, not that there was much left of it. 

“Well, there was Armstrong, Campbell, Fraser, Gordon, MacGregor, and Mackenzie. There were, of course, around sixty of them. But I can hardly count them all! The Peverells, your family, that is… they were named a Tribe by the Clans because eventually each Clan had a Peverell serving them. Helping,” Hamilton leaned forward with a wicked smirk tugging at her lips. “They say the Peverells were sorcerers, and were bound by magic to help the Scots.”

“M-Magic?” Spluttered Holly nervously. For that was far too close to the truth, more than she liked. 

“Mhmm, there’s plenty of that in these parts. Especially surrounding your bunch, descendants of the High Kings of Ireland and all that nonsense. But, I mean,” she shrugged. “If you believe in all that stuff you should come to the feast tonight. We’re having it in the Hall. For Lùnastal. Mrs Ross brings the best rosemary shortbread, you won’t have it any better. I tried to bake it myself once, you know, set my kitchen on fire. Er— not that it’ll happen again, my lady. Don’t worry, you’re perfectly safe in these rooms at Mrs. Baird’s. No safer place than here!” 

Miss Hamilton smiled softly, Holly couldn’t help but be reassured at the soft kindness that rested in those blue eyes of hers. 

“I sure hope so, Miss Hamilton. I do quite like my room, it is rather lovely.” 

The owner beamed, patting her hand kindly. “You’re a right english rose, aren’t you? All proper and lady-like.” 

Holly snorted in disbelief. She could hardly see it herself, with bony fingers and a long nose. She was hardly what one would call beautiful or graceful, let alone lady-like. 

“ I’m sorry to disappoint you, but my time is rather spent adventuring than sipping from cups of tea like any proper lady.”

And it was true, Holly had spent most of her years in the Highlands, roaming through the woods and up over hills, the sight of Hogwarts from the highest point was a marvellous thing to be seen, indeed.

Hermione’s, however, were more than likely spent in the library, nourishing the mind, and when there was time, having tea with those that she considered dear friends. As this was something she had picked up from her own parents, who much to Hermione’s chagrin, were from the heights of middle-upper class and held far more wealth than the likes of the Dursleys’. 

“If that’s the case, you should make your way to Craigh na Dun. They practiced rituals up there for two thousand years, it’s a fascinating place. Never been myself, my Ma wouldn’t allow it.” She grinned slyly. “She always said it was too dangerous.”

Holly glanced at her in amusement. “Why is it so dangerous?”

“Oh, back in the day, people went missing up there all the time. People said the fairies stole people through the rocks. Mind, not that StoneHenge is any better…” 

“People disappeared at StoneHenge?”

“Yeah,” laughed Miss Hamilton. “My Ma was always going on about it. The last case was around sixty years ago, in the thirties I think. His brother said he was there one moment then gone the next! It was all over the papers, and everything. People called him mad, but you never know. Magic is a funny thing.”

“Never heard of that ,” mumbled Holly. “Has anyone gone missing from the,” she frowned hesitantly. “What was it again?”

Miss Hamilton nodded. “Craigh na Dun. There was a girl in the forties, or so my Ma said. Straight after the war, a nurse, I think. Claire was her name, like the rest, she was there one day and then she was gone. Never to be seen again.” 

It was a rather fascinating thought, and the kind that had  her heart jumping at the thought of visiting such a place. But then, it was to be expected from Holly Potter of all people, her attraction to danger was downright ridiculous.   

“My Ma’s grandma talked about her quite a bit. She was visiting with her husband, I think. A Professor. A sad story is what it is. So, lass, if you do go up there be careful.” 

Holly blinked in bewilderment, but the wide grin stretched far across her lips spoke greatly of her character and all the trouble she was sure to arouse. 

“I will,” promised Holly. And even as she said it, the vow felt hollow. But it was in her blood, she knew that James Potter held little regard to the rules and had only drawn trouble to himself like nobody else. There wasn’t much to be said on her mother, but alas, the only man that had truly known her so well was Severus Snape. And well, Holly had never favoured him of all people in the slightest. Snape, above all men, was a right git. 

“Why do I have a feeling you're going to go out looking for trouble?” Asked Miss Hamilton with a wry grin on her lips. Little did the bed-and-breakfast owner know how true that was. Holly laughed, claiming that a little trouble here and there was the only thing that kept her life interesting. And in a sense, it was. While her friends, Hermione and Ron, had been able to settle down and focus on helping the Wizarding World get it’s affairs in order, Holly had done quite the opposite. 

Holly had always had the particular habit of getting into trouble, even when she had been the freak-child that roamed the woods in Little Whinging. The woodlands themselves covered a vast area, and held beautiful towering green trees that hovered over most of the village, and it was these that Holly had the habit of climbing. More often than not to visit the small little birds, that were, in the end, far better company than her own Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon. Holly had always possessed the natural magical talent of conversing with animals, whether it be birds or snakes alike. Of course, wandering through the woods often led her returning home covered in dirt and leaves, which in the neighbourhood they had lived in was frowned upon. The Dursley’s may not have held much wealth, but they possessed enough. A certain amount that allowed them to live in a small wealthy village that had cottage after cottage. Two stories and yet, so incredibly charming. 

“Why, Miss Hamilton, I am trouble,” giggled Holly. And truly, all she had to think of was her Hogwarts school years to know that this was very much the truth. “I'm afraid it’s in my blood. My father was far worse.” 

So I’m told… 

“I’m sure you are, lassie.” Said Miss Hamilton with equal charm. “Just remember, don’t touch the stones. Or something like that, so says my Ma.” 

“Now I want to touch the stones,” grumbled Holly under her breath. 

It was pure temptation. Holly, in truth, didn’t quite know what Craigh na Dun was. But she could only assume it was something all that similar to StoneHenge. Which was a beautiful sight all on its own, Aunt Petunia had taken her to see it once. Or, Dudley had demanded to go, and since there was nobody else to look after her, Holly had been dragged along. And even now, when the summer breeze blew through the small window, there was a chill that settled in her spine at the thought of those tall towering rocks. Standing proudly at around thirteen feet high, which truly was a remarkable feat. 

“Ah,” smiled Miss Hamilton, who appeared to have heard her. “I probably shouldn’t have said that.” 

“Yeah,” sighed Holly. “Maybe. I can’t promise you anything, I’m of the curious nature. Blame it on my Gryffindor tendencies. No control, but alas—“

Hamilton jolted up in shock, pale blue eyes wide in dismay. “Gryffindor? You’re related to House Gryffindor?!” 

Holly flinched. “Technically. On my Dad’s side, my Ma’s family was welsh. Her grandfather moved down from Brecon.” 

And they had, much to her Aunt Petunia’s dismay who had often grumbled about it. Claiming, god-forbid, what anyone would think if they found out she was welsh of all things! Why that would be a problem, Holly never knew. But then, she had always known her aunt was a little barmy. 

“As in Godric Gryffindor?” 

Holly breathed in shock, how did a Muggle possibly know such a name as that!

Miss Hamilton began to tell a tremendous tale of a man named Godric Gryffindor who had been around these parts a thousand years ago, a friend of the Clans, and the nephew of a Scotsman, his own mother having come from Arygll. He had, much to Holly’s bewildered amusement, fought in the Battle of Carham. Although the Clans at that time weren’t as official and held different names, Godric was rather historic. Until, of course, he ran off with a woman named Rowena, and he wasn’t seen until much later in life, before his final death at the hands of his cousin. Which had, much to the misfortune of the Clan, led to anarchy. They had all but removed Chieftain Cameron from the seat, and replaced him with Godric’s eldest son, Campbell. Who would go down in history, sacrificing his life for his son in the battle of Clitheroe. 

Holly stared, wide-eyed, as she learnt a tale of Godric Gryffindor that she had never known. Her hand reached up to press gently at the Gryffindor crest that rested on her chest. The golden chain glinted under the glow of the flickering lights which shook from the summer storm that thundered above. She frowned, her eyebrows furrowing. 

“I’ve never heard this tale.”

Miss Hamilton shook her head. “You won’t have, lassie. Most people don’t. One of my ancestors wrote about it, Godric Gryffindor is a name that history forgot. And I’m honoured to meet a scion of the line! You certainly look like a Gryffindor…” 

Holly blinked, unaware that this had been the case. Perhaps her features weren’t all from her mother then. She knew she looked nothing like her father, except for her nose as Sirius had so justly claimed. The rest, it had been said, was all Lily Evans. But Holly barely knew anything of the man that was Godric Gryffindor, Gringotts had been revealing in that matter she supposed. Linfred Gryffindor, the great-great  grandson of Campbell. And because of that, she knew Miss Hamilton did not lie, she knew all the names. It could only be true. And what a tale it was. 

The window slammed shut as another piercing howl echoed through Mrs. Bairds. Sending a shiver down her spine, all this talk over ancestors did not lighten her mood in the slightest. She tugged gently at the cotton on her jumper. Holly considered that perhaps it did look strange to a Muggle that she was heading into a perilous storm such as that in naught but jeans and a slim jumper that barely protected anything at all. Holly shrugged. 

But she knew that she appeared strange to most, or so Uncle Vernon claimed. However, such a man as he, rarely held any right to an opinion when he had forced her to sleep in a cupboard from the tender age of two. The spiders were her only friends at the time, and later on, when she held the ability to wander in the back-garden and up the tree, the birds were ever so kind. 

But dawdling about in a storm in a slim jumper would seem like madness in any form of mind. Or at least the kind that held little sanity. Her aunt would have raved, flapping her arms, infuriated that she dared to be such a wilful little freak, and held no right in doing so. 

Well, thought Holly snidely, you can fuck off and burn in hell. 

Not that her uncle would live for much longer, which was no fault of her own. One could hardly hold to a high expectancy of life when you were that fat, at least, her aunt knew this to be the case. For why else would she demand him to watch his intake. Not that it would work, the very sight of Dudley’s tears were a weakness that she could certainly do without. It was at times like these, when she looked back on her childhood with a grim frown, she wished with all her heart that her parents hadn’t been such fools. Holly, including her mother and father would’ve been much better in health if they had run off to anywhere but England. But alas, it was not to be, and it was Holly Potter that truly suffered in the end. 

She hadn’t been beaten physically, at that Holly would be later much grateful for. But that didn’t mean turning up at Hogwarts, eleven years of age, and skinny as a corpse. Pale bone and all, small in all the ways a child of that age should not be. More often than not, Ron’s brothers had mistaken her for a child of eight. Well, they had in the beginning, but Fred and George had kept up the act for years on end. 

Bloody bastards. 

“Hmm,” mumbled Holly, glancing at her pale cheeks in the reflection of the window. Barely gazing at the thundering storm that rattled the glass. “I always thought I looked like my mother.” 

Miss Hamilton shrugged. “Well,” she sighed. “You would know. I haven’t seen much of the Gryffindor Laird, only in paintings. There is a sudden likeness.” 

Holly nodded, she supposed it was possible, there was a portrait in Hogwarts near the Great Hall of Godric Gryffindor. He had always watched her with a tentative eye, maybe the portrait had his own suspicions surrounding her bloodline. But there was a likeness, she supposed. The same curled hair, cheekbones that were very much alike, even the lips were the same. And in truth, Holly had never quite noticed until now. Is that why, despite her courage and sense of fearlessness, the Sword of Gryffindor had arrived for her. Did it call out to the blood of thy blood? Holly shook her head. Perhaps not. Neville had used it as well. 

Although she knew the Longbottoms were related to the Potters, albeit very distantly. But that was the problem with most families in the wizarding world, they were ridiculously incestuous. Which, later down along the line, would produce squibs. Holly was quite sure of that, it was rather like disfigurement that could appear in a baby born from siblings. Genetics was something that wizards held little understanding on, but sometimes her world held little common sense at all. 

She tucked a strange curl of red behind her ear, glancing at the Peverell ring that glistened on her finger proudly. 

Holly knew that she was glad she had somehow managed to escape from England, even if it had come with leaving behind the name Potter. Peverell would do her just fine. 

“I see it,” murmured Holly as she lightly traced her pale cheeks. “My family has a portrait of him. But I never really noticed until you…” Holly hesitated, for this was a lie. Her family most certainly did not have a portrait of Godric Gryffindor. Aunt Petunia would rather hang herself from the ceiling before she let anything magical into her own household. 

“I wasn’t aware there was more than one done. I suppose it is possible.” The owner of Mrs. Bairds considered with a rather wilful frown tugging at her lips. 

“May I see it?” Asked Holly. “If it is at all possible. I would like to know if we’re speaking of the same man, of course. History is like that, all muddled.”

It wasn’t that she didn’t believe Miss Hamilton but Holly wished, above all else, for proof. That it truly was Godric Gryffindor in which she resembled the most. A curious thought, indeed. 

“Why not,” laughed Hamilton. “Come this way, it’s up in the attic.” 

Holly nodded eagerly, heading towards the stairwell with a skip in her step that couldn’t quite be helped. 

“Thank you, Miss Hamilton.”

The young woman paused, glancing back at Holly with a slight smile on her lips. 

“Aster.” She grinned. “Aster Hamilton.” 

The storm came to an end with glittering rays of sunshine in the early morning when the sun had just arisen. 

Holly stepped out into the morning air with a smile on pink lips. She found that there was nothing she loved more than the countryside. Although it was a city, more often than not, all of the Highlands felt like the country. 

She blinked, staring up at the pentagram that hung above her head near the front door of Mrs. Bairds. It was woven with straw and coloured pink and purple with what could only be wool. 

“Merlin,” muttered Holly. “That’s the first time I’ve seen one of those around these parts. How strange.” 

It blew gently in the wind, the jingling bells that hung from the bottom were a rather lovely tune. 

“It’s the Witches Star.” 

“Blimey!” Exclaimed Holly as she startled and looked towards the Vicar with a bewildered frown. “I’m sorry! I didn’t notice you there…”

And she hadn’t. The Vicar stood against a dark grey stone wall, with his own robes being a similar colour, she hadn’t even noticed. Although, if he were perhaps a little more taller, she might have. He smiled gently, of the likes that was kind, and all the more reassuring for her. 

The Vicar reached up to brush his pale wrinkled fingers against the jingling bells. 

“Well, lass, that’s what I’ve always called it. Mind, it has another name. Pentagram is the modern one you young people use these days.” 

“Really?” I asked. She had seen a few of them in books amongst the Hogwarts library, but her Professors had always been rather against them. Claiming it was the art of wild magic, and it was, after all, far more civilised to use a wand. “I’ve read about them before. I think they symbolise the elements, or something similar. I don’t know what the fifth would be, I’m afraid I’m unfamiliar with that one.” 

The Vicar nodded, considering the matter with a slight smile tugging at his lips. For a man of the Church he did seem rather curious. Not that Holly could blame him, as it was she who possessed magic. 

“There’s spirit, air, earth, water and fire. Five of them. It truly is a fascinating concept! And the circle,” he pointed out with a smile, “is supposed to be the universe. Which binds us all together. It’s much like the cross in that regard, I suppose. A message of faith.” 

Holly blinked up at it, the small little pentagram that blew in the wind. Made from straw and cotton. 

“Do you see the purple and green tied around it?” Asked the Vicar, smiling at Holly as she nodded curiously. “They symbolise the summer. And feasts for the people as well, it’s an old tradition.” 

“Fascinating,” murmured Holly. “Is there a pagan community here then?” 

And wasn’t that a thought. She had never truly met a pagan-witch, they were scarce, especially amongst the Muggle population. 

He grinned. “Yes, now as a Vicar it is my duty to inform you that such a thing is sin. But if you wish, they’re meeting in the Hall tonight for a celebration.” 

It was nice to know she had been invited. Aster was sweet, and had told her once more in the morning over a nice cup of tea and scones that she was more than welcome to attend. Dancing and spending the evening away having delirious fun seemed like far more of a temptation. 

She had enough sorrows to forget. 

“What do they do at the Hall?” Asked Holly. “I’ve heard that there’s some wine and roast, perhaps some dancing. There aren't any blood sacrifices, are there? No chopping off chicken heads?” 

I bloody well hope not! 

She had been told all about them once before when Professor McGonagall had been mocking the pagans; heathens as she called them. Wizards, as a whole, didn’t have that much of an inclination towards religion. And when they did, they held enough kindness to build small churches for the Muggleborn that wished to spend their Sunday evenings praying. Not that Holly believed in such things, there had never been much proof in the matter of God. Unlike her Aunt Petunia that believed it all without a second glimpse. But all that she had heard of the pagans were blood rituals and sacrifices that cursed the earth red. 

“No, no, no,” rambled the Vicar, pressing his elderly hands against black cloth. “Nothing of the sort! It’s mostly a festival of food and wine at most. A few dances and some lovely country music…” 

“Country or Scottish?” 

The Vicar grinned wryly. “Why, Scottish, of course. Nothing better than the good ol’ bagpipes. My mother used to play them for me when I was a boy!” 

“I’ve heard the bagpipes before,” admitted Holly. “There was a man at my school that would always dress up in his kilt and play down the halls. It was very beautiful.”

And he was a ghost. 

“I went to school up near Loch Arkaig. There’s a castle up there, half of it is used for the students. But there were a few that tried to play, every now and again.” 

Holly figured it was relatively safe to mention, after all, she had seen plenty of half-ruined castles near Hogwarts. Even a few that were still standing. The Vicar clearly believed her with a nod of his head and a wide grin stretched across his lips. 

“Ah,” he yelled. “You were raised here in Scotland then? It explains the accent.” 

“The accent?” 

“Aye,” he chuckled. “You sound like an English woman, but you have the voice of a Scot. It’s very confusing.” 

Holly had known, of course, that she had the makings of a Scottish accent. Or so she had been told by her rather disgusted aunt who despised anything that wasn’t English. Which Holly could only blame Uncle Vernon’s arrogance and prejudice against mostly everything that he believed was below him. Which was, mostly everything. 

“That’s nice to know,” she said. “I used to have to practice when I went back home.”

And if the Vicar thought that was odd, he said little against it. 

But it was odd. What kind of childhood in England had she possessed where having a Scots accent was horrific. A sham. But it was Holly that knew being raised in the dark of the cupboard from the age of two was hardly what one could call a childhood. 

“Is that the only pagan practice around these parts?” Queried Holly. 

“Ohh,” chuckled the Vicar. “No, child. The wheel of the year is celebrated annually. But Beltane is the most popular, lots of people come to Inverness at that time of the year” he hesitated slightly with a small grin. “I’ll admit, lass. I’ve been to a few of those celebrations myself. Some wine and pleasant company, what else could a man of God wish for?” 

“A bible.”

The Vicar roared with laughter. “Aye, but I’m afraid my predecessor will be very disappointed. I do love my wine.” 

Holly could only smile, it had been a long time since she had heard of festivals that practiced the Old Ways. There was one out in Surrey that the villagers of Little Whinging hadn’t even acknowledged, and if they did it was in the walls of church ranting about the hideousness of blasphemy. Of course, Holly had never paid much attention to that. But Midsummer’s Day was a lovely fair, in which she, only once, stole from her aunt’s purse and took off in a bus to see the damned thing. And it had certainly been worth her punishment, free toffee apples, the maypole, and a treasure hunt that had won her a bag of lollies. Mostly consisting of large yellow balls of gum. The sour snakes were rather delicious as well. 

“I’ve been to one before. In Surrey.” 

“Ah!” He exclaimed in delight. “You mean the Midsummer Fair! I’ve heard of it myself. Mrs Ross, a lovely woman, owns the bakery. She told me all about it, Mrs Ross has got a niece and nephew in Surrey, her daughter moved up there for work and married an englishman. But she said it’s like all of the festivals put into one. Their chutney stalls are rather good, too. The pickled onion, my god, I’ve never tasted anything quite like it!”

Holly barely suppressed her wild grin. Although she knew it was true, she had tried it herself. 

“Mmm, I was told that spirits cursed the lands, and that’s why the festival is there. So mayhem can be had.” 

Not that it makes any sense. 

“Aye,” agreed the Vicar. “Spirits feed off the energy of the living. It would be a hotspot.” 

“Really? You believe that?” 

The Vicar blushed. “Well, yes. I’m Scottish you know, we’re all about magic in the Highlands.” 

“So it seems.”

And they were, Holly spent the rest of the morning walking through the streets of Inverness. She saw more than one shop that sold objects of a magical nature, including cauldrons that looked far more better designed than the ones that were purchased in Diagon Alley. 

There were more than two churches in the small city, beautiful though they were, the towering buildings of stone didn’t have the same sense of magic to them as some parts of the city did. But those places were ancient, and barely there at all, the rest of Inverness had mostly been done over. The history there, as the dairy-owner who handed her the milk claimed, was far more brutal and bloody than many ought to consider. And it was this that Holly believed, the piercing tang of violence echoed in the air. Fierce. 

Holly spent her lunch in one of the pubs, sipping at her spoon of Leek and Potato soup. The Ginger Ale was sweet on her tongue, a pleasant drink all things considered. One she had never had. 

She had never held the option as a child, and while Pumpkin Juice was sweet, as was Butterbeer, they didn’t hold the fizz that Muggle drinks did. This, of course, she hadn’t known until two weeks ago when she had her first sip of Coca Cola. 

It was strange at first, an acquired taste she wondered, but the more she sipped at the drink it became all the more obvious that Coke could be incredibly addictive. 

Fortunately, Holly wasn’t all that much of a fan of alcohol. She glanced around at the pub with a raised brow, quite sure she was the only one not intoxicated. 

“You’re missing out, lass!” One had exclaimed much to the roaring laughter of the crowd. A joke that Holly didn’t truly understand herself, it wasn’t that funny. She wrinkled her nose at the disturbing smell of sweat and beer. 

“She’s English,” snorted another. Holly bristled, he spat as if it was a curse that rotted on the beautiful soil beneath the cold stone floor. As if the English were nothing more than a stain, something of little importance. Holly clenched her fists as the crowd roared with laughter once more, the women chuckling away with brothers and friends. Either that, or their husbands. She suddenly found their company rather lacking, but perhaps it was just the prejudice on their part. She had been dealing with it from the young age of two, whether it was in a cupboard, the sneering eyes of number eight, or the winding halls of Hogwarts. Disdain and prejudice followed her, even now, she couldn’t escape from it. When she had ran so far from her past, blast, she had even changed her bloody-fucking-name! 

“Those English don’ know nothin’!” 

Holly aggressively chewed on her bread that had been placed kindly next to the soup. Her emerald eyes flashing with such fierce rage, who were they to make such comments on her people? Most of her friends were english and they were perfectly acceptable company. 

Thank-you-very-much! 

Holly wished for nothing more than to be back in the small country-side bed-and-breakfast that rested in the high hills outside of Inverness. It was barely anything of a drive, and her own car, although old-fashioned it was in good shape. And the ride from Mrs. Bairds to Inverness was barely anything at all. But now, in such a moment, all she wished for was the comfort of her own bed. Never mind the current terrible company she was in. Her small little Monty could get her anywhere, named after her grandfather, of course, who according to Sirius had held an obsession with Muggle vehicles that would’ve put Mr. Weasley to shame. 

The only welcoming part of Scotland was sweet Aster and the homely Witches Star that rested on the old stone walls at Mrs. Bairds. Everything else had been a rude awakening, it was almost as if the Scottish were still in rebellion against the crown. 

Holly frowned. 

Who was she kidding? Things clearly hadn’t changed all that much!  

“Ah, leave the wee lassie alone. She’s hardly about to cause any trouble!” Holly kept her mouth shut at that, refusing to admit in the slightest that, historically, she would more than likely cause trouble. It seemed to follow her wherever she went. 

“Och, aye.” Muttered another woman, who much to Holly’s curiosity had the strongest accent that she had yet to come across. The girl only smiled at the woman, kind as she was. The elderly woman, who could’ve been the age of her grandparents if they were still alive, smiled gently. With eyes that only spoke of kindness. 

Scotland has been an odd experience no matter where she was. Whether it was at the lush green lands of Hogwarts, or near the bustling city of Inverness. Both were in the Highlands of course, perhaps to find a sense of normality she should’ve ventured into Glasgow. Or, at the very least, Edinburgh. But normality was never something she had willingly sought. 

Holly shuffled around with her leather purse as she placed a few pounds on the counter. Claiming to the barmaid that it was the best soup she had since visiting her school in Loch Arkaig. Hardly anything was better than the food at Hogwarts. This she would live by. 

She glanced nervously once more at the drunk howling lot of men that stood in the corner, clinking their glasses of ale and beer as they drank towards something that certainly sounded like a heap of drunken nonsense. Those narrowed stares made her shudder more than anything, huffing in frustration as they pointed at her, and once more, roared with laughter. 

“Don’ mind ‘em, lassie. Men,” grumbled one of the waiters. “Don’ have any sense.” 

Holly jolted as thunder shook the pub, she looked out the window with an exasperated sigh. It seemed to be one summer storm after the next. She quickly put her coat on, covering her hair from the torrents of rain as she waved at the waiter as she rushed out into the terrible weather. Finding the car amongst hundreds of others was a relief, by this time she was more than ready to head home to Mrs. Bairds. 

Her day only seemed to get much worse when she arrived at a house that seemed to have no power at all. Aster passed her a packet of matches and some candles with a fond grin. 

“I’ll be on the first floor, shout if you need me. There’s only us girls staying here tonight, I’m afraid.” 

“Thank you, Aster.” 

Holly hugged her reluctantly before she dashed up the stairs, her hair and raincoat drenched with the summer weather. 

“Bloody hell,” she muttered as the dark room greeted her. The young Peverell merely grinned, before placing her fingers on the candle as the fire immediately began to flicker. 

I love magic… 

She placed it gently down near the bed, watching it flicker. Something that she had always been fascinated with, fire, the gentle embers or the roaring flames. They had plenty of them at Hogwarts, or had, at the time, before it’s destruction. Sitting in the Gryffindor common room had been her favourite at the time, watching the fire roar in the hearth. 

But Hogwarts could never be her home again. It was unfortunate, but very much the truth. 

Aster went with Holly on her trip around the countryside near Inverness, the two having become friends over the past few days cooped up Mrs. Bairds while the summer storm raged on. 

By the time there were blue skies that shone down on the green glistening lands, three days had passed. And most of the farmland was underwater, much to the misfortune of the farmers. Aster had dragged her out for a walk, and for the first time, in the wayward country hills, she felt at peace. There was much to love about the Highlands, whether it be the shimmering lochs or the rolling hills, but Holly quite favoured the flowers she picked and tucked away into her pant’s pockets. Her gray gloves tightened once more on the soft flowers, blue and smelling ever so sweet. Aster laughed as the wind swept through the hills, almost brushing the blue hat she wore over her crimson curls. Although Holly would forever deny that it was an amusing sight to see, she wasn’t normally the type to be running through the grass in search of her hat and silken scarf. She almost stumbled on her long coat, before she actually did, rolling down into the long green grass with laughter on her lips. Beaming up at the glittering sun. 

She blinked up at the towering hill that hovered above them. It was far taller than most, the winding path up to the top was well used, and covered in gravel. What could only be, she assumed, a hiking trail. 

“What’s that?” Pointed Holly, blinking at the large towering stones she could see in the distance. Barely. 

“Oh,” exclaimed Aster. “That’s Craigh na Dun, the place I told you about. We should have a look,” she grinned excitedly. “I’ve never been myself. I don’t think it’s that much of a hike…” 

“Well,” rushed Holly, “we must not wait. I’ve been dying to see it since you mentioned the danger. Love a good adventure.” 

“Yes,” drawled Aster. “You don’t say.” 

And really, Miss Hamilton had quite noticed that about her guest. 

The walk up was nothing to Holly, as she had spent her recent years on the run. Never knowing if her next day would be her last, camping under the stars and amongst the wilderness. It was hardly a life to be favoured, and the small hill was nothing compared to that. 

“Oh,” admired Aster. “Wow.”

“It’s a henge! And far bigger too!” 

Stonehenge had nothing on Craigh na Dun, the old ancient stones towered over her. At the very least, twenty-six feet. Holly felt like an ant compared to them, her fingers gently brushed across the Celtic runes that were carved into aging stones. For a mere moment she wondered briefly if they had been carved wholly by magic. For it was impossible not to feel it, the buzzing spread through her fingers, to the heart. Warm and enlightening. Holly breathed in shock, a blinding smile tugging at her lips fiercely. 

She ran around them with a skip in her step, emerald eyes flashing with delight as the magic danced and brushed against her own pale flesh. Aster merely gazed at her with a raised brow, contemplating the excitement that had consumed her new acquaintance. They both gazed at the stones in wonder, but it couldn’t quite be helped, it wasn’t a circle. That much was for sure, it was more similar to a zig-zag. Stones placed oddly on the hill, the earth carving, and opening a spot for them in the wondrous lush lands of Scotland. 

Holly jolted back in surprise as one of runes dimly glowed from the mere touch. The power charged, and Holly felt, for the first time, as if she was looking at a battery that was charging. On and on. She blinked, glancing at her friend that hadn’t seemed to notice it at all. But muggles were that way, she knew, they missed much. Important things. Holly had seen it before. 

In the wizarding war, hundreds of muggles slaughtered at the hands of the Death Eaters, and it was their relations that hid the truth in their mind. For it only could have been a gas leak, a car accident, or god forbid, a plane crash. Even though everyone knew there was no plane. Of course, admitted Holly, that didn’t remain purely with muggles… 

People, as a whole, could be rather stupid. Whether it were wizards that were slaughtered or their counterparts, muggles. People avoided the truth as if it were the plague, Holly knew this well enough. After her fourth year all she could remember was tears of bittersweet lost youth. Off curled fists, bloody nail-bitten palms, and piercing screams on her lips that wailed into the night. Waking up half of the street in Privet Drive, it drove her aunt and uncle mad, and only seemed to amuse her cousin, Dudley. For clearly his cousin was showing what he had always believed her to be. 

A freak. 

But this wasn’t entirely true, one day, Dudley had come back from the market with his mother and father hiding a packet of peppermint tea in his room, only to place it under her pillow one night with a small little note claiming the farmer had told him it fixed broken dreams. A farmer that was more than likely high on his ludicrous pipe that he smoked every second hour. But it was kind of him, although Dudley would forever deny that it was him. But that night had left a startling revelation in Holly’s heart, despite all of Dudley’s callousness, he very much did care. 

The henge reminded Holly of him, imperious and towering, an intimidating sight to man. But beneath it, there was an infinite beauty that she could not dismiss. They may be twice the size of Stonehenge, but it was a wondrous sight. 

Holly blinked, wondering for a brief moment as the stones buzzed and sung, if they truly had sacrificed people near them. Splattering the life blood of their victims against the cold ancient stone. But it was hardly an opinion of her own, for she knew the magical world still practiced blood arts, it was the main principle of warding. A little bit of blood here and there. 

Aster laughed as Holly stumbled away from the stones, the young Peverell glancing at them cautiously. As the singing only seemed to get louder. Piercing her ears with a fierce hum. But she could not hate it. 

The witch sat down amongst the long grass, her shoes brushing against the pale and blue flowers. Her long crimson curls, braided as they were, rested amongst the oldest stone. It held the most carvings too, towering at the very moment, thirty-seven feet. More than likely as tall as the Gringotts building that was as intimidating as it always had been. She placed her hands gently behind her, and onto the stone. Her very flesh vibrated as it echoed through her, from blood to bone. Holly felt almost as if it were reaching for her soul, as impossible as it was for a stone, of all things, to accomplish such a feat. 

“I think I’ll stay here for a bit,” she told Aster, her pants brushing against the wild Heathers that prickled through the material to her pale flesh. “I’ll be back later. I think I’d like to watch the sky a little more.” And the birds. They made the loveliest sounds, one chirp to another with a set of beating and fluttering wings. Aster nodded, gathering her own gloves against the morning glittering frost as she set back down the hill. Hamilton didn’t wish to stay all that long, it brought nothing but a tickle of dread down her spine. 

Holly rested her head once more against the stone, breathing in the lovely scent of heather, sage, and broom. She could see them vaguely if she turned her head, the small flickering dots of the cottages that had their small little lights on amongst the morning mist and frost. The sun beamed down on their thatched rooftops, it reminded her of the gentle stretch in the morning with a yawn on her lips that always seemed to be there. The village rested quietly amongst the hills of purple and green,  a normal picture amongst the vast land that was the Highlands. Inverness was nothing at all compared to the little village she had stayed in, it was far too city-like and she’d had enough of that to last her a lifetime. 

The wind swept through her curls as the grey clouds stormed over ahead. Holly sighed in exasperation, there clearly couldn’t be one day of sun in summer . Truly, she thought with a frown, it hadn’t been this bad at Hogwarts. But much like everything else in her life, perhaps she had arrived at the wrong time, in a difficult week of rather stormy weather. Her head shifted closer to the engravings, hair frizzing wildly as she felt the magic leaking from it. Holly couldn’t help but blink in surprise. Here, it was either one thing or another. She had come to quite the conclusion that the lands near Inverness were as strange as could be. 

But it did not rain, the wind screeched through the valley, as if a grave insult had been done. Of the likes that Holly understood little off. The trees on the hill creaked, long winding branches of dark brown and emerald groaned. Brushing against one another in the madness that had seemed to consume the valley. 

Holly blinked in surprise as she gazed at the short and fat little man that strode up the hill clutching at his walking stick with a wobble in his knees. It was the pub-owner, she noted. He clutched tightly at his small woollen hat, in fear that the wind would snatch it away. The man stared back at her with a beaming smile and that slight wave that seemed only to be jovial. 

“Miss Peverell!” He said, laughing as the wind crept by and twisted his coat. “By Jove! I wasn’t expecting to see you up here, I figured you would be preparing for the festival!” 

“The festival?”

Holly frowned, before she remembered. The celebration that she had been dragged into, the drinks and floral dresses. Aster had already picked out her own, but it was a few hours away at the very least. 

“Yes, I heard from my good old friend, George, that you were going. It’s quite popular with the young ones.” The man prattled on with a beaming grin about his own youth, dancing under the stars with his lovely wife in a kilt and nothing more. “It went on for seven days! Longest Lùnastal I’ve ever been too.” 

“Are they usually that long?”

The pub-owner chuckled, “Call me Tim, my dear. No, they don’t. Depends on the seasons though, don’t it? If the Gods have blessed us then the dances will go on.”

Holly nodded, tilting her head with a slight smile on her lips. “Blessed be.”

It had been, all through her years at Hogwarts, her favourite greeting that the traditionals muttered. Hermione had refused to acknowledge it, claiming that it was far too Pagan for her tastes. Which Holly had thought was ridiculous. But the panging taste of magic greeting one another as the words were whispered almost seemed sacred. It was only then, she began to realise the distaste the traditionals held for the muggleborn. It had never been about blood, it was religion. 

“Ah!” Yelled Tim joyfully. “You know the Gods! That is marvellous, my dear. Do you have a Patron then?” 

“Mórrígan.” 

“Ah. Irish then. I wouldn’t go talking about her around these parts. The church is still afraid after all these years,” whispered Tim with a mysterious smirk. “Some say that those of the Mórrígan can travel through the stones to the land of Faery. Never been myself, o’course. You might wish to be careful, dearie. I’ve heard the oddest of stories about these stones. With magic, I suppose, you never know which is true.” 

“Travel through them?”

“Yes, my dear. Although… they aren’t all the same. Some say it has to do with time travel, of all things! Poppycock!” 

She blinked bemusedly. 

“Time travel might not be as impossible as you think,” chuckled Holly. 

Tim looked at her strangely, eyebrows raised as if he couldn’t quite believe that she had faith in such a thing. 

“I doubt that,” he muttered. “Some say that’s what happened to Mrs Randall. But she probably ran off with another man, I say. Time travel,” laughed Tim. 

“It is hardly impossible,” murmured Holly. It was a messy business, Hermione and her blasted necklace were enough proof of that. They had spent hours evading the company of those that had seen them, even themselves. As that, in the end, more than likely would have led to a paradox. 

“It’s an odd thing to believe in.” The man smiled at her condescendingly. “A nice and pretty thought, but nothing more. What makes you so sure it’s possible?” 

Holly reached up to clutch tightly at her necklace, fear lacing through her heart. Fingers trembling. “It just… doesn’t seem impossible. Time can’t be a straight line, why would it be? We know so little of it, we cannot possibly assume.” Her fingers grasped at the crimson and gold on the silver chain, a beautiful locket that had once belonged to Euphemia, and then, her great-grandmother before her. Passed on from the Potters’, the apparent Gryffindor crest. 

Time, for Holly, had never been kind. Neither had fate. The first four years of her life were mostly spent in a cupboard under the stairs, hiding from the fists of her uncle. The next four were spent cooking, gardening and learning all the things a lady ought to know. It was, and always had been tedious. Why would she wish to know how to dance in a pale pink tutu when she could fight with silver steel-like-swords. Fencing had been a consistent thing to admire, she had even tried her hand at it in the woods with a pale stick. But it didn’t get all that far until Professor Snape had been bribed to teach her with galleons of gold. Fate hadn’t been kind to her when she suffered out in the cold in a tent of all things for months, wondering if her death would be in the week following or the next. And time, Kairos, had despised her. The amount of loops of misery following her life was horrific. Even now, as that tingling chilling cold spread down her spine like ice, she knew it wasn’t over. 

Tim smiled. “Yes, I suppose we cannot presume, can we?” 

Holly blinked. Shaking away her fearful thoughts as the wind began to howl once more. “You would do well not to, I always prefer to think of magic as might. There is nothing in this world that can conquer it.”

Tim frowned. “That hardly seems fair.”

“Well, except for love. But that is magic as well, is it not? As much as time is.” 

The pub-owner shook his head. 

“And you would consider time to be magic? Isn’t it science. Really. I mean, we have so much proof of it.”

Holly would whisper nothing to this man, a Muggle of all things. It was against the law, her tongue was tied. Even if she wanted to mutter about the timeless laws of magic, of how a single man could be stuck in one moment forever. How a prison cell could be held out of time. Or perhaps, how magic dominated every cell in the body, in everything. Whether it be a tree or a horse, it lived and breathed. The laws of science held little importance to a girl that had casted magic from the very young age of eleven.  

Tim reached up to clasp at his hat as the wind blew by once more. 

“You truly are a believer, aren’t you, my dear? Well, that settles it then. You’ll have to come for dinner one day. My wife loves stories of magic, and I have a feeling you know plenty.” 

“Perhaps a few,” smiled Holly wryly. And she did. The young Peverell had a whole book on them. Magic was her life. 

She leaned back against the towering stone, watching him leave as she did Aster, with a fond smile. Holly liked these people, they had far kinder hearts than the citizens of Little Whinging. Pale fingers reached up and brushed against the stone, smiling as that magical hymn sang with her heart. 

Boom. Boom. Boom. 

The runes, she quickly noticed, began to glow even brighter. They had been carved elegantly, with a fine hand, or at the very least, done by magic itself. The whole stone vibrated, Holly could see the trails of golden magic flowing from them. In such a moment as this, she couldn’t help but wonder, in the eyes of a Muggle, did they see nothing at all? 

Her hands trembled as she stood up amongst the tall green grass. 

“What—” 

The stone began to sing, the rocks beneath clattering, one after the other. 

Holly gently placed her palms on the rock, gasping in shock as it screamed. Yellow white magic leapt out and tugged at her with a screech and Holly could do nothing but stare. Struggling against the light that kept pulling and pulling. 

And suddenly, Holly Peverell was gone. 

Chapter Text

HOLLY knew something was wrong from the very moment she glanced up at the blue sky hovering far above. She blinked, staring in bewilderment at the two men dressed in kilts that ran near the edge of the hill, a piercing scream on their lips as they held their swords above their heads with a fury unlike anything else she had ever seen. 

She gaped as men chased after them near the edge with heavy guns in their palms, and swords strapped to the hilt near the side. Pressed tightly against the redcoats which they wore. Holly had seen it before, in movies, and written in novels by Jane Austen. The most remarkable, at the time, was a flickering image of the slimy Mr. Wickham that wore red rather well. The trembling chill that settled in her spine told her something wasn’t quite right, she turned to the stones with a frown. But they were dead to the very touch, cold and lifeless. 

She reached for her wand, emerald eyes widening in horror as she realised it was not there. 

Holly screamed, an echoing sound as she dodged away from the horses that had came racing out of the forest. Panting, she rushed down the hill away from the maniacs and their persistent bloodshed. She had seen enough of that sort to last her a lifetime, trembling fingers clasped at the Gryffindor crest as she sprinted through the woods. Snapping one branch after the other, desperate to escape from the clapping bang of guns. 

One thing had been made quite clear, these muggles were completely and utterly mad. But Holly froze, even now, as she stood amongst the tall grass with that bittersweet tang of magic on her tongue. She knew, as much as she knew her name, that where she was couldn’t be. Which made no sense at all, but the magic whispered, her light and life, that this was not her home. Wherever she may be. Holly shuddered. 

The young Peverell reached out to touch the cold wood that rested before her. The strange magic wrapped around her, warm as it always was. But strange. She knew, in such moments as these, that she had stumbled. It had become known to her when the very first shots were fired, from English to Scottish. She knew, with such certainty, that she was as far from home as she could be. Her soul ached, bitter with a fury that she may never return. Holly stepped forward, head held high despite the fear that festered in her chest. Fingers trembling, tugging at the golden crest as the colour-less tears trickled down pale porcelain flesh. 

Holly jolted in shock as harsh fingers grasped tightly at her arm. She hissed, trying to pry free from the tight grip that had entrapped her so. Kicking furiously at the stranger that dared to hold her in such a manner. She smiled smugly as her elbow brought a pained grunt from lips that she could not see. 

Pale fingers clutched up at the Gryffindor crest, gazing in bewilderment as it turned into the silver glinting sword with rubies encrusted at the hilt. Holly wielded it in a shocked sense of daze, hands trembling as she faced the man, who much to her notice was wearing a red-coat. The click of a loaded gun pointing at her made the fear in her trembling limbs all the more. Holly glared into those cold dark eyes, and to her, they seemed hollow. 

There was a rot in this man’s soul. She ought not need to feel it with her magic to see. It was almost as if she was looking into the callous gaze of Bellatrix once more. 

“Witch!” 

Holly raised a brow. “I am holding a sword not a wand, Sir.” Although this was true, neither did she deny the accusations that had been placed at her feet. She was a Gryffindor, and like many before her, Holly would stand in the face of danger and smile sweetly. And without a wand held loyally in her hand there was much to be feared. 

Holly tensed as the gun pressed against her summer coat, she narrowed her eyes at the beast of a man as she raised her own weapon to his throat. Placing it gently across his neck, dark black eyes glinted playfully. Holly shuddered in revulsion. She did not favour this man. 

“And if I am?” Asked Holly. 

“I am hardly a man of God,” he considered. “Such a being has done nothing for me. If you spent your time worshipping the fires of hell that is no business but your own. But do tell me, madam, do you take joy in drinking blood from your victims?” 

Holly wrinkled her nose in disdain. 

“I’m not a vampire,” grumbled the witch as if she found the subject purely revolting. And she did. Madness was found in many things, but her kind certainly did not devour human flesh or blood. Unless, of course, they were a Black. Holly had spent long afternoons trying to forget the muttering of Kreacher and not being able to serve long-pig. But even so, she had seen madness in the eyes of Bellatrix, and the gaze could be seen as exactly the same. 

She shifted nervously, hoping against all things not to garner the attention of the monster that lived in this man. Holly could see it, that much was for sure. The creature dressed in red gazed down at the sword and the wealth that it carried with a raised brow. He was clearly a man of a curious nature. Holly, at the very least, could give him that. 

“Just— I think I’ve hit my head. Would you mind telling me what year it is?”

The man blinked, those cold reptilian-like eyes glanced back at her. Blinking once more. Two. Three. Four. He didn’t quite understand her question, but nor could she blame him for it. The man tilted his head, eyeing her leggings and strange coat jacket with a raised brow, the edge of his gun pressed even tighter. Holly couldn’t help but wince, fierce emerald flashed, as her own sword lightly cut tanned pink flesh. 

“Seventeen-forty three, madam.” 

“Right. Of course. Why not?” Grumbled Holly, scowling fiercely at the thought. 

The stranger merely raised his brows once more at the even odder woman. 

“And who exactly are you?” He asked, those cold eyes peered down into her own. Holly edged away from him nervously, not that she would get that far. She was much too afraid of getting shot, magic could do much, but not everything. 

“I don’t see how that’s any of your business!” Holly had, perhaps, always been a bit of a stubborn child as a girl. Even more so in the face of danger, detesting the thought of bowing to anything, regardless of the gender such opponents possessed. 

The stranger glanced down at her sword once more, eyes widening at the gentle glistening carved words of Gryffindor. It seemed, with such a man as he, that the name was not unfamiliar to him. 

Holly wished to curse far more than anything. She knew this man could not possibly be a Wizard. More often than not, they were bigots to Muggles. But, how? Those eyes stared into her own in surprise at the name of the sword she wielded.  

“Now that’s a name I haven’t seen in years,” muttered the Red-Coat. 

Emerald eyes glared in suspicion. 

Her fingers clenched, chest heaving in fury that this man, or perhaps a beast, would hold her against her will. She felt it racing down her spine, that tingle of magic, the ever-eluding power that came and went. The wind howled with her fury, blowing the redcoat off his feet. He glanced up at her in shock, wild red curls swinging in the breeze, emerald eyes glowing, with a light that was eerie. But the man— the beast was not afraid. He merely tilted his head.  

The sword almost seemed to vibrate and shudder as she lifted it across her side. Magic purring through her veins, this in such a moment was who she was. 

“Who are you?” Murmured the stranger, but Holly said little to that. Her mouth pressed into a scowl, the rubies on her sword glowing with her fury. 

The redcoat stumbled up off the leaves, brushing them with little effort. Grasping and pulling his own blade out of the scabbard that kept it strapped to his side. Holly was proud to admit that his own blade was nothing compared to her own. A flimsy little thing, but fatal nonetheless. 

“Jonathan Randall, Esquire, Captain of His Majesty’s Eighth Dragoons. At your service, Madam.” 

Holly raised a brow. 

“Is that supposed to be impressive?”

For all her youth, and immense dislike of Draco Malfoy, she hadn’t met a man that frightened her as much as Voldemort had. But this stranger did, this Jonathan Randall. Perhaps not as much as the Dark Lord, but there was an air to this captain that was far from pleasant. And the young Peverell certainly didn’t wish to be in his company any longer. It wasn’t desired. 

Holly looked around the woods, past the broken branches and trampled shrubbery. There was nowhere to go, not when he had a gun and a sword pointed at her. And there, there in his eyes was that cruel curiosity towards a woman like her. 

His silver sword came down heavily on her own, she huffed in surprise. Magic vibrating through her palms as the Gryffindor sword glowed. Holly snarled fiercely, all teeth, swinging hers with a loud clang that echoed through the forest. Captain Randall kicked heavily at her feet, Holly barely evaded in time. She knew as he swung again and again and again that there were fatal intentions in his eyes. 

“Who ARE you?” He roared, spit flying in her face as his sword came swinging down once more with vicious bemusement. She had come to the conclusion that such a man as he was strange. Odd. Quirky. 

And certainly not in the good sense. 

He leaned down, panting, their lips barely a finger apart. She shuddered, wanting nothing more than to crawl away from this creature. This uncivilised beast. 

Holly smirked, confusion flickered through those dark eyes of his before her forehead collided with his nose. All that she could hear was a loud piercing crack and the gentle drip of blood that fell on her own pale flesh that was pressed up against his own. He deserved it. 

“You little bitch!” He cursed, scowling furiously at the red-haired woman who had the gall to laugh in the face of his bloody nose and wrathful fury. 

“Oh,” smiled Holly slyly. “I do believe the quite accurate term is Witch. Or if you’d really wish to know, the acceptable term is Lady Gryffindor.”

Her sword shined, vibrating in her hands, she knew in such a moment that magic had decreed and accepted her position. She bit her tongue, wondering how much more trouble she had managed to find herself in. 

Perhaps it was a gift, after all. 

“Of House Gryffindor and Peverell,” she laughed once more. It quickly waned away into nothing as he came running at her with his blade, a battle cry on his pursed lips. Holly barely jumped out of the way in time, her beautiful summer coat cut by the dreadful man that she would rather not name. Captain Randall tried once more, cutting the girl sharply across the face. But in his mind, it certainly wasn’t deep enough. He gritted his teeth. 

“You’re no more a Lady than I am,” spat the Captain, blood dribbled between his teeth and onto the coloured rocks that had once been as gray as the autumn clouds. 

He swung once more, Holly dodged in time for the man’s sword to get stuck in the tree. He yelled fiercely in frustration, she barely had any time to dodge the shots that were fired her way. Holly wailed in alarm. One bullet dug its way into her shoulder, but she would not show her tears. 

Holly yelped, ignoring her throbbing arm as she scrambled to grasp at the edge of a tree. Randall fired once more, she sobbed as her pale shuddering arms swung her around the tree and over the edge of the cliff side, legs dangling over rolling hills of the Scottish Highlands. She had, fortunately, escaped from the second bullet that had lodged its way into the ancient wood. She bit down on her bottom lip, blood dribbling across pale shivering teeth. Her arm burned, and Holly put all her will into not expressing such agony. 

“How did you get here?” Demanded the brute, he grasped at her arm, wrenching her onto the leaf covered ground. If it was anyone but him she would’ve expressed such gratefulness to be away from the cliff that could have very well been an untimely death. His hands wrapped around her throat, the silver sword of Gryffindor turning once more into the golden crest that rested at her neck. “There’s been no ladies in these parts, Gryffindor. You’re the first I’ve seen in lands like these, most of them are Scottish filth.” His hand tightened. “I can’t tell. What are you? Scottish or English?” 

Holly choked, her arm reaching up desperately to pry his cold deathly hands away from her neck. Legs kicking at the stumps of wood and shrubbery that lived near her feet. She wanted, above all else, to live. 

“L-L-Let me go!” 

The Captain smirked, caressing her lips with his own. “I don’t think so, love.”

“G-G-Get off me!”

“Where did you come from?”

Holly tipped back her head and laughed hysterically, a taunting smile tugging at her lips. She grinned. “Why, a magical circle of stones from nineteen ninety-eight, of course. Where else?” Holly drawled. 

Randall shook his head, anger flaring in those reptilian eyes of his. Holly choked, coughing as he squeezed painfully at her pale, and more than likely bruised neck. 

“Don’t play me for a fool,” hissed the Captain, drawing his tongue over her neck. Ignoring the plain disgust that had twisted her lips as she tried to escape from the evil, foul creature. “Why is a devil-worshipper like yourself in these parts? To spy on the English, perhaps?” 

“A w-what!” Spluttered Holly. 

Fingers reached up to clench tightly at the bottom of her chin. Holly, as fast as she was, reacted like a snake. Pale teeth chomping down on his hand, shaking her head as she tried to bite through the thick stretched skin that was his. 

“Fuck!” He cursed, trying to break free from the tightly clenched teeth that Holly possessed. She smirked triumphantly as blood splattered across her tongue. The Captain hissed, he was hardly the type to scream. But she almost wished for it. 

Fucking bastard. 

“Let me go, you little devils-whore!” 

He reached down with his other hand to clasp tightly at her crimson locks. One tugg and another, but Holly did not yield. She wouldn’t. Not to the likes of him. 

“Let. Me. Go.” 

Holly let go, spitting his own blood on the redcoat in which he wore. She snarled, her teeth glinting in the summer sun. 

“You are no lady,” he snapped. “You have all the savagery of a Scot.”

Peverell smirked. “Well,” she mused, “I was raised in these parts.” 

“I should’ve known you Scots practiced all forms of devilry!” Spat the Captain, he barely had any time to groan in pain as Holly’s knee kicked up into his stomach, and once more into the side of his rib. She had quite gotten sick of the company that required Captain Jonathan Randall. 

Holly crawled desperately away from the madman, throwing rock after branch at him. Her trembling fingers reached up for her necklace when she came out of his tight callous grasp, choking as she tried desperately to breathe. But it would not do, her shoulder ached with a pain that was truly horrific. Her limbs shook as she grasped at another branch, another tree to hide behind as he shot at her as any madman ought to do. Truly, was she cursed? Were all men in her life fated to be completely around the bend? 

Her lips fell open with a scream on her tongue as a heavy rock fell atop of the Captain sending him tumbling to the earthy soil with a loud thump. All that she could do was gape in utter disbelief. He wasn’t dead. Which, much to her dismay, churned her stomach in disappointment. She wondered briefly if all it would take was one slash of her sword. He was the kind of man that deserved it. After all, no man that had the particular habit of shooting at innocent women held any sense of sanity or perhaps even kindness. Captain Randall held no place in her heart. Not even as a stranger she had met passingly. 

Holly blinked, shuffling back against the tree even further. Black eyes stared at her, sharp and calculating. She frowned, eyebrows furrowed. The shadow of a man stepped forward, a dirk clutched tightly in his other hand. 

“Who are you?” Asked Holly, she barely had any time to say little else before she was being dragged along once more. A wail slipping forth from her lips. But the stranger had no reluctance in tugging her along, despite the throbbing in her shoulder. Holly stumbled more than once, a twig ripping one side of her trousers. She huffed, glancing up at him with a fierce scowl on her lips. 

“You’re injured,” he murmured. Eyeing her shoulder with a frown before they ran amongst the trees once more. 

Holly yelped as they barely dodged another set of bullets, her hand clasped firmly in this odd man’s. At the very least, he seemed kind. He no longer dragged harshly, but with all the gentleness he could afford without getting them killed by manic psychopaths that were more than trigger happy. Gods, she thought, how I hate them. Holly glanced down, huffing as she watched her feet jump over one rock after another, as they scrambled alongside the edge of another hill. 

Holly tripped, much to her embarrassment, at least twice. Glancing towards the man who looked very much like he’d been living in the woods for a decade. Wild ragged hair, clothes that barely seemed as if they would survive another month. The boots, she supposed, we’re in relatively good condition. The kilt was merely all the more Scottish than anything else she had ever seen. Except for Hogwarts, of course. The Loch was spectacularly beautiful. 

“Where are we going?”

Holly barely had any time to scream before the strange man leapt on her, her lips muffled by his sleeve as they rolled around under the dirt of the edge of a hill. Hidden from the men that stormed by in redcoats. And Holly had quite enough of them. 

She could hear fighting once more, the clang of blades and the bang of guns. More than likely muskets. She had only ever read about them in books, monstrous things that were just as destructive as most Muggle weapons were. Holly sneered at the thought, she wasn’t a bigot, she wasn’t. But her uncle’s love for weaponry had taught her one thing. In the face of war and violence, Muggle Kind and Magic-Folk were no different. She shuddered, whining as her shoulder ached once more. Biting down on the repulsive sleeve of the stranger’s, her pain was too great. 

The rest of the journey was spent in a daze, blinking up as the sun slowly began to settle between the hills. The pain had quickly consumed her body over the past few hours they had traveled, shivering wracked her small fragile flesh as the stranger carried her through the night. And with him, atop a horse. And Holly admired him for it, he had, after all, saved her from the brute of a Captain and was more than gentle enough with her injured arm. By the time they reached the odd little cottage, she had a certain fondness in her heart for the courageous man. 

The people within the walls were frightening enough, tall and with a bulk of muscles, Holly squeaked as she pressed against her new acquaintance. Their eyes stared at her, curious and fascinated with a young girl that could barely be more than sixteen. Long crimson locks and clothes that spoke of wealth, strange clothes. They muttered amongst one another, in a language that she had once heard Professor McGonagall yell in her famous Scottish brogue. But Holly didn’t know it all the same. She shifted from one foot to the other anxiously, peering back at them. 

Emerald eyes blinked, her small hands trembling as she swayed lightly. The only thing keeping her standing was the tight grasp of the kind stranger that had helped her escape. Despite it all, she felt quite at home with the candles and odd wooden tables. It reminded her very much of the Leaky Cauldron. She supposed it was expected, the magical world had always been a bit… behind the ages. 

“What is it ye have there, Murtagh?” 

The stranger, who was named Murtagh, held her gently as he brought her trembling form forward. The candles flickered, her shadow casting across the old stones. 

“A Scot, I think… Hard to tell, she doesn’t sound like any Scot I’ve ever heard.”

Holly huffed, eyeing them all with a narrowed stare. Emerald orbs flashing, she had always considered her home to be the high towering hills of Loch Arkaig. It was the only home and hearth she had ever known. She shuffled stubbornly, tilting her chin as she gazed up into curious and leering eyes.  

“Scotland is the only home I’ve ever known, but I’m not from these parts. If that’s what you’re asking.” 

“She’s injured, Dougal. Was shot right in the shoulder. Fucking English.” 

“Eh, a bonny one, too.”

Holly shuddered in disgust as she gazed at the fat, greasy-haired man. He remarkably looked like an over-sized Severus Snape. Not that she would ever admit that aloud. It would be far too much of an insult. 

The man, who had clearly been introduced as Dougal, watched her with a frown. She only stared right back, a fierce and stubborn gaze that had been her own from the moment she had been born. Or so Sirius had claimed, Holly had been birthed into the world with a piercing wail and a flashing emerald gaze. This, of course, was odd for a babe, when most of their eyes were blue at birth. 

“C’mere, lass. Let me take a look at the wound. Better get it out sooner than later, eh?” He chuckled. Holly could admit to being pleasantly surprised by the smile that tugged at his lips. It wasn’t completely friendly, but nor was it cruel. She nodded reluctantly, carefully stepping forth with a hiss on her lips as she clutched desperately at the wound which still bled. 

Holly spent an hour under the watchful gaze of strange, odd Scotsmen as the bullet was removed with the sharp edge of a blade. She screamed, cotton pressed down on her tongue as she bit. But her eyes remained the same, peering up into a gaze that was relatively amused with her fierce fire that burned. 

“What’s your name, little one?” He asked, Holly hissed as the bullet was removed from her shoulder with a pop. 

“H-Holly Peverell,” she said. Shivering as alcohol was poured on the wound, with a dirty rag that would do her no good. Fortunately, Holly was a witch, and she knew very well the wound would be gone within a few days. Lucky as she was. 

The men gazed at her with wide eyes, muttered whisperings of disbelief flowed through the room. But none considered her to be a liar, everyone knew, of course, that a Peverell couldn’t possess the name unless they were . Such was the knowledge of the Clans, knowledge which would be partly lost, considered Holly. Or so her friend in her own time had claimed. The Peverells, to some, were a beacon of hope, the Gryffindors even more so. Although, not all shared such a belief. Magic, after all, was despised in the eye of God. 

“Peverell!”

“Christ…” 

“She can’t be!”

Dougal scowled fiercely at his men, thumping his fist on the table. 

“QUIET!” 

“Peverell, you say?” His brows lifted in surprise. “Do you have any proof of this?”

Holly inclined her head nervously, revealing her ladyship ring that rested heavily on her finger. Shifting nervously under the scrutiny of the men, they murmured once more at the crest that rested on her finger. Beautiful as it were. 

“Well,” breathed Dougal. “Never thought I’d meet one of your blood. We believed your family to have been all killed off by the English! My brother, I know, would much like to meet you…” 

He narrowed his dark eyes. 

“And where exactly did you come from?” 

“Loch Arkaig,” Holly replied with a bitter frown tugging at her lips. 

“Where did ye find this lass?” Dougal asked Murtagh in disbelief, his tongue far too demanding to even be considered friendly. 

The man shrugged. “At Craigh na Dun. She was havin’ a fight to the death with a certain Captain of dragoons wi’ whom I chanced to be acquent,” he gazed at her with a raised brow. “There seemed to be some question whether the lady was a… witch.” 

Dougal gazed at Holly, eyes narrowed in thought. Some of the men laughed, others did not. Most knew the meaning of Peverell, it was well and truly hard to forget. They were, after all, well known for their magic and healing. 

“I see,” he muttered. “And can ye heal?”

She started, surprised at that. Was it, perhaps, a trick question? She knew what muggles did to witches in a time where God was the law. And without a wand, empty and powerless, how would she do anything but burn? Holly shuddered and the thought, heavy fear tugging and consuming away at her heart. 

Murtagh snorted. But there was a fierce fire of suspicion in his eyes, and she couldn’t help but wonder how much he had seen. She shivered at the mere thought. 

“She never said she wasna. The Captain himself believed she were. Enough to put her to the sword…”

“She’s a Peverell, he was probably right.”

Many of the men murmured in agreement, Holly picked at the strings of her coat nervously. A habit that she hadn’t quite given up, she’d had it for as long as she could remember. Since Privet Drive. 

“The House of Peverell is always welcome in Scotland, Rupert.” But, for all the kindness of his words, the fierce scowl spoke of quite the opposite. Tears gathered in her eyes, she was so far from home, cold and alone, in a world she knew little off. 

“Aye!”

The grumble echoed throughout the cottage as they all agreed with one simple word. Holly didn’t understand it all herself, she knew the Peverells had meant something to these strange people hundreds of years ago, superstitious as they were, the name still had some meaning. Despite the reputation magic had in these hills, but Holly knew her position here, she could hardly go about shouting she was a witch unless she would much rather prefer to burn. Or, have the Ministry come down on her head. She knew it still existed, hope flared in her heart. Could she find her way back to London? 

“What d’ye say, Murtagh?” Dougal demanded with a frown. “Is she a witch, then? I’ve never seen the like.” 

“She looks like one.”

Holly glanced down sceptically, raising a brow at the men. For she had taken the time to pick an entirely Muggle wardrobe. 

“She doesna look like a witch!”

“But she’s wearing breeches.”

“What does that—”

“WILL YOU LOT BE QUIET!” Roared Dougal once more, banging his fist on the wood. It creaked and cracked, Holly barely glanced at it in worry. 

 Murtagh gazed at her once more, eyes resting on the Gryffindor crest that rested at her neck. They went wide, as well as his flesh pale. Turning dark orbs to Dougal nervously, shuddering hands swept her crimson locks across it. Hiding the golden lion crest from the sight of the suspicious leader that glared more often than not. 

“Nay,” he said. Black orbs narrowed in realisation. “I’ve no idea what she might be but I’ll bet my best shirt. She's not a witch .” 

That, in all things, seemed well enough for a man like Dougal. 

“Can you heal?” He asked. “You say you’re a Peverell. Prove it.”

Holly bit her tongue as she bristled with fury. Grinding her teeth she gazed up at him. 

“Yes. I know a little.”

Dougal nodded firmly. He grasped her tightly by the hand, pulling her forward. He cared little for the hiss of pain that slipped from her lips. 

“Jamie needs some healing, I expect nothing but the best.” His eyes peered into her own. “Especially from a Peverell.” 

Holly wondered who Jamie was, until youthful dark blue eyes gazed up at her. Wide, and seemingly enraptured with the thought of meeting a witch. She sighed, glancing at his tousled auburn locks and flushed pink cheeks.  He groaned, fingers clasping at his shoulder desperately. In that, she could hold a certain sympathy in her heart for him. Her own flesh still burned with the bitter taste of alcohol. The stool he sat on looked relatively small compared to him, Holly couldn’t help but be grateful that those eyes of his were kind. 

Dougal gently pushed the side of sleeve down past his shoulder, Holly couldn’t help but wince. She had seen it all before, hell, she had felt it before on the worst of Quidditch matches. She was no stranger to having a bone out of joint, or having no bones in the arm at all. She sighed, knowing very well that she could fix it. Any witch with a decency of knowing healing magic could, but she would hardly admit that. Holly much rather preferred  not to be a pile of ashes that had once been tied to the stake. 

Holly gently reached forward to touch the wound, smiling softly at the young man who seemed to be, in age, a bit older than she. The blood trickled down her fingers, she hummed in thought. Pale hands tingled as her magic pressed down on the bone and then up, crimson locks blew in the wind. Even though, much to the dismay of many, the windows and doors were all bolted shut. Jamie screamed, but Holly smiled, the bone was good as new. 

Dougal scowled. “What did you do?!” He spat, eyeing the flesh wound, but the bone looked far better than it did before. This, he would never speak of to another. A witch’s healing was not something one could be proud of, the Scot regarded her with a chilling raised brow. 

“Fell wi’ my hand out, when the musket ball knocked me off my saddle. I landed with all my weight on the hand, and crunch! There it went.”

“I wasn’t talking to you !” 

Holly snorted. In a manner that she was sure her Aunt Petunia would have snarled at, claiming it to certainly be nothing ladylike in manner and attitude. 

“I pushed the bone,” Holly said dryly. Glancing at Dougal with a certain less than impressed air, his company was becoming far more than irritating. 

“Mmph,” grunted Dougal. 

“Leave her be,” said Murtagh with a roll of his eyes. He tipped his head back, drinking what was left of his ale. Holly wrinkled her nose, or that’s what it smelt like. But she was hardly the type that knew all that much about alcohol. She had never favoured the bitter taste, it was rather vile. 

“Wha— it doesna  hurt!” 

Holly laughed, grinning down at him as she was passed another cloth. Wrapping it as gently as she could, her magic would have done the job by the next morning, this she knew well. 

“It won’t,” she replied. “But you’ve got to be careful with it. Don’t pick up anything too heavy in the next three hours. I should know, otherwise the pain gets worse…” 

Murtagh raised a brow. 

“And how do you know?” 

“I broke my arm at school once, moved it too much and I couldn’t move it for a month. Just…” Holly sighed in exasperation. “Be careful with it. You look like the stubborn type.” 

Jamie grinned. “I am.”

“School?” Barked Dougal. 

“Oh,” murmured Holly. “It’s uhm, a place where I was taught by private tutors with other children?” 

She had never felt more unsure. In what world had she found herself in? A land where the children weren’t educated in school ! 

“But you’re a girl!” Dougal said shortly. “Ye couldna have attended a… school.” 

Holly glared furiously at the man. “Just because I’m a woman doesn’t mean I have no worth. I have been perfectly educated, thank you very much!” 

Jamie grinned some more. 

She had dealt with the misogynistic beliefs of men far too often amongst the halls of the Ministry. Hogwarts, although a school for wizards and witches, it was not without the primitive idea that men were the be-and-all. Holly had lived with it, Hermione however, had not. She would forever remember the posters of women rights that had covered the walls, old stone that was nothing but ash. 

Holly blinked, for now, in this exact moment, Hogwarts was alive. Filled to the brim with young witches and wizards. Her heart soared at the very thought. Tears dwelling in emerald, she sighed. 

“I’m surprised your father hasn’t strapped you.”

The men laughed. 

“My father is dead.” Holly stared chillingly. “They’re all dead.” 

Silence echoed throughout the small candlelit cottage. The grim touch of grief was seen in those sad, lonely eyes of hers. And the men said nothing, could they? In what sense could such loss be approached. They knew not to say anything. Dougal frowned, the sadness in her heart was true. 

“Did the English kill ‘em?” 

Men murmured in disapproval, glancing at the odd man out with fierce scowls. As Holly very well knew, that was hardly the kind of thing one should say in the face of grief. She merely pursed her lips. 

“I suppose you could say that,” snapped Holly. Voldemort was from London, after all. “Most of them were from there.” 

Curious eyes gazed back at her, she couldn’t help but sigh in exasperation. 

“Yes,” she hissed. “My whole family was slaughtered horrifically by a mad Englishman and his equally horrific followers. I would much rather not think about the fate of my mother, my father, nor my godfather and uncles! Would any of you wish to speak on such a thing?” 

“I’m sorry, lass.”

Holly nodded, glancing nervously at Dougal. Wondering what on earth she was going to do! She had no wand, no money but what she wore, and simply a name. Until she had the funds to travel to London, Holly was well and truly trapped. 

“You lived in Loch Arkaig?” 

She nodded reluctantly. 

“For seven years now.”

Jamie sympathetically tapped her on the arm, a frown on his lips and those kind, wide blue eyes peered up at her. “Do you need much help getting home?” Asked the young man, Holly flushed under the intense stare which she could well and truly do without. She didn’t quite know what to say to that. She frowned, fingers nervously tugging at the hem of her shirt. 

“There’s nothing much left of it,” murmured Holly. “My family’s home was destroyed. The curse of being a Peverell, I suppose.” She did not say that the home and lands didn’t belong to the Peverells but the Gryffindors. Something within her, magic perhaps, whispered; it shall be your death. And Holly had never been the kind to ignore the muttered murmurs of Lady Hecate. She blinked away tears. 

The men, strange as they were, all shifted uncomfortably. At the very least, it explained her appearance. She was more than likely living wherever she could. Of course, most dismissed the wealth she clearly possessed in oddly shaped breeches and the glittering ladyship rings that adorned her pale fingers. 

“Oh,” murmured Jamie. “The English?”

Holly raised a brow, and nodded. For, in the end, most Death Eaters were English. Especially the likes of the Malfoys and the Lestranges. 

“Yes.” She prayed that none of their ancestors were lingering around in Diagon Alley. Holly paused, panic breathing life into her lungs, did Diagon Alley exist? “I’ll probably head to London, my family's estate manager will more than likely wish to see me. I have family there as well, my grandmothers. The Blacks. An odd bunch.” 

She knew, at the very least, they would meet her. The grandchild of a Black, and blood-adopted daughter of the prominent male heir in her time. It would surely grant her a pass into their social circle, Holly during her time spent at Grimmauld had read the accounts of Black family members that had popped up due to accidental time travel. While fascinating, she had never thought to write a possible journal herself. But it appeared, the Blacks were the only form of hope she had. 

“You’re planning to go to England ?” Asked a bewildered Jamie, which now she thought on it, the idea did seem rather foolish. Holly merely grinned sheepishly, emerald eyes dancing with laughter. Barely concealed. 

Dougal, a man that seemed all the more suspicious than Moody, frowned. But she cared little for his opinion, she nodded gently. Brushing her knuckles against the soft silk of her scarf. 

“Riddle doesn’t know I’m alive,” she shrugged. Even if it were true, for how could a dead man know anything? “I’m better off finding my grandmother's family, it’s the only place I know I’ll be welcome…” 

And in truth, she didn’t even know if that was so. Holly scowled in thought, sighing nervously. 

Of course, she could hardly admit to strangers that Holly had, more than likely, Peverell land in this time that she could claim as her own. She had barely any time to look at her assets before she had fled from the Ministry and all which they were. 

She jumped in surprise, as a young woman, not much older than Holly, pressed an apple into her palm with a stiff smile. Her dress was not finely spun, or even made from common clean materials, they were more ragged and wild. Mud covering her almost from head to toe. Dusting up the white cotton skirts and into wild black locks. She silently crept back towards the roaring fire, deeming it far more safer than the Scotsmen that surrounded the room. It was kind of her, and for that, Holly could only smile gently. 

“Thank you,” breathed Lady Peverell, as she nervously bit into the apple. It was the first bite of food she had devoured in hours. Holly was cold, lonely, and completely lost. 

Dougal peered past her and towards the door, leaning with a firm frown at one of his men. He shook his head, but the trouble remained in his eyes. She knew the man was unsettled. Whether it was with her presence or something else, she did not know. 

“Nay, nothing close. We’ll go at once, while it’s safe…” 

Holly glanced at Jamie in concern, flushing as those intense bright eyes peered into her own. Suddenly, her apple was of much more interest. 

“Lady Peverell will come with us,” he said. Gazing at her with a narrowed eyed stare. Holly couldn’t help but flinch, and in truth, she needed all the help she could get without her wand, or money to travel back to London. She would, at the very best, have to wait. 

One of the men frowned, but to Holly, that seemed to be all these Scotsmen ever did. 

“Why do ye no just leave her here?” 

“She’s a Peverell, ain’t she. We can’t leave a Peverell behind!” 

“Aye.”

Dougal scowled at them impatiently, huffing as he went. “Wherever the redcoats are now, they’ll be here by dawn, which is no so far off, considering. She’s a Peverell, lads. And you know what that means for our Clan? Even so—” his eyes narrowed even more, a feat Holly hadn’t known were possible. “She might be worth a bit of ransom, at that; a lady of her house and all that.”

Some of the men hissed. 

“But—”

“The English will wan’ her dead!” 

“Besides,” Dougal added. “My brother will want to speak to her. There hasn’t been a Peverell in these parts for centuries.” His eyes glanced at Jamie in mischief. “Can ye ride one-handed?” 

“Aye.” 

“Good lad.” Dougal turned to Holly with a raised brow. “You’ll be comin’ with us, My Lady. Unless, O’ course, you’d like to wait around for the redcoats to catch ye.”

Holly paled, shaking at the thought, much to the insistent approval of Dougal. It seemed he didn’t quite know what to think of her. To her, there seemed to be nothing worse in such a moment as this, the mere consideration of being near that blasted bastard, Captain Randall. 

She glanced at Jamie, a groan slipped past his lips as he stretched his muscles, shaking his arm nervously. Holly frowned. “You’ll want to be careful with that.” But he seemed not to have heard her kind considerate words as the man clenched his fist and swung with a strength that had Holly gritting her teeth. He grinned at her boyishly, with the wide relief that there seemed to be not much pain at all, the young woman turned away with a huff, a blush painting her cheeks a sweet cherry red. In no sense would she ever be admitting to any attraction for the damned fool. 

He reminded her far too much of the twins, the same curled red hair, bright blue eyes, and that grin, there was something there that spoke of nothing but mischief. Much to her dismayed horror, she knew the type. Holly sighed in exasperation, yes, she thought with a scowl-like smile, a long journey. 

Jamie grinned again, beamingly. “Thank you, lass.”

Holly barely had the chance to nod at the immensely irritating boy as she was dragged along, her arm in Dougal’s tight grip as they made their way towards the horses. She narrowed her gaze, and even in the towering darkness and chilling breeze, she could not see whether they were white, brown, or black. 

And although she could not see much, she knew without a doubt that these lands were not her own, the town could not be seen. Over the past few days she had become accustomed to the flickering lights that hovered above the old wooden and brick buildings, and now, there was absolutely nothing at all. Everything she had ever seen and adored, especially the quaint tea shop, was gone. Perhaps, she considered, if I can find myself a pair of red shoes I could find my way home. 

I’m not in Kansas anymore… 

“Lass?” Asked Dougal, peering down at her with a narrowed gaze. “Are you well?” 

Holly hummed. “A little homesick, maybe.” 

“Home sick?” 

She blinked up at him, before a soft smile tugged at her lips. “Oh sorry. It’s something my friend used to say. I miss my home. Not that there’s anything left of it…” 

The horses greeted them with a quiet nod, Holly, for the first time in a while, found herself staring into the dark eyes of a horse that she could very well end up riding. She giggled as the gorgeous creature nudged her with a snicker, shaking its head. 

“Jamie, get yourself up,” demanded Dougal. “Lady Peverell will ride wi’ you.” That intense gaze turned to her once more. “You can hold the reins, if Jamie canna manage one-handed, but keep close wi’ the rest of us.” 

Holly nodded shyly, glancing at the horse as she was lifted by the foot and over onto the saddle, leather brushing against her pants. It had been years, the last horse she had known was Mort, her darling friend amongst the herd of Thestrals from the lands of Hogwarts. Trembling pale fingers reached out gently to pat at the long dark mane, emerald eyes wide in wonder. Almost child-like. 

Jamie jumped on, clutching tightly at her waist, his kilt brushing against her trousers. Holly couldn’t help but flinch, her magic flaring, licking her flesh in desire of reaching out to him, to everything. It knew, as well as her, that this land was different as was the magic. It almost, in a sense, felt ancient. Older than it had in the future, which made little to no sense whatsoever. Holly flushed as she was pushed further against the boy— man? She shuddered. 

He was warm, it almost felt as if a blanket had been draped over her back, shoulders and all. It bubbled in her veins, that content comfort she felt when the blankets surrounded her and there was nothing but silence in her world. Holly’s ears buzzed, sinking into the tightness of his grip. 

She shifted in the saddle as the horse began its journey through the shadowed woods, and around the hills. The curious sound of scampering feet, small as they were, could only belong to something. She blinked, glancing at the grass and the shadow of a small creature that seemed to jump from one grassy patch to another. They eventually came to a small stream, Holly could hear it. The soft rushing sound of water, and in such a moment her tongue felt heavy and dry. But they would not stop. Dougal was determined. 

Holly breathed in surprise as the horse leapt over another stone, jolting her backwards against the warm thighs of her companion. All in all, she readily decided it was the strangest day of her life. She could only be so grateful that these men seemed to be kind. But even then, in the dark shadow of the early morning, she missed Mort. His leathery wings were more often than not a comfort. As was the rush of wind as she flew through the air. It was home. 

“Ye know how to ride,” Jamie had said in acknowledgement. Not that this was a surprise, as most did in times like these. But it was her skill in the matter. 

“Yes. I had my own back home, Mort was a good friend.”

Jamie snorted. “Mort? As in death? ”

“I’ll have you know he was as dark as death. What else would I call him?”

“Blacky?”

Holly wrinkled her nose in disdain. The name was well and truly atrocious. 

“Here,” murmured Jamie as he wrapped the plaid around their shivering flesh. The night, after all, was rather cold. Warmth suffused her limbs, Holly couldn’t help but smile. 

She leaned into it with a wistful sigh, the bitter wind biting at her flushed cheeks. But it was far better than her thin coat, it certainly wasn’t meant for travelling in the dead of the night on a horse of all things. Holly drowsily leaned back into his embrace, blinking away the sleep that seemed all the more tempting as the horse trotted this way and that. Over one hill after another amongst the rugged Highlands. 

“There!” He grinned. She could feel it pressed against her crimson curls. “We dinna want to freeze before we get there.” 

Holly patted his own hand that laid at her waist gently, a cautious grin tugging at her lips. “Thank you. How far do we have to go?” She asked, snuggling into the plaid. 

He shifted behind her, his pale chin brushing against her lavender-scented curls. A favourable shampoo she had purchased from the market. One she would never get her hands on again. 

“A few more days to go, lassie. A long journey. Reckon it’ll be a while yet, eh?” 

Holly huffed, days on end of horse travel didn’t seem appealing in the slightest. The longest hours she had ever travelled upon her daring friend Mort was merely three! She could hardly consider a carriage journey to be anything similar. 

“Days!” She groaned in irritation. “I’ve never rode a horse for that long.” 

“Ye haven’t?” Asked Jamie in shock, gazing at her in utter bewilderment. “How did ye travel then?”

Holly shifted nervously. She couldn’t very well admit to the floo , or , gods be good, broom travel. 

“Carriage,” she admitted. For it wasn’t exactly a lie either. 

“Aye. That’s horses, lassie.”

She couldn’t help but roll her eyes, it hardly was when the carriage was enchanted. And when it was not, Abraxans were a typical form of transportation. She had used them a few times after the war, the ladyship and social expectations making her life far worse as it was. There came a stage where she almost missed Voldemort, but not quite. Holly would much rather fly a moody Hippogriff than a bloody Abraxan. Only for the joyful pleasure of knowing the Malfoys possessed none of her gold. As it was them that owned the breeding stations. 

Bloody bastards. 

Horses to the young Peverell were wondrous creatures, but she had never been overly fond of them. Nothing, after all, could be better than a broom. 

“I suppose,” mumbled Holly. “But that’s hardly the same.”

Jamie nodded. And she dared not to wish to know what he thought of her, Holly was very well aware that she sounded like a privileged child. In a sense, she was. The Dursleys had not loved her, nor had she expected them too. But Aunt Petunia would’ve had a fit at the very sight of her riding a horse with mud caked over her trousers. Savagery was what she would’ve called it, ‘no lady should ever be covered in mud’, which was nonsense of course and Holly knew her Aunt had lived in her own world of ridiculous expectations. 

One had to hold a demented mind to possess even the slightest desire to marry a man with the mind and absurd lack of talents that was Vernon Dursley. 

“ Jesus! ” Swore Jamie, gaping in shock as redcoats charged at them. Holly screamed, ducking further down, huddling up against Jamie in fright as the scent of gunpowder stunk the air, her pale fists clenched at the plaid in fright. 

They came at the riders like a tsunami, there were far more than twenty of them. Holly couldn’t help but glance at them in fear, relieved that to her own eyes there was no Captain Randall. The horse sped faster through the clearing, Jamie pulled her back towards him, as close as he could. He reached for his gun, strong hands wielding it with a bang. Holly coughed as smoke trailed from the silver metal. She could easily claim to have never seen such brutality, but that would be a lie. The bodies that had been left to rot by the hands of Voldemort and his merry men were catastrophic. Holly choked down a sob, watching as a man was cut down by one of the blades the strange Scotsman held. 

She yelped in shock as the bang of a bullet crashed into the rock that rested above their heads as they galloped past. Holly could barely admit to herself that she almost died. And death wasn’t a favourable thought in the slightest.  

The group barely made it past the rocks before they escaped from the vicious men, tears welled up in Holly’s eyes. Against guns and Muggle men without her wand she was useless. What could a sword do against bullets? She tried to swallow her fear as much as she could. 

But Holly knew, with such surety, it was a battle she would lose. 

Chapter Text

IT didn’t take days, in the end, the journey was spent riding over hills and moors. The bitter early morning descended on them with a fit of pale fog, brushing against her legs as they rode through the long green grass. Holly could only be grateful that it was a quiet night, and a silent morning. Except, of course, for the odd howl through the night, but she had been readily told by the men there were no wolves left in lands such as these. 

The first sight of the castle was a surprise, emerald orbs glistened in the rising sun. Blinking at the looming shadow of dark stone that awaited them, it was more than a manor. How could it not be? When the turrets reached up high past the trees. 

Holly shifted nervously under the odd stares, muttered murmurs that followed their horse. But some could not judge her, nor the young girl that ran away from her screaming mother in breeches. Oh the blasphemy! Her lips twitched in amusement, Jamie chuckled. His warm chest pushed up against her back.  

She glanced down at the old stone bridge they crossed, smiling at the small creek and the young boys that splashed about. Pale pants rolled up, grinning up at her with the wide joyfulness of youth. One waved while another stared. 

The castle looked as if it had been carved from stone, bulking in height, towering over them as if it were a giant. The turrets weren’t like the ones back in England, they weren’t built with as much elegance that could be afforded. They were strong, thick, and as dark as the morning gray sky. 

The great wooden gate was opened, Dougal nodding to a pair of men that had pulled the wheel from inside. Holly couldn’t help but stare in bewilderment, she had never seen such a contraption in her whole life. Not even the castles she had visited in England with her Aunt Petunia and Dudley, they never had such a thing. The gate was held up by two towers, one smaller than the other, but they were ruggedly beautiful all the same. 

She couldn’t help but wrinkle her nose, glancing at the sloppy mud that filled the courtyard. Holly had spent most of her childhood hiding from her aunt when she came home covered in it, but this time, her pants and blouse were all she had. Holly couldn’t very well ruin them. 

“Where are we?” Asked Holly, gazing up at the giant castle. Of course, it was nothing compared to Hogwarts. But the wild beauty was there all the same. 

“The keep of Leoch,” said Jamie. 

Holly had the faintest feeling that he did not like the lands, nor the Keep. She could not see why, for all it’s intimidating stature, it was rather beautiful. The magic in her bones ached, her soul sung with the air in a way it never had. She, more than anything, wished to weep. Why? She shook her head in dismay. Why has magic never felt this way before? Tears pricked at her eyes, she clenched tighter at the horse. 

Her heart ached for Hogwarts, but she dared not travel to it, for all she would see was the bodies of those she had loved. Scattered amongst the ashes, broken bones and burnt flesh. Holly swallowed the bile, trembling from the nausea that seemed to have consumed her. 

“Ay, Dougal!” Bellowed another man, reaching out to grasp at the horse’s reins. “You’re early, man; we hadna thought to see ye before the Gathering!” 

Holly glanced at Dougal, who jumped from his place amongst the leather saddle, a slight smile on his lips. 

“Aye, well, we’ve had some luck, both good and bad. I’m off to see my brother. Will ye summon Mrs. Fitz to feed the lads? They’ll need their breakfasts and their beds.” 

She couldn’t help but watch with a narrowed gaze, feeling endlessly  helpless as Murtagh disappeared, along with company. Now, she knew, the only man she had with her that had afforded her kindness was Jamie. 

Mrs. Fitz, it appeared, was an elderly woman, small but with a kind smile. She bustled over to greet them in her long blue skirts, trudging through the mud as if it were nothing to her. Her gray curls, that had once been as yellow as the sun, bounced like coils. Holly glanced at the glistening gem that parted her hair, it wasn’t a real one, that much she could tell. But it was pretty all the same. 

“Willy, my dear!” She cried. “How good to see ye! And Neddie!” Mrs Fitz embraced the man with a wild grin. But everyone seemed so in these parts of the country. “Ye’ll be needin’ breakfast, I reckon. Plenty in the kitchen; do go and feed yerselves.” 

She glanced at Holly with a startled frown, and the Peverell couldn’t quite blame her. She was a mess, branches in her hair, mud scattered across her trousers, and cuts carved into her pale shuddering cheeks. Never mind the shoulder that burned, the aching agony spreading through her bones. 

“Lady Peverell,” he said, much to the shock of the woman. “And Mistress FitzGibbons,” he claimed, introducing them gently and with a wry grin. “Murtagh found her yesterday, and Dougal said we must bring her along wi’ us.” Holly flushed in anger at the mere mention of the man. He had been nothing but rude. 

“You can call me Holly,” she grumbled. Staring at Jamie stubbornly as if she dared him to say anything else against the matter. 

Mistress FitzGibbons peered up at her curiously, a hand clasped over her lips. Trying to conceal the dismayed shock she felt. Holly knew she looked nothing like a lady, but she doubted she ever had. 

“Well then, Holly. Welcome to ye. Come wi’ me and we shall find ye somethin’ a bit more… womanly.” Mrs. Fits gazed at the tattered trousers with disappointed scowl. 

Holly, before she could say little else to her companion, Jamie, she was tugged along by the firm grip of Mrs. FitzGibbons. She would not, and could not, acknowledge the fluttering of disappointment in her chest as Jamie disappeared from sight. 

“That's all I have left,” murmured Holly. 

Sorrow etched into the soft features of the lovely Mistress FitzGibbons. “Oh, I’m  very sorry to hear that. Ye poor thing! Come right this way and we’ll find some nice warm clothes and a bed… It looks like yer had a long journey.” 

“Yes,” Holly flinched slightly. “I have.”

She glanced curiously at the room she had entered, it smelt briefly like flowers and berries, the air was fresh. And her magic hummed, happily at the comfort the room brought Holly. 

“What happened?” 

“Oh, I— I was attacked by a man in the woods when I was fleeing from the English.” Holly thought for a brief moment that it was better to stick as close to the truth as she could, perhaps then nobody would see the rot. “They came after my family, b-because off…” What could she possibly say? Holly could hardly claim that a wizard had slaughtered her mother and father; the mere thought was ludicrous. 

“Oh, aye, yer a Peverell. Ye must’ve had a bone to pick with those English. Are ye a healer then? Like the rest?” 

“Not really. I suppose I was taught a little, but not as much as my mother.” As this was true. Lily Potter, before her untimely death, had been training in the healing arts along with a Mastery in Charms. Professor Flitwick had never stopped praising her, with a wide beaming grin. Holly supposed it had made her rather fond of the man, he had given her a part of her mother that nobody else had thought to tell. Tears pricked at her eyes, the sense of grief strong as it always had been. 

Mrs. Fitz helped her out of the trousers and blouse, staring in dismay at her bra and knickers. Never had she more regretted wearing Muggle clothes, even in the archaic wizarding world, corsets were very much still a thing. Holly shuddered at the thought. The elderly woman shook her head, the disapproval as clear as day. 

She hissed in alarm, coal brown eyes gazing at the swollen wound on her shoulder. It was at times like these, Holly desperately wished for a wand. It would be very well another few days before it healed, much to her horror. She yelped in pain as Mrs Fitz gently touched the healing wound. 

“How did this happen, lassie?” 

Holly shrugged. “A man named Randall.”

The woman scowled in fury, incensed at the very name. It became quite clear that Captain Randall did not have a good reputation with the Scottish. 

“We’ll have to clean that first, can’t have ye going around in a dress without it being patched. No.” 

Mistress FitzGibbons came back with a bowl of water, Holly wrinkled her nose at the smell of it. There was clearly something else, she sniffed. 

“Garlic?”

“Aye,” grinned Mrs. Fitz, “my own Da was a Doctor. He did know his way around Garlic. Healing properties he always said.” 

Holly blinked, she hadn’t known there were physicians in such a time as this. She sighed in exasperation, biting on her lip as she considered her own stupidity. Of course there were! For all of the Highlands' ruggedness they were hardly savages. 

“Hold still,” murmured Mrs Fitz. “This might hurt a little. It always does. But it doesna last long.” 

Holly hissed through clenched teeth as the wet white rag brushed against her wound. 

“Aye,” she smiled softly. “I’m almost done, little one. Now hold still.”

The young Peverell shifted, did she truly look so young? She was hardly the kind to complain about it, not when others helped her in strange lands of these because of it. Unless, of course, they were Dougal. 

Green eyes flickered up to the painting that hovered near the bed, it was rather beautiful too. It was almost as if a shower of stars had caressed the painted skies. 

Mrs. Fitz grinned at the girl, catching the admiring eye. Not that she blamed her, the painter had been, at the time, a famous one from Italy. The man had been friends of the Mackenzies, enough to give them seven. Each well worth thousands of pounds, not many in the castle knew that, of course. They wouldn’t last that long if one knew you could buy an estate in England with that much wealth. 

“It’s inspired by Craigh Na Dun,” she said cheerfully. Pale calloused hands wrapped the white bandage around her shoulder with a smile. “They say people come from there all the time. Witches and their lot,” she leaned forward with a sly smile. “Or, if we’re lucky, a Faery.” 

Holly frowned. “I thought they were bad luck? Stealing babies and eating them.”

Mrs Fitz snorted. “Don’t believe that nonsense, girlie. If the Fae are here it’s to steal our men!” 

Holly laughed, eyes glistening in humour as she remembered the ridiculous mutterings of Professor McGonagall, who had well and truly believed that if they existed, their sole purpose in life was to  steal and eat babies. Which really was absurd to consider, they were hardly werewolves for pity sake. 

“Thank you Mrs. FitzGibbons,” Holly hesitated. “Why would it be good luck?”

“That’s because they can bring back the dead from beyond the veil, or that’s what my Da said. Mind, he was always a bit fanciful for a Doctor…” 

“Ah, lass! Here ye go!” The woman smiled gently down at the bandaged arm and shoulder, it was rather nicely done too. It reminded Holly of the hours that were spent in the Hospital Wing, often enough, in the tedious company of the unconscious schoolmates. More than likely their condition could be blamed on a Weasley sweet, or worse, a prank gone wrong. Which happened more often than not. Holly grinned. 

The young Peverell huffed, slipping into a pale gown, scowling fiercely as the corset was wrapped tightly around her chest with a harsh tug here and there. Her shoulder ached briefly as Mrs. Fitz pulled at the pale strings once more. And Holly, more than anything, hated it. Just as much as she despised wearing one for the Yule Ball. 

She smiled at Holly. “My, don’t you look pretty. We’ll have to do something about that hair, lovely as it is.” Holly blushed, and she had never been the kind to do so prettily, it was a heavy burn that spread across pale cheeks, and down her neck. 

Mrs. Fitz pulled some emerald strings of cotton from an old wooden chest with a heaving squeak, in her other hand was a comb. Plain as it were, pale white with odd little carvings. Holly clenched her teeth as those calloused fingers tugged at her wild locks, brushing them to the side, running a finger down her scalp. Parting one crimson curl from the other. Her hair was, after all, a mess. She knew that. Mrs. Fitz knew it too. Holly gritted her teeth again, groaning as the curls were wrapped up in the green ribbons, tucked into a bun-like style. Tendrils of red slipping from the side, framing her healthily flushed cheeks. Holly smiled a wry grin, she could at the very least admit it was pretty. 

It wasn’t that she knew how to style her hair, mostly it was done by charms or the kind hands of Brownies that had lived in the walls of Hogwarts. They had always been eccentric, and yet, so very kind. Three had even followed her home to the Dursleys, helping her with food and healing. Holly supposed she had a fondness for the little creatures. 

“Ye certainly look like one.”

“Hm?” Hummed Holly, blinking bewilderedly. “What do you mean?”

“A Peverell. Never met one. But I’ve seen the paintings, they’d ha it done years ago. They used to be royalty in these parts, ruled before the Vikings came.” 

Holly took a deep breath in shock. “I-I’m surprised anyone believed I was a Peverell…” 

Mrs. Fitz nodded kindly. “It’s the ring, my dear. Only a Peverell can wear them. It’s in the blood they say.” 

“How?” Blinked Holly, bewildered that anyone truly believed only a Peverell could wear it. 

“We-ell,” she mumbled. “Anyone else that’s worn it ha died…” 

Holly gaped in disbelief, she glanced down at the large ring that sat on her finger, the dark obsidian gem glistened in the candlelight. Staring back at her. The Goblins had mentioned, of course, that anyone else that wore it without Peverell blood would perish cruelly. She truly hadn’t believed it was nothing but a farce, a terror tale they had wished to tell to scare her. One never knew with Goblins. 

“I used to think I looked like my mother,” admitted Holly. “She was very beautiful in the pic— paintings. My Godfather had lots of them. Of my parents, that is. It was funny, they always said I had her hair and eyes…” 

“Well,” smiled Mrs. FitzGibbons, with a wide beaming grin. “If she looked anything like ye she must have been a very pretty lass. Is she, you never mentioned seeing her yerself?” 

“She died when I was very young, only a year old, I think. My Mother and Father were murdered,” she hesitated for a mere moment. “Murdered by the English. There was a man that was after my family, an enemy if you will. That was many years ago. A long time has passed since then. And perhaps it made me stronger in the end.” Holly scowled at the thought, bitter tears welling in her eyes. 

It still ached in her heart that she would never know her mother and father. All that she had left of him was a cloak and a map, both which weren’t with her. She swallowed nervously, brushing her hands gently against the cotton material that was draped across her legs like a blanket. 

“I’m so very sorry,” she said with a sorrowful frown. Her warm fingers squeezing her shoulder kindly. 

Holly’s lips wobbled. Her sadness glowing in emerald eyes, when she didn’t truly know what to do. This land, as much as she had been mostly brought up and taught in such parts, was not her home. Not this time. Not in 1743. 

“It’s alright, Mrs Fitz. You didn't know. I have family left in London, if I wish to see them. Distant as they may be.” 

“In London? England?” 

“Yes. The Blacks,” she said with a quirk to her brow. “From my grandmother's side.”

“And they’re… English?” She asked, glancing at me nervously with such kindness. Holly could only smile at the woman for she had been nothing but considerate. 

Holly rubbed her hands nervously at the thought of them. “No. I suppose not. They came from Rome, before it fell. My Godfather always said it made them all the more arrogant because of it.” 

“Ancient Rome?” Breathed Mrs. FitzGibbons in shock. But Holly couldn’t quite blame the woman. “That is an amazing ancestry.”

Holly chuckled. “I’d rather not spend a single day with any of them, they’re a little… demented.” 

“Aye, most are,” she said. “My own Ma was as smart as any lass but she could throw a dagger better than any man I’ve ever seen.” 

“Well,” giggled Holly. “Women are better at men with most things.” This was not entirely true; handsome, rugged and kind-hearted Neville (later on in life) had been exactly that, he had held his kindness exceptionally well and possessed far more than the likes of Lavender Brown. And Holly knew this quite well, Lavender had been the type to berate Holly in mostly everything she had ever done. 

Mrs. Fitz laughed, clutching her chest as she did so. 

“That they are, little one,” she smiled. Those wrinkled palms gently ran over her crimson braids. “You're a pretty little lass. How old are ye?” 

Holly grinned, running her hands over the dress. 

“I turned seventeen not that long ago.” 

“So young,” muttered the woman. “You’re a little older than my granddaughter. She’s a pretty little thing.” Mrs Fitz gazed at her sternly. “But spends far too much time with men in dark cupboards!” 

“Is that, erm, bad?” Holly almost wished she hadn’t said as much, the cool glare she received was evident enough. 

“Do you spend your Sunday evenings in the shadows with strange men?” 

She blushed, eyes glancing at the window in embarrassment. 

“Well,” spluttered Holly. “No. Not really.” 

“Good. It is a Lady’s greatest strength. She must be pure, for all Laoghaire’s dalliances. She’s still that, at the very least.” 

Holly didn’t quite know what to say to that, she fumbled with her dress. Nervously clutching at the material, a habit she had possessed since she was a young child. She swallowed, surprised that a grandmother would dare to discuss their grandchild in such a way. 

She had never held much interest in the purity that was required of a witch, not that she had ever had dalliances herself, who had the time for that when they were being hunted by the darkest wizard? Holly supposed she could admit to her wandering eye, especially in the face of men like Cedric Diggory, and although she hated to admit it, Draco Malfoy. If anything ruined that boy’s attractive qualities it was either his whiny voice or the personality that was entirely lacking. 

Mrs. Fitz quietly put in a few of the flowers in her braid from the vase that rested elegantly near the window. 

“There! My, don’t you look charming.” 

And she did. But Holly had always suited blue flowers amongst her dark red curls. It was how she wore them to the Ball, she choked at the grief of Hogwarts and home that clouded her. 

“Thank you,” murmured Holly. 

The woman gently laid a hand on her shoulder, a concerned frown tugged at those kind lips of hers.

“Is everything alright, dearie?”

“I suppose… I miss my home a little. This place reminds me of it. And the flowers,” her hand reached up to gently caress them. “We had plenty of them there. I used to pick them with Hermione.”

Mrs. Fitz brow furrowed. 

“ Hermione?”

“Uhm, my friend. S-She was the daughter of a Doctor. I never met him of course, but we grew up together.”

“That’s a rather odd name,” hummed the woman.

“Yes. From Shakespeare, I believe.”

“Have you read it then?” Asked Mrs. Fitz. 

She had. It was a present from her Aunt Petunia, in her cruelty had handed a child who couldn’t read a book that was filled to the brim with words. How those cold callous eyes had laughed while all Holly could do was struggle. She gritted her teeth at the very thought. 

“A long time ago. It was how I learnt to read. There were truly some lovely stories, perhaps a bit…”

Mrs. Fitz grinned proudly. “Tragic?”

“Yes.” Holly would never admit to crying under the dark sky, amongst the damp cold grass as she read the final pages of Romeo and Juliet. Aunt Petunia, the next morning had awoken to her niece asleep on the garden bed, curled up with the flowers and a snake. Holly knew, after the shrill voice of her aunt screeched through the garden that she had been forgotten. 

“I never read any of ‘em. My Ma did, they’re sad stories she always said.”

Holly sadly glanced at her reflection in the window, blinking at the setting sun with an ache in her heart.

“Life is filled with sad stories,” whispered Holly. 

She hated it. The sympathetic gaze that was sent her way, those kind brown eyes, it was all she had ever been given by those most fortunate throughout her life. It was, and always would be, a bitter pill to swallow. 

Mrs. Fitz patted her gently on the shoulder, reaching into the cupboard to gather a woollen blanket in her arms. Holly could only smile stiffly as it was gently placed over her shoulders, the sigh that left her lips was nothing but sorrowful. 

“Well,” smiled the young Peverell. “Stories can be happy too, there’s always a page that is there to make you smile.” Holly had learnt this the hard way, it was far better to smile through the day. She knew this. 

The elderly woman smiled softly, the sun catching her pale curls that frizzed beneath the shawl in which she wore. 

“Life is always happy, lassie. But only if you wish it to be.”

Holly could suppose that was true, she had spent most of her childhood crawling through the woods, talking to the birds and the odd snake that had passed. And even then, when her Aunt Petunia had forced her into the most hideous gowns of pink, when Holly had no choice but to smile sweetly at the guests her and Petunia served — the perfect family. There had been happiness found in that too, if she looked hard enough, the sweet tang of strawberry on her lips from the small cakes she tried that No.6 had baked. 

“I suppose… I used to help my Aunt with the gardens, sometimes. We used to plant these beautiful roses, white and pink. I hated it. But… those were the best moments.” 

Holly did not admit to being the only one that planted them in that dreaded land, the only one that slaved over the precious soil. Blood, sweat, and tears. There had been plenty of those. But the roses had been a pride and joy, the heart-filled knowledge that her fingers had given them life. Holly, more than anything, had loved her garden. 

“You worked in the gardens?” Exclaimed Mrs. Fitz in disbelief. Glancing at her Ladyship ring with wide eyes, Holly couldn’t help but flush. “Did you not have servants?”

“Oh,” breathed Holly with a smile. “My mother and father did.” She had seen Potter Manor, after all. There had still been plenty of House-Elves left in the old halls. “When they died, I lived with my aunt and uncle. My mother’s sister. They, well, my mother came from a family that my grandparents never approved…”

This much, Sirius had told her. Grandmother Euphemia had been a Black before her marriage to Fleamont, distant-cousin to Holly’s great-grandmother, Dorea. A Black, Sirius insisted, would remain a Black. Euphemia had never approved of Lily Potter, nor had Fleamont. They had not despised or disliked her kind, but their own son marrying a woman who had Muggle heritage was not to be considered. But James Potter had never taken the orders of others well, especially when it surrounded the matters of the heart. 

Mrs. Fitz only seemed amused, tugging at the wild locks of auburn that curled near Holly’s pale neck. She tucked them up into the braid. 

“Ah,” smiled the woman. “Your mother was not the wealthy sort then?” 

“No. I don’t know much about them,” muttered Holly. “Never did.” 

This was true. Her Aunt Petunia had never wished to discuss the topic of her own mother and father. There had been nothing but grief in her pale blue eyes. Holly could only assume the worst. But by the time she turned fifteen and the shocked visit of Mrs. and Mr. Evans had only led to the implied estrangement from both Petunia and Lily. Holly had never wished to assume the worst of her mother, but she could do so with her aunt, rather willingly. The baggy and poor clothes of her grandparents had spoken little of privilege, unlike the Dursleys’ and the Potters. Perhaps her Aunt Petunia had been ashamed of such an association? Holly never knew, nor would she ever. 

“I’m sure they were lovely people,” murmured Mrs. Fitz. “Did you know what they did?” 

Holly nodded. Her Aunt Petunia hadn’t discussed it much, factory work was never to be mentioned in her home. There was nothing more disgusting. 

“My grandfather was a manager in a factory, my grandmother owned a bakery. I met them once. They seemed kind. But I didn’t know them very well…” 

Mrs. Fitz nodded, gazing at the girl forlornly as she hissed as her shoulder moved with a trembling shudder. 

“I’ll get some food, eh, lassie?”

Holly could only nod, licking her lips at the thought of freshly baked bread and cheese. Her stomach rumbled, the last time she had eaten dinner was in another century. She swallowed nervously at the very thought. 

She sat there for another hour or so, shaking limbs as the fear welled in her heart. She knew nothing of these people, nor where she was. 

It was treacherous. 

Holly dazedly stared out the window, glancing down at the dotted crumbs that were people. They looked like nothing from where she was, but Holly knew them to be children. The way they ran in a pack, chasing after another, tumbling over one worker that passed by. She smiled at the sight of them, her heart aching for the old stone of Hogwarts. 

“By the Gods,” breathed Holly in shock once more as she thought of her home with wide eyes and a steady heart. 

“Hogwarts is still alive.” 

Acknowledging it made her mind boggle, the thought of saving it burned and burned. Her home still stood. And in truth, Holly didn’t quite know what to do with such a thing as that. 

“Lady Peverell?”

She shook herself, glancing up at Mrs. Fitz who bustled into the room with an old wooden tray of food. Holly’s stomach rumbled at the sight. 

“Oh, thank you,” murmured the young girl. Cupping the bowl of stew with a bright smile, sipping it with a sigh of relief. The hearty taste of lamb met her tongue, Holly grinned. 

“It’s quite alright, my dear.” 

Holly ravenously grasped at the spoon, slumping in the chair as she grasped at the bannock buns that were left resting on the side. They were almost as good as the scones that Kreacher had once made for her. Nothing could quite beat that. But Holly was hardly going to admit to such a thing. 

“There’s some lamb, carrot and potato in there,” smiled the elderly woman. “Ah. And watch out for the brown bannock buns, those ones are cinnamon. A treat. The past few days must have been terrible for you.” 

“I love lamb,” Holly admitted. “My aunt couldn’t cook it though. I only ever had it at Hogwarts.”

Mrs. Fitz raised a brow. 

“Hogwarts?”

The young Peverell flushed happily as the stew soothed the longing ache in her belly. She nodded excitedly. 

“Mhmm. My school.”

“School?” Asked Mrs. Fitz, bewildered as she could be. 

“Ah. You do have it here, no?”

“I don’t think so, dearie. If we have, I've never heard of it…”

“Nobody learns?”

“Oh!” Laughed Mrs. Fitz. “Yes. I’m afraid we do have that. The children hate it.” Her eyes widened in disbelief. “You're telling me you were allowed to attend, a woman?”

“Yes.”

Sexist bastards, considered Holly. Realising with a jolt of terror that she had stranded herself in a land that was filled to the brim with sexism. This was nothing new to Holly, her part in a society that held little common sense and with male superiority seemingly being the only answer to everything, she despaired. Holly had left those lands, the title she had been given, the vultures that wished for her hand, all so they could claim the titles and estate that her forebears had possessed. She had fled, which Holly knew her friends hadn’t agreed with in the slightest. Hermione being the front of it all, who had declared gallantly that she would stay and help the wizarding world heal. And now, of all things, she was trapped in another strange place that was not her home, nor were these odd Scots men her friends. She shivered at the thought, yearning for… she did not know what she hoped for. 

Holly grasped at the spoon, tasting the potatoes with a glum frown,  sipping the stew. She hummed, emerald eyes closing blissfully, delighted at the taste of food. She hadn’t had much of it over the past few days. But one was to expect that when a horse was your only means of travel for miles on end. 

“Ye like th’ tatties, ‘en?” 

“Tatties?”

She pointed at the small lumps of potatoes in the stew, steaming in the thick broth-like soup. Holly laughed. Scooping another soft potato onto her spoon, they were small, but nice as any could be. She had always favoured them. 

“The Potatoes? Yes! I do like them.”

Mrs. Fitz nodded kindly, sitting herself on the lounge, an expensive looking thing, of fine crimson velvet. It was an odd thing, of such elegance to be found amongst sandstone and granite. The castle wasn’t small by any means and was clearly owned by a wealthy man, but the Scottish didn’t seem like the type to live lavishly. Or, at the least, not the Highlanders, the few that she had met were rough and much preferred living amongst the wild. Holly frowned, of course, they mightn’t be wealthy themselves. 

Mrs Fitz smiled at her, tucking a loose curl of gray behind her ear. Holly gazed at the wedding ring that rested on the woman’s finger. It was unlike anything she had ever seen, old iron, or something of the like, bent wonky, but clearly made of old rust. In its own way, she supposed, it was beautiful. 

“We hud them planted lest year.” 

Holly coughed into her hand, giggling at the rich accent that flowed from Mrs. Fitz lips. 

“Laughin' at me ur ye?”

She smiled, lips twitching. 

“I can speak english too, ye know?”

Holly smirked. 

“Scottish is english.”

The older woman grinned slyly. 

“Don’ let the others hear that!” 

It was true. The clans held a great dislike for the English, she didn’t know much on the matter. But it was a prevailing issue that would spread throughout time, even to her time. What remained of the wizarding clans despised the very thought of the English, and it had shown in their children in the halls of Hogwarts. Holly had never been subjected to such cruel scrutiny, her status as the girl-who-lived and saved her from a few social prejudices. But she could not say the same from Hermione, who, much to her dismay, had been knocked unconscious and locked outside in the snow in her bra and knickers. Holly had raged through the halls, stringing Pansy Parkinson and her goons from the tower. Bullying had never been dealt with kindly, not by her, nor would she show any leniency to prideful and prejudiced Scots. 

Holly finished the bowl of stew, licking the sauce from her lips. Blinking away the tears that glistened in her emerald orbs, she didn’t know what she wanted. A home perhaps? But all her life, she had never had that. Or if she had, it was in the youth that she barely remembered. Long crimson locks of scented lavender and the kind butter-scotch eyes of her father. 

Holly cleared her throat, running her hands down the skirts of her new dress. Quickly brushing away the colourless tears that shone in her eyes. Mrs. Fitz smiled sadly, patting her on the shoulder. She found that she quite liked the company of the older woman. 

“Come then, Lady Holly. I must take ye to himself.” 

“Himself?” Holly asked. Frowning at the odd words that had slipped from the woman’s lips. 

“Why, Mackenzie to be sure. Whoever else would it be, child?” 

Holly didn’t know much of the lands, not in this time, but the name Mackenzie, to her, was oddly familiar. 

The laird’s room was a bright place, at the top of towering stone steps. The tower room was filled to the brim with rich paintings, a thousand faces that she knew nothing of, rolling emerald hills, and perhaps a cliff or two that she had seen on her journey through the hills and mountains. The room was filled with the oddest of ornaments that had clearly been collected, Holly recognised the style of vase, her aunt had one much the same, a greek design. It was beautiful, as was the fire that kindled near the bright luminous windows, slit, yet just as towering as the tapestries and wooden beams that rested near the roof.  

Holly peered at the tremendous metal cage, it was almost as tall as the high walls that went up and up. They were birds, small little things that would barely fit in her hands. The colours were as bright as the blue sky and crimson fallen leaves, she breathed at the sight of them, fluttering around in their small little home. She had never seen the like before, but Holly knew that they were the exotic kind, unlike the kind of birds that had flown through the gardens of Hogwarts or the winding country-lanes of Surrey. She smiled at them, reaching through the bars, her fingers brushing against their feathers as they pecked at her flesh gently and affectionately. 

“They like you.” Chuckled a voice from behind. “Busy wee things, are they no?” 

The man that she knew to be Colum Mackenzie stood hunched near his old oak desk, he was much shorter than his brother, Dougal. Holly winced at the sight of his bent and crooked legs, it wasn’t quite as bad as Mr. Frank’s, the Dursleys' neighbour at Little Whining. She could admit to herself, at the very least, that Colum looked far more pleasant than his brother, who she had perceived to be quite the bastard that preferred to roll about in the mud. His gray eyes were kind, but Holly could see the suspicion as plain as day. She gritted her teeth at the bitter twang of annoyance that settled in her heart. 

She was sick of it, the uncomfortable glances that Dougal had sent her most of the way, intense and yet, disbelieving. Holly had seen it all before, it wasn’t that he didn’t believe who she was, it seemed to be far more than that. She could see it. As did the others. To men such as these her status amongst the High-Lands (and her name) was a precious gem, of the likes that had to be coveted and used for their own gain. Holly remembered the Order bitterly, lips twitching, fighting the scowl. 

“I welcome ye, Lady Peverell,” he smiled with a bow. “My name is Colum ban Campbell Mackenzie, laird of this castle. I understand from my brother that he, er, encountered you some distance from here. I assume you have… proof of your identity?” 

Holly narrowed her gaze with all the indignation that she could afford. 

“My name is my own,” she huffed. “Must I?” 

Colum frowned at her, glancing as she sighed in exasperation, showing him her the ring that glittered on her finger. That was not what he stared at in pale wide-eyed dismay, it was the crest that rested on her neck. 

“What is that?” 

Holly ducked her head nervously, brushing her curls over it, keeping it far from view. She did not know why, but in such a moment he terrified her. 

“Nothing, my Laird.” 

Colum stared at her, gazing upon her long locks of red, and eyes as bright as the emerald trees that grew in the spring. 

The laird’s brows rose, arching under his thick mane of pale white hair. 

“I see,” he said. “Yes. Such crests are clearly yours. Forgive me, my Lady.” 

“Forgiven.” Holly hardly had the time to worry about that. “I won’t overstay my welcome,” she murmured. “I’ll try my best to find my way back home.” 

She could feel it in the trees. In the land. Holly wouldn’t be able to make it back to her time but she could try and find the Peverell Estate, or, at the very least, wait for the Blacks to find her. Holly had stumbled on the globe many years ago, the alert for the Lord of the House of Black, for travellers of their blood. Hermione, more than anyone else, had been fascinated. 

“Mm.” He stared at her as if she were a puzzle, strange and bizarre. “I had thought your family was dead…”

Holly scowled, her emerald gaze blazing with fury. “They are.”

“I’ve sent for some refreshment, Lady Peverell. I understand that my brother and his men found ye fighting in the woods…” 

Holly flinched at the thought of him. The disagreeable man that she would much rather see dead than alive. It was a cruel thing for a woman like her to think, but Randall had truly been a vile creature. Undeserving. 

Holly sniffed in disdain. She had known men worse than him, of course, she was certainly not innocent herself. There was the rapist she had killed in Knockturn Alley, Greyback, Voldemort himself. She had killed men. But there was a certain evil to such people as these. Including Randall, she knew him, she knew those eyes. Cold and reptilian, blinking with a soul that could not feel. Not entirely, and if there was a kindness in him, it had long since been buried. Blood was on her hands but they were not of the men that were innocent. Kind. Nor good. 

“I was attacked,” drawled Holly, raising a brow at the man, unimpressed. “By a mad english soldier.” 

“Aye? Attacked by whom?” 

“A man named Randall.” 

He noticed the name, considered Holly. Colum leaned forward in interest, his eyes darkening and a frown pulled at his lips. He, if anything, seemed cautious, not as if he was afraid, just aware of the danger of such a man. But Holly often thought anyone in a position of power with a weapon was a deadly creature indeed. Particularly when their heart was black. 

“Ah?” He murmured. “Tell me… what were you doing in the woods?” 

Holly stared at him coldly. 

“My family was slaughtered, all of them, I’ve been running ever since. Nobody seems to like my name, Peverell, it holds far too much weight in these lands. I had far too many assassination attempts as a child, running though the woods and fighting strangers is no different to me. I need to go home.” 

She still had a home. Holly vaguely knew where the Peverell Estate was of course. That was better than nothing. 

Colum nodded, eyebrows raised at the tale in which she spun. 

Chapter Text

MRS FitzGibbons had helped her in the late afternoon, when the sun had set, and the chilling breeze echoed throughout the halls. There was a feast, but it made her day no more different than the past few; dresses of woollen cotton, braided locks of crimson with silken ribbons that were woven throughout. The elderly cook had helped, with a kind smile and soft eyes, placing the pale white rose buds amongst curls. Nobody had helped her before, not when she had magic at her fingertips, and the easiness of a girl that had been forced to do everything for herself. 

The hall itself reminded her of Hogwarts. Perhaps it was the smiles and delighted laughter, the tables of scrumptious food, or maybe it was the banners and crests that hung from the wooden beams. They rested gently against the cold stone walls, in such a moment, her heart could burst, it was almost as if she were sitting in the Great Hall once more. 

A young boy, who couldn’t have been older than seven or eight peered up at Holly with wide eyes, as if he couldn’t quite believe she existed. Most gazed at her in such a manner, it was either that, or utter hatred. Frothing at the mouth, terrified of the woman that they thought to be a witch. Not that they were wrong, but it unsettled her greatly. It would not take much for her to be at the stake, and without her wand, Holly despaired… Life was not fair. She smiled kindly at the boy, who flushed, glancing down at his buckled leather boots, ashamed at having been caught. 

Colum had greeted her stiffly, as if he was unsure what to do with a Peverell underneath his roof. His lips twitched in greeting, nodding gently. 

“This is my wife, Letitia.”

She was a pretty young woman, with long braided red locks. Her eyes were rather warm as well, bright like the stars that shone in the heavens above. Silver. 

“And this is my son, Hamish,” he murmured, who was as red-haired as his mother. Holly smiled, greeting the young boy kindly. But it left nothing but the taste of bitter ash upon her tongue, all she saw, in him , was Fred. But oh so much younger, and alive . 

“Are you really a witch ?” 

Letitia gasped in dismay, glaring furiously at her son. “Hamish!”

“Well,” demanded the boy. “Are you?”

Holly anxiously shifted on her chair, her fingers clasping tightly at the spoon that rested in her palm. She could not tell the truth, they would burn her to bone and ash. There would be nothing of her left— 

Dougal cleared his throat, his lips smiling gently at her, the most cordial he had ever been to her. And yet, she knew, in such a moment, that he knew. What she was, that in her heart and blood, magic breathed life into her very soul. Holly gulped nervously. 

“Well,” acknowledged the man, glancing at her bemusedly. “Lady Peverell. What are you? Witch or woman?” 

“I… I am not yet a woman…”

Dougal blinked. 

“My Aunt Petunia always said girls don’t become women until they’re twenty-one. So I’m neither, Mr. Mackenzie.” 

Dougal nodded, passing her the bowl of smoked fish. Wrinkling her nose at the stench. She had always despised sea-food. It was vile, and putrid, of course, this could only be blamed on the unfortunate smoked salmon incident and her allergy to the dreadful thing. 

“Do you not like fish, My Lady?”

Holly hesitated, unsure. “I’m allergic, sir.” 

“Allergic?”

“I, er, react to the food. I cannot breathe if I eat it… I will, er, die… ” 

Dougal glanced at the bowl, snatching it out of her hands and replacing it with a bowl of freshly baked potatoes. 

“Die?” Exclaimed Hamish, aghast at the very thought. “Why would you die?!” 

It was not all fish, she knew, Holly had tasted the tangy bitter taste of fried squid and crab. But she could not forget that night; the hospital lights, the breathing tubes, and the horrid medicine that had followed her for many weeks later. Her Aunt and Uncle in a rare display of affectionate concern had pampered her with McDonald’s and ice-cream. Her aunt had weepingly admitted that her own mother had been allergic to smoked salmon, or any kind of fish, really. 

“It’s why it’s called an allergic reaction,” she said with a frown, her fingers twitched as she reached for the small potatoes with the spoon. “My throat swells up and I can’t breathe. It’s a terrible thing.” 

“Oh,” murmured the boy in dawning horror. Reaching up to clutch at his own neck in dismay at the mere thought. “ I won’t die if I eat the fish, will I?”

“Have you ever eaten fish before, little laird?”

Hamish flushed at the name, puffing his chest proudly, beaming at Holly widely with all the pride that a child could muster. 

“Yes.”

“Then you shall be fine.” 

“I-Is it like Flower Fever?” 

Holly blinked bewildered. “Flower—”

“Yes!” Exclaimed the boy excitedly. “In spring! When the flowers give you the sniffles.” 

“Yes,” she admitted amusedly at the young exuberant boy. “Some can react in such a manner. It depends on how severe their allergy is. But if you have never had problems you more than likely never will.”

Holly blushed, slicing her spoon into the crisp potato, glancing away from the amused gaze of Colum and his wife. The bread was perhaps the best she had ever tried, soft and delicate, with a warming taste of freshness that did not come in the plastic packets of bread that her aunt often came home with. Even the house-elves had not made such perfection. 

“Thank you,” murmured Holly as she scooped another helping of mint sauce for the roasted lamb and pork loin. 

They said nothing else, the hummed delight of food was enjoyed merrily at the high-table. There was much to be had; Scallops, beef, lamb, trout, salmon, oysters, potatoes, black pudding, and, of course, mugs and glasses of wine and whiskey. Holly had seen nothing of the likes; Hogwarts had hardly ever supplied anything of a sea-salt nature (except for squid and crab), but Holly did not go anywhere near the oysters or scallops. Her stomach churned at the very thought. 

“Where did you say you came from?” Asked Letitia, her silver eyes peering at her over the rim of her glass of mulled wine. The sweet scent of cinnamon and berry was divine, Holly licked her lips at the sight of the steaming, bubbling red liquid. 

“I didn’t,” she said, her emerald gaze narrowed at the laird’s wife. Holly sighed in exasperation. “But if you must know. Loch Arkaig. It is not far from here.” 

“Not far? It’s eighty miles! ” 

Holly smirked, scooping another potato onto her plate. “I did have a horse.” 

“I saw no horse,” claimed Dougal, his brow raised high as he gazed at her in doubt. “That would be a long way to travel on foot…” 

Holly knew it was, it had to be, it had taken her hours to climb the highest hill near her school. To walk eighty miles of rolling hills, wet moors, and unstable roads was an unseemly thought. It could only be far worse in such times as these. 

“Mort was an old beast. He died not that long before I reached Inverness.” She sighed in exasperation, “Sir, I am no stranger to walking. I’ve spent the past few years on the run from the English. I have no crimes, none that you can find, Mr. Mackenzie. It is merely a folly to be a Peverell. But that is not something I have any control over, do I? ” 

Colum nodded kindly. “Very true, My Lady.”

The man did not ask any questions, he had no need to, I had told him of my life once before, as bitter as it was. Or, at the very least, a far-less modern version of it. 

“Do you have anything planned, Lady Peverell?” Asked Letitia. “Or would you prefer to be a ward of my husband?” 

Colum and Dougal glanced at the woman in surprise, this was not something they had spoken off. This much was clear, but they did not seem opposed. Holly anxiously shifted in her chair, her long nails digging into the pale silver of her cutlery. 

“I do have family in London. The Blacks. My grandmother and godfather’s family, b-but I have no definite plans… England is… dangerous for me.”

While in her time it had not truly been so, but she knew what the English had done to the Peverells in years before. The crimes that the crown had committed against her blood. Holly was no fool, even now, in such moments, amongst the towering hills of the Highlands, she was not safe. 

“England!” Hissed Letitia, aghast. “Oh no! My dear, you must not. If it is as you say… I couldn’t possibly send you away into such dangers!” The woman turned to her husband with a fierce gaze, her silver eyes narrowed on the man. 

In truth, she was rather frightening. 

“Husband,” she demanded stiffly. “I will not have you— she is but a girl! ” 

“Calm yersel', wife! I hae no intention o' sending th' young lassie away!”

Holly glanced down at her bowl shyly, her cheeks flushing as she nibbled at a slice of roast beef. The hot warm air that lingered in the hall brushed against her flesh, her sweaty palms shook. She had nowhere to go, no money of any sorts, and was truly terrified of being married off to a man of gods knows what. A lady of House Peverell, even without a single penny, was exactly that. A lady. She scowled in disdain, it was a wretched thought indeed! 

Letitia smiled kindly at her. Her long auburn curls brushing against her shoulders. 

“And what is Loch Arkaig like? I have never been myself.”

“It is beautiful ,” whispered Holly. “I-I miss it very much. I will have to admit, I spent most of my childhood running from my tutors and up into the mountains. The view was wondrous there…” She sighed dreamily, lost in her thoughts of home. 

Letitia laughed sweetly, lifting her cup of wine with a mischievous grin, she seemed to have that kind of nature.  She had seen it before, Holly thought, lingering in the halls of Hogwarts or tucked under the shadows of the Burrow; a tale of laughter under the joys of Christmas time. Holly couldn’t help but see it in others, the lively twinkle that had once breathed in Fred, she had seen it in Jaime (no matter how short their acquaintance) and in Mrs. Fitz, while it positively glowed in Letitia. She was, considered Holly with a wry grin, clearly a force to be reckoned with.

She was given the same room to sleep in, wretchedly, Holly knew it was the biggest room she’d ever possessed. A dawning light in a summer’s morning. The window was small, but she could see much from it, including the wide, long valleys and with it, the morning dawn — the kind that sprinkled life over the vast green trees, wet drops of rain and mist echoed across the land while small spots of light dawned across the rocks and mountainous peaks. 

Holly was summoned by Mrs. Fitz once more, dressed in a pale blue gown, but it was hardly to be seen, the large fur overcoat mostly hid it from view. It was made of a soft kind of material, shimmering under the weight of the candles. For a mere moment it was almost as if it was she who held more poise than Severus Snape, striding down the stone corridors with Mrs. Fitz, her emerald coat gliding behind her like a shadow. 

The Hall, as it turned out, was brimming with people — with life. The tables were pushed up against the walls, old oak resting neatly against the cold stone. Up, near where the high table had sat, was a throne. Dark and tall, covered thickly with a Mackenzie tartan; green and black, with a sprinkle of red and white over-check. The room thrummed with life. Men, women, and children alike gathered in the hall. They stood with a hushed murmur, shadows still under the light of the candles. 

Holly jumped in surprise as a young boy, not that much older than her, began to play the bag-pipes. The tune echoed through the room, high-pitched and hauntingly somber. He stood proudly behind the throne, his fingers clutching tightly at the instrument. He stood with a group of five men, they were dressed finely in neatly pressed kilts, clean white shirts, and wealthy waistcoats of various colours and sizes. The women in the room, she noticed, were similarly dressed, pampered in what could have been their finest gowns and coats. Holly twitched nervously, this was important, she knew, very much so. 

“Holly,” murmured Letitia. The young red-head appeared from the shadows, taking Holly’s hand into her own. “Come with me, it’s going to get a little busy.” 

The Lady of Leoch led her to a small set of stairs, just below the throne. They waited there, amongst the scattered crowd of curious Scotsmen. Men and women alike peered at her, all looking far more terrifying than they should. Holly shifted anxiously, her fur-coat brushing gently across the cold stone floor, past her high buckled leather boots.

“It’s alright,” laughed Letitia. “There’s no reason to be nervous. I talked to Colum last night, ye perfectly safe with us here. I promise.” 

The large doors opened with a heaving creak, holding it open for the Laird Colum, and his brother, Dougal. Holly noticed with wide eyes as the people parted, the hushed murmurs silenced by the company of the two brothers. The music screeched, seemingly becoming all the more piercing as Colum walked up the steps with a flinch, sitting down with a sigh on his tall, wooden throne. He smiled kindly at his people, and his wife, those bright blue eyes peered at her . Knowing, and yet, kind. He nodded, silencing the trilling fear that rose up and up. Within her. The bag-pipes were silenced with a mere raise of his hand. That particular silence echoed throughout the room, nobody dared to move or speak. 

It was not within their right. Not yet. 

“Ye may commence.” 

Holly watched in bewildered amazement, gazing at the crowd curiously as Colum held court within the high walls of his Hall. She had never seen anything of the likes before, eyeing the disputes of his people that were settled with a firm hand. He even had a scribe, she noticed, something Holly had only ever read of in Shakespeare. 

It was a strange thing indeed; a hundred or so gathered men and women, fiercely swearing in that language of theirs. Oddly enough, it reminded Holly of the rolling hills of her home, and the proud company of her old professor. The clan were a force of nature, of the kind that involved broken and bruised fists. 

Holly found it all rather humorous, almost as if she was within the Common Room once more, in the proud and boisterous company of the Weasleys. Percy often attempted murder against the twins every week or so— Her heart trembled at the ache. Pale fingers clasped tightly at Letitia’s hand as she watched the men. Holly raised a brow. Heart drumming heavily within her chest. Murder, arson, and wife-stealing were greivous crimes in the Highlands, as it seemed. She bit her lip, fiercely unknowing whether to weep or laugh. These men were strange creatures of habit and perhaps a little too brutish. 

Letitia squeezed her hand softly, seemingly fond of the girl she had only just met. Dougal glanced at them, hazel eyes peering at them intensely. His lips twitched. Holly didn’t know what to think of him. Not now. 

She shifted anxiously, the fur of her green cloak brushing against the cold stone. 

“Lady Peverell, will ye come forth?” 

Holly shuffled forward, glancing hesitantly at the hushed crowd, she curtsied with a gentle bow of her head. It had been the hours of perfected work of her Aunt Andromeda (for the fleeting months she had known her) and Holly couldn’t have been any more grateful. She knew it wasn’t perfect. Her legs trembled, and her knees bent awkwardly, but it was far better than nothing. She shuddered, knowing and feeling the silent stares of the crowd. She could feel the awe, and the startling terror. 

Dougal took her hand into his, allowing her to rise with the mere shadow of grace and dignity that she could. He gently pressed a kiss to her hand, barely there at all, a swift and quick touch, acknowledging her status. That, at the very least, she knew. 

“My Lady,” said Dougal, clasping his hand over his heart as he bowed, quickly, as if he despaired to honour a woman. Holly, in this day and age, would not be surprised. “Clan Mackenzie welcomes you to our home, we promise to shelter and protect you from all harm, we grant this not as a debt, but an alliance between Clan and Tribe. We ask you to honour and protect us in return. Do you swear, as we swear, on blood and bone?”

Holly stammered, a blush gracing her cheeks as she stared. This was a vow. A promise. She knew what it meant by uttering the words, an oath to protect them. As much as they swore to honour her. But maybe, she considered, with this… Holly would be safe. 

She inclined her head, dark red curls caressing her pale cheeks.

“I, Holly Iolanthe, of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Peverell, sworn Tribe of the immortales agros do swear to honour and protect Clan Mackenzie, on my blood and bone, on the flesh of my maiores before me. For as long as they swear unto me. I make this vow not lightly, or deceitfully. I, Holly Iolanthe, do swear.” 

Holly shivered, her magic jolting within her blood, boiling and thrumming, as if it were alive. She shuddered, hands desperately clasping at the fur of her cloak. A howling echoing wind crept through the Hall, silencing the awed murmurs as the Clan stared with wide-eyed discontent. Each as unsure as the other. And yet, not all. 

Colum acknowledged her with a soft smile. 

“We accept your vow, My Lady. Ye are safe in Leoch, as Laird, that I can promise.” 

Holly nodded, searchingly stepping back from the men, her legs shook as she jolted into Letitia. Her soft warm hands resting gently on her own. It had shaken her entirely, from soul to bone, the murmured whispers and wide-eyed stares would haunt her. She had seen it all before; in the halls of Hogwarts when the great beast Bathesha had slithered through the pipes, taking the will of the students as she pleased — Holly would not forget their awe and terror, in face of the girl that spoke the tongue of the serpents. They had accused her. She supposed, in a sense, it was the logical thinking of children. 

Yes. She acknowledged, peering out at the crowd of Scotsmen. Children can be cruel. Holly knew truly why that was. No child summoned cruelty by mere whim, it was a taught habit. Of men and women alike. Even these few souls she didn’t know. Holly startled suddenly, her magic boiling within her blood and bone. She was not safe here. 

Not truly . 

Her heart rebelled, fervently whispering that she had to be. They had sworn a vow. 

The Scotsmen murmured once more, shifting anxiously and with slight tittering bemusement. Holly stared as a girl was dragged into the crowd, gazing fiercely at them as if they were nothing but scum with a stubborn tilt of her chin. The girl couldn’t have been that much younger than her. She was of the pretty sort, supposed Holly, a soft round face with long yellow locks that curved past her shoulders, tied back in a perfect plait with a tightly spun blue ribbon. 

Letitia tsked, placing her hands on her hips, looking almost as stern as Mrs. Weasley had once been herself. 

“Oh,” murmured Letitia heavily. “That girl will never make a proper match. Her grandmother will be so ever disappointed.” 

“Why? Who’s she?” 

“Laoghaire Mackenzie.” The older woman sighed exasperatedly. “It’s hardly the first time she’s been caught… consorting with men… her father has finally had enough. I believe.” 

“Oh?”

“Yes. Her father claims he found her with a man. No true Scot would take a shared wife to the marriage bed. She’ll have to be punished to release her partly of her sins,” Letitia shook her head in dismay. “But the men will not forget. It will be sheer luck if she is ever granted a respectable betrothal.” 

Holly jumped, the loud tapping of Colum’s knuckles on the old wood jolted through her. It was piercing, loud and clear. 

“Oh dear .” 

Holly furrowed her brows, glancing up at her companion, who was, much to her dismay, a few inches taller. 

“What’s happ—”

Holly froze, wide-eyed as one of the tall, boisterous men unbuckled his belt, the long leather wrapped firmly around his palm. Laoghaire was grasped tightly by her arms, the guards fiercely holding her in place. Holly flinched at the sight, she startlingly knew the pains of a leather belt and the sadistic glee of madman. 

“ Chan eil ! Stad !” 

Holly glanced, eyes widening with the crowd as she saw him striding through the gathering. He was proud, with the hint of predatory grace as he demanded an audience with the Laird. He was the same as he was when she first met him; tall and firm, with dark red curls that brushed his pale flesh, above those wide blue eyes that were almost as pretty as his face. She shook her head with a flush, gazing away from him. From Jamie. 

The crowd parted, eyeing him as he stood proudly, his blue gaze narrowed on the Laird. He inclined his head, respectfully but with no air of submission. 

“ Bheir mi peanas oirre! ” 

The women gasped, fluttering about as if he had declared the strangest of things. The men did not seem so startled, indeed, they eyed him slyly. Holly knew nothing of this strange language they spoke, but she could tell the meaning as she was far from dim-witted. 

“What is he doing ?” She breathed, staring widely at Letitia. Holly eyed Jamie cautiously, her emerald orbs gazing into his own. She noticed shrewdly that his arm had been healed (of course it was) and the pain of broken flesh and bone was truly gone. 

“That stupid, stupid boy!” 

Holly quirked a brow. Her fellow red-head did not seem impressed with his actions in the slightest. Letitia gazed at Laoghaire in contempt, as if she was the cause for such utterly bewildering madness. 

“Wha—”

Letitia interrupted her with a fierce snarl. 

“The lad’s going to take her punishment.” 

Holly furrowed her brows, peering at the strange Laoghaire and Jamie. Perhaps… she thought, are they… 

“A-Are they… together?” 

Letitia frowned. “Together?”

“An item, I mean.”

“An item? ” 

“Er—” Holly flushed. “Are they… lovers? ” 

Letitia gasped, staring at her in utter dismay. 

“I think not dearie! Not Laoghaire Mackenzie. She’s not for the likes of Jamie! She’s had far too many men to be…” The red-head gazed at her nephew with a narrowed piercing stare. “Colum and Dougal will certainly hear of this… if it is true…” 

Holly gaped, flustered beyond belief, praying with a sense of hope that she had not shattered his good reputation, or at the very least, gathered him nothing but trouble. 

“It doesn’t matter anyhow. Colum will not like him taking the punishment. The lad is no MacKenzie…”

“He isn’t?”

Letitia blinked. “O’ course not.” She stared at Holly in consideration. “His mother Ellen, my husband’s sister,  married Brian of Clan Fraser. It was a great scandal. They ran off in the night, as if he had any right! Stealing the daughter of the MacKenzie!” 

Holly frowned, shivering under the forthright outrage that festered in the woman. Whomever this Brian Fraser was he wasn’t loved nor admired by Letitia. She could not judge the man, despite his apparent Hades-like actions (although, more often than not, Persephone fled willingly ) Holly did not know him. Who could judge a man they knew nothing off? 

“Oh,” breathed the woman near them. “Oh my. ” Holly gazed as the crowd murmured excitedly once more as Jamie was grabbed roughly by the guards. She blinked, with dawning horror as the leather belt was swished about, tauntingly and crudely. 

Oh Merlin — He was going to take the beating willingly, that much was clear to Holly. It dawned on her with a startling clarity that this was normal, at least, to these strange people it was. Morgana! 

“ Chan eil! Chan eil mi lag. Dèan sabaid orm .” 

Holly shuddered at the chill that settled throughout the Hall, the crowd murmuring in a whispered hush of excitement. 

“Oh Jamie,” laughed Letitia. “You little fool!”

“What’s happening? What did he say?”

“He’s chosen to fight.” 

Holly jumped, startled as the man swung viciously at him. Jamie grunted, as he swung again and again, punching at flesh and bone. She thought it was rather fortunate there was no cracking echo of a broken bone, there ought to be with such brutality and savage strength.  Jamie straightened, stiffening his spine as he stared into the eyes of his abuser, hands clenched stubbornly at his sides. 

She gasped slowly, a slight huffing rasp as he was punched swiftly in the face. Jamie’s head swung to the side, the echo of fists grinding against his cheekbones festered in the Hall. 

Holly had never seen anything of the likes, she paused at that, for surely it was a lie. There had been more than enough fist fights in Hogwarts; boys tumbling about in the courtyard, furiously throwing blows to bruise and break, more often about a girl than anything else. Holly had always thought them to be dimwits, a sensible wizard did not fight with his fists. This, she acknowledged, was just as brutalising. 

“W-Will he stop?” Holly stuttered, a tight clenching fear festered in her heart. Surely they would not kill him? 

“O’ course! Angus will hardly murder the wee laddie. It’s just a little bruising.” 

“Just a little —” Holly huffed, crossing her arms with a fierce scowl. She gazed at the bruised and battered form of Jamie, he stared up at Angus with a wild grin, belting into proud laughter as the reigning blows ceased. 

Holly stared. 

“He’s completely and utterly mad!” 

Angus pulled him up off the floor with a heaving grasp, Holly watched the pair embrace, as if such practices were mundane. As if it were mere humdrum . She spluttered, brows raised at the insanity of it all. The crowd around her sighed in relief, shoulders slumping as others laughed. Jamie, it seemed, was of the favoured kind. 

“Good lad!” Declared one of the men, patting Jamie on the back as delightful gales of boisterous laughter slipped from his lips. 

Gods. This whole place is mad! 

“Thank you,” he said, bowing with his hand pressed to his chest, he thumped it twice. He spun around, gracing the crowd with a startled nod, his blue eyes meeting hers with a twitch of a smile. 

And then he was gone, jumping into the shadows of the Hall, and far from the merry crowd that laughed about. Holly shook her head in dismay, her life, as it seemed, had gotten stranger by the day. 

Holly didn’t see him for another day, she had spent her evening in the tedious company of Dougal, he had shown her around the land. 

She did not like him. Holly could not help it, but she had never favoured men that viewed her gender as  a status in life — more often than not, beneath them. She couldn’t despise all men with such inclinations, or she’d never like anyone in this new world of hers. This Holly knew, and she hated it. 

“Oh,” she murmured. Bumping into the tall, lean man that hovered in the shadows of the Kitchen. “I’m terribly sorry!” 

“Tis alright, lassie.” 

Her small hands had dusted flour across his cotton top, Holly could very well tell. It was a gruesomely miserable thing, covered in blood, dirt, and flecks of mud. She dared not ask where he had been, but she couldn’t help but wonder. Her emerald gaze fell on the blood, stained and almost brown, muddied with the distinct scent of age. 

“A-Are you… well ?” 

“Pigs blood.” He grinned down at her, a wild curl of red brushing against his dark eyelashes. There was something savage in that wide-reaching grin of his with a sudden flash of teeth, and a sparkling glint of wickedness that brewed in his warm blue eyes. He was handsome, she reluctantly admitted, even more so, in a savage manner. 

“What about—” Holly paused, gazing at him anxiously, he stepped closer as he snatched an apple from the bowl behind her. As quick as any snake ought to be. 

“Are you alright? Yesterday.”

Jamie hummed, smiling as he bit into the freshly gathered apples. 

“Why did you do it? I-I mean,” she spluttered nervously. “Why did you let that man beat you?” Holly flushed, flustered under the bright stare of his. 

“Who else would? Th’ lassie didn’t deserve that!”

“Oh.” 

Jamie shrugged, taking another loud bite from the bright green apple. 

“It would have shamed the lass,” he sighed with a slight twitch of his lips. “To be beaten in the Hall. Easier for me.” 

Holly blinked in surprise. 

“ Easier? ” She gasped in dismay, glancing at his side with wary concern. “Easier! You were beaten enough to —”

“Aye,” he nodded sternly. “Tis simply the way it is done, My Lady. Laoghaire is very young, ye know. She would ha’ been shamed before everyone tha’ knows her, her reputation would take time to recover. I’m sore, but not really damaged; I’ll get over it.” 

“Can anyone be beaten?” She asked. Jamie glanced at her cautious fear with a wild smirk of his. “I-I mean—” 

“No. Fists are for men. A belt perhaps…” 

Holly shuddered, her cheeks whitening at the thought. All that she could feel, all that she could see was her uncle. Vernon and his thick leather belts, Holly didn’t dare to think of the scars that littered her shoulders and spine. White vicious things, of the likes that even magic hadn’t managed to heal. 

“Lady Holly!” Startled Jamie, gazing at her in concern as she shuddered and shook, as pale as a ghost. “My Lady, are ye well?” 

She gasped, her chest rattling at the thought of those cold dark brown eyes. 

“Holly!” Hissed Jamie, his large hands wrapped tightly around her shoulders. He didn’t know what else to do. 

“James Fraser!” Screeched Mrs. FitzGibbons. “What exactly do ye think yer doing?! Get your hands of the lassie!” 

The woman was the same as she had been when Holly first met her — lips pinched as they fell into a deep scowl, wild ash-grey curls tucked gently behind her ears. Holly despairingly thought she looked rather like Professor Sprout. 

“I haven’t done anythin’!” 

Holly, shuddered, arching far from the reach of his large palms. Her shivering arms met the gentle touch of Mrs. Fitz, kind as she was, her eyes would never forget the harsh cracking of her uncle’s belt. 

“Get me some of the salts,” ordered the Cook. “Hurry now, laddie! I think she’s in shock.”

Jamie scavenged through the old wooden cupboards, a thing he knew well not to do without the honest permission of Mrs Fitz. He found them in the back, three small glass bottles — he could smell them. It was a bitter stench, the kind that reminded him of spilt ale in a puddle of urine. The small glass bottles clinked as he drew them from the cupboard, his scowl deepened at the stench. 

It truly was revolting. 

“What do ye put in them?!”

Mrs Fitz laughed, clasping at one of the black glasses, she uncorked it with a loud pop. Ignoring the man’s discontented disgust with a wide-reaching smirk. 

“I’m no simpering English lassie,” chuffed the cook. “Roses and lavender will do her no good! This’ll do just fine.” 

Holly wrenched away from cook’s tight grasp, gagging at the foul odour that propped under her nose. She had smelt the like before, on the battlefield where nothing but the rotting corpses of her friends lay. 

“Rotten…” croaked Holly, shivering wholly at the mere thought. “Y-You put rotten flesh…” 

“Aye,” she chortled. “It’s good for waking the mind. Dead animal skin and the likes. You were certainly not all there, my dear.” The elderly woman smiled kindly. “Where did you go?” 

Holly glanced cautiously at Jamie, shuffling back into the shadow of the cook. Terrified beyond belief — surely it wasn’t common practice to beat women? Surely. But, she knew, startlingly so, that she did not know these people. For all she knew, they did exactly that! 

She wanted, more than anything, to say home, in the halls of Hogwarts, but Holly knew there was nothing left of it. And, if anything, her memories were of a brutal man that had done nothing but despise her very nature. 

“To my family,” she whispered. Hating herself that they held such a claim on her blood. “Not that they were much of one.” 

Jamie furrowed his brows, peering down at her as if she were the strangest creature he had ever beheld. Perhaps, Holly considered bemusedly, she was. 

“Bad memories?” Asked Mrs. Fitz, the elderly woman reached over the large wooden table, her hands grasping at the thick pot. 

“Some,” admitted Holly. “But not all of them are bad.” It was true. She had good memories too, perhaps not of Little Whinging, but there were moments in London — with Sirius, huddled near the fire as the bitter crisp air of Yule settled in. They were few and in between, she didn’t have many memories of him. But the ones she did have, those were delightfully happy. 

Holly hesitantly took the mug of cold water that was placed in her shuddering palms, Jamie took a mug, too. “It’s healing water,” he said with a wry smile, “From the springs.” 

“Good memories?” Asked Mrs Fitz coyly. “Is there a gentleman?” 

Holly blushed, flustered beyond belief, reminded heavily of the gossiping hens that lived in Privet Drive. Of the kind that knew far too much for their own good. 

Aunt Petunia had been the same. 

“Once.” 

“Oh?” Asked Jamie with a frown, “He didnae leave ye?!” Scandalised at the mere thought of abandoning a young girl in the hills. 

“Never,” whispered Holly. “He would never!” 

She would not forget Fred, whether it was his bright sunny disposition or his wicked grins, he had been home. She wasn’t all that surprised in the end that she lost him. It was all that she ever seemed to do. 

“He died,” she muttered. “We weren’t betrothed for that long before…” 

“Oh!” Mrs Fitz exclaimed, bustling the girl into her tight embrace. “You poor thing!” 

Holly knew the woman meant well, Mrs Fitz had only been nothing but kind, she simply wished to not think on it. Not Hogwarts, Fred, Hedwig, Sirius, Remus or even Snape. They were gone and that was all there was to it. 

“It’s alright,” declared Holly. “I lived through our memories with Mort.”

Jamie chuckled earnestly. “Your horse?”

“Oh yes. Luna introduced us, but it was Fred that taught me how to ride. I don’t think Luna shall ever forgive him for that.” 

Luna, she thought despairingly, was gone too. 

“Ye can ride?” 

“Yes!” Exclaimed Holly enthusiastically with a loud sniffle. “I love horses.” 

She could hardly tell him that Mort had been her dearest companion at Hogwarts, her friend that she had rode into the heart of battle. That he was no horse. Technically. 

Jamie stared at Holly with a slight twitch of his lips, wide blue eyes peering into her own. She, to him, was a peculiar creature. Odd in all the ways that were special. Different. And, he acknowledged, completely and utterly bizarre. 

“Would you like to see the stables?” 

“Oh.” Holly stared at the arched stone window, out into the green fields that rested beyond the Keep. “I would love to.” She had never favoured horse racing, not for its lack of adventure, but for the restraining use of a saddle. Fred had once tried to place one on Mort, that, she thought fondly, had not ended well. Nor did she suspect it would’ve when he had gathered the supplies. Even now, amongst the vast hills and mountains, she would rather ride a horse without the savage restraint on the poor creatures. She liked to feel the wind at her cheeks, to be kissed by its affection, to feel the invisible hands running through her wild curls. To touch the soft hair of a horse’s mane between her fingers. 

Holly had never claimed she was an elegant child. No, she was rather savage. 

She had been raised with elegance and grace, exploited by her aunt and uncle (“Isn’t she lovely! … Oh! She plays the Piano Forte too!”), but that hadn’t been true. A falsified affection that ended when the cupboard door slammed shut at exactly eight o’clock in the afternoon. More often than not, Holly never got her supper. This, she supposed, had left her to the childish graces of rebellion, and the means of scampering through the woods with the squirrels and deer, far from the horrific clutches of her dear sweet Aunt Petunia. 

“Could we go for a ride?” Asked Holly, eyes wide as she stared up at Jamie. Her heart stuttering in her chest at the mere thought, it was the closest she would come to riding a broom. It would feel good, she decided, to feel the wind at her side once more. 

Mrs Fitz glanced at Holly anxiously, her hands reaching for the bowl near the edge. She grabbed at the floured dough that rested inside, peering back at her with those narrowed brown eyes. 

“I don’t know if it’s wise, my dear. Ye don’t know any of the horses.” 

“Well,” chortled Jamie. “She can get to know them. I’m sure one of them will be fond.” 

Mrs Fitz huffed pointing a floured finger at Jamie, a fierce scowl tugging at her lips. 

“Ye be careful, James Fraser! I don’t want to see a single bump on her head! Mistress Letitia will not be impressed. Do ye hear me?” 

Jamie grinned impishly. “Yes, Ma’am!” 

The cook’s kind eyes turned to Holly, she smiled softly at the girl. 

“Ye be careful with those horses, Lady Peverell! I don’t want to see any cracked heads or broken bones, goodness knows we don’t have a doctor to see to it! I’ll be keeping an eye on you both…” the woman paused, gazing at the pair of them shrewdly. “I have my ways. Believe me.” 

Holly bristled, knowing very well that she would not dare to fall from a horse, let alone one that she rode. It had taken her months to learn the ways of riding a flying horse — she would be fine with one that could not. It was a given. Holly knew she was not Luna; who had the oddest connection with animals that she had ever seen, she had spent most of her years at Hogwarts convinced the girl could converse with them. Nonetheless, a non-flying horse could not be that different from a Thestral. Surely. Her skill without the reins on a horse would be superior, Holly was sure of it. Certainly so. 

Her shuddering palms grasped at the cotton of her dress. It was another beautiful pattern that Letitia had gifted her. She certainly couldn’t imagine riding one, let alone running through the wide and vast valleys. Her freedom, Holly was beginning to realise, was sparse in these large lands. It was hard not to think of her uncle and the brutish strength he had wielded as if it were a kindness. This new place, in its own way, was as much a prison as her cupboard under the stairs had been. Perhaps it was more pretty, with a savage grace and a wildness that soothed her aching heart, for the long halls of Hogwarts. But it changed nothing, she saw in Dougal’s eyes a sense of greed. For her position? Her power? Her name ? Holly did not know but it made her uneasy all the same. It did not help that with every threatening strike of violence she thought of her uncle, it had haunted her all throughout the war -- with every death. 

And now, here it remained. 

Jamie, with a kind smile, his hand resting gently on her elbow, led her out into the courtyard. It was a muddy place, as it had been a mere few days ago, the cluttering hum and gentle laughter of children followed them. Whether it was in the halls, the fields, or even the rivers.  

“The children like it there,” laughed Jamie, “plenty of fish to catch.” 

“Oh?” 

“O’ course that’s not what they’re doing.” 

“No? What are they doing then?” 

“Having fun,” he snorted, “have you never heard of it then? Must have been a miserable childhood if ye don’ know what fun is!” 

The paddocks weren’t that far from the Keep, within the sight of the towering grey walls, it hovered above them like a daunting shadow. It was beautiful but silent and sombre. Holly shivered, grasping at her cloak as she wrapped it around her; she could taste it in the wind, settling in amongst the creaking trees, rustling through the bright green grass. Autumn would be upon the misty hills of Scotland soon. She had felt it before, up in the highest towers of Hogwarts, that piercing ache that drifted through the winds, carrying with it the bittersweet promise of winter. 

Holly jumped, brushing against the pale crisp shirt of Jamie’s -- which was absurd considering the frigid weight of cold wind. A young horse galloped past her, two others following it with the loud thump of sprinting hooves. 

The three of them stopped with a loud piercing neigh that echoed throughout the field as if noticing the strangers in their home for the first time. Holly received nothing but suspicious stares, and a tentative gaze from one of them; it was a young horse, perhaps the youngest of them all, with a coat of glittering grey. It was curious but not enough to approach. The horses did not stay long, the three of them glanced at one another before they made a startling strategic retreat. Huffing as they ran down the hill, deep into the long grass, near the glimmering small stream that swept through the hillside. 

“Well,” declared Jamie rather amusedly, “I don’ think ye will be riding today. It might take a few weeks to get them to trust ye.” 

Holly stared at Jamie with a raised brow, unimpressed with the startled nature of the horses that had fled at the mere sight of her. She very well hoped they didn’t dare to take them into the heart of battle, they likely wouldn’t survive an hour let alone two . 

She huffed, slumping down amongst the high green grass, daisies and violet flowers brushed against her pale cheeks, it was the sweet scent of summer fading to fall. If Holly looked up she knew all that could be seen was the grey light of covered skies, as that had been all she had seen since arriving in Scotland, no matter the particulars of each era. Jamie sighed, sitting on the rock that rested near her, his tartan kilt brushing against the bright daisies that blew in the wind. 

We must look like an odd pair, considered Holly with a rare smile of humour, a witch and a Scotsman from the 1700s. Ron would think it hilarious… 

All they needed was a picnic basket and a rare peeking glance of the sun, and perhaps it would be an admirably delightful evening. Although she doubted the sun would make an occurrence it had yet to do so in the past three days. 

“Would you like some?” Asked Jamie, holding out his leather flask. “I pinched some from the kitchen, ye look like ye could do with a drink or two.” 

Holly wrinkled her nose at the foul stench. 

“What is it?” 

“Ale.” 

Holly scowled at the thought of the ghastly toxic concoction that was fire-whiskey. Never again, she avowed. Never again. 

“I’ll pass.” 

Jamie laughed. “Ye can’t be a Scot then.” 

She rolled her eyes, clasping a clump of grass in her hands as she threw it with a mischievous grin; Jamie startled and choked at the mouthful of it, swallowing it with a grimace. Holly stared at him in disbelief as he chewed and swallowed the small blades of grass and the odd clumps of dirt that were clumped together. 

“Oh merlin, breathed Holly, guffawing at the sight. “I cannot believe--” 

“Eh,” he murmured. “Not the first time, but I wouldna try it yerself.” 

She giggled, grasping at another handful, peering at the long strings of green. “I, and my friend, Neville tried to smoke it in his grandmother’s pipe once.” 

Jamie snorted. “Tis not as strange as saying merlin. ” 

Holly froze, her hands quivering as she grasped tightly at the grass that rested in her palms. 

“I suppose…” she shuddered at the thought of the truth ever being known. “Why on earth would you eat grass?” 

“Ah, it was a terrible winter. I was livin’ in the woods--” 

“In the woods!” 

“I’m sure a lady like yerself has never lived in the woods,” he smirked condescendingly. “But me. I know the woods quite well. I was livin’ with a group of friends o’ mine. Raidin’ over the Border, we had poor luck for a week.”

“ Raiding?! ” 

Jamie gazed at her bemusedly. “Wha’ else do ye think I do for a livin’?” 

Holly spluttered at the thought; a rather odd one too, of him in leather and animal fur with a Viking horde at his side. But she was no fool, she knew very well that the Vikings were hardly the first culture to raid at the cost of others. 

“Relax, My Lady, we don’t go pillaging and burning down the neighbours. We’d usually get a bit of parritch now and then from a crofter’s cottage, but those folk are so poor themselves there’s seldom anything to spare. They’ll always find something to give a stranger, mind, but twenty strangers is a bit much, even for a Highlander’s hospitality…”   

“So you don’t go murdering the poor folk, then?” 

Jamie spluttered. “O-Of course not!” He hesitated with a sly grin. “Depends doesn’t it. What if the laddie stole my sheep?” 

“Uh-” 

He gazed at her, blue eyes sparkling. 

“Steal their cows, of course! Mind, perhaps they’ve got some coins in the house, that’ll do as well.  If they’re a right bastard and steal from the neighbours too, it best ter burn down their house.”

“Burn down their house?!” Hissed Holly in dismay. “I thought you said you don’t burn down houses? Surely not!” 

He patted her gently on the head, long fingers brushing against her crimson locks. Holly flushed at the tender touch. 

“Well,” he shrugged, “if they’re a right bawbag they deserve it, don’t they?” 

Holly stared at him in bewilderment. “ Bawbag ?”

The young Scot flushed, glancing over at the horses. 

“Er-- Well, it means… Scrotum…” He whispered the word as if he were a child in the playground that had just been caught by his mother.

She snorted at the thought, delighting in his heavy-sighed relief, knowing that she had taken no insult to the matter. 

“Did you manage to find -- sorry, ” she smiled sweetly, “ raid any food?” 

Jamie frowned. “I wouldna have eaten any grass if I had!”  

“That’s unfortunate,” she smirked slyly. “When I lived in the woods, we managed to find some squirrels and birds.” Holly supposed with a slight smile, she was rather smug about it too. At least she hadn’t found the need to eat grass. If that were the case Ron would have more than likely resorted to cannibalism. 

“You lived in the woods?” He shook his head, red curls bouncing in the wind. “Well. I found no squirrels. It was winter, ye usually don’t see many of them then. We could usually snare a few rabbits --” He grinned, smugly too. “I’m sure they taste nicer than birds. We sometimes found venison, but there’d been no game for days, this time I’m talkin’ of. There was a light snow a few days before; just a crust under the trees, and mud everywhere else. I was looking for fungus, ye know, the big orange things that grow on the trees low down. Usually, the deer find those patches. They paw away the snow and eat the grass down to the roots… they hadn’t found this one yet… I was hungry enough I’d ha’ boiled my boots and eaten them. I ate the grass, down to the roots, like the deer do." 

“That must have been terrible!” Holly frowned. “I’m sorry.” 

“Eh, it’s been a while since then. Can’t even remember most of it! Don’t recommend it though, winter grass is tough…” He stared at her with that piercing gaze of his. “What were you doing livin’ in the woods?” 

“I was on the run, from the man that killed my parents.” 

“ What ?!” 

“It’s alright…” She smiled sadly. “He’s gone now.” 

Chapter Text

HOLLY rolled out of bed with a stiff aching back, her thighs clenching as she walked over to her dressing table. She’d spent the evening tucked behind Jamie, as he rode them around the hills. It had truly been a beautiful evening, to see the trees, small frosty streams, and that wet, damp sight of misty hills as the rain gently fell upon them. It had taken them three hours to return, her legs shaking from the long climb and the ride. Holly groaned, rubbing at her legs viciously, in fact, they felt worse. At the very least, Murtagh had helped her on the journey back. But, it certainly hadn’t eased the pain. 

“My Lady,” greeted one of the servants, her curls tucked neatly under a white cotton cap. “Would ye lik’ help picking which gown tae wear?” 

Holly nodded, pressing her shuddering palm to her lips as she yawned. She was rushed towards a corner of the room, where there was a thin sheet of cotton that hung from the ceiling. It was a strange thing, hung by only a few hooks that she could dress behind. She’d certainly never seen them in the 20th century. 

“Thank you,” muttered Holly. “Is there anything cream? Or blue?”

She liked the colour blue. It was her favourite; a bright reminder of the deep vibrant skies, or the glistening loch waters. 

“Yes, ma’am.”

It was a thick heavy thing, perfect for the cold winds of the Highlands. Truly, Letitia had been most kind. It was a dark blue, with thick cotton, and large bustling underskirts, her pale fingers tucked at the laces that rested at the front, and back, pulling them in and out with a heavy sigh. The sleeves were a nice touch she supposed, decorated with small flowers that were stitched onto the lacy material. Her dark, red curls were braided in a single plait, the rest falling loosely over her shoulders in a form of elegance that Holly had never entertained. At school she had mostly pulled her curls tightly into a bun with elastic muggle hair-ties she’d pinched from her Aunt Petunia. 

“Yer tae break the fast with the laird, Lady Peverell.” 

She shuddered at the thought, her cheeks paling at sitting under the stern cautious gaze that seemed to follow her wherever she may be. There wasn’t a single hour where Holly wasn’t being watched. 

The servant quickly wrapped a silken ribbon through the edges of her plait. It was rather pretty, she’d liked them in her time too, brought from the market in Little Whinging. Holly had first attended Hogwarts (youthful and naive) with ribbons attached to her uniform, and around her wrists. 

“Do you know what’s for breakfast?”

“Aye, my sister works in the kitchens, my Lady. Scones, sausages, porridge, and egg, I think.” 

“Thank you,” sighed Holly, her shoulders slumping at the thought of being freed from the revolting stench of boiled fish. “What’s your name?”

“Ava, ma’am.”

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Ava. You can call me Holly, if you want. I don’t mind!”

By the Gods, she’d prefer it. Holly had heard far too many ‘ma’am’s’, ‘my lady’, and ‘lady Peverell’ to have her going spare. Such strict etiquette ground at her teeth, the annoyance digging in.

She hated it.  

“I-I coudnae!”

“Well, I demand it then.”

Ava blushed, her ears flushed pink as she led Holly out the door, and through the morning candlelit halls. The castle was a large place, filled with arching old stone and hidden passages. The young Hamish had whispered about his favourites, of the one that was behind the tapestry in his room. It led to the kitchens, he said, reminiscing on the stolen chocolate cakes and steamed puddings. 

The large wooden doors of the Hall were pushed open as she entered, booming loudly as she gazed at the bustling, gathering crowd. There was a roaring fire or two that were tucked into the corner, barely keeping the chilly breeze out. There was another one, she noticed, a larger one behind the high-table where the Mackenzie family sat and ate. 

Letitia smiled at her, soft and demure, with a sly glint in those wide eyes of hers. Holly thought she was rather pretty, draped in a silken gown and a necklace of glittering pearls. 

“Come, my dear, we’ve got some tasty treats this morning. Mrs Fitz made some Cranachan!”

Holly blinked at it. The large glass bowl was filled with cooked berries, oats, and cream. It reminded her oddly of the Christmas trifle that her aunt had made, not that she ever got to try any. It was certainly a decadent thing to have for breakfast. 

“It looks delicious, my lady,” smiled Holly, as she sat down between her and the boy, Hamish. “Truly.” 

She reached for some of the sausages and roast potatoes, blinking at them in bewilderment, Hogwarts had only ever served toast and porridge for breakfast. Holly licked her lips, humming at the divine scent of rosemary and salt. 

“Feel free to eat with us as much as you’d like, Lady Holly,” smiled Colum, his head inclined slightly as he nodded at her. “My wife demands it.”

Letitia laughed into her hand, even that, Holly realised, was born with elegance. 

“Don’t you listen to him, Holly. I don’t demand it, but I’m most pleased with your company.”

Holly grinned, glancing at them with a sly quirk to her lips. 

“Thank you, my lady,” her brows furrowed, “Does Jamie not eat with you? I haven’t seen him since yesterday.”

Colum raised a brow. “Fond of our Jamie, are ye?”

Holly blushed, scooping a fork full of sausage into her mouth. She would’ve glared at him if she could. 

“Jamie likes to eat in the stables,” giggled Letitia. “Him and Murtagh.”  

“Would ye like some wine?” Asked Colum, holding the silver jug in his hand, that imperial smile stretched wide and far. “It’s from France.” 

“Oh,” said Holly, her cheeks still flushed, eyeing it with a frown. “I don’t… I don’t really drink wine. I prefer Cider.”

Or, she supposed, the bittersweet taste of mulled wine. They’d even had some in the Great Hall near Christmas, limited to one glass, and only amidst the Seventh, Holly had snuck a few sips from some of the others, of course, and had loved the tang of cinnamon and berries. 

“Cider?” Nodded Colum. “Letitia likes them too, we won’t be gettin’ any until summer comes around.” 

It was close to summer, she knew, Holly could taste it on her evening walks. That ageing scent of spring flowers that bloomed in the glades. Scotland was a cold land, even when the summer heat was around the corner, the lands were blessed with heavy rains, and storms that shook the hills. They called them summer storms, they’d even had them at Hogwarts, in spring too, great looming black clouds that screamed and thumped, thunder clattering in the skies, as lightning killed the cattle that roamed below. Strike one, two, and three. An endless summoning of rage, a seething of the Gods that rolled over the mountains. Holly expected they’d have a few more of them here.

“Mhm,” hummed Letitia chopping up her sausage, “I like the berry ones. We get those from France too, but I think the best ones come from Italy. But my dreaded husband never lets me have them!”

Colum snorted. “They cost an arm an’ a leg, Letitia. O’ course I’m not going to buy some!” 

He turned to her, brows raised, spearing another cut of potato on his fork as he ate. 

“Yer family. The Blacks you said, are you still planning on seeking them out? If you’d like, I can look into them?”

Holly nodded. “They have an estate in Scotland too, I believe, near Inverness. But they’re rarely ever there. Black Moore—”

“Black Moore?! Do you mean Laird Aries Black?” 

“Uh,” Holly blinked, startled at the thought. She didn’t know exactly how far back the family tree went, sprouting roots (tangled with incestous  inbreeding), but the last she could remember was Sirius I Black. He hadn’t made it past his eighth birthday. “Perhaps. My aunt never really talked about them. But it wouldn’t hurt to reach out to them.” 

“Aye,” nodded Colum. “I know of ‘em, alright. We’re practically neighbours! But you speak the truth, they’re hardly ever in the country. Too busy scheming with the politicians in London, Aries is the worst of ‘em. Man can hardly help it, got it from his mother, he did. Now that woman could scheme. Right danger, she was. I’ll have my men send a letter of yer stay here.” 

“Didn’t he just get married,” muttered Letitia. “Caused the family a great scandal. Nobody approved of his wife.”

Colum shook his head. “A man will marry who he wants too. I doubt he cared much fer insulting his aunts and uncles.” 

“I’m sure they’ll be delighted to come back,” promised Letitia. “The Blacks’ were always loyal to their own.” 

“Only pleasant thing about ‘em,” snorted Dougal. “I’d rather fight a lion than spend an hour in yer study with one of their lot. Tis as if they think they’re God’s gift!”

Holly flushed, glancing down at her plate with hunched shoulders. The Blacks’ were the worst of the lot. She’d heard it all from Sirius himself, her status as a half-blood might work against her. It was damned well likely. 

“I only ever knew my godfather, Sirius, my grandmother and great-grandmother died before I could know them, but Sirius and their journals never had anything great to say. My great-grandmother Dorea was disowned for marrying a Scotsman.”

Letitia blinked. 

“The Blacks are Scots’.” 

This wasn’t necessarily true. Dorea Black had been disowned, but not for marrying a Scotsman. Oh no. For something much worse. She married a Potter. Of a Noble House, albeit, but one that catered to the whims of the Whigs in Court and parliament. But, Holly couldn’t very well admit to that. 

Not when she went by the name Peverell. Holly doubted she’d ever have a claim to the Potter name again. 

She groaned, eyes slipping shut in delight as the fragrant taste of rosemary, apple, and pork slid past her tongue. It reminded her of home. Of the chattering Hall filled with students, each rushing towards the platters of food that were piled across the tables. 

The Hall was almost full, men and women sitting amidst each other as they fed their children. It was a place of life, of generations that had come together to feast. It was unlike anything else she’d ever seen. People living in harmony. 

“Do you like them?” Chuckled Dougal, leaning forward to pour himself another goblet of wine. “Jamie raided the pork ‘imself. Picked them well, he did.” 

Holly flushed, gripping at her fork at the thought of Viking-Jamie. He’d mentioned it yesterday, atop their horse, as he told her all about the neighbours pigs, horses, and sheep. Him and his merry men that had swooped in with swords, guns, carts and cotton sacks  as they took the poultry and cattle. They were diligent, he’d said, taking only from the rich. 

The poor man hadn’t liked being compared to Robin Hood in the slightest. As if it was an injury to his pride, to his sword and the Viking-like roguish image of warrior strength. 

Holly thought he was ridiculous, and a little thief. But she still liked him all the same. 

Letitia sniffed in disgust, wrinkling her nose at the blonde-haired girl that awkwardly ambled through the crowd. Her father gripped tightly at her wrist as she was forced to sit beside him, under a large tapestry of a hunter with six cross-eyed dogs, chasing a hare through the dark, mossy woods. 

“Is that the girl?” Holly asked, leaning towards Letitia with a frown. “Is she okay?”

Letitia scowled. “You’ll stay away from her,” ordered the woman, patting Holly gently on the cheek. “She’s a bad influence, and far too loose. Jamie was daft to take her punishment fer her. The bint could’ve done with a good thumping. Teach her a lesson.” 

Dougal snorted. 

“Aye,” he smirked. “He was too busy chasing after her skirts.” 

Holly stared, a small smile slipping past her lips as she watched him. Jamie entered the Hall, long kilt brushing against the sides of his knees. His red curls were brushed back, neatly tucked behind his ears. His shirt was even freshly pressed and clean, too. It was the nicest she’d ever seen him (not atrociously covered in blood, muck, and dirt), he was rather handsome. 

“Ah!” Cheered Dougal. “Mr. MacTavish! Come up here, why don’t ye? Lad, you can dine with us this morning. We haven’t seen enough of ye,” the man chortled. “Those bloody horses must be very funny to keep yer attention.” 

Holly snorted, pouring herself a glass of water as she hid her smile. She’d seen him in the stables, covered in hay with a delighted grin as he huddled up close with a dark, black horse. Perhaps he did prefer their company to the sound of roaring men and a wild array of atrocious jokes. 

She eyed him with a small smile, as he pulled out a chair next to Hamish. They almost looked the same, she thought, with a wild, red mop of curls, an arched face, icy blue orbs, and a mischievous grin. But she suspected Hamish got that from his mother.  He bowed at her, arm tucked behind his back with a small smile. 

Dougal snorted, shoving a spoonful of potatoes in his mouth. She winced, the man’s table manners were as bad as Ron’s, plain-fully disgusting. 

“The music’s about to start,” murmured Letitia as she eyed the bard and his men. “Wait for the bagpipes,” she grinned. “That’s when it gets good.” 

There were four of them; each as competitive as the other, pulling strings at old wooden guitars (Holly had never seen the like, old bent wood and a curved base), one of them had a fiddle. The eldest, perhaps thirty (an ageing blonde), began to sing. It was the kind that Professor McGonagall had blasted through the Hall on evening dances. A good old tune of Gaelic, stamping feet, and clapping hands. Some of the girls’ left their seats, rushing towards the crowd as they danced amidst themselves. Only a few men joined them. Holly didn’t speak much Gaelic, though it was still relatively charming. She didn’t need to understand it. The beat was quick, elegant, and nice enough that she could certainly swirl around the girls. 

The crowd jumped forward from their seats below as they clapped; a boy, no older than eleven, jumped out from behind his mother’s skirts and begged for another. The band started up, in a language that Holly did know. The welsh echoed through the hall, a humorous song about an old man and his dragon. 

“Who are they?” Asked Holly, blinking at Letitia through the smoky haze that had begun to form from the smoking meats in pits, pipes of the old cantankerous men, and the roaring hearths that kept the chill out. “They’re brilliant!” 

“Gwyllyn is the oldest,” said Jamie, who apparently knew more about the elder singer than anyone else. “He’s from Wales. Laird Colum pays a great amount for him to play here. He has to; the Welshman would be welcome at any laird’s hearth where he chose to roost. The rest travel with ‘em. Two of them are his brothers.” 

“They’re very popular,” muttered Letitia. “My husband pays them far too much. We co—”

“Aye, but they’re worth it, wife! Otherwise they’d spend all their time in bloody Inverness. I’d never hear any of their music, then!” 

Jamie grinned. 

“Gwyllyn would stay here anyway, my laird. He likes the rooms and food. Most don’t give ‘im enough.”

Holly frowned, a fierce thing that tugged at her lips at the foul stench of injustice. 

“Why not? He’s clearly talented. I like the dragon one,” she snickered. “I’ve heard it before… I think…”

“Aye,” agreed Jamie. “But most lairds would see it beneath them. Ye speak welsh then?”

“Oh, yes! My mother’s family was from Brecon, once. Moved down to London when my ma was a girl. I picked it up mostly to connect with her. It’s a lovely language. Although,” she frowned. “I don’t know all that much.” 

“It’s no easy language,” Admitted Jamie. “Gaelic is better.”

“It is not!”

Holly thought welsh was rather beautiful, but perhaps, she thought, she was biased. It was her mother’s blood-language. As a child, locked in the dark, every connection to her mother was guarded jealously. She shifted, glancing over at the bard as he changed song. It was rougher, and far harder to understand. The passion that sung from his lips and tongue was beautiful, as if it were hammering past her flesh and bone, right into her soul. 

The best musicians always had a talent for such things. 

“This is a good one,” muttered Jamie, pouring himself another glass of ale. “I heard it before. Do you understand it?”

Holly snorted. “Good heavens no! I might know a little, but I’m certainly not that proficient. Do you know what he’s saying?”

Jamie grinned proudly, a savage thing. It was smug, a wry smirk that pulled at plump pink lips. 

“Oh, aye. It’s a love song, poor bloke fell in love —”

Holly rolled her eyes. 

“There’s nothing poor about love!”

“Oi, I haven’t finished. He left to make his fortune at sea, smart chap. Found a pirate's load of treasure and came home.”

Holly grinned. “Did he marry the girl?”

“Ah,” Jamie paused. “No. She was married to his friend.”

She scowled, her fingers twitching, a silver knife stabbing into the potatoes. 

“What kind of love story is that? It’s rubbish! Too close to Shakespeare drama.”

“Aye? I’ve never read any.”

Holly blinked. 

“Don’t bother. It’s worse. Would you do it, then?” She grinned, a sharp bitter thing that rested at the corner of her cheeks. “Marry for fortune?”

Her Aunt Petunia certainly had. So had most of the purebloods on her father’s side of the family. 

(As incestous as they were. Most of them being of the same blood.)

“Me?” He blinked, bewildered at the thought. The taste of marriage and husbandry leaving him rather wrong-footed. “I’m not the marrying sort, lassie. But if I were, it wouldn't matter if they had money or not. I’d count myself lucky to find a lass to marry. I ain’t got a stomach for adventure and sea-pirating.”

“No,” Holly giggled. “Just pillaging and raiding, then? Such savagery.” 

He blushed, the tips of his ears dusted pink. It was a look of embarrassment, as if he’d been caught red-handed carrying off the neighbours cattle. 

“I wouldn’t say that… I don’t do it all the time. Just —”

She smirked. “Just on the odd occasion?”

“Oh, aye. Can’t do it much, can I? I’ll get caught, then my skills won’t be of much use to anyone.”

Holly wouldn’t know. The most thrivery she’d done was from Riddle. A tiara, goblet, and locket. She’d laughed, high-pitched and hysterical as the wrathful screams of him had echoed with each destruction. 

(It was beautiful.) 

Holly was jolted out of her thoughts, listening to the bard with a small smile as his voice grew. It was louder, a cry that leapt out from his heart and lungs. This time, she realised, it was in Gaelic. 

The language almost sounded gentle on his tongue. 

“Could you,” Holly paused, blinking up at Jamie. “Could you tell me what he’s saying?”

“Don’ know much Gaelic?”

“None at all.”

Jamie smirked, leaning forward, the tips of his red curls brushing across her cheeks. He was close, too close. Holly didn’t understand the state of propriety in these times, but she was certain this was not it. 

“Aye,” he drawled. “I can tell ye.” 

Gwyllyn hummed, pulling at the strings of his harp, enjoying the clapping hands and the few wild children that brushed past. A swirl of skirts and breeches that left behind the sight of small bare feet. 

“It was a time, two hundred years ago…”

A shudder rolled down her spine. Fingers stiffening as she thought of her home; the city streets, the bustling people of London, and the line of cars that never seemed to end. The world that Holly knew was vastly different. It would never be the same to his. Jamie who was born from blood and grit, a warrior with a gun and sword. 

“There was a clan of the Wee Folk as they lived near Dundreggan,” he murmured, leaning closer with a small, charming smile. “The hill there is named for the dragon that dwelt there, that Fionn slew and buried where he fell, so the dun is named as it is. And after the passing of Fionn and the Fienn, the Wee Folk that came to dwell in the dun came to want mothers of men to be wet nurses for their own faerie bairns, for a man has something that a fairy has not, and the Wee Folk thought that it might pass through the mother’s milk to their own small ones.” 

Holly raised a brow. She knew the old tales of the Seelie that lived in the Summer Lands, shadowed by their lecherous past of laying with man. 

(Most Muggleborns were from that silver blood of magic and summer’s light.)

“Now, Ewan MacDonald of Dundreggan was out in the dark, tending his beasts, on the night when his wife bore her firstborn son. A gust of the night wind he heard his wife’s sighing. She sighed as she sighed before the child was born, and hearing her there, Ewan MacDonald turned and flung his knife into the wind in the name of the Trinity. And his wife dropped safely to the ground beside him.” 

She shook her head, a slimy feeling that rested beneath her skin at the Trinity. Holly was not born from the worship of a God, and certainly not the Christian one. 

(Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live.)

Magic was despised, Holly swiftly realised, glancing around at the crowd. There was a fierce gaze or two from the men, a natural fear of her. Of the name Peverell that was bound in shadows and blood. It was a good thing they knew nothing of a missing wand, and the ability to call the dead. A Necromancer's soul was worse than a witch, if they knew, Holly would be bound to a stake and burnt with Holy Water as if it was her that was the devil. 

“I am the wife of the Laird of Balnain,” muttered Jamie softly, his lips almost brushing her ear. “The folk have stolen me over again. My home is gone, by the Will of God. I will find it again.”

Holly paled, her lips trembling as she heard of the stone-stealing faeries, and the women lost. Every myth, she thought, had a grain of truth. 

“… the priest blessed the rocks of the dun and sprinkled them with holy water. Suddenly the night grew darker and there was a loud noise of thunder. Then the moon came out from behind a cloud and shone upon the woman, the wife of Balnain, who lay exhausted on the grass with her child in her arms. The woman was tired, as though she had travelled far, but could not tell where she had been…”

Gwyllyn pulled at the strings of his harp, leaning further back on the old wooden stool as he played to the old tales. One man stood up and began, murmuring in the ancient tongue. A hissed murmur as the horrors of the faerie descended on the crowd. A mother prayed, hands pressed against the old wooden cross that rested atop her breasts. She was afraid. The chilling fear of the Seelie settling in her breast. Cold eyes peered up at Holly, the Peverell that sat there with their Laird and his blood. 

She was not welcome. Not here. 

“It was a time, two thousand years ago…” Jamie continued, his voice almost echoing as he told another tale. “There was a man from the valleys of Éire. He came as a King, and wed a Princess. He ruled, a hand against the faerie-in-the-stone.”

Éire, the shadows whispered, watching her as the hearth roared its answering call. Éire the lost land of our shadow-dancer. Tuatha Dé Denann. He who greets death as a friend. PEV-e-Rell.

Holly clasped her hands over her ears, her shoulders hunched as she drowned out the voices. She hadn’t heard them in months, the hissing shadow that shrieked at her from the flames and shades. It had first come after the Final Battle, a slinking monster that had hunched over, in the ruined forms of her loved ones. Since then, it had never stopped, not since her soul had been snatched through a mount of old stones. 

Tuatha Dé Denann. It wasn’t the first time she’d seen those words. It had been on her inheritance test at Gringotts, a swirling blotch of her blood, revealing a strange name that was shadowed by dark ink. The Goblins hadn’t budged, refusing to speak a single word, staring at her as if her life was at an end. 

(“We don’t help your kind, Ljósálfar skítur. Take your money and leave.”)

“Holly,” breathed Jamie, his hands clasping around the side of her face. His fingers digging into the supple flesh of her face. “Holly, look at me, are you alright, lass?”

Holly blinked into ocean-blue orbs. They were wild, a crashing of ocean waves, ferocious in their intensity. His fingers moved, trailing softly over her flesh, down and across her jawline. It was calming, a gentle beating rhythm that she found comfort in. 

“They’re gone,” she croaked. “Thank you.”

Jamie frowned. “What’s gone? Aye, the music? Did ye not like it?”

“It was fine,” muttered Holly. “Just bothering my ears.”

“Really?” 

“Sometimes, I like it quiet. It’s nice that way, no bloody voices.”

He stared at her, brows furrowed, as if she were a strange, odd creature that he’d stumbled upon. A queer thing that lived out in the wilderness. A creature of oddities that even he didn’t know what to do with. 

“Oh, aye,” he nodded sagely. “I understand. I prefer the stables myself, can’t go wrong with the company of a good horse.”

Holly smiled shyly. “Oh?”

“Yes. Better off with them than these lot. Dangerous people in here, one drinking game and it’s all over! Good ol’ Bettsy isn’t goin’ to drink me under the table.” 

Holly smiled softly, pouring herself a glass of wine. It was mulled, the perfect scent of berries and cinnamon. 

“I promise you, I won’t drink all that much. Wine is an… acquired taste.”

Jamie quirked a brow. 

“You seem to like it.”

“No, good heavens! I like mulled wine, it’s sort of… sweet. Cider is my favourite. Elderberry is nice.”

Jamie hummed, finishing off his glass of ale. He didn’t reach for more. He was smarter than the rest, Holly could already see a few men that were gathered on the floor, slumped against cold stone as they murmured into their metal mugs. 

He rolled his shoulder, leaning back into the old wooden seat. 

“How is it?” She asked, pointing at the pale flesh that peeled out behind his white shirt. “Your shoulder, I mean.”

Holly paused, glancing at him, at the pale clench of his fists. 

“It’s supposed to have healed,” she murmured softly. “The bone should be fine in a moon’s turn if it isn’t by now.” 

(Holly had once healed a student’s broken leg after the Battle. His flesh peeled back, muscle and bone jutting out. It had taken a week for it to slip back into place, her pale hands covered in his life’s blood. Dennis Creevey would never walk well again.)

“It’s fine,” he grumbled. “Don’ ye worry, lass. It’s just a bit tense.” 

“Good,” she admitted. “I don’t have much experience, my Ma was better. But I do know a little.”

(Lily Potter neé Evans had graduated her apprenticeship as a Healer with full marks, a gifted bottle of Elven Red, and a celebratory dinner of her Mastership with Holly’s father.)

Holly hadn’t much of a choice. Ron had gotten sick in their small camp, every breathing pant consumed by a weak heart, lips paling to a deep blue. The cold had taken him in the night, his limbs seizing as he shook — and it had been her fault. Ron had dived in, hands grasping at her own as he pulled her from the frozen lake. Her family magic was the only thing that had saved him in the end, hands grappling at his soul as she pulled him back into his flesh-body. Ron had never forgiven her for that. 

(“You're better than that!” He had screamed, panting as sweat covered his forehead and palms. “You can’t be dark! Not like them! You’re all we have, Holly. Do you understand? Do you?”)

He had never spoken to her again, not like he used to with friendly grins and warm hands. 

Holly Potter had dark blood pumping through her veins. She was tainted, the scent of a Necromancer followed her after that. Her magic turned from Potter to Peverell, leaving behind traces of the lost little girl in the dust. 

Holly Peverell was something else entirely. 

“Well,” laughed Jamie. “I hope ye know what yer doin’.”

“I do,” she nodded. “Your shoulder is better, isn’t it?”

“Right as rain. It’ll be fine. I never thanked ye for it. I am—”

“You don’t have to thank me, Jamie. It was going to be my job,” she uttered quietly. “I was planning on becoming a Healer. As good as my Ma.”

Jamie frowned. “It’s not too late ye know. There’s plenty of people here that need a good woman’s touch.” 

Holly rolled her eyes. 

“Don’t say it like that—”

Jamie flushed, reaching out to grab another bread roll. 

“Ah,” he said, glancing away, shy for once. “I didn’t mean…”

“I know,” she grinned. “But I can’t stay here, I have to go home.” 

Holly didn’t even know if she could. The stones were so far, and with no wand, and her power fleeting, she’d have to travel by horse. She anxiously twitched, her mind going to the stables, the collection of beautiful mounts that resided there. Could she steal one? Should she? A fear grew in the pit of her stomach, what if, what if Colum contacted the Blacks. Everything she’d told them would fall into ruin, perhaps they’d keep her around, Dougal certainly wished too, if only to use her name for power. She was a woman, alone, and unwed. The power she wielded was slim. 

Even if, by mere chance, she made it back to the stones, would she even make it back home? 

Therein laid the problem. Holly didn’t have much of a life back home. It was simple; get up, look after the herd of thestrals, make breakfast, and go back to bed. Forever living in a state of limbo, terrified to leave the walls of her home. To see anyone. To gaze on the wondrous eyes of the public as they heralded her as a God. 

Holly couldn’t stand it. She hated it. 

“To London?” He grumbled, blue eyes staring into her own, warm and electric. It almost felt as if she’d been struck. His hands reached up to clasp at the sides of her face. “Is it safe?”

“Is it ever safe? Maybe. But I’m better off there than hunting for food in the woods. I have money there.”

She did. The Peverell estate was unclaimed and uncontested. She had the right to the Ladyship. She already possessed it. Holly could feel it. In her soul and blood, the Peverell crest still sung to her on her signet ring. 

It wasn’t anywhere near here. Which, she supposed, was good. The closer she remained to the Mackenzies, the more likely her name would be used in a bloody war. She saw it in Dougal’s eyes, that first for blood, for vengeance, a revenge that was boiling. 

She didn’t want to be the cause of it. She didn’t want to be bloody Helen of fucking Troy. 

“Aye, ye mentioned an estate?”

“It’s closer to Loch Arkaig, but I’d have to talk to my family’s accountant—”

“That’s not safe! Ye just came running from Arkaig. Ye can’t go back!”

“No,” she admitted. “I’ll probably stay in London for a while.” 

It was better. Gringotts was close. The Ministry was close. Hells, even the Blacks were. She knew where they lived — how they lived. Aries Black might be a pureblood, but Holly was a Black by blood. If anything, her name would’ve shown up on the tapestry by now. She was hardly the first Black to time travel. She doubted she’d be the last. 

She shifted, hands grasping at the sides of the table anxiously. She couldn’t look at him. Not at him and those pretty blue eyes of his. 

“Are ye sure?”

“I have to be. That’s if I get help for the journey back. If I don’t, then I might be here a little while longer.”

Jamie smiled, oblivious to her bristled shoulders, delighted that she would remain. He’s worried, she whispered to herself, it’s only worry. She couldn’t blame him all that much for wishing to keep her here either, Jamie was her friend, and if it was her in his shoes, Holly would’ve surely tied him to the stables to prevent him from walking into the heart of battle. 

Not that such a thing would stop him, she’d only known him for a couple of weeks, and he certainly seemed the type. Gryffindor to his very core. That taste for reckless bloodshed tied to his bone and bitter soul. 

“Stay for the gathering,” said Jamie, a hand brushing lightly across her back. “I promise ye, it’s a right show. Do what ye will then.” 

“The gathering?”

“Aye, it’s allies of Mackenzie and blood. A good excuse for a party. Last one was when I was seven, ye know. I can’ remember much of it. Too much wine and ale, ye see.” 

Holly snorted. “I’m sure. Will it be the same this time?”

“No,” he nudged her shoulder lightly. “Not if yer here. I promise to behave.”

“That’ll be the day,” she laughed. “You don’t look like the type!”

“What type?”

“The kind that never causes trouble. I’d bet all my wealth you're a right menace to society.”

“Oh, aye. Yer right.” 

Holly had met trouble before. All kinds. The malicious, dark glinted, childish cruelty that Dudley had grew into. Day by day. Until, much to his fortune, he grew out of it. A subtle shift in the dark shadows between his soul. Then there was Fred, a mischievous heart and a bright grin. Feverish in his laughter, a bottled potion of the essence of Loki. The one God that her fiancé had worshipped. 

Jamie was much the same. His blue eyes alight with devilry. A stubbornness that, she knew, would grate on her nerves. 

“I shall attend this… gathering, if you promise not to leave me alone. It’s quite lonely here,” sighed Holly. “Without any friends.”

“I can introduce ye,” nodded Jamie. “To some of the women if ye like.”

Her shoulders hunched, an odd stinging settling in her chest. 

“Oh,” she mumbled. “Thank you.”

“I can’ be there that much,” he grunted, biting roughly into the bread roll. “Wish I could. But my uncle wants me to work in the stables.”

“Well,” despaired Holly. “I guess I won’t be attending after all. I’m rather busy you see, Letitia did say I have to practise my sewing.” 

“Oh?” He grinned, a wry thing that pulled at pink lips. “I see. Good luck to ye, my sister hated those lessons.”

“Ah, a wise woman then.”

“Hmm,” he hummed. “I might see you at the gathering, if I hide ye know. A good promise of ale can get a lady anythin’ she wants.”

“Oh?” Holly beamed. “I’ll have to spare you some.”

“Aye.”

She shifted, awkwardly glancing away from bright blue eyes. They stared, narrowed and wild. Holly was reminded of a feline, relaxed and cunning, limbs splayed: predatory. As they waited. Waited for what? She didn’t know. 

“Yeh’ll spare me a dance or two?”

 To him, in such a moment, she looked like an English rose, the epitome of lady-like elegance. In the roll of her hands, to the incline of her head, and the sweet smile that spread across her lips. She was a gentle creature, this girl. A lady. 

 “If you come I’ll save you more than two.”

“Oh, is that right?”

Holly hummed. 

“I’ll have to make sure I come then, a hard bargain ye strike, lass.”

“It’s not so hard. Can you not dance?”

Jamie’s lips twitched, a small smile peeking at the corner. 

“I can dance. I’d say I’m the best,” he smirked, (the arrogance of men), “The question is, can ye?”

Holly coughed, laughing quietly into the palm of her hand. She could dance. Although, to dance a Scottish reel, she highly doubted it. Her first lesson was an utter disaster, she would never forget breaking her nose as she collided face first with Draco Malfoy of all people! It was a miracle he hadn’t laughed in her face. A rare display of sympathy, even if it was shadowed by condescension. 

“Can I dance? Yes,” she giggled softly. “But can I dance like a Scot? No. I hope you know otherwise we’ll both be hopeless!”

“Ye can trust me, lass. It’s my sister that’s got two left feet, not me.” 

“Well,” drawled Holly. “That’s a relief, whatever would I do if you had.”

“Fall at my feet,” he grinned. “Like all the other lassies.” 

“Arrogant.”

It was breathed from her lungs, and forced from her tongue. Jamie was arrogant. The decadence of his youth was splayed across his flushed cheeks. He smiled, a wicked thing, the darkening of his eyes was almost sinister. A cold chill settled in her spine, a flush that consumed her pale flesh. 

(Men were such arrogant creatures.)

“So,” he smirked. “Will ye come?”

“Yes,” she huffed, pouring herself another glass of mulled wine. “Yes. Alright. I’ll come.”

Jamie nodded, lifting his drink up, a sly thing crept into his eyes. He drank it all, the rest of his ale gone in a few long gulps. It was his fourth cup. 

Chapter Text

“FUCK!”

A hand knocked Holly around the side of her head. Letitia stared at her, a disapproving frown stretched across her lips. She would’ve thought the woman was furious if it weren’t for the mirthful light that gazed back at her. Holly huffed, bringing her bleeding finger to her lips. There were only a small few dots of blood, but more than enough to sting. She shook her hand, wrist rolling as she edged her fingers away from the needle and string. 

“Keep an eye on that tongue, lass,” laughed Letitia. “A lady doesn’t cuss. God knows what kind of tongue yeh’ve picked up in the wilds!”

“I won’t do it again,” lied Holly, a sweet smiling tugging at her lips. “I promise. It’s just—”

“You don’t know how to sew. I know. You’re awful, my dear. Here. I’ll show you a trick of mine. See this, get a piece of wool and place it in a straight line, and stitch around it.”

“Wouldn’t it look a little, er…”

“Ugly? Yes. But you’re learning how to sew. I don’t expect beauty. Honestly, Holly, I’m astounded you weren’t taught by yer auntie!”

“They were working folk. My Ma’s family. Didn’t really have the time.”

Holly had tried to sew once, amidst Hermione and Ginny, but had never held the patience for it. She’d never been the kind to sit around, and if she did, her limbs would shake, fingers twitching from the need to do something. Sewing held a lot more patience than she possessed, especially the embroidery of flowers that Letitia was teaching. It was hours of ‘this colour and that colour’, to the shape of flowers and their petals. Holly was bored to tears. 

(“Ye must learn, love. The best kind a young lady can do is flowers. We’ll start with the petals. Once that’s done we’ll move on to animals.”)

Holly had been reluctant at first, dragged by the arm to Letitia’s favourite sitting room, a bright yellow one, with tapestries of gleaming flowers and suns. Even the vases were a pale yellow, glimmering under the light of the morning sun. Her reluctance quickly turned to hatred, her fingers stinging with every prick of the needle and crooked line that followed. 

“Well,” huffed Letitia, “Shame on her! Yer a Peverell of a grand house, not some poor wee street urchin!”

Holly stifled a giggle, ducking her head as red curls brushed the side of her cheeks. Her smile slipped, gritting her teeth as the needle prodded her finger again. 

“Ah, you might want to move yer fingers to the side a little, sweetheart.”

“I know, I know,” she mumbled. “I get distracted is all.” 

“Hmm,” hummed Letitia. “Next time when you pull it through, move your fingers as if they’re dancin’.”

“Dancing?”

Letitia wriggled her fingers with a grin, bending them back and forth as if they were waltzing. 

“Aye. Don’t you worry, I’ll have you in fit shape to embroider yer own handkerchief for the Gathering, eh?” 

Holly blanched, her lips pursing at the hours it would take. The days to learn stitch after stitch. She’d have little time to do anything else! 

“How many people will there be?” Asked Holly, hissing as the needle grazed her finger. “I’ve seen all the food Mrs. Fitz is preparing!”

“Ah, my husband’s invited a few. He’ll probably try to reach out to yer family in time, but Dougal’s stayed his hand,” admitted Letitia. “He’s concerned about alerting the English to yer presence. I told him it was tosh, o’ course! Men! Yeh’ll be quite safe with the men here, at least if you stick with me, or Jamie. He’s a good lad. I expect there’ll be over a hundred in attendance, there’s been a good harvest this year. The more food, the more men. A roof over their head, free food and ale is all they need to come and swear their oaths.” 

Holly frowned, a chill setting in her spine at the mention of Dougal. There was something about him, an unruly fear that he brought. It was a gut-wrenching feeling that settled deeply in her stomach. She didn’t like it. Nor did she like him. But, she despaired, it might be for the best. God knows how the current Black Lord would take her presence. A half-blood in the family tree? God forbid! 

“Oaths?”

“Aye, most of em’ are family, o’course. But then there’s our allies, the families that have sworn allegiance to Clan Campbell and Mackenzie for hundreds of years. We have a Gathering every twenty or thirty years to reswear oaths. It’s how I met Colum, truthfully. Me Da took me along for the last one thirty years ago now, I was Letitia Morrison back then.”

“Oh?” Breathed Holly, wide-eyed as she stared at the red-headed woman. “I’ve never heard of anything like that!”

“What? Really?”

“No. The closest I suppose was at school. We’d be placed in houses, Ravenclaw and Slytherin did it. They’d have a hierarchy, and a King, I suppose… After everyone had fought for their positions they swear allegiance to the King for that year. I only ever saw the Ravenclaw one, but —”

“Ravenclaw?”

“Mhm,” she smiled. “Their house was based on learning, wisdom, wit, and intellect.”

“Sounds like a wise bunch. Why were you separated? Surely there weren't that many of you! I cannot even imagine. I don’t know many schools that take in girls.”

“There were a few. We were a tight knit community, the local… laird believed in intelligence in the common folk. The more educated th—”

“Better the workers. Aye, tis true. I commend him then. But to let girls attend, that is truly something. I’ll admit, I’m a little jealous.”

“Don’t be,” smiled Holly. “I think you're intelligent enough.”

“Oh,” laughed Letita, smiling softly at Holly. “I thank ye. My father tutored me himself, ye know. He believed education was important for all of us. He would’ve liked this school of yours!”

“That’s good,” said Holly, a small smile tugging at her lips. “My auntie didn’t like it that much. She preferred me doing the chores, I think.” 

(God knows it was true, Aunt Petunia would’ve had her cooking their food at hand and feet if she could. Heaven knows, the whole garden was Holly’s work. The roses never grew themselves, that was for sure.) 

“A slave driver? Hmm, well,” huffed Letitia, patting her hand gently. “It’s a good thing yer with us, dearie. I won’t have a lady anywhere near the kitchens, eh? I should teach you how to run a household, I suppose you never learnt?”

Holly blinked, bewildered as she peered at the woman. 

“Why would I need to learn that?”

Letitia stared. 

“If ye get married, o’course!”

“Oh.”

Holly blushed, glancing down at the woven cotton, picking at the thread with her nails. 

“I-I didn’t think of that. Marriage I mean—”

“Hush now,” murmured Letitia, settling more closely as she took Holly’s hand in her own. “Ye don’t have to wed until yer ready. Most don’t until they’re twenty, ye know.”

Holly wanted to scream, her lungs seizing as she trembled at the thought. She didn’t want to marry at all. She gritted her teeth. 

“What does that have to do with running a… h-household?”

Letitia hummed. Her eyes softened, a small smile pressed to pink lips. 

“Yeh’ll understand in time, my dear. As a Peverell, who you marry will matter, I wouldn’t worry about it now. Ye only need to think on it when yer ready.” 

“Oh,” muttered Holly. “I don’t want to think about it at all.” 

“That’s fine,” Letitia said hastily. “Ye don’t need to feel pressured.”

A sigh slipped from her lips, shoulders slumping at the relief that she bore. The weight disappeared as quickly as it came. 

“How did you know?” Asked Holly, her nails anxiously biting into her palms, “T-That it was the right time?”

Letitia smiled bitterly. 

“My father was an ambitious man, ye know. He had his eyes set on Dougal, with Colum’s illness being what it is, but I was having none of that. He was very sweet to me, my Colum. But in the beginning I did it for my family. For my father. I grew to love him, o’course. But tis not the same with outside forces. The Morrisons, my blood, were never poor, but my father’s ambitions were always great.” 

“He forced you to marry him?” Spluttered Holly in horror, “B-But why?”

“I wouldn’t call it forced,” admitted Letitia. “I love Colum, I always will, and I did then, too. We began as friends, sometimes those are the best partners in life we can have. To know them intimately, heart and mind, it’s not an easy task. I have no regrets, Holly. But it isn’t something I’d wish for you, family expectations of one man. It’s why I haven’t pushed Colum in writing to your family.”

“They wouldn’t—”

Holly paused, a tremble slipping into her fingers. A dread of the like that she’d never known. The Blacks’ were notorious for their cruel hearts, and arranged marriages. Holly had to look no further than Walburga, Narcissa, and Bellatrix. She didn’t want to end up like them. Tied to a wizard for the betterment of her House. 

Letitia nodded, her fingers pressing tightly against her own, wrapping around her hand in a squeeze. A comfort that Holly appreciated. More than anything. 

“Do ye know them well, the Blacks?”

“No,” croaked Holly, “I’ve only ever heard stories of them. Not much. I know they were my father’s blood but…”

“Not much else? I can search for more information on them, if you like. I’ll even help ye get to London to manage yer estate, but Holly, ye have a place here if ye wish for it.” 

“Thank you,” she uttered softly. “I-I don’t know what to do!”

“Hmm. Give it time, eh? Let it settle. Spend some time here, I’ll look into these Blacks of yours. See what I can find, then we’ll make a decision. Not what’s best for them, but for you.”

It was an anxious thought that had been on her mind. The ever consistent ticking of who Aries Black was; was he a supremacist? A misogynistic bastard like the rest of them? Holly wouldn’t be surprised if he was. Sirius had been the black-sheep of the family, a rare creature with a good head and heart. She couldn’t expect the same from this stranger, it was a risk. How would Aries Black feel knowing he had a Peverell in his back-pocket? Holly didn’t want to be sold off like a broodmare, or worse, wed off to the lord himself so the next heir would be of Peverell stock. 

She clenched her fists, fighting the pale, dizzy urge to flee. For all she knew, the Lord Black was already on the hunt. If her name had shown on the tapestry, if the Goblins had informed him of a strange new addition to their bloodline, he could already be on the move. Holly doubted it would take him long to find her. Magic was a sure thing. 

Bloody hell, she hadn’t even thought of the Potters’. They had a tapestry too. A golden lineage that the Goblins had in their control. A tree from Cyprus that was woven into stone, she’d admired it as a girl. Eleven and new to the wizarding world, she’d traced her family bloodline with wondrous palms. 

Lord Hadrian Potter. 

He would be the current lord, future father of Henry Potter, the sire of Charlus Potter. 

“Holly?”

She gulped, her hands trembling in her lap, gaze blank as she stared out the arched window. What if, she wondered, what if Hadrian Potter is no better than Lord Aries? 

It was a fear that grappled at her heart, seizing at her lungs. 

“Holly? Are ye alright?”

Hands grasped at her shoulders, shaking her gently as ocean-blue orbs stared brightly into her own. 

“Wh—”

“Holly, my dear, look at me, hmm?”

“Wha—”

“We don’t have to contact them if you don’t wish. There'll be a merry party at the Gathering, lots of dancing and fun. Why don’t you have some fun, aye? I’m sure Jamie will be delighted with a dance or two,” she smirked. “Have some fun, and breathe. There’s no rush to find yer family, alright?”

(But it’s too late, they already know.)

“Okay,” muttered Holly, clutching tightly at the sides of the cloth, nails gripped at the needle in her hand. “S’ fine.”

Holly stabbed at the material, jabbing the green thread, pulling it up through the other side. She clenched her jaw, fingers twitching uselessly. 

“Holly,” said Letitia sternly, her hand tightening around hers. “Come on.”

The needle and thread was pulled away from her, placed gently on the pile of forgotten materials, and a collection of old, silver scissors. It was a simple collection, an old one that had been well-used and loved. 

“Why don’t we look through some new designs,” she laughed. “I’ve got a few of my old ones. Ye know, I was terrible once too, couldn’t stitch in a straight line to save my own life. I would’ve been helpless at sewing someone up!”

Holly startled, her hand jolting in Letitia’s grip. Surgery was no simple feat, and certainly not something that could be learnt from embroidery. 

“What do you mean?” She squeaked. “Why did you— what…” 

“Ah, it’s why a lot of women learn it, ye know. When the men go to war, tis our job to tend to the wounded. A woman’s skill with a needle can save a man’s life.”

Holly’s brows furrowed, frowning at the thought. She much preferred the method of magic, the gentle sewing of flesh, knitting it back together until the flesh and bone was one. 

“I never thought of it like that.”

“Hmm,” hummed Letitia. “Dougal said you were a healer, no?”

“Yes, but not like… that. I don’t have much experience, not like my mother.”

“Aye,” she nodded. “I understand.”

Letitia stared at her, blue-eyes stern, those deep vibrant colours peering into her own. 

“It’s important you learn these things,” she said, “Ye can’t do much healing if ye don’t know how to sew.”

Holly nodded, the promise to learn slipped quickly from her tongue. She didn’t want to think. Not on her mother, or her blood-relatives that were somewhere out there. The easiest thing, she supposed, would be to return home. Back to Craigh na Dun, to the circle of stones, and her own time. 

This place was unknown, a dangerous entity that grew all the more dark and hazardous the longer she spent in it. 

“Tell you what,” drawled Letitia, a mischievous grin etched across her pale flesh. “I’ll let ye go for today, if ye promise to have fun at the Gathering!”

“Fun?”

“Yes,” she sighed in exasperation. “Meet some of my laird’s people, have a dance or two, drink some wine,” she leaned forward, as if she had a secret on her tongue, “I know for a fact my husband had some cider imported from Italy. It took me ages to twist his arm on that. Months!” 

“I-I suppose—”

“I’ll even sweeten the deal, lass. I know ye wanted to see the markets, they’ll all be arriving tomorrow. The gypsies as well. A good load of em’. Take Jamie with ye tomorrow, hmm, convince him to have a dance or two as well. God knows the both of ye need to have some fun, and I’ll give you a week off. No more embroidery lessons. But only for a week.” 

Holly blushed brightly, tucking a stray curl behind her ear. Letitia glanced at her in bemusement, a twinkling light of mischief that, for a moment, it seemed very Hamish. 

“Yer very fond of our Jamie, hmm?”

Her cheeks were painted red, a crimson colour that was almost as bright as her hair. 

“I’m not—”

“It’s alright,” she giggled, “I’m sure he’s very fond of ye too.”

Holly rolled her eyes. 

“Oh,” she drawled. “I’m sure he is.”

Jamie was kind. A good friend in a world that was strange. Holly knew nothing of this place. 

(She often wondered if it was a fever dream and she’d hit her head near the rocks of Craigh na Dun.) 

“So,” hummed Letitia. “Will ye have fun and not mope around?”

“I don’t mope!”

“Oh, yes. Yes, you do.”

“Fine,” gritted Holly. “I’ll even bring Jamie, if I must. He promised that he’d come.”

Letitia grinned, a sly wicked thing. 

“Oh. Did he?”

Holly wrinkled her nose. “Sort of? I dunno. It’s hard to tell with him.” 

“Jamie is much like his mother,” she admitted, smiling gently at Holly. “A mischievous little lad, always getting into trouble. Honestly, I don’t know how he manages it!”

She shrugged, more than familiar with that achingly troublesome shadow that had followed Holly her whole life. She wondered if he was the same. Branded and bruised by the scars of his history. A dark, tangible thing. 

“I’ll drag him along,” Holly grudgingly promised, “But I can’t keep him out of trouble.”

“Well,” sighed Letitia. “That’d be too much to ask I suppose. Colum was hoping he’d attend. Jamie really does put too much on himself.”

Holly thought he was just as bad as Letitia. A mysterious thing; filled with dark, nooks and crannies, with an edge of mischief and delight that lingered in beautiful blue-eyes. 

(Not that she’d ever admit Jamie was handsome. He wasn’t.)

“I’ll promise to have fun,” grumbled Holly, “As long as I don’t have to sew for two weeks!”

“I said one, Holly. Not two.”

“Three, then?”

“No.”

“Two and a half?”

“One.”

“One and a day?”

“One.”

“Ugh,” groaned Holly. “Killjoy.” 

Holly gasped, her eyes widening at the performer. He was a tall man, with a dark, purple coat and breeches, a gypsy with hands covered in small jewels and rings. In his hands was a ball of fire, trickling up his sun-kissed flesh. 

“They have an ointment,” grinned Jamie, “It helps the fire grow but it doesn’t hurt em’.”

“Oh,” muttered Holly, eyeing the gypsy-performer. “When Letitia mentioned the markets this isn’t what I had in mind…”

“No?”

“Markets back home just trade food, this is more like a circus!”

Holly had never been to one before, but she assumed it was much the same. Adventurous, wild performances with dancing fire-men, and women juggling knives. There was a bit of food sold too; cakes, biscuits, vegetables, and roasted meat. It wasn’t the same. The markets in Little Whinging had been contained, a dull sense of monotonous life echoing beneath the veil. A place where the farmer sold his vegetables, while his wife gathered the latest gossip that enshrouded their small little town. 

This… this was wondrous. It was electrifying. A vibrant array of cultures, talents, and food that almost smelled eastern. 

“There is food,” pointed out Jamie. “Romani roast is the best yeh’ll ever have, lass. I can promise ye that.”

He grasped her by her wrist, gently pulling her away from the dancing man. The echoing sound of clattering, silver bangles fading in the distance. Jamie took her to the food carts, breathing in the sweet scent of lamb and roasted pork. There was seasoning, a vibrant essence of spices. She recognised the smell of cinnamon and cardamom. 

“Would ye like some?”

Holly blinked, staring at the leather pouch he’d pulled from his pocket. It had a few golden coins, clinking loudly in his palm. 

“Ah,” she breathed, “I couldn’t! It’s your money, I won’t—”

“Oh, aye,” he smirked, “Don’t ye worry, me auntie gave it to me, for the both of us.”

Holly startled, a scream piercing the air as she jumped, her shoulder brushing against Jamie’s as she peered behind him. There was a boy, not that much younger than her. Fourteen, perhaps, thirteen? He wasn’t too tall, a bunch of gangly limbs, and a pair of rather large ears. 

“Wha-”

“Christ,” swore Jamie, clutching at her waist as he pulled her out of the way. “He’s done it again. The foolish lad, he’ll never learn…”

“What’s going on? Who’s that?”

“Timothy,” he sighed, exasperation pressed firmly to his lips. “and that’s Father Bain. Yeh’ll want to avoid him lass, he won’t hold no favour for any Peverell.”

She snorted. 

“What? He’ll burn me at the stake?”

“Eh, have ye hanged is more likely.”

Holly paled, her lips trembling as she stared up at him, dismay etched across her face. She couldn’t quite believe it herself, an unsettled feeling grew in her stomach. Sinking down, as if it were a pile of rocks. 

“Really?” She whispered, a quiet hushed thing. “Would he—”

“Be careful around him,” he muttered. “He’s not the sort to like women.” 

The boy wailed, hands clawing at the priest, it did nothing, the man only held tighter. He dragged the boy by his curls, tugging fiercely at the knotted mess. 

“What did he do?”

“Stealing. Not the first time he’s been caught, too many hands in too many pockets, I’d say.” 

Holly hummed. “He looks terrified.”

Timothy did. He was pale as a sheet, limbs trembling as he was dragged through the dirt, long legs kicking out. The priest gritted his teeth, slamming him into the side of one of the carts as they moved on. 

“Can’t blame him. He’ll probably lose a hand or ear.”

“What?” 

“Aye, his father might step up for him. If he does it could be a good whipping.”

Holly stared, mouth agape, unblinking at her friend. 

“A good whipping?!”

“What else will teach him? The lad’s got ter learn some how!”

“That’s barbaric!” 

Jamie frowned, staring at her sternly with a twitch of his eye. She shifted anxiously, uncomfortable with the intensity of ocean-blue orbs. 

“It’s the way we do things, Holly. Ye might do it differently in Loch Arkaig, but this is how thievery is dealt with. Do ye understand?”

“B-But surely—”

“No. Timothy was caught stealing, he has to pay the price.” 

Holly shuddered, tensing in his tight grip. Her hands trembled, nails digging into the side of his arms. 

“Is what you do so different?”

Jamie was no saint, she knew this, he’d told her himself. A bitter thing stirred in her, gritting her teeth at the brutish arrogance he displayed. 

“Aye,” he admitted, a small smile pulling at his lips. “There is a difference, I was never caught.” 

It seemed unfair, she wanted to say, to judge a boy not much older than twelve on the sins of mischief. Holly shuddered, inching back from the poor boy and priest.

 This world was so different from her own. 

She swallowed anxiously, watching as a rope was tightened around the boy’s neck, and tied to the side of the stables. Holly frowned, glancing at his small upturned nose, and thin lips. He was too young. Far too young. She trembled her hand shooting out, wrapping around Jamie’s tightly. 

“Is there nothing we can do? There has to be something? Please—”

“No. Holly,” he murmured softly, a hand brushing across her shoulder. “Ye don't want to bring attention to yerself. Not with Father Bain, or the village-folk. I can’t do anythin’. I have no say. Don’ worry, they won’t kill the poor lad.” 

Father Bain moved around, his dark brown eyes blazing in the sunlight. He was furious, a seething, bright thing that stomped up and down. He shouted at another taller man, his voice billowing in that Gaelic tongue. 

Sharply, and crudely. 

“What’s he saying?”

Jamie grimaced. 

“He wants to have the lad’s hand removed.”

Holly shuddered, her throat clenching. She almost gagged, a rippling horror at the ill-sense of injustice. He was no man of God, she swore, he couldn’t be. No devotee could favour such senseless violence. 

She’d seen the dark shadows of war, the echoing bloodshed, but never as legal punishment. It startled her, a fear of the unknown, unlike anything she’d felt since she was eleven, taking her first steps into a boat with Rubeus Hagrid. 

“S-Surely—”

“I can do nothing. Neither can ye. My Laird Uncle might be able, but he won’t…”

“No,” croaked Holly, fearing the consequences of disturbing Colum over something so… trivial. “No I don’t suppose he would.”

She didn’t want to think it was trivial, but Colum would see it that way. Holly peered at Jamie, emerald orbs narrowed as she stared. It seemed he, too, didn’t think much of it. There was a frown, a sympathetic gaze, but it held nothing more. 

Timothy meant little to Jamie. He barely knew the boy. This was 1743, Holly reminded herself deeply, never having felt so unsure, not 1999. 

“It’ll be right, lass,” smiled Jamie, pulling her from the crowd. “Why don’t we head back to the Keep?”

The people gathered, a hushed-whispering crowd that pointed and jeered at the boy. Some of them recognised him, saw the dirt-ridden child and his fast, sly hands. He didn’t deserve it, she thought furiously, not their mocking laughter or the priest's sadistic smiles. It was all so callous, a dark beast that thrived in the hearts of humanity. In her time, it was contained. Punishment for thievery could be a slap on the wrist, community service, or a harsh penalty fine from the police. Here, it was the loss of a fucking hand. 

Holly didn’t move. She remained still, unmoving in Jamie’s tight grip. 

“No,” she murmured. “I want to see.”

“Ye don’t,” he insisted harshly, “Holly, it’s not for the eyes of a lovely lass like ye.”

If it were not for Timothy; afraid, hunched, and trembling under the shadow of Father Bain. Holly would have blushed, smiling with a flustered light, bashful. 

“I need to see this.”

It was muttered to herself more than anything, a swift cutting remembrance of the world she was in. Jamie was no different from the lad that stood up there, but he was, he held the protection of his uncle, the Laird of Leoch. This boy was nothing, not to Colum or his folk, he was of the simple-folk. The workers. Holly had to remember the fierce rebuttal that it was; she did not have her wand, and her magic was sparse. The only protection was her name, a ring, the Gryffindor crest that rested around her neck (even that may be dangerous), and the title of Ward of Laird Mackenzie. 

This was more that Timothy had ever held, but it all could be taken from her so swiftly. 

Father Bain grinned, holding the boy as he dragged the ropes from the stable and forced him across the table. Holding him down with a firm hand. Holly couldn’t look away, wide-eyed as a shackle was clasped to his wrist, trapping it on the bench. 

The crowd cheered, men and women clapping their hands at the performance. As if it were a show. It revolted her, a sickening clench of her stomach shattered her. 

“Hold still, boy!” 

Timothy struggled, bucking against the tight grip, his legs kicking out behind him. 

“Ma!” He screamed, wild eyes looking over the crowd. “Ma!”

A woman scrambled out of the crowd, she screamed, a wailing screech that echoed through the markets. It was grief, horror, and a gut-wrenching agony that Holly despised. A man drew her back, his large hands gripping tightly at her elbows. It was the boy’s father. It had to be. They looked similar, the same nose and lips, older but the same. 

“Holly,” hissed Jamie, dragging her closer. “Ye don’t want to watch this.”

“W-Will he… they won’t kill him?”

“No,” grumbled Jamie. “It was only a couple of apples. Stupid boy already confessed.”

“Apples? Apples?”

She shuddered, a wrathful hate settled in her bones, urging to reach into her pocket and clutch at a wooden-wand that wasn’t there. Holly couldn’t help him, but she wanted to. Oh, how she wanted to. 

Another man slammed the boy’s head into the table, clutching at it firmly. He was of some importance, she noticed, robed in thick velvets, and fine, leather buckled boots. This was a man of significance, order, and power. An officer, she supposed, or a judge. There was another one, standing firmly behind him with a scroll of parchment. He listened to the priest, nodding his head as he wrote on it with a thick, purple quill. 

They looked like executioners. The mother writhed in her husband’s grip, it seemed, to her, she’d thought the same. Holly knew they wouldn’t kill the boy over something so slight. 

(Had Timothy been hungry, had his father failed to make ends-meet, was this the reality of a world of sharp, greedy palms, and hungry bellies?)

“Who are they?”

“Arthur Duncan, he’s the procurator fiscal fer the parish of Cranesmuir. I don’t know the other one, some associate I suppose…”

Holly choked, watching in dismay as Duncan read from the parchment, declaring that the boy’s hand was to be removed to atone for his sins. 

“Come on, lass,” grumbled Jamie. “Ye shouldn’t see this.”

“I-I,” she stuttered, she wanted to save him, “I don—”

“Look at it this way, Aunt Letitia wouldn’t want this.”

“Well,” snapped Holly. “She shouldn’t! The poor boy’s going to be mutilated because he’s hungry!”

Jamie sighed. 

“That’s not what I meant.”

“What’s the difference?” She asked, the fury boiling in her veins, in her blood. “Why do you get away with stealing pig and sheep, and he gets his hand chopped off!”

“I’m the nephew off—”

“Oh,” she hissed, baring her teeth. “So that’s how it is, then. If he was the son of the Laird, he’d be fine and dandy.”

Jamie rolled his eyes. 

“Aye, lass, he would be. But no son of me uncle would go around stealing apples.”

The Procurator moved his hand, nodding grimly as the blade swung. It sliced through the boy’s hand, cracking through bone and muscle. Holly stared blankly, her mouth numb as she peered at the blood spreading out into the table-cracks. 

Holly had seen broken limbs before, shattered ones too. Hells, she’d even put some hands and legs back on wixen folk after the Great Battle. But, this was different, it echoed in her firmly, her mind freezing at the brutality of maiming a child over stolen apples. It was ludicrous. 

Her fingers twitched, aching with the need for her wand, if she had it — no, that might as well give away her power that resided in her blood. The Mackenzies’ might be well and dandy with the mythology of it, but the truth? No. She couldn’t trust them. 

Not with her magic. 

“I’m taking ye back,” demanded Jamie, his fingers grasping tightly at her arm, “Hurry up.”

“No,” she gasped. “He needs—”

“I don’t care. We’re going.”

“B-But—”

“No.”

“We can’t leave him there! He’s injured, if he doesn’t cover it, it could lead to an infection.”

“None of ye business.”

“How dare you! I’m a healer, I can help.”

“No!” He hissed, nails digging into her wrist, blunt and hard. “Listen to me, lass, do ye know who’s with him up there?”

Holly sneered. “Who cares!”

“I do. Father Bain has been complainin’ about ye for weeks. Ye don’t need more against ye, if the villagers decide…”

“Decide what?”

“Tha’ yer a witch!”

Holly blanched, her arm shivering in his grip. His fingers tightened, as bold and warm as a brand. She gritted her teeth, staring up into blazing ocean-eyes. 

“I’m not.”

“I don’t know what ye are, but I know evil when I see it, and yer not that.”

“Then—”

“I might know ye’ve got a good heart, lass, but Father Bain, he won’t care. We still hang our witches, ye know. The last burning was only fifteen years ago, I would be verra careful, Lady Peverell.”

He pulled her closer, she startled in his grip, slamming against his chest. 

“— and for god’s sake, watch yer tongue.”

Holly sneered, anger blazing through her blood, a heightened stubbornness rushing in her veins. She lifted her head, emerald orbs flashing as brightly as his. 

“I don’t want to,” she spat. “I won’t!”

Jamie groaned, lifting a hand to his hair, tugging at his (perfect) red curls with a pale fist. 

“God, yer a pain, woman. Fine! Fine. Stay here then.”

Holly trembled, pale-faced as she looked back, at Timothy and his screeching wails. She couldn’t help him. She couldn’t. 

“Fine,” grunted Jamie. “If ye really don’t—” he sighed, “Look, we can go and see the horses if ye want. I promised Letitia I’d look out fer ye.”

Disappointment settled in her stomach, flaring quickly before fleeing. Did he not want to see her? Were they not friends? 

She nodded, allowing herself to be dragged from the crowd. They were still around, gathering together in hushed silence, pointing and muttering at the boy that was still chained to the table. Her heart clenched, horrified for the twelve-year-old that still wept, his mother cupping his face gently. 

“We can go fer a ride, eh? Ye could try it yerself this time?”

“No,” she croaked, “I don’t…”

Want to be alone. It was a bitter secret, one that she didn’t let slip from her lips. 

“Tis fine, come on, lass, we can make a short trip out to the lake.”

Holly smiled feebly, her fingers trembling as she grasped at the sides of his thick, woollen coat. 

“We didn’t bring any food.”

“Aye, we won’t need it,” he nodded. “A short trip to clear yer head.” 

Holly stared. 

“It’s four hours on the road.”

“Oh, aye, we’ll take a shortcut.”

“A shortcut?”

“Through the woods, if ye go along the road it goes around the hill. I use to take it as a young lad, it was my Ma’s favourite route.” 

“Oh,” she murmured softly, her shoulders loosening as his gentle voice cascaded over her. He was as kind as he was rough. Sharp edges and gentle sides. “Yes. I suppose it won’t hurt…”

“Aye, it’ll do ye some good.” 

He grasped at her arm, leading her past the boy, and towards the back-stables near the paddock. It was her favourite place, and Jamie’s too, she suspected. The field was blooming, an array of wide-reaching colours. The Heathers were the loveliest, prickly, but a beautiful purple. They smelled rather nice too, mossy and filled with a touch of nature; the old earth, wet grass, and a touch of tree-bark. It was Gaia taken in the shape of small purple petals. 

She stilled, her fingers twitching as she gazed out across the field. The wonder breathed in her heart. 

(Could I just lay there? Forever.)

Jamie cleared his throat, arching a brow as he pointed at his horse. It was a large black stallion, Holly furrowed her brows, wondering if it was the same one. She knew he looked after three. 

“This is Donas,” he grinned, reaching for her hand, “aye, come ‘ere, lass. That’s it. Be careful, gentle.”

Holly stared, tilting her chin up as she peered into those coal, dark-black eyes. No fear, she thought, her pale hand reaching for his neck, I can show no fear. Donas snuffled at her fingers, nudging them softly. 

“I knew he’d like ye,” he said, a wry grin on his lips. “Yer the right sort.”

“Oh?” Hummed Holly. “What’s the right sort, then?”

Jamie smirked. 

“Beautiful women. Can’t help himself.”

Holly blushed, her heart trembled with an echoing warm flush that flooded her. Her hands clutched anxiously at Donas’ neck, grasping at the hair on his neck. A shy smile spread across her lips. 

“He doesn’t like you, then?”

“Oi,” chuckled Jamie. “Am I not pretty enough?”

“Maybe,” she said, quirking a brow. “Maybe not.” 

Jamie gasped, clutching a hand to his chest at her cruel, cruel words. He moved, startling her as he reached for the saddle behind them. There were plenty of them laying there in the sun, a shiny light gathering on the sides. It looked as if they’d just be cleaned. They were nice saddles, too, made of fine leather with strong buckles at the side. Holly had never truly ridden with a saddle, all she’d needed was Mort and a tight grip. Her favourite Thestral had never desired one either, he was a creature of freedom. Donas looked much the same. Stubborn, wilful, and proud. 

Much like his rider. 

Jamie moved, his thick muscles flexing as he lifted it onto Donas. 

(Holly would forever deny looking.)

The horse moved, his legs stomping, an impatient flick of his tail brought a giggle to her lips. He was a mighty creature, with a fierce, strong beauty that was startling. 

“Oi,” grumbled Jamie, flicking the nose of his horse, “Stop that ye silly beast. I know, I know, I’m hurrying!”

Holly snorted. 

“Find it funny, do ye? I’d like to see you saddle him.”

“No,” drawled Holly. “I’m quite fine where I am, thank you.”

He huffed, tying the leather through buckles with a loud tug. His long fingers worked at the ends, in a way that seemed beautiful, at least to her. 

“Come on,” urged Jamie. “On ye get.”

Holly stuttered, grasping tightly at the sides of her dress. 

“B-By myself!”

“No,” he chuckled, “I’ll give ye a boost. Scoot forward so I can get on behind, aye?”

She groaned, her hands anxiously fluttering about, clutching at his shoulders as he heaved her up. One leg flew over the saddle, thumping down against the other side. 

“That’s it,” he grinned, jumping up with a gentle thud, arms sneaking around her waist. “Hold on tight, lass. Yeh’ll need it.”

“Wha—”

Holly barely had any time to grasp at the sides of the reins he held in his palms. One of his legs thumped at the side of Donas, jolting her back as they raced out the field. 

Holly squealed, pressing up against his back desperately, nails digging into the side of the leather. She could almost forget, she thought, forget the boy and his mutilation. The wind was at her hair, racing through crimson locks as they sped past the trees, jolting as Donas leapt over a stump of fallen logs. 

A bright smile spread across her lips. She could almost remember her years of racing through the Quidditch Pitch, of flying Mort, of learning to race prized Abraxans. 

Holly felt more at home than she ever had. The wind was a bountiful friend, kicking lightly at her heels. Her delighted laughter slipped from beaming lips — she could almost forget. 

Chapter Text

HOLLY had brought down a gift basket the next day for Timothy. It hadn’t been much; a few apples, biscuits, and a sweet bun. Mrs Fitz had helped her make it, not that it was very difficult. Holly had spent most of her life in her Aunt Petunia’s kitchen. 

She had barely seen Jamie since the incident. Which, in her fine opinion, was all the better. Timothy had a fever, a deep-seated one that wracked at his bones and flesh. They barely knew if he’d make it through the night. She knew it was thoughtless to blame him, Jamie had little fault in the matter, but she couldn’t help it. 

Holly wrapped a green ribbon around her curls, pinning them away from neck. It was a humid sort of weather lately, the kind of sweaty palms and beaded necks. She hated it. The cold, dreary summer storms were almost missed. 

Her boots crossed across the gravel as she made her way to the stables. Her stomach fluttered, hands anxiously grabbing at the sides of her skirts. She knew Jamie might be there, but she just wanted to see the horses. They were a calming presence, almost as silent as the Thestrals that had haunted the Forbidden Forest. 

“Ow,” she grumbled, rubbing at Misty’s nose as he bumped into her, searching frantically for sugar cubes, “I don’t have any, silly.”

Jamie had almost had a fit the first time she’d given her one, slipping a few to the white-grey horse with a mischievous grin. Apparently, his horses weren’t allowed sugar cubes, as it made them unbearably fat and rude. 

(Since when did he own the bleeding stables?)

Holly paused, her feet stilling as she stood over the hay that was scattered about. There was someone here. Her spine tingled, fingers twitching as she felt a human presence brush up against hers. It almost smelt like cinnamon, fresh earth, and the heavy layer of spring rain. Her magic twitched, unfolding. 

“Hello?” Called Holly, her fingers trailing on the sides of the wood, brushing across Thunder and Björn. They stuck their necks out for attention, neighing softly. “Is anyone there?”

A grunt echoed near her, the hay moving as a shadow shuffled forward. She squeaked in terror, startling back as the shadow moved. It stood up, towering over her, as hands reached for her shoulders. 

“Holly?” The voice croaked. “What are ye doin’ here?”

Jamie, her heart whispered, easing at that soft, gentle voice. It’s only Jamie. 

She blinked, staring at his red curls that were brushed wildly across his forehead. There were a few strings of hay all over. Holly giggled. He looked like a wild creature, born rugged and beastly. 

“I came to see the horses,” she whispered, a pale hand patting at Björn’s dark coat. “They’re better company.”

He narrowed his eyes, dark-blue orbs glinting in the shadows, a suspicious hue stared back at her. 

“Ye weren’t trying to leave, were ye?” He asked dryly. “Ye wouldn’t get far, lassie. Not wi’ half the Mackenzie clan after ye by morning.”

Holly scoffed. 

“I wasn’t. Even if I was, it’s not like I’m a prisoner!”

He smirked. 

“Ye are Aunt Letitia’s ward, and I think she’d be havin’ a few words about an escape, eh?”

She blushed, her fingers trembling as they clutched at blue cotton skirts. Holly huffed, her small palms slamming into his chest as she pushed him backwards. 

“Oof,” he muttered, “Watch what yer doin’, lass!”

Jamie brushed a hand through his curls, pulling out hay roughly. Large palms patting down his white cotton shirt, it was covered. A wry smile pulled at her lips, Holly barely managed to hide it behind her palm. 

“How did ye get down here unseen?” He asked, a grunting feral sound, as if he’d just awoke. “I thought Dougal put guards on ye? I know he did.”

“Oh,” she sneered. “I’m sure.”

The bastard didn’t want the illustrious Peverell girl slipping from his fingers. He wanted something from her, Holly didn’t know what, but she was sure it wasn’t anything good. She knew that look in his eyes, the feverish twinkle of hope. She’d seen it before in Albus Dumbledore. A damning thing that looked friendly, but was made from a hundred-thousand unassuming poisonous thorns. 

She didn’t trust him one bit. He was always watching her, a small smile on his lips. Eyes always following her. 

“Ye wouldn't get verra far,” he teased, “Not with the Keep filled with clansmen. Oh, aye, there’s hundreds this year, all here for the tynchal and games!”

Holly’s brows furrowed. She’d heard that word before. 

“Tynchal?”

She was sure of it. 

“A hunt. Usually stags, maybe a boat this time; one of the stable lads told Old Alec there’s a large one in the east wood,” he leaned forward, a sly grin on his lips. “Maybe I’ll find it. Would I get a reward, Lady Peverell?”

It was a wicked glint that looked back at her, roguish and wild, reminding her far too much of Sirius. 

“A reward?” She scoffed. “What kind?”

“I heard from Alec ye made some lovely sweet cinnamon buns.”

“Absolutely not,” she seethed. “Those were for Timothy. Who wouldn’t have needed them if you had helped the boy!”

“Oi,” he called, frowning, “There was nothin’ i could do for the poor lad. Not without losing my own hand for obstruction of justice.”

Holly stared, a pale stark colour pressed to her flesh. She gaped. 

“Y-Your not serious? Oh my God. You're serious! Why the fu—”

“Hush there, lass. It’s alright.”

“No, it most certainly is not! That’s not justice, you ninny! It’s mutilation.”

“Yes,” he huffed. “Well. I didn’t want to be mutilated either. Did I?”

He grasped at her wrist tightly, pulling her out of the stables with a firm, awkward smile. 

“Come along,” he muttered. “I’ll take ye back up to the castle.” 

Holly stared. 

“Why aren’t you up there? God,” she breathed, “Were you sleeping in there? That’s not very safe!”

Jamie grunted. 

“I’ll be fine, lass. Don’ ye worry. It’s ye I should be worried about!”

“What do you mean?”

He stared at her, arching a brow as if it was her that was simple minded. 

“Tis not unusual for a man to take a flask along to keep him company when he stands guard. And the drink may be a boon companion, but it’s no verra good adviser to suitable behaviour, when a small lovely lass comes on ye alone in the dark.”

Holly gasped, her eyes widening in horror as she stared. 

“They wouldn’t!”

“Oh, aye, they would,” he stressed, fingers tightening around her wrist. “Ye must be careful. Letitia would have my head if somethin’ happened to ye.” 

“You wouldn’t.”

“Perhaps,” he drawled. “I wasn’t drunk, though, was I?”

“And,” she scowled, “If you were?”

He grinned; a wild feral thing, filled to the brim with gleaming, white sharp teeth. 

“Oh,” he chuckled. “If I was, I’d see a pretty, sweet lass in the dark. Hmm.”

Holly stuttered, a blush spreading across her cheeks. Her wrist twitching in his grip. The heat of his fingers brushing across her pulse. 

It quickened, and Jamie smirked. 

(The arrogant twat.) 

“Why aren’t you with the rest, then?”

“God, he groaned. “I don’t want to be messed up with that lot.”

“Why?”

“You do like to ask yer questions, don’ ye? I’m best out of the way.” 

“You don’t want to swear allegiance?”

“No,” he said sharply. “Mind ye own business, lass. It’s none of yours.” 

Holly bristled, gritting her teeth as she glared at him. Her nails dug into the sides of her palms. The fucking—

“Christ,” swore Jamie, trying to duck as a lantern shone on them. They both blinked up at the flickering candle. “Fuck.”

It was a man. He wasn’t that much taller than Jamie. He looked much the same as the rest, to Holly, at the very least. In his tartan, and freshly pressed coat. 

“God’s eyes, if it’s no’ the young lad; Colum’s nephew. Come late to the oath-taking, are ye not, lad? And who’s that wi’ ye?”

“Ah,” laughed another, peering out behind him. “It’s the Peverell lass! Oh, Jamie. Don’ wanna be caught out in the dark with this one, Letitia will skin ye alive!” 

A sneer lifted at her lips. 

“This Peverell lass with thump the both of you if we’re not let through!”

They both roared, thumping at their legs as they laughed. 

“Oh, what do ye ken, yeh’ve got a feisty one there, Jamie lad!” 

Jamie sighed in exasperation, his hands tightening around her arm. Holly shifted uncomfortably, peering up at him with a stern glare. 

“Let me go and change first,” grumbled the red-head. “I’m no decent to be going into the oath-taking like this.” 

The latern was lowered, a wry grin stretching across the Scot’s lips as he nodded at his friend. They lunged for Jamie, grasping at his shoulders as they brought him into the castle, leaving Holly behind in the shadows. 

She gaped at the pair of them. An eyebrow raised at the curses that slipped from Jamie’s lips. 

“Let me go, Rupert! Ye right bloody bastard!

“Dinna worrit yourself about that, laddie,” cackled Rupert. “Well outfit ye proper — inside.”

Holly followed, tugging at her skirts as she climbed up the steps and behind the gate. She watched it slam shut, an echoing bang and click of the lock. She brushed a hand through her messy curls. 

“I can go and find the Hall,” she admitted, glancing at the pair of them. “I’ll see you later?”

“No,” grumbled Rupert. “Yer not walking these corridors alone, not with drinks goin’ around. Are ye mad, lass! Yeh’ll come with us.”

Holly was dragged through the crowd with Jamie. He hovered behind her, his shadow encompassing her own. She patted her hands on her skirts, wiping away the anxious beads of sweat. 

“How long is this going to take?”

“As long as necessary,” grinned Rupert. “We can’t send him to his uncle looking like that.”

Holly glanced back. He truly did look beastly. His hair was a mess, his cotton shirt riddled with mud and straw, his kilt was worse. 

“Yes,” she cleared her throat. “I see what you mean.”

“Oi!”

“You look like you were born in a stable,” drawled Holly. “With the animals.”

“She’s right ye ken, ye don’t look like no laird from where I’m standing. Willy!” He called, the crowd parted, eyeing Jamie with a snicker. “We need some clothes, here. Something suitable for the laird’s nephew. See to it, man, and hurry!” 

Jamie huffed, a stern thin-lipped scowl pulling at his mouth. Holly wondered, eyeing him with a raised brow, at what is truly so terrible at taking an oath for his uncle. She asked him, her voice trembling with unsurety. Deep blue eyes turned to her, staring with an intensity that shook Holly to her core. 

“I’m no Mackenzie, lass.”

“Oh.”

Willy stumbled out of the crowd, tossing a set of velvet, cotton, and fine woollen clothes at him. The kilt was a different colour, the tartan a soft cotton that looked far more finer than the rest. But, she supposed, he was the nephew of the laird. It gave a standard, a title that the others couldn’t hold too. Colum, she knew, was a powerful man. One that held the alliances of his people tightly in his grasp, with Dougal at his back as his own sword-and-shield. 

It seemed to work rather well for the pair of them. 

Jamie brushed at his curls, long fingers tugging at tangled knots as he pulled at strings of straw and dust. He looked rather handsome, she decided, eyeing his arched face, and wild grin. 

“Hmm,” she hummed, leaning forward as she gazed at the pin. “I shine, not burn.”

“Aye, My Lady,” said Willie, “the Mackenzie motto.” 

Jamie grunted, a scowl on his lips as he placed it on his clothing. He stared down at the words, disgruntled at the sight of it. 

“What?” She teased. “Is it not to your liking?”

“No,” he said. “They’re not mine.” 

Holly nodded, she knew that taste for belonging well enough. After eleven years of living in a cupboard, fighting for food scraps, and a life, the next seven of being the heiress to The Most Noble House of Potter was enough. She no longer wished to hide in the shadows, to become something she was not. Her family’s words were her own, even when it was Peverell instead of Potter. 

It was her house, and none could take it from her. Jamie didn’t wish to wear his uncle’s colours, but his own. 

That, at the very least, she could understand. 

“What is your’s then?”

“The Fraser motto? Ah.”

He smiled down at the pin, and tartan that was draped over him elegantly. It was a grim smile, one of longing as he picked at the loose strings of cotton and wool. 

 “Je suis prest.”

“French? Hmm,” she hummed. “What does it mean?”

“I am ready,” he grinned. Jamie pointed at the signet ring that rested on her finger, eyeing the crest and Latin that surrounded it. “What does that mean, then? Is it a motto?”

Holly wrinkled her nose. 

“Sort of? The sigil represents a wand, cloak, and stone. Old family myth. The words are… complicated and very old. Novissima autem inimica destruetur mors. The last enemy that shall be destroyed is death. It’s more than a motto in my family, it’s…”

Jamie shuddered, eyes wide as he peered at the candles. The fire flickered at her words, a howling wind echoing in the hall. 

“They’re an oath.”

Holly had taken them, sworn them as the Goblins had handed her the rings. House Peverell was well known for its necromantic arts. 

Jamie nodded, a stern smile slipping across his face. It was gentle, and cold. He eyed the door to the Hall. 

“Ye best leave, lass,” Jamie said, “It’s no place for women. Rupert!”

“Aye?”

“Could ye escort Holly to the Hall. I’m sure Letitia is lookin’ for her.”

Rupert grumbled, pulling at the sides of his coat, brushing off the dust. 

“Fine,” he muttered. “Come with me, My Lady.”

“Ugh,” groaned Holly. “Please. No. Call me Holly.”

Rupert grinned, tucking her arm into his with a mocking twitch of his lips. Bowing, as if he were the perfect image of a gentleman. 

(He was not.)

Rupert pulled her away from the crowd, leading her down the arched hallway and towards the Great Hall. Holly sighed, a hand wiping at her forehead as the muggy air got worse. 

“God,” she grumbled. “How many fires do they have in this place?”

“Fifty-seven,” chuckled Rupert. “I counted the first time I came here. I was only a lad then.”

“Fifty seven? Who needs bloody fifty seven fire-places!”

“The Laird,” he smirked. “No, tis was built that way. We have verra cold winters up this way. Where are ye from?”

“Loch Arkaig, but I spent a lot of my summers in London.”

“Oh, aye. It’s cold that way too, yer better off spending yer winters in London. Bit warmer there.”

Holly giggled. 

“I never thought I’d hear that from a Scot!”

“Aye! Don’ tell ‘em I said that!”

“I won’t — oh.”

The Hall was absolutely beautiful. Holly had seen it decorated, but not quite like this. There were great, looming pine-torches that rose up, fires blazing along the walls, and near the centre hearths. Holly spotted Letitia, waving gently at the woman. The red-head smiled, stepping through the crowd as they parted for her. Their heads bowed, a respectful nod for the Laird’s wife. 

“I’ll leave ye here, then?”

“Yes,” nodded Holly. “That’s fine.”

Rupert smiled before he turned on his heel and walked back to find his men. The shadows followed him as he went, walking back out the door and in search of Jamie. 

Holly blinked, glancing up at the myrtle branches that decorated the sides of the walls, arched ceiling, and tables. There was yew, holly, and evergreen too that was scattered across the Hall. A vibrant sight and scent of earthy-wood and flowers. It was far nicer than the musky scent of men that thrived, saturating the hall as they laughed and cheered. There was a dancing reel of young girl’s, one set after the other circling the hearth. They lifted up their skirts, tapping to the violinist that played on the stand. 

It was nothing Holly hadn’t seen before. 

“Holly,” called Letitia, grabbing her hand. “Come over here.”

There were a few spare seats on the High-Table. She sat in between Hamish and Letitia as a bowl of steamed potatoes and carrot was set down. She sniffed, smiling at the scent of butter and rosemary. It looked divine. Hamish grinned, snatching at a spoon before his mother could stop him. 

“And,” drawled Letitia, her hand on her hips. “What do ye think yer doin’ mister? It’s not time to eat.”

She whacked at his hands, snatching the spoon from him, pouring Hamish a glass of water. 

“Ye can drink some of this,” she snapped, “but no pinching the food just yet or yeh’ll get no dessert!”

The doors to the Hall creaked open as Jamie strode in, flanked by Mackenzie guards, and robed in their colours. He looked utterly miserable. 

“Good lad,” murmured Letitia. “I was worried he wasn’t going to show up.”

“What if he hadn’t?” Holly asked, pouring herself a goblet of mulled-wine. “Shown up, I mean.”

Letitia rolled her eyes. 

“Nothing much, I suppose. But, Jamie’s found himself in a spot of trouble with the law, ye ken. If he doesn’t speak an oath, we can’t do much to help him.”

“Really?” She blinked. “What’s he done?”

Holly frowned, her mind racing, had Jamie mentioned this? At all? She couldn’t remember. Surely she would if he had! Her brows furrowed, lips twitching at the thought. 

“Murder.”

“What?!”

“Weeell,” she snickered. “He’s wanted for murder. Can’t say he did it though.”

“Ah,” sighed Holly, exasperation settling into tense shoulders. “Let me guess. The English are responsible and are laying blame on the innocent? Wouldn’t be the first.”

“Oh?”

“Same thing happened to my Godfather,” muttered Holly, lifting her glass. “God bless his soul.”

Holly jolted as the music began, a lifting tune of the bagpipes that echoed in the Hall. 

The men gathered around to chant, and sing. It wasn’t particularly good either, it was utterly dreadful. They all sounded like a merry band of drowning cats. 

“Oh, they call me Rab the Ranter, 

and the lassies all go daft, 

When I blow up my chanter!”

“People actually like that?”

Letitia snorted. “Aye, it’s more how pretty they are, I think?”

Holly glanced at the crowd. There were a few young girls gathered together, one giggling and fanning her face as she stared at the singer. The rest, she noticed, were peering at Jamie. She recognised one of them, a short, blonde-haired girl. She beamed down at Jamie, pulling a long lock of pale blonde hair behind her ear. There was a healthy flush to her cheeks as she whispered in the ear of her friend. 

“Ah,” laughed Letitia. “Ye noticed then. Laoghaire quite fancied him, not that Colum would ever approve of their match, o’ course. But her father will never let her marry out of the Mackenzie clan either.” 

The bagpipers shifted, the music echoed louder and louder, and then there was silence. Holly’s fists trembled as she stared at the man. Colum made his way through the crowd, his head held high, dressed in all the finery of a Mackenzie. He pressed a firm fist to his chest with a loud thump. The crowd murmured, a hushed silence lingering in the Hall as he made his way towards the High-Table. He was dressed handsomely, despite his disability. He wore the best of velvet, with small golden buttons that glimmered in the candlelight. The silk of his cufflinks and collar shimmered, a watery sheen to them as he came closer. He smiled softly at his wife, pressing a kiss to her cheek. 

Colum nodded at Holly, a small twitch of his lips, before he abruptly turned. He raised his fist in the air, clenched and for all the clansmen to see. 

“Tulach Ard!”

It vibrated through the hall, energy and magic shivered beneath Holly’s skin as the men jumped up, and leaned forward as they shouted; “Tulach Ard!”

It was a greeting, she assumed, picking at the sides of her nails anxiously. 

She shifted in her seat, leaning back uncomfortably as Dougal made his way to the platform. Those beady eyes looked at her, a dark glint that thrived there stared. At her. At Holly. 

Dougal grasped at his dirk, sinking to one knee as he bent his head. A form of elegance and submission, a hand of power to his elder brother. There was respect there, Holly could see it shining in Dougal’s eyes, and love. 

If anything in this hall was true, it was Dougal’s love for his brother and family. 

“I swear by the cross of our Lord Jesus Christ, and by the holy iron that I hold, to give ye my fealty and pledge ye my loyalty to the name of the clan Mackenzie. If ever my hand shall be raised against ye in rebellion, I ask that this holy iron shall pierce my heart.” 

Dougal kissed the dirk, and, with a swift hand, put it back in the sheath that rested near his thigh. His pale hands were clasped by Colum. 

Holly watched with a raised brow as the laird murmured gently under his breath. Colum kissed Dougal’s hand. An acceptance of oath between kin, bound by blood and spirit, she’d seen it before amidst wixen folk. 

Dougal drank from the silver quaich, clasping at it tightly as he drank the wine. His dark eyes peered at her from over the rim of the cup. A smirk pulled at his lips. 

(Holly didn’t like him. He was unsettling.)

The line grew as he strode back into the crowd, picking up a mug of ale as he sat with clansmen. Holly watched him go, her brows furrowed. 

Dougal was a rather odd man, she decided, far odder than Colum. 

Holly sighed, leaning back in the chair, her fingers tapping impatiently at the table. They couldn’t eat until the procession was done. There were hundreds of them, clansmen scattered across the room in a line, patiently awaiting their turn. She blinked, eyeing it sceptically, staring at Jamie who stood at the back. 

He was anxious. She could tell. He shuffled about, hands clasped behind his back, straining at his firm shoulder muscles. There was a frown there too, settled in the corner of his mouth as he stared up at the laird. 

“Jamie’s here,” said Holly, picking up her goblet of mulled-wine. “He doesn’t seem happy about it.”

Letitia nodded. 

“It’s complicated, my dear. If he takes the oath he’s declaring himself a Mackenzie and not a Fraser, ye see. The lairdship would go to his sister, Jenny. But he’ll have our protection. Which is more than most can boast.”

Holly sighed, gazing at Jamie as he shuffled to the front of the crowd. His pale fingers sat at his side, twitching restlessly. 

Silence echoed in the hall. A hundred eyes and more peered at him through the haze of smoke, and cooked meat. Jamie gulped, a fist thumping against his chest. He bent to one knee, his head bowed. 

A relieved breath slipped from Letitia’s lips.

Jamie didn’t speak, not immediately. His curls brushed against the sides of his face, neatly tucked behind his ears. He nodded, more to himself, she thought. 

Holly sucked in a loud breath, her lungs stilling as he arose from the cold, stone floor. Even she, who knew little about the culture in these parts, knew that it was a serious faux pas. An insult to the Clan Mackenzie, and Colum, who was Jamie’s own blood. 

Letitia tensed, her hand desperately grasping at Holly’s. She frantically searched for an anchor, nails digging into Holly’s pale flesh. 

Neither of them moved. 

“Colum Mackenzie, I come to you as kinsman and as ally. I give ye no vow, for my oath is pledged to the name that I bear. But I give ye freely the things that I have; my help and my goodwill, wherever ye should find need of them. I give ye my obedience, as kinsman and as laird, and I hold myself bound by your word, so long as my feet rest on the lands of clan Mackenzie.”  

It was almost as if the temperature had dropped. Silence reigned strong, echoing in the hall as men shuffled about. It was an anxious thing that swelled from one corner to the next.

Holly breathed, her lungs exhaling as Colum smiled. It was soft, and fond as he grasped at Jamie’s hands. 

The Hall breathed as one, clansmen dropping to their seats.

“We are honoured by your offer of friendship and goodwill,” said Colum, a bemused glint looking back at them. “We accept your obedience and hold you in good faith as an ally of the clan Mackenzie.” 

Holly’s shoulders slumped, reaching for a spoonful of potatoes as the feast began. It was a loud merry thing; bag-pipers humming, a dancing reel or two by the lively folk, a musician on the side platform, and the loud, roaring laughter that echoed from the tables. Hamish chortled to himself, watching with a mischievous air as a dog chased one of his friend’s about. 

“How on earth did that thing get in?!” Barked Dougal. “Hamish, lad, what did I tell ye last time!”

“Sorry, uncle,” he grinned. “It’s not my fault he knows how to use the doors.”

Dougal stared, a narrow-eyed look that was terrifying within its own right. 

The dog barked gleefully, jumping onto one of the tables for a bone of chicken. It’s dark eyes turned to Dougal, as if, just for a moment, it was there to spite him. 

Holly snorted. 

“Whose dog is that?”

“My husband’s,” giggled Letitia. “I brought him last year from an auction. He’s more trouble than he’s worth sometimes.”

“I’ll send him out,” sighed Dougal, dropping his knife and fork, “Ye best not let him in again, lad, or we’ll be having words.”

Hamish smirked. 

Holly jolted, startling in surprise as the men began to shout, stomping their feet as the bagpipes began again. It was a loud, rousing sound, filled with clapping hands, stomping feet, and the rattling whistle of pipes. There was a flute and harp in the corner too. 

“Song! Song!”

They chanted. The crowd grew thicker in the hall as a dance shook the floor. It was an elegant, and yet, wild-born affair. Feet kicked up as the clansfolk joined in a swirl of skirts and kilts. It was harsh, a form of jagged movements, and the twist of thighs and ankles. But, it was fluid too, with elegant palms and hands. 

It reminded Holly of the rapid, winding river that flowed through Little Whinging. A savage, and yet, beautiful thing. 

“Lady Peverell?”

Holly blinked, gazing up at Dougal in surprise. He offered her a hand. 

“Would ye like a dance?”

“O-Oh,” she paused, mind racing desperately for an excuse. Anything. “I-I—”

“She would love too,” nodded Letitia. “Go and have some fun.”

Fucking blasted woman. Holly would rather die than dance with the likes of Dougal Mackenzie.

“I suppose.”

She walked around the table, taking his hand with a frown as she was lead towards the dancing crowd. Her stomach tightened, an anxious twitch echoing in her bones. She didn’t know the dance, nor the movements. 

“Er, sir?” She asked, refusing to meet his eyes. “I don’t know the dance.”

“That’s fine,” he said stiffly, a cold smile on his lips. “Allow me to take the lead. It’s easy enough.” 

Dougal marched her into the swinging group, reeling her out and in, under his arm, and back out. A small grin brushed her lips, she couldn’t help it. It was almost fun. 

(It didn’t last.)

“I’ve been watching ye,” admitted Dougal. “Ever since ye came here with us. I wasn’t sure, ye ken. If ye were a Peverell.”

Holly gritted her teeth. 

Why couldn’t he just leave her well enough alone?!

“And,” she drawled. “What is your conclusion?”

“I think ye are who ye say ye are. Hmm,” he hummed. “But I made some inquiries. None of them heard of yer family being in Arkaig. It’s quite curious.”

“Well,” she muttered. “It wasn’t like we announced our presence. Plus, I grew up with my aunt and uncle. They wanted nothing to do with the Peverells.”

(Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon wouldn’t have wanted anything to do with mystical time-travelling stones either.) 

Those cold, cold eyes were suspicious. They glinted under the candlelight, peering at her with a cautious eye. He didn’t know what to make of her. Holly Peverell was a curious thing; fierce, shy-spoken, stubborn, and as wilful as any Scottish lass. But there was an air to her. She was like mist, the more you looked, the more clouded she became. Dougal couldn’t make tail ends on her purpose near Inverness. 

“I stopped Colum from contacting yer folk in London. The Blacks you said, eh? But ye already know that.”

“I do,” admitted Holly, her hand shuddering in his. “Why?”

“If ye are a Peverell, then yer not stupid, girl. The monarchy will come down for ye. Yer a threat.”

“Me?” She scoffed. “I’m just a girl.”

He tightened his grip, pulling her closer with a fierce snarl. 

“You're much more than that! Don’t think for one second my brother didn’t see that pretty little necklace yeh’ve got there. The Gryffindor crest. I wonder where ye got that, hmm?”

“I don’t see what that has to do with the Peverell name,” she sneered. “Sir?”

“Nothing. It was the crown that butchered yer family to keep their grip on Britain. Don’t forget that! Yer name is renown in Alba. It’s yer family that sat on throne for eight thousand years, ye bloody fool, in times like these, what do ye bloody fookin think the English will do knowing ye exist?!”

“Oh,” she breathed, as if it had never had occurred to her. “What about you?”

“Me? What about me?”

“You don’t wish to use me? My name and titles? I know where the Peverell estate is, and the Sunrise Throne.”

(The throne was adorned with rubies, garnets, and gold. A seat that resided in the pearly white halls of Peverell Palace.) 

There was desire that flickered in his eyes, a deep burning hue that stared back at her. He smiled wanly, shaking his head demurely. It was false, her mind whispered, coiling around her like a snake. 

False. Deceit. Trickery! 

“No,” he lied, “I don’t wish anything from you, girl. Yer Letitia’s ward and nothing more. Not until Colum wishes to marry ye off to a little laird to push out heirs, eh?”

He grinned lecherously, a hand wrapping around her red curls. 

“Maybe he’ll marry ye off to me.”

Holly snarled.

“I’d rather throw myself off the highest tower by a rope!”

“Hmm,” he murmured. “Yer lucky I’ve already got meself a wife. So much power,” his fingers trailed along her flesh. “A name like yours, it’ll give a man anything he wants.”

She tilted her head to the side, a small smile pulling at her lips. 

“Freedom, then?” She asked. “That’s what you want, isn’t it? Freedom for Alba.”

Dougal sighed. His fingers drummed along the sides of her neck. 

“Do ye know what they used to call us? Back in the days. When Scotland was Alba, and we were power.”

“The immortal lands,” she breathed. “I know.”

“Yer family ruled us then, and when the throne fell, they served us. Each great clan had a Peverell at their command, and when yer lot became rare, it was a gift to have one.”

His fingers dug into the side of her neck. It was a threat, she knew, his eyes were no different from Albus Dumbledore’s. They twinkled with a friendly light, but beneath, all they saw was a pawn. She gritted her teeth, stubbornly tilting her head and sneered. She was no pawn. She never would be again. 

Holly Potter had died in those woods, her life bleeding from her as the green-curse struck her flesh and tore her soul asunder. Holly Peverell had awoken, wide-eyed and dripping with the death magic that cloaked her kin. 

“I will serve none but myself,” she hissed, her nose almost brushing his. “I have no master. I will never have a master, Mr. Mackenzie. You’ll do well to banish those thoughts from your mind. I will live free, and I’ll die free.”

He smugly smirked (the arrogant prick) as if she’d answered correctly. Her tongue allying with his mind, and whatever delusions he had running through him. 

“That’s good to hear, Holly.”

She stared, quirking a brow. 

“You can call me Lady Peverell, or Miss Peverell.”

“Oh? Are we not friends?”

Holly scoffed. 

“Hardly. Acquaintances at best, sir.”

Holly couldn’t see much. The hills were covered in a thick layer of fog. If she squinted, perhaps, she might see a tree or two in the distance. 

She shuffled, glancing at Rupert that stood next to her. He’d gathered a spear himself; a long, savage thing that was sharp enough to kill any man. Let alone a boar. 

“Is it safe?” She asked, her nails biting at her skin. “In this kind of weather, I mean.”

“Oh, aye,” he nodded. “Weeell, as safe as it can be I suppose. Ye can either have a good hunt or a terrible one.”

“Terrible ones?”

“Boars are a dangerous thing, ye got to watch out for their tusks. If they get ye in the right place, Yeh’ll be gone in seconds.” 

Holly sighed, wrapping her shawl around her tightly. Letitia was inside, with Hamish tucked under her arm in the Yellow Room. Regret startled in her heart at the thought, she should’ve bloody gone with them. But, her curiosity had gotten the better of her. She’d never seen a hunt before, the closest Holly had come to was watching the programme’s on the television. 

“Don’t suppose I could head back inside?”

Rupert laughed, tipping his head back as he grinned manically. 

“Oh,” he shook his head. “No, ye can’t. Yeh’ll never live it down, lassie.”

“I was afraid you’d say that.”

(Holly was a Gryffindor, she was no coward. Forti Animo Estote. Be of good courage. She would sit in the muddy hills if she had too.)

“PEVERELL!”

Holly jolted, her eyes widening as the crowd hushed, a stuttered breath slipping from her lungs as she heard the fierce, yelling of her name. 

It was Dougal. 

“PEVERELL! Boy! Yes, you! Where is she?!”

A poor clansman, not that much older than Holly stuttered, mumbling as he pointed at her. 

She couldn’t blame him, she supposed, Dougal could be terrifying on his worst of days. 

“You! Holly, come wit’ me! Now!”

Rupert pushed her forward, rushing her towards Dougal as she anxiously followed the man. A pale hand swept across her eyes as she blindly made her way through the fog. It had gotten worse, clinging to her flesh like a new skin. 

“What’s going on?”

Dougal grunted. 

“Ye said your a healer, eh?”

“Yes. But—”

“Good. We need your expertise.”

“What is it?”

“One of my men is injured,” he admitted, clutching at her wrist as he dragged her down the hill. “We need someone to stop the bleeding and stitch him up.”

Holly paled. 

“N-No! I can’t!”

Dougal raised a brow. 

(She couldn’t. Holly had only apprenticed under Madam Pomfrey for so little.) 

“I don’t have enough training! You don’t understand—”

“Oh, aye,” he grimaced. “I understand perfectly, but some experience is better than none, lass. The poor lad is in dire straits!”

Holly stumbled, her breath stilling in her lungs as she gazed at the beast. It was lumbering on its side, a spear sticking out of its chest, with a slashed and torn body. Somebody had tried to kill it more than once, she thought, eyeing the bleeding wounds with a frown. There was a dirk stabbed firmly into its left leg. 

“Oh my,” she breathed. “It’s massive.”

“A damn trouble to get down,” hissed Dougal. “Almost killed me.”

A groan echoed down the hill, Holly barely caught sight of a slumped over Scot's man. He was winded, clutching desperately at his leg. 

“Christ,” she muttered. “Is he alright?”

Dougal blinked, snorting softly. 

“No! Does he look alright to ye?”

She blushed, rushing down the hill, over a few stones and logs as she stumbled to his side. 

The first thing she noticed was the blood. It seeped out from his wound, and painted his pale fingers as it flowed down onto the grass below. 

“Merlin,” she muttered. “T-This is — I don’t know how to fix this!”

Dougal gripped at her shoulders, staring deeply into her emerald orbs. 

He shook her gently. 

“Try. Please.”

She couldn’t do it. Her hands shook as she inspected the wound. She could try. Her lungs stilled at the thought, her heart racing, as sweaty palms pressed on his wounds. There was too much blood, and he was losing it fast. She knew she could try, but Holly would have to use it. To reach and grasp at that forest-fire that breathed beneath her flesh. But to do it wandless, and in front of a muggle? 

She could obliviate him. 

Surely — no, she conceded, obliviation without a wand could go beyond wrong. 

Her hands shook, she didn’t want to watch this man die. Holly had seen it all before, more than once, in the Battle. Remus’ life blood had stained her hands, as much as any others, her attempts had done little. 

But this man wasn’t Remus, he hadn’t been cursed by dark magic, and it was only a flesh wound. 

“Well?” Snapped Dougal. “Do something! I saw ye when Jamie’s arm was fixed. I saw it. Do it again!”

Holly shuddered, closing her eyes tightly. She couldn’t. 

Could she? 

“I’ll try,” she murmured. “I’ll try.”

Holly didn’t promise anything. She couldn’t. 

“Now then, Geordie,” he muttered, a hand patting at his shoulder. “Now then. I’ve got him, man. It’s all right.”

Holly glanced at the boar, her brows furrowing at the sight of blood soaked fur and an oddly angled dirk. 

It must’ve been Geordie’s. 

“Alright,” she whispered under her breath. “Alright. I can do this. I can.”

“Dougal?” Breathed Geordie, a wet pant slipping from his lips. “Is’t you, man?” 

Holly pressed her hands to the wounds, closing her eyes gently. Her magic shifted, her core expanding as she breathed. In and out. It was almost lyrical, that life song of the earth and trees, that thumping magic that reached out for her. It was a wild, rough, and savage thing. It slipped out of her fingers, Holly could almost see it, that golden light of hers that slid into his wounds. 

Geordie shrieked, jolting in her grip as the earth-sky-ocean-fire slipped into his body. 

“Wha— fuck,” he cursed, drowsily blinking up at her. “What’s that? Hmm? Oh. That’s nice.”

Dougal snorted. 

“Whatever you're doing, keep it up.”

“I don’t,” she anxiously bit at her lip. “It’s difficult.” 

“Can he live?” 

Holly hummed, nodding her head shyly. “Maybe, I don’t know.”

She didn’t. The magic that slipped from her was wild, drawing from the earth, crackling like a fire in her grasp. Geordie could feel it, his earthy-green eyes glancing up at her. The feverish light from them was gone. He panted, licking at dry lips. 

“Oh,” he grinned, “A pretty faerie’s come to save me, Dougal! Look!”

The man snorted, patting at his friend’s head as he checked for a fever. The clammy pale skin was gone, replaced with flesh that was vitalised, beautiful, and new. Dougal stared in awe.  

“Yes,” he nodded, eyeing Holly with a narrowed-stare. “Yes, indeed. A pretty faery.”

Holly scoffed. 

“I’m no faery,” she snapped. “Now keep still, do you want me to have to start again. Geordie, was it?”

The blonde-haired man smirked. 

“Aye. Geordie Mackenzie! And who are you?”

“Holly Peverell.”

“Oh! The witch! Ye quite beautiful for a witch.”

“Carnem sanare,” she muttered under her breath. A sigh of relief slipped from her lungs as his flesh began to heal. “Carnem sanare.”

Geordie groaned, back arching up off the ground as his skin and bones melded back together with a loud snap. He huffed, slamming back down on the cool earth, hands frantically searching for the wounds. There had been two, he knew, one on his thigh, and another, embedded in his gut. He shouldn’t be alive. 

Dougal froze, staring intently at the Peverell and her trembling hands. He grasped at them, squeezing her fingers frantically. 

“Thank ye,” he muttered, “I don’t know what ye did. But—”

“Y-You can’t tell anyone,” she croaked, her fingers twitching in his palms. “Please!”

He nodded. 

“I won’t. Neither will Geordie.”

“Aye, yeh’ve got magical fingers, little lass. The wounds gone!” 

“Sir,” she begged. “Please. Don’t speak of it.”

His eyes softened, a flush spreading across his cheeks. 

“I know,” Geordie smiled. “I owe ye my life, Holly. I won’t say a word.”

Dougal nodded, grasping at Geordie’s elbow as he helped him. Holly sighed, stumbling over to the stream as she scrubbed at the blood. It had begun to cake around her nails, flaking at the sides. She wrinkled her nose in disgust. 

“Right, ye can walk back?”

“Oh, aye.”

“Good, I’ll take the boar.”

She brushed her hands across her skirts, drying the water and mud on yellow cotton. Holly knew she could have it washed when she got back. 

(It was her favourite dress too.)

“Come on, lass,” demanded Dougal, “We best head back.”

His eyes didn’t leave her, not once. Glinting with a curious light, as if he couldn’t quite help himself. There was wonder there too, as if she was a faery that had come from the earth. Holly supposed he wasn’t far off, she waa magic, blood, grit, and bone. Nor did she favour cold iron. None of the wixen folk did. 

Dougal didn’t stop watching her. Not at the feast, not when Jamie asked her to dance a reel, not even when they were bustled into the church the next morning. Geordie sat with her, eyeing her with a playful glint. His was kind, but in Dougal, there was something unsettling there. 

The games started the following week, and still he stared. Those dark eyes would follow her; into the shadows, behind arched halls, at the dining table, and in the Yellow Room. He was everywhere. She supposed it was luck, more than anything, that he hadn’t told Father Bain. 

He wouldn’t, she knew, not as long as she had use. It was a bitter pill to swallow, Holly was safe as long as she was useful. It had always been that way. 

Hogwarts and the Dursleys were no different in that regard. 

She gritted her teeth, hissing in a sharp breath as he continued to stare.  

“God dammit,” Holly muttered. “I shouldn’t have done it. Foolish—”

“Holly?”

She blinked up at Jamie, the man smiled, offering her a piece of chocolate cake from the stall. 

“Er, thank you?”

“I thought ye’d like some.”

(She couldn’t have left Geordie there, in his own life blood as he drowned. Choking on his last breath. That wasn’t who Holly was. She couldn’t —)

“Ye alright, lass? Yer a bit pale.”

“I’m fine.”

She leaned against the back of the hay, her hands plucking at the string of her dress. It was one thing she despised about the muggle world. The dresses were heavy, with corsets that lingered beneath. It wasn’t the first time she’d worn one of course, the wixen world had them too. But not like this, not the kind that dug into her bone and skin. She hated it, and it was awfully uncomfortable to sit down in. 

Holly scowled. 

“Oh god,” she murmured, shuffling closer to Jamie. “Hide me.”

“Wha— it’s only Uncle Dougal?”

“Jesus.”

“Hide you where exactly?”

“Anywhere!”

“Afraid not, lass.”

Holly groaned, her shoulders slumped as she gazed at the man. He was dressed as usual, in a thick velvet cloak. It seemed to her, rather impractical for the terrible weather that had brushed through the valley. Those dark eyes pierced her, staring at trembling lips and anxious fingers. He knew he made her uncomfortable, and he did it anyway! 

(Gods, she hoped he fell down a hill and died. Or better yet, got shot by old Englishmen.) 

“Holly,” he greeted, nodding his head at his nephew. “Jamie lad. Mind if I sit?”

“No.”

“Yes.”

Holly and Jamie looked at one another, brows raised. It did little to remove the scowl that pulled at her lips. She wanted him gone. Far away, where she’d never see him again. 

Dougal Mackenzie certainly wasn’t her kind of cup of tea. 

He snorted, sitting down next to Jamie, leaning back against the hay, and old wooden shed. 

“I was meaning to talk to the both of ye.”

“Oh?” Asked Jamie, “What about?”

“I’m leaving in two days’ time, and in taking the two of you with me.” 

“What? Where?” Asked Holly, gaping at him, her lips trembling in shock. 

She didn’t want to go anywhere with him. Not even tied to a horse. 

“Through the Mackenzie lands. Colum doesna travel, so visiting the tenants and tacksmen that canna come to the Gathering — that’s left to me. And to take care of the bits of business here and there,” he leaned forward a wry smirk on his lips. “I wish to see some of ye… skills.”

“Ye want a healer with us?” Pondered Jamie, rubbing his chin. “Aye, that has benefit, I suppose.”

Holly’s stomach knotted, her fists clenching at her side. She knew he wanted to expect her — to study her. 

She gritted her teeth. 

“Does Letitia know?”

“O’ course. Colum told her. She wasn’t happy, that’s for sure. But, a Peverell at our side in Mackenzie land, Colum thought it was smart.”

“It’ll send a message,” nodded Jamie. “To the English and other Clans.”

Holly frowned. “I thought you wanted to hide me from the English?”

“Yes,” he conceded. “To a certain extent. We can’t hide ye, not completely. But we can shield ye. They won’t dare to come after ye when yer so closely allied with us Mackenzie folk.” 

(Holly hoped it was true. She’d fought enough violence to last her a lifetime.)

“Fine,” breathed Holly, knowing she had little choice in the matter. “How long will the trip be?”

“A month perhaps.”

She trembled. Holly needed her magic back, she realised swiftly, she needed a wand. 

She was powerless to the whims of men, and that, Holly thought, was not who she was. 

Chapter Text

DAWN had barely brushed the hills, and tower-tops as they rode out of the rising gate, and groaning metal pillars, the wind screeched in her ears. Holly wrapped her woollen scarf tighter, brushing it over pink-flushed ears. It was cold, a biting chill that settled in her bones as she glanced back at the Castle. She wondered, with a hazy fear, if it would be the last she’d see of it. That great, lumbering rock of stones. 

Holly jolted, hands digging into the reins, Jamie was ahead of her. She could see him in the distance, his red curls bouncing in the morning light. She squinted, blearily rubbing at her eyes, it was the crack of dawn, and she was barely awake. 

She coughed, pulling up her shawl to press at her lips. They had just passed the village; a small place of no consequence, with a hundred suspicious beedy eyes watching them go, a granny covered her morning-meat from the butchers with a snarl (as if they were robbers and thieves). She breathed in the smoke, squinting through the smog that had descended on the small village, smothering their thatched-roofing, and wet, damp clothes that hung from a reel of string. 

One of Colum’s men rode closer to her, his red-and-blue kilt brushing the sides of his thighs. He was dressed more finely than the rest, in his thick woollen coat, and vest. He had a golden pocket watch tucked neatly away near his breast. 

(His name was Ned Gowan, a solicitor, and educated in Edinburgh. Holly had danced three reels with him at the Gathering.)

He put a few more coins in a leather bag, collecting from the villagers with a benign grin. They didn’t seem that happy, she realised, the money kept coming from old withered palms. 

“Can they afford it?” She asked, eyeing the skinny, bony child that hid behind his mother. “Do they get enough food?”

“There’s plenty of bandits in these parts, My Lady. They pay for protection.”

Holly frowned. It certainly looked as if they weren’t getting enough. 

“Surely the Laird has enough food—”

“We must all make our own way in this world, lass. We can’t stop to help the poor, otherwise we’ll have none for ourselves.”

(There had been seven roasted pigs one evening placed before the Laird, a whole banquet of food for one man. Never mind the lower tables that ate with him.)

“Oh.”

“Surely it wasn’t that different where you lived?”

“Ah,” sighed Holly, a bright image of her fat, greedy Uncle Vernon and his large plates of Roast Lamb. “No. Not really.” 

“There’s too few wealthy people, and too many poor fellows in this world,” he said grimly. “My father served Colum, ye ken. He was a lawyer too, the best of his sort. He would take me with him on his trips as a boy, to sort out the grain and fowl. The arguments between clans under the Campbell-Mackenzie’s was always his job. Now it’s mine. But, I understand ye lass, when I was yer age I didn’t like it either.” 

He shook his head, wisps of silver greying curls brushing his forehead. 

“Tis too many hungry mouths in this land, we have a famine every now and again. It’s been getting worse with the English gaining more control. I know Dougal is getting more restless.” 

Holly had read of it before, tucked up in the library at Little Whinging, hiding in the shades from the sun, and Dudley’s pig-headed gang. The one place they wouldn’t go. England had many colonies, even though Scotland didn’t bear that name,  lands close to it were treated all the same; with a harsh fist, brutality, and a thievery of land, livestock, and their wealth. Liberation they called it, freedom, the idle taste of civilization. 

As if the Scottish were lesser. 

She knew it would only get worse. 

(Holly hadn’t read more than three pages. Gods — why had she only read three?)

“Why did he bring me along?” Huffed Holly, her nails digging into the leather of the reins. “I don’t understand. I’m useless! I don’t know how to carry a dirk or a gun!”

Ned eyed her with furrowed brows. He hesitated, the words were on the tip of his tongue. 

“Yer a Peverell, ye have a status and power that Dougal can never have.”

She gritted her teeth. Holly had suspected — but to have it confirmed? She seethed, shifting on the saddle as her muscles clenched. 

“Yeh’ll be alright, lass. I doubt we’ll run into much trouble. Dougal knows which roads to avoid the English. I doubt we’ll see much of ‘em.”

That was not what worried her. It was power. Dougal had too much over her, he was like an overreaching shadow that persisted, with claws and teeth. If she let him dig any deeper, Holly knew he’d never let go. 

“There was plenty near Craigh na Dun.”

Ned nodded. 

“Oh, aye. It’s a bit of a sore spot there. We’ve had many skirmishes. But we shouldn’t be heading that way.”

Something in her deflated, a hope that she didn’t even know she had. Maybe, she’d be closer to home if those stones were in sight. Or, even a simple rock that had tumbled off. She could’ve used it as a focal. 

(She was wandless. Empty. Useless.)

“How long before we stop?”

He grinned, eyeing her wryly as she shifted on the saddle. They had only been riding for three hours, and her thighs had begun to ache. Holly almost wished to pull at her skirts, scratch at her leggings and the irritated flesh beneath. 

“Gettin’ sore, lass? Haven’t yeh rode much, eh?”

“No,” she breathed. “Not for this long.”

“It’ll be another six hours I reckon, Dougal will want to find shelter in the next village.” 

“What?” Spluttered Holly. “Six hours? To the next village?”

Her mind couldn’t comprehend it. Holly, who’d spent her whole life travelling by car, carriage, or train. It was inconceivable to be on a horse for that long, to tighten her scarf and cloak and hope for the best weather. Perhaps she should send a prayer, a kiss to Gaia and the earth below, that there would be no rain. 

(It was a fat chance, all Scotland did was rain.)

“Holy Mother,” she would whisper under her breath. “Protect me and my friends from the wind and rain. Holy Hekate, guard our hearts.”

She’d learnt it as a girl, under the strict mentorship of Mrs. Weasley. Arthur hadn’t believed much in the Old Ways, but Molly, who’d been born and raised a Prewett, had kneeled at the Gods altar more than once. 

(Ron had been the only Weasley child that had turned his back.)

“You travelled to Loch Ness from Arkaig, surely —”

Holly flustered. 

“My family made a lot of use of… carriages.”

It was a lie. It felt bitter on her tongue. The Dursleys had two cars, one shinier than the other, and a brand new BMW company car. The Weasleys were less than fortunate, an old Ford Anglia, much like the first. A second hand vehicle that was falling to bits. But Mr. Weasley loved it all the same. 

“Ah,” he smiled. “I should’ve known. Yeh from that sort of family, eh? Must be strange. Travelling on horse.”

“I am not… unfamiliar.”

It was true. She had flown Mort through the clouds. But it wasn’t the same. She doubted it ever would be. 

“My father still had the family estate when I was born, but it cost them their lives.”

(James Potter had been struck down for his family’s negligence to swear allegiance to the Dark Lord. House Potter had been marked, regardless of a Prophecy sprung from the lips of a mad woman.) 

“The Peverell Estate?” He breathed, leaning forward with a glimmer in his eyes. “What is it like?”

“I haven’t seen much of it,” she shrugged. “My parents died when I was very young. All of their property wasn’t in my reach, I lived with my Aunt and Uncle. But, I did see it once.”

Holly smiled wistfully. 

“It’s very beautiful. A grand castle. I wonder what kind of stone they made it out of, it’s almost like marble.”

“Is it true it glows?”

“Hm. Perhaps not. It’s mostly the sun, I think. It does shine.”

“I would love to see it someday.”

Holly grinned. 

“Perhaps you shall. Maybe one day I’ll be able to return, I shall have a large tea-party with all my new friends.”

She would. Holly could open the land with her blood. But, she knew it was hopeless to her without a wand. 

(Gods, she needed one.)

“Why stop there, my dear. Hold a Ball. Dougal would certainly appreciate an invitation,” he grinned. “Him and his scheming brother. Ye ken, it’s all your fault.”

“Mine?” She stared, gaping at his utter arrogance. “What could I have possibly done?” 

“Colum was quite content to keep out of Dougal’s schemes. It was your name and power that brought him in. The Laird that possesses a Peverell is God Blessed they say.”

She was no possession, she wanted to say, to scream that she only belonged to herself. Holly bit her tongue, scolding herself that this was a man’s world. This was not 1999. But, she realised swiftly, she needed power if she was going to get out from under the heel of Dougal Mackenzie. 

“What about the rest, then?”

Ned frowned. 

“The rest?”

“The folk that want to burn me at the Stake. They think I’m a witch.”

“Perhaps,” he hummed. “It’s a great divide, ye ken. But the wealthy clans, they believe in you. I’ve seen it.”

Holly narrowed her eyes. 

“Seen what?”

“I know yer powerful, you have… gifts. Everyone knows. Most of the clansfolk don’t care so much.”

She scoffed, a bitter sound that was dredged up from her heart. 

“Of course they don’t,” she muttered. “All they want is power.”

It was nothing new to her. To have a horde of men inform her that she was their saving grace. A political pawn with a pretty smile, and elegant grace. Holly refused to be that girl again. She clenched her teeth, glaring at the form of Dougal. 

(He disgusted her. The wretched, wretched man.)

“Yeh’ll be fine, love. They wouldn’t dare to risk the wrath of Clan Mackenzie. Yer under Colum’s protection.”

“I don’t like it.”

He smiled bemusedly, with a quirk of a brow. 

“Ye don’ have to like it. Dougal will keep ye safe from the burners, lass. No matter how much ye dislike ‘em.”

She didn’t dislike them. They were just people. A community living under the shadow of Catholicism. The history books were still tainted by the spilt blood. Even in her time. She had magic, even now, without a focal, she could feel it. That rushing power that flowed in her veins. 

“They’re not the ones I’m worried about,” she grumbled. “How far is Dougal willing to use my name?”

Use me. 

Ned was silent, he looked at her uncomfortably, shifting on the saddle as he stared out at the others. It was a better sight than Holly; seventeen-turned-eighteen, rosy-cheeked, and nervous in the face of powerlessness. 

Holly was startled at sleeping under the sky; under the moody clouds, amidst the wet-dewy grass, and the dirt and fallen branches. She had expected a shack or cottage in the next village, perhaps even a cow-shed? No, unfortunately not, they hadn’t even made it to the next town. The rain had seiged them, fort and all, underneath the large rocks of the cliff-side. Holly could barely see it in the distance, a small town (barely even that), a small thatched rooftop or two, and the misty haze of smoke that blew up in the dark skies. 

She had crawled away from the camp, tucking herself under the horses and away from the men. She shuddered, pulling her woollen shawl closer as she caught the eye of Dougal. Holly blinked at him, cat-like eyes glowing in the dark. He would follow her, he always did. 

Dougal Mackenzie was rather like an unwanted pest. 

She patted at the wet, mossy trees. Her fingers trailed along the dark, green leaves. The earthy smell was lovely, Holly knew the heather was somewhere near. Her boots scuffed along the rocks as she made her way along the cliff-side. She was so close. She could feel it. 

“Oi,” grumbled Jamie, ruffling leaves out of his hair as he stumbled off the roots of an oak tree. “What are ye doin out here?” 

Holly cursed. 

(The Holly tree had been so close, standing there all alone, whispering back at her. Bright and luminous.) 

“I need to go to the loo.” 

Jamie sniffed. 

“All the way out ‘ere? There’s a chamber pot at the camp, lass.” 

“No,” she snorted. “Not with all them there. They’d laugh at me!” 

She wasn’t entirely wrong, Holly had snuck off more than once to relieve herself, the daunting task of urinating in a large metal pot that everyone could hear was horrifying. Gods, the days of public toilets was sorely missed. 

“Come on lass, I’ll take ye back. We don’t want ye running off, eh?” 

Holly wrinkled her nose. She had nowhere to go. If she could run, she would. 

(She needed magic at her side, a wand in a holster, a holly-wand that purred with the magic in her blood.) 

“They won’t miss me,” she muttered. “They’re to busy drinking. I doubt they noticed.” 

“Oh, aye. Dougal would’ve.” 

She wrinkled her nose. 

“The man notices everything, he’s worse than my friend’s gran.” 

Jamie laughed, a warm rumbling sound that vibrated through her chest. His shoulder brushed hers as he grabbed her elbow, pulling her back to the rattling crowd that sat underneath the rocks, pulling a roast boar from the fire-pit they’d made. Her stomach grumbled at the smell. 

Rose-mary, salt, and thyme.  

She sighed in exasperation, accepting a bowl of stew as she sat amongst the crowd. They were a boisterous lot, sharing flagons of whiskey and ale as they sat around the fire. Holly took a long gulp of the clumps of cooked lamb and boar. She didn’t doubt it was the one Dougal had taken with them from the castle, tied neatly to his saddle and reins. 

(There had been three of them in the beginning, but Geordie had lost the other two.)

They set off again at dawn, packing up and saddling their horses as they rode down the hill. It was still wet, a hazy sight that would greet them for the following week.  The villages were no different from the other, all small and filled with the plagues of poverty. Dougal had no shame, quickly gathering coins from families that barely had any. He would demand, in that stern tone of his, it was their loyalty and honour to serve Clan Mackenzie. Her name was passed around, drawn forth by Dougal as he shoved her at the villagers, a wry smile on his lips as her signet ring blazed in the sunlight. 

There was fear in those eyes, awe too. The hunger that swelled, prickled at the corner of their twitching lips and wet orbs. Holly rolled her shoulders, glaring at the asshole that left her to the masses. 

It was a dam good thing Holly was used to pestering crowds, and wide-eyed children that grappled at her coat-tails. 

The taverns were the only respite. They had small rooms tucked upstairs, away from the crowd, and a smoky den of pipes and the rare cigar. The rickety beds were barely tolerable, but it was much better than sleeping on muddy clumps of grass. It was mostly where she could avoid him, Dougal and his blasted court of jesters as they gathered around him, clucking like hens at his heels. She couldn’t always avoid it, plastered next to him on the stools, as strangers gawked at her, and then him, the noble brother of their Laird that offered ale and small plates of cheese and bread. 

“Thanks,” she muttered, grabbing the tankard of ale, she sniffed it, her nose wrinkling at the stench. “Christ.”

It’d do. After the day she’d had, ale was better than nothing. People drank it as if it was water, guzzling it from cups and mugs. The only place Dougal and his lot drank water from was the streams. 

She jolted in surprise as the crowd roared once more, elbows nudging her as they moved. It was Gaelic. Not a single lick of it made any sense. 

There was a murmured whisper of Fort William on their tongues, Holly could only hope it was where they were heading and not trouble on the horizon. Albeit, she didn’t know much about English history, but Fort William’s establishment as a military base had been taught in primary school. Her classmates had even gone on the trip, pushed into the bus and driven through the highlands. Holly has missed out, of course, her Aunt Petunia adamant that she had a rose garden to tend too. 

She hissed, rubbing at her ribs as another rowdy Scotsman pushed into her; sharp, bony elbows colliding with her sides, as the sweltering heat clung to her flushed skin. She couldn’t leave just yet, not with Dougal’s eye still on her. The crowd leaned forward, glancing at Dougal in excitement.  

Jamie, it seemed, didn’t find his uncle particularly bemusing. Holly couldn’t quite figure either of them out. Nor could she quite understand why she’d been dragged along. Jamie she understood, he was the nephew, blood of the clan, but Holly? It was her name, she suspected, to garner the crowds and throw more than one pouch of coins at the Laird’s brother. 

Holly choked, coughing as she peered at them both, wide-eyed and startled. Jamie’s shirt had been removed, and his pale fair skin was there to see. Perhaps Holly might’ve admired the thick muscles if it weren’t for the white scars that were engraved in his flesh. Her lip wobbled as she anxiously bit her teeth, sinking into her flesh. She picked at the dry skin on her lips, sweaty palms shuddering. 

Holly knew the bitter taste of her uncle’s belt, but not like that. Those were done by something far worse, she knew, sharper and thick. She had no scars to her name, none that were physical. 

“What?” Hissed Holly, nudging at Geordie. “What in the bloody fuck happened to him?!”

“Randall,” he muttered grimly. “Bastard gave ‘im a good whipping.”

“Randall—” she paused, glaring at the scars fiercely. “Captain Randall?”

“Aye.”

Holly took a long gulp of the ale, tipping her head back. She couldn’t look any longer, not at the clustering crowd or the blue-eyed sorrow that seeped from his eyes. Jamie clutched tightly at his shirt, nails digging into the cotton. 

“Is he…” she twitched, the words couldn’t quite leave her lips. Is he alright? She couldn’t even say it. What a daft question too. 

“Hm?”

“Nothing.”

Holly watched him go, clutching tightly at his shirt, eyeing the white scars, and thick tensing muscles. She wouldn’t wish that upon anyone. Secrets like those were best kept private, Holly certainly hadn’t appreciated Skeeter blasting her childhood abuse all throughout the Daily Prophet. She gritted her teeth, glaring at Dougal in indignation. 

He had no right. 

“Is he going to be alright?” Asked Holly, leaning forward as she stared down at her cup of ale. “I mean…”

Geordie grimaced. He finished his own mug. “It’s for the cause, lassie. We all make sacrifices.”

Holly paused, her brows furrowing as she peered at him. “Cause?”

Geordie shifted, picking at a piece of cheese, a sheepish glance told her all she needed to know. He’d told her more than he should’ve. Her lips twitched, biting on her tongue to suppress the laughter that coiled in her throat. He reminded her of Hagrid, sweet, loving Hagrid. 

(Whom she’d never see again.)

She hummed, eyeing Dougal as he thumped his chest, hatred leaked from his mouth, fire swelling in his chest. She knew it for what it was. Holly had been raised on the fields of rebellion, she’d served under its brutal hands and the crooked, greedy fingers of its oppressor. She knew the taste of hopelessness, the bitter need for more. For freedom. Holly found, in that moment, she couldn’t even hate him for it. She knew the fist of brutality well enough. She’d seen it in the eyes of Riddle, his henchmen, and the politicians that gathered in the Wizengamot. Lord or otherwise, they were all the same. 

“Honestly,” she chuffed, “He could be a little bit more subtle about it.”

Geordie grinned, pointing a finger at her. “I said nothin’, lass. You hear me. Nothin’.”

She smirked. “Aye. I hear you.”

Holly’s lips froze, her smile slipping away as quickly as it came. Dougal sat down across from her, picking at a piece of bread and cheese as he lifted it to his lips. He was tired. She could see it in his slumped shoulders and narrowed eyes. 

Anyone would be, she thought, Holly knew how weighted the world could be. That fervid desperation that clung to him. 

“We have enough to satisfy Colum,” he said, taking another bite. “Canna expect a great deal from such a small place. But manage enough of the same, and it will be a respectable sum.”

“Oh?” Drawled Holly, quirking a brow. “What was with the performance? Didn’t know getting money was such a show. I should come along more often.”

Dougal huffed, pouring a mug of ale. 

“They’re doin’ what they’re told, girlie. Loyal subjects contributing their mite in support of their sovereign.”

“Hm,” she hummed, fingers drumming on the wood. “Sovereign. Do you mean the King?”

“What do ye think we’re doin? Me brother isn’t exempt from taxes to His Highness.”

“Which King, then?”

“What?”

“Well,” she huffed. “You never said. Since you’re carrying my name around like a bloody shield and sword. I think I deserve to know.”

Dougal narrowed his eyes, knuckles clicking as he stared coldly. 

“Well?”

“There’s only one king of Scotland,” he said, “I thought yeh’d—”

Holly raised her hand, emerald orbs flaring as her temper swelled. 

“I don’t appreciate being used as a pawn, Mackenzie. I’ve done enough of that to last me a lifetime, believe me.”

She tilted her head, it was silent, as the candles began to flicker. Holly smiled sharply, open mouthed as her teeth gleamed in the light. 

“I have no problem aiding you in your,” Holly paused, pursing her lips, “money collections. Just be upfront about it. I think you’d be surprised how willing I am to burn the fields around me.”

Holly nodded at Geordie, finishing her ale as she turned to leave, tucking her hands behind her back as she wished them a goodnight. She barely listened to the spluttering that slipped from Dougal’s lips as she stomped upstairs, slamming her door shut. 

She groaned, stripping out of her gown, and into the thick woollen covers. Holly pulled them up to her chin and stared at the ceiling. It took a few hours before it began to quiet, and barely a hushed murmur crept up the stairs. 

She almost missed her second bedroom at the Dursleys, that and the peace and quiet that lingered in Little Whinging. 

Holly had an uneasy night, the incessant creaking outside of her door echoed in her room, the shifting of floorboards as someone strode past. It was almost as if the damned place was alive. Even the walls seemed to be a rowdy lot, the constant scuttling, that were more than likely a mouse or two. She groaned, slapping her hands over her ears as moans drifting from the room next to her. 

“Shut up!” 

The bangs of a creaking bed kept slamming against the walls. 

She huffed, rolling over onto her stomach as she pressed the pillow to her face. 

Emerald orbs blinked, staring up at the ceiling. It was no more fascinating than counting sheep. Holly kicked off the covers, the bitter cold air piercing her skin as she shuffled over to the drawers. The seat squeaked, pressing down on the soft wood. 

Safety inspections in her day would’ve shut down the place, she thought, eyeing the floorboards suspiciously.  

Holly gazed at the fireplace. There was barely anything of it left, the fire had burned down to soft, glowing ashes. She gritted her teeth, feet pattering across the floor as she placed a few more logs on it. 

She bit her lip. Should she? 

Holly knew it wouldn’t get any warmer. It would’ve been a damned lot easier if she had her wand. She shook her head, fingers twitching as she muttered; Ignis. Nothing happened. Nothing but a warm breeze and a few sparks. 

“Fuck!”

Her magic lingered in her palms. Ignis. Her flesh remained pale, the golden glow barely leaving her nails. 

“Come on,” Holly gritted. “I’m bloody fucking freezing.”

She groaned, rubbing her hands together as she breathed on them with a long puff. 

Holly stilled, her fingers clasped tightly together as she heard shuffling. Somebody was outside of her door, she heard it, in the buckled boots, and heavy footsteps. 

It wasn’t a barmaid. God forbid, she’d almost recognised their quiet, hushed creaking by now. 

“Devil take ye, Dougal Mackenzie!”

Jamie? He was infuriated, she could hear it coiled around his tongue, hate seeping from his mouth. She could almost see him. Imagine him. 

“Kinsman or no, I dinna owe ye that!”

Dougal, she thought, sneering as she heard his deep voice. Why on earth are they outside my door? 

“Do ye not?” He muttered. “I seem to recall a certain oath, giving your obedience. ‘So long as my feet rest on the lands of clan MacKenzie’, I believe was the way of it. And this tavern, laddie? It’s on my land.”

Jamie scoffed. “It’s not yer land. It’s Colum’s. It was him I gave my word to. Not you.”

The scars, the brutal, long winding things that riddled his back. She didn’t doubt he was none so impressed at bearing himself to the world. Holly’s heart thundered, aching at the thought of them. 

“One and the same, man, and ye know it well. Your obedience is to the chieftain of the clan, and outside of Leoch, I am Colum’s head and arms and hands as well as legs.”

“And never saw a better case of the right hand not knowin’ what the left is up to! What d’ye think the right is going to say ‘bout the left collecting gold for the Stuarts?”

Dougal hissed, reaching behind Jamie’s head and grasping sharply at his ear. Holly could hear it, in his huffed breath and indignant squeak. 

“Oi! Let me go!”

“Don’t be a fool, boy,” grunted Dougal. “Anyone could hear you!”

“Aye,” he muttered, “But they won’t. The rest of ‘em are downstairs. It’s only Holly up here.”

“Oh,” Dougal drawled, tugging at his ear. “Holly, is it? And what if she hears us, eh?”

Jamie’s muscles tensed, glaring fiercely at his uncle. “She already knows,” he paused. “Or suspects.”

“True,” admitted Dougal. “She’s a smart lassie. Even offered to help.”

“Ye aren’t pullin’ her into yer schemes, uncle.”

“I don’t need to, laddie, we've been getting enough. Mackenzies, MacBeolains, and MacVinichs. All free men to pay as they will. None can force them to give against their will, and none can stop them, either. Who knows? It may happen that Colum will give more for Prince Charles Edward than all o’ them put together, in the end. Yer uncle has been more open to it since the lovely Peverell fell into our laps. With her, the hoards will follow.”

Jamie snarled. “It may,” he grunted. “It may rain straight up tomorrow instead of down, as well. That doesna mean I’ll stand waiting at the stairhead wi’ my wee bucket turned upside down!”

“No? You’ve more to gain from a Stuart throne than I have, laddie. And naught from the English, save a noose. If ye dinna care for your own silly neck—”

“My neck is my own concern,” spat Jamie. “And so is my back. Even if ye did manage it, eh? What do ye think your lovely Prince Charles would think of Holly, then?”

Dougal shifted, glancing at his nephew uneasily. Holly’s nails dug into her palms, she lifted a hand to her mouth and breathed. Gods. She wanted them to go away. By the Morrigan, she wanted peace. 

“He’d think her a threat, ye ken. She knows where the Sunrise Throne is. Nobody has seen a Peverell of her stock for almost seven hundred years!”

Dougal huffed. “They lost their throne, lad. The girl has no claim to it. They were healers and travellers for two hundred years after their defeat before—”

“Before they disappeared, ye mean,” insisted Jamie. “They ruled these lands for hundreds—”

“Six thousand,” mumbled Dougal. “They were the head of the clans in Ireland. They only ruled us for a thousand years, when Prince Peverell and his lot fled the Gaels. It doesna matter, not when Prince Stuart is a man.”

He didn’t dare speak of the name they both knew. It still clung to men and their god-fearing ways. A stain on the hills and moors of Christianity. Tuatha De Denann. Jamie shuddered, a chill settling at the bottom of his spine. 

“No,” Jamie said. “Five thousand. Not the point, man, Prince Stuart will see her as a threat. The Peverell ruled these lands longer than anyone else.”

Dougal smiled. It was sharp, a wide-reaching thing with gleaming teeth. “Aye,” he admitted, “But so will the English.”

Holly cursed, slumping against the cold stone of the fireplace. She hadn’t thought of that. She hadn’t thought of what her name meant. She knew truly little about the Imperial House of Peverell, one that rarely used that name, survivors of the last descendants barely mentioned it. Peverell was a name that was buried in annals of history. The Potters hid it in the shadows, just as surely as the Gaunts did. Holly, herself, had known little of the name when she took the ring and ladyship. The goblins had warned her, sneering at the family magic she’d inherited as a child. 

(“The Potter family would’ve never been able to contain you, Ljósálfa. You could’ve only run so long, Peverell.”)

Even now, she barely knew anything of the Peverells’. They had once been voyagers, villagers, kings, priests, healers, and travellers. Holly knew power was imbued in her name. The English wouldn’t take kindly to it. The existence of the Peverells’ popping up out of the woodworks after their believed extinction. 

“The Stuart’s won’t be any better.”

Dougal grunted, his boots scuffing against the floor as he leaned on the wall. “Nor will the English. Face it, laddie. We need a new power, the red-coats won’t do anything for us lot.”

Jamie scowled, his fists clenching as his uncle patted him on the shoulder. 

“Ye ken what they do to our women,” insisted Dougal. “Your lucky ye walked away from that Captain alive.”

“My sister—”

“Your sister was brave. But not everyone is ye ken. We have to protect these lands, these people. The King cannot guard us so we have to find someone that will, eh?”

Holly shifted, leaning back as she stared at the door. She shuffled towards her bed as she crept back under the covers. As if they could hide her from the dangerous world she’d landed in.  

“Laird Mackenzie swore an oath,” hissed Jamie. “On ye blood that Holly is protected.”

“Oh, aye,” agreed Dougal, “Don’t ye worry, Jamie. I’ll see to her safety. When the time comes, she’ll be safe.”

He frowned. “Why haven’t ye sent a letter to her folks?”

“The Blacks? Ye don’t want to be up in their business, lad. They’re a mad lot.”

“They should know.”

“Colum will tell them about Lady Peverell, have no fear of that. Lord Black is currently facing a succession crisis at the moment. It’s best not to draw Miss Holly into that.”

“What? Why?”

“Lord Aries brother is challenging him for the seat as his seventh son has jus’ passed. All his wee ones were born sickly, ye ken. He thinks Aries is unfit.”

Jamie spluttered. “He couldna do that!”

“Aye, but tis a right mess.”

“Is it… safe for her?”

“No. Blacks are backstabbing cunts on their worst of days. Sending her to ‘em now? When they’re at each other's throats? No.”

Jamie scoffed. “That’s convenient for ye, I suppose. Holly can be paraded around for your… sympathisers.”

Dougal sighed in exasperation. “They’re not my sympathisers, boy. There’d be none of them if the bloody English did their job properly.”

Holly rolled her eyes. She might very well be a stranger to the lands she was in, but she knew the history well enough. The colonial period was entrenched with ambition and the bitter scent of gunpowder. She feared it. Of all the places to be stuck, it was a country that would be bled to the very bone. 

“I won’t have it,” demanded Jamie. “Y-Ye can’t just—”

“Parade her around? Ye ken that’s her choice, don’t ye? Don’t let your heart get to your head, boy. Just because ye think she’s pretty.”

Holly flushed. 

“That’s no—”

“Oh, aye, I think it is. Ye bloody Fraser’s losing your heads at a pretty woman.”

“I haven’t lost me head!”

“Close enough. Ye won’t be running off with one in the middle of the bloody night like your Da. She’s under Mackenzie oath. Not Fraser.”

Holly grinned, giggling under her palm as she clasped it tightly to her lips. Jamie’s spluttering and indignant whine was almost… cute. 

Holly didn’t help Dougal entirely, but there was a timid peace that grew between them over shared meals. Whether they were in the fields, over the camp-fire, and in villagers homes. She allowed him to use her name, to blaze it to the skies, as if she were a symbol. She had no wish for it, but she found it was of far more use to control his influence of her name than resist and let it run rampant. 

She knew she couldn’t hide from the red-coats. Her name would’ve eventually gotten back to Captain Randall’s superiors.  Holly may have been raised in the dark, sheltered corners of her cupboard, but she certainly hadn’t been raised a fool. 

Jamie, perhaps, was less eager to bare his wounds to the crowd. Not that she could blame him for it. But she did worry over it, the anger quickly festered in him. She could see it in his eyes, those lovely blue orbs that seethed, a hatred brewing beneath his flesh. He allowed it, but she doubted very much he had a choice. Holly had noticed it from the moment they left, the odd dynamic that grew between him and Dougal. It was power, an unbalanced fire at that. 

Jamie would rather perish than aid in the coins for the great Pretender. Holly merely did it for survival sakes, she would give Dougal that much, until she had her own power. 

(The Holly trees sang, the earth coiling beneath her feet as the roots breathed; child o’ fair, child of earth, daughter of summer land.)

It boiled to violence in the end, a battle war cry as Jamie leapt over a wooden table, barrelling into the man below him. Holly hadn’t heard the words, they were muttered in thick Gaelic. But she’d known the tone, the lingering disdain and score that clung to his tongue. Jamie hadn’t hesitated, snarling, as ocean blue eyes flashed. 

He smiled. It was a sharp thing, malicious and cold. It lingered on the corner of his lips, pulling at his pale cheeks as blood clung to his flesh. The man beneath his yowled, throwing fists that would never reach their target. He’s good, she noticed, nimble and quick, with a viciousness that startled her. 

Her lungs stilled as a rather rowdy crowd of men joined them, tumbling onto the ground in a flash of pale limbs. 

She ought to help him, she thought, but what could she do? Nothing. A frown pulled at her lips. 

“Leave it, lassie,” grumbled Murtagh, “He’ll be fine. He’s had worse.”

Holly spluttered. “Worse?”

“Aye, ye should’ve seen him in France. That was a right nightmare, it was.”

“Get up and say that again, ye fuckin’ bawbag!” Shouted Jamie, “I’ll kill ye!”

Holly rolled her eyes, crossing her arms as she glared at the hot-headed moron. She’d seen enough wrathful tempers of pig-headed boys at school to know a bruised ego when she saw one. Ron had been no different. 

She glanced at them cautiously. This, she reminded herself, was not Ron. 

“He won’t actually kill him, will he?”

Murtagh paused. Silence lingered between them, that was all she needed to know. Great. 

“I doubt it,” muttered Ned Gowan. “Dougal won’t let it get that far.”

Holly’s brows furrowed, glancing at the Laird’s brother that leant against the wall, his lips twitching, as he watched the fight with a humorous eye. The man muttered to a few of the men beside him, they both grinned, shaking hands. Idiots. She knew an ill-advised bet when she saw one. The leering smirks, sly eyes, and mischievous air lingered. Holly had seen it before, hidden in the shadows of Hogwarts halls as Fred and George ruined another student’s day. 

But they were only boys. Foolish, idiotic boys. Dougal was a man, sharp-eyed, with a polished wit and smarts she often worried over. He was dangerous, as surely as the riptides that swept through the ocean, pulling you under. 

She winced, eyeing Jamie with a soft frown as he took a fist to the face, doubling over as he slammed into the old tables. 

“Argh!” He screamed, raising his fist as he pounced. A roaring battle cry that echoed in the tavern. 

It was surprising, she noticed, for all that he was a tall, bulky, giant of a man, he moved swiftly. Jamie was quick, darting beneath swung fists. He almost reminded her of a wolf; swift, feral, and hungry. 

“Really?” She drawled, crossing her arms as another lunatic joined the fray. “He’s going to get himself killed.”

“No. The lad will be fine,” grinned Ned. “I’ve seen that boy come out of some real battles.”

Holly blinked, glancing at him curiously, her brows disappearing beneath her fringe. 

“What? Really?”

“Och, aye,” snickered Murtagh. “Jamie’s  right trouble. Ye’d think the wee bastard was trying to get himself killed. But no, he jus’ gets up again. He’s got the devil’s spirit, he has.”

Holly wrinkled her nose. “He’s an idiot.”

Murtagh smirked. “He’s that, as well. Mind ye, his Da was no better.”

She startled, glancing back at Jamie in surprise. He laughed, tilting his head back as a loud cackle erupted from his lungs. It was dark, she thought, manic even. His grin was too, a wild, sharp thing that pulled at his lips. Bright blue eyes gleamed, wiping a hand across his forehead as he removed the dark trail of blood. He was covered in it. 

“Christ,” Holly cursed, glancing at the sea of unconscious men that were scattered across the floor. “A-Are they dead?”

Murtagh paused, narrowing his eyes at the poor men. One groaned, curling into a ball as a whimper slipped from his bloody, cracked lips. 

 Murtagh pointed. “That one isn’t.”

Jamie stalked towards them, he had his shirt wrapped tightly around his wrist, stemming the blood that seeped from bruised and cut knuckles. Holly stared, eyeing his bare chest, and the dark stain of blood that covered him. She could see his scars too; white, thick lines that marred pale flesh. He was handsome, she thought, too handsome. 

Holly flushed. 

“Are you alright?”

Jamie grinned, a wild, sly thing. 

“Aye, lass.”

Holly sniffed. “You don’t look fine.”

“Oh this?” He waved his hand around, blinking at the bloodstained shirt that was pressed tightly to his knuckles. “Tis but a scratch!”

“A scratch?” She hissed, fingers pulling at his wrist as she pulled him closer. “You look like you’ve been maimed by a bear!”

“I suppose it was a terrible one,” he admitted, scowling at the heap of bodies on the floor. “I’ll recover.”

Holly’s brow arched, smiling wanly at the utter fool. 

“Will they?”

He sneered, white teeth gleaming predatorily in the candlelight. 

“If they ken what’s good for ‘em, they’ll stay like that, eh.”

One of the men slowly got up, hobbling towards the door as he bumped through the crowd. The rest of them remained, a tangled mess of bruised and broken limbs. 

Jamie tensed, eyeing the lad, orbs gleaming fiercely. Hungrily. 

“No,” snapped Holly, “You’re going to sit down or so help me—”

“Yeh’ll do what, lass?” He leered, leaning forward, his chest brushing across her arms. 

“I’ll tie you to the chair,” she deadpanned. “I don’t want to fix your broken bones.”

God forbid. The man was a menace, and had a penchant for danger that far exceeded her own. Which, to be fair, was relatively impressive. 

“I’m fine,” he sighed, sitting down on the long bench, “Trust me, they’ve got more bones that need fixing than me.”

Holly huffed, hands comfortably smoothing her skirts as she turned to the table. Ignoring the groaning pile of men as more began to awake. Nobody was dead. Hopefully. 

“Here,” ordered Murtagh, throwing Jamie an apple. “Eat, boy. Yeh’ll need it. We head out at first light.”

She glanced at him curiously. “Where are we going?”

“Fort William.”

Jamie blanched, his nails digging into the skin of the apple, grinding his teeth. 

“That’s too close.”

“Aye, but it’s still near Mackenzie land, Jamie. What Dougal demands, we do.”

“Fort William?” She asked, trembling in excitement. “Will we be close?”

“Ye won’t be going,” demanded Jamie, staring at her sternly. 

Holly bristled, tilting her chin stubbornly. 

(Holly had always been a wilful child.)

“Says who?”

“Me. I made a promise to Letitia to keep ye safe. I will.”