A History of Magic

England, 1070

Dunstan O'Livandere put the last box on the pile. Life was hard in the wandsmith's, especially in summer, with an influx of new students to Hogwarts School.

Dunstan's father was at the front of the shop, selling a wand to a small boy. He had told Dunstan to pack and stack all the new wands, but that was done now. Dunstan listened to his father's mutterings as he tried to pick a wand - one that might just be the right one. It had been going on for a long time.

Dunstan had long, flaxen hair that he kept tied back with a piece of cloth when he was working. He wore a dirty linen robe and was tall and thin, but that wasn't what made people notice him. Like everyone in his family, he had large, pale eyes that many people found slightly disturbing.

There was a cheer from the front of the shop - the boy had obviously found his favoured wand. Dunstan heard the chinking of gold being exchanged by his father and the boy's, and the slamming of the door. Then he walked out into the main room, where thousands of boxes were piled, right up to the ceiling.

"Have you done it, my boy?" asked Dunstan's father. He was an elderly man with greying hair and those same, silvery eyes. He spoke softly, and more like a Saxon lord than a humble wandsmith.

"Yes, father," replied Dunstan, sweeping dust of his robes. "May I go out now?"

"Of course, of course," returned his father, but Dunstan wasn't really sure if he'd been listening. Nonetheless, he stepped out of the dark shop into the bright sunlight of Diagon Field. It was noisy and crowded - wizards and witches from all walks of life had come to trade and barter.

Dunstan didn't like the field. He much preferred to leave it and go out into the Muggule world - they had different market days. He strode quickly across the field. Men were selling broomsticks and robes and owls and cauldrons and everything else. Dunstan noticed a goblin sneaking off with an armful of gold coins, but he knew better than to stop it. It was annoying, he thought, how goblins stole things and were too dangerous to impede, but elves never stole anything and could be halted easily. Some of the Norman wizards, he heard, actually took the larger breeds of elves and, taking advantage of their willingness to serve, turned them into slaves, sometimes treated them worse than animals. It was cruel, Dunstan had decided, and would never catch on.

The only way out of the field, which was long and thin and often used for broomstick races, was through the inn to the north end. Dunstan often stopped there for a mug of ale, but today he wasn't going to. It was as crowded as anywhere else. Instead he walked right through, giving a nod to the barman and the customers he knew. Then he stepped into the Muggule world.

He walked along a few quiet streets. Nobody disturbed him. They had no reason to. He wasn't a Norman and therefore probably wasn't a danger. But when Dunstan met the Normans in a dark alleyway, it was him who was in danger.

The Muggule soldiers were off duty from their positions as guards and were stalking around the city, waiting to find some defenceless Saxon to leap on and steal from, or just beat up. Most people had the sense to get indoors when they saw - or heard - the rabble of drunken soldiers coming up the street. Dunstan, however, was thinking privately, and not paying much attention to what was going on around him.

He felt a hand strike the back of his head and he fell to the floor. Men were laughing around him. One of them kicked him. He grabbed his wand from his belt and muttered an incantation. Sparks shot from the end of the wand but didn't hit any of the men. But it was enough to make them stop what they were doing.

They started to converse, shocked, in French. Dunstan's knowledge of that language was not particularly advanced, but he had heard it often in the four years since the invasion and could get the gist of what was being said.

"STOP! Did you see that?"

"What?"

"He made some light appear from a stick of wood. Don't do anything. He might be dangerous."

"He's a magician. We should take him to the king."

"Let him rot in jail!"

The soldiers took Dunstan by the arms. He didn't struggle. He didn't know any Memory Charms, in case they saw anything else, and they would overpower him anyway - there were so many of them. He put his wand back into his belt and let them drag him through the streets towards the king's residence. It wasn't as bad as it could have been - the soldiers seemed too scared to treat him really badly.

When they arrived, the leading soldier said something to the guard on the door, who sent another guard to alert the king. After a short but nerve-racking period for Dunstan, the messenger-guard returned - this time with eight fully armed soldiers. They took Dunstan, bound him in chains, and led him down a torch lit corridor.

At the end of the passage was a great oaken door. "The king's chamber," whispered one of the guards menacingly in Dunstan's ear. He was speaking in French, so he probably didn't expect Dunstan to understand.

The door was flung open and Dunstan was led into a large room with many expensive tapestries. Each guard bowed, then Dunstan's leading chain was pulled harshly and he fell to the floor.

King William was sitting on a dais in the centre of the chamber. He looked slightly disgruntled, as if Dunstan's appearance had interrupted something he was doing. He had thick eyebrows and short hair, as well as a moustache. He was wearing a simple tunic, which made Dunstan think that he wasn't prepared for ceremonial duties such as listening to the pleas of people accused of doing evil things. He didn't much like England or English and Dunstan knew he would have no choice but to speak French.

Two men sat beside the king: on his right, a monk or priest with a tonsure, wearing a simple habit; on his left, what looked like some sort of nobleman. He had his blond hair cut short in the Norman style and was wearing Muggule clothing. His grey eyes looked piercingly over Dunstan, and in his right hand he held a staff. But it was not just a simple weapon to back up his sword, or a walking stick. It was a magic wand, and he was a wizard. Dunstan knew it, without any doubt.

"What have you done?" the king asked Dunstan in French, sounding slightly bored.

"I doubt he understands you, sire, he's only - " began the priest, but Dunstan interrupted.

"Nothing of note, your majesty," he said in his best French.

"Oh," said the king. "Then why are you here?"

"Well, I - er - I accidentally spat out some water whilst your guards were near me, giving the impression of coloured lights. Nothing more."

"Spitting!" exclaimed the priest. "A most disgusting occupation! And near the king's own soldiers, too!"

"I am but a humble peasant," Dunstan argued.

"He seems harmless enough," said the king. "Let him go, so we can discuss more important things."

The man to the king's left spoke for the first time. Taking his staff, he touched the king lightly on the shoulder with it. "He is very dangerous, sire," he said softly. "He should be disposed of."

Dunstan knew then that the wizard knew what he was.

"You know executions are not your policy," interrupted the monk to the king. "At most give him a month in jail."

But the king had already been bewitched by the wizard's power. "Malfoi is right," he said. "I will make sure he is destroyed - but I will do it quietly."