A Storm Descends On Hogwarts

He had a cloak of gold and eyes of fire
And as he spoke I felt a deep desire
To free the world of its fear and pain
And help the people to feel free again

from The Wizard (Hensley/Clark)
recorded by Uriah Heep

Chapter 1
The Wizard of Words

Albus Dumbledore sank wearily into his office chair. With a great deal of care he rubbed his closed burning eyes with thumb and forefinger ending with pinching his nose bridge in hopes of lessening the headache. He thought back to the words of a friend who had buried a son the last time they had fought Voldemort.

“Fathers shouldn’t have to bury their sons,” he had said in his grief. “It just isn’t right.” Agreed. But this time there wasn’t even a body to bury. Sirius Black was gone beyond the veil where none ever returned. I must arrange some sort of memorial just as soon as I can get Fudge to issue a posthumous statement that he was innocent. He should have the honors that a brave man deserves. Flawed perhaps, but no less brave.

He sighed deeply, wishing that there had been time to help him come to terms with his demons. Wishing that he had been able to get Sirius and Severus to reconcile at least to the point of not hating each other. He suddenly chuckled dryly when from nowhere came the memory of a little Irish ditty; the kind of thing you learned as a child.

There once was two cats of Kilkenny
Each thought their was one cat to many
So, they fought and they fit,
And they scratched and they bit.
Till excepting their nails and the tips of their tails,
Instead of two cats of Kilkenny,
There wasn’t any.*

That was Black and Snape all right. So alike they were in many ways, that they repelled each other just as like poles of a magnet would. They had nearly had their own personal a Kilkenny right there at Grimmauld Place that day when Harry stood between them. Each hating in each other elements of their own selves.

He shook his head. Only their loyalty to me personally kept them working together and not killing each other. Now there will be no reconciling for them. He sighed deeply. I feel like I failed them somehow. I have got to make sure that I serve the remainder of the Order better. They must stand strong. Even if something happens to me.

He turned in his chair to where Fawkes perched. “A man shouldn’t have to do this twice in his life, Fawkes,” he addressed the phoenix. “Not even in a long lived wizard's life.” His mind spun backwards in time to the days when Grindlewald was the Dark Lord. Europe overtaken, Britain alone held out against the Dark. Then it was a bulldog figure of a man who became his friend had inspired both Muggles and Wizards to hold out against the onslaught. He was no wizard of magic. Not the magic wielded by a wand. No his was the magic of words that reached into your soul when you were despairing and made your heart beat with courage again.

Dumbledore pushed away from his desk and walked to the cabinet that held the Pensieve.

The mist swirled and he saw the images coalesced into the staff room at Hogwarts. All the teachers were gathered around the wireless which was making a rare coverage of a Muggle broadcast. Headmaster Dippet adjusted the volume so that all could hear. It was May of 1940, school was almost over but instead of the joy of upcoming Holiday everyone lived in sick tension at the rise of the dark wizard, Grindlewald. There was a new Prime Minister of Britain and he was making his first speech. Of course when he came to the office he was made aware of the dual world that existed for Muggles and Wizards. So it was that Winston Churchill spoke to all the inhabitants of Britain that 19th of May.
“Centuries ago words were written to be a call and a spur to the faithful servants of Truth and Justice: "Arm yourselves, and be ye men of valour, and be in readiness for the conflict; for it is better for us to perish in battle than to look upon the outrage of our nation and our altar. As the Will of God is in Heaven, even so let it be."

We have differed and quarreled in the past; but now one bond unites us all -- to wage war until victory is won, and never to surrender ourselves to servitude and shame, whatever the cost and the agony may be.

The mist swirled again and there was the coast line at Dunkirk. Across the Channel the French and English Armies were literally being pushed into the sea. There were not enough Naval ships to pick them up in time. There at Dunkirk several hundred wizards and witches gathered to pool there strength and called up a deep fog to hide the soldiers and to keep the planes from flying. Fishermen all along the coast, indeed anyone who had any kind of boat, put out to the Channel to pick up the soldiers who were lined up in the water waiting while the blindly aimed German artillery fell in the water feet and inches from them and sometimes hit them as well.

Afterward on June 4th, Churchill had spoke again from the wireless:

"We shall fight on the beaches. We shall fight on the landing grounds. We shall fight in the fields, and in the streets, we shall fight in the hills. We shall never surrender!"

“Certainly it is true that we are facing numerical odds; but that is no new thing in our history. Very few wars have been won by mere numbers alone. Quality, will power, geographical advantages, natural and financial resources, the command of the sea, and, above all, a cause which rouses the spontaneous surging of the human spirit in millions of hearts-these have proved to be the decisive factors in the human story. If it were otherwise, how would the race of men have risen above the apes; how otherwise would they have conquered and extirpated dragons and monsters; how would they have ever evolved the moral theme; how would they have marched forward across the centuries to broad conceptions of compassion, of freedom, and of right? How would they ever have discerned those beacon lights which summon and guide us across the rough dark waters, and presently will guide us across the flaming lines of battle towards better days which lie beyond?

Dumbledore smiled at the reference of the beacon lights over the rough dark waters. The night he had come to Hogwarts as a first year it had stormed. Indeed he remembered well the beacon lights across the rough dark waters of the lake. The Pensieve swirled again and this time Dumbledore and many of the teachers were at the Three Broomsticks listening again just ten days later, the whole tavern listening intently to the wireless.

“And now it has come to us to stand alone in the breach, and face the worst that the tyrant's might and enmity can do. ...... We are fighting by ourselves alone; but we are not fighting for ourselves alone. Here in this strong City of Refuge .........we await undismayed the impending assault. Perhaps it will come tonight. Perhaps it will come next week. Perhaps it will never come. We must show ourselves equally capable of meeting a sudden violent shock or what is perhaps a harder test a prolonged vigil. But be the ordeal sharp or long, or both, we shall seek no terms, we shall tolerate no parley; we may show mercy-we shall ask for none.”

“ This is no war of chieftains or of princes, of dynasties or national ambition; it is a war of peoples and of causes. There are vast numbers, not only in this Island but in every land, who will render faithful service in this war, but whose names will never be known, whose deeds will never be recorded. This is a War of the Unknown Warriors; but let all strive without failing in faith or in duty, and the dark curse of Hitler will be lifted from our age

We were indeed the Unknown Warriors, at least to the Muggle world. Few of them ever knew even in part the measures the Wizarding world put in place to keep Britain free. Raising the sheild over all of Britain had been only part of the total effort. That didn’t begin to cover all of the resistance work done on the Continent.
The voice from the radio continued:

“We ask no favours of the enemy. We seek from them no compunction. .... Where you have been the least resisted there you have been the most brutal. It was you who began the indiscriminate bombing. We will have no truce or parley with you, or the grisly gang who work your wicked will. You do your worst - and we will do our best." Perhaps it may be our turn soon; perhaps it may be our turn now.

We do not expect to hit without being hit back, and we intend with every week that passes to hit harder. Prepare yourselves, then, my friends and comrades, for this renewal of your exertions. We shall never turn from our purpose, however sombre the road, however grievous the cost, because we know that out of this time of trial and tribulation will be born a new freedom and glory for all mankind.
Albus shook his head in admiration. Just when you thought you could go no further Winston Churchill could give you back your heart with just a few words and you could march onward again to face the trials no matter how grave. The Pensieve swirled again and he saw himself standing in Muggle clothes at Harrow School where Churchill had attended. His hair and beard magically shortened for the moment he looked simular to the other academics who had gathered that day to hear Churchill speak. Today on that October he was addressing the students.

“You cannot tell from appearances how things will go. Sometimes imagination makes things out far worse than they are; yet without imagination not much can be done. Those people who are imaginative see many more dangers than perhaps exist; certainly many more than will happen; but then they must also pray to be given that extra courage to carry this far-reaching imagination.

Dumbledore laughed. Alastor Moody had been a young man then but had already begun to gain a reputation for paranoia.They had talked for a long time discussing possibilities that might arise in the war. Winston had liked him. Alastor was still alive so something had to be said for having an imagination for danger.

Never give in, never give in, never, never, never, never-in nothing, great or small, large or petty - never give in except to convictions of honour and good sense. Never yield to force; never yield to the apparently overwhelming might of the enemy.”

He was taken off guard when he found his throat tight and his eyes damp. The Pensieve swirled one last time and the voice speaking out of the wireless from Canada in December said directly to him:

"We have not journeyed across the centuries, across the oceans, across the mountains, across the prairies, because we are made of sugar candy."

“No, we are not made of sugar candy my old friend. Thank you for reminding me,” said Albus Dumbledore as he placed the Pensieve back in its cabinet. He closed the doors and turned to face the phoenix.

“Fawkes, I have a special mission for you if you would be so kind. I need to send a message to someone in the Americas and I need the answer back swifter than an ordinary courier bird can bring it. Also I need to be sure that it can’t be intercepted.”

Fawkes fluttered his wings in accent and Dumbledore moved to the desk and drew out parchment and quill from the writing press. His long fingers guided the quill in a graceful flowing script. When he was finished he picked up a small key from the desk top and pointed his wand at it. “Portus.” The key quivered and turned blue, vibrating against the desk and then lay still. He rolled the parchment and sealed it then slid it into a tube with the key.

He turned to where Fawkes perched. “Take this to Gavin Albricht, Smithmage, Black Dragon Forge, Pennsylvania, U.S.A.

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

Gavin Albricht appeared with a pop at the Apparition coordinates. He stood in jeans, hiking boots and blue shirt looking around at the landscape, so alien in its appearance as if it shouldn’t even be able to exist on this planet. He knew that that was to some extent because he was accustom to seeing Eastern forests but the Craters of the Moon National Monument in southern Idaho was indeed one of the more fantastically strange places on Earth. For here in ages past the Earth opened a great wound and bled hot, liquid stone. Only just a mere fraction of a heartbeat in cosmic time had it ceased some 2,000 years ago.

But this area wasn’t the section developed for the Muggle Tourist. The actual size of the lava flows that comprised the Craters of the Moon were six times larger. And most important by Gavin’s mind: Here There Be Dragons.

He scanned the sky to see if any were aloft. He didn’t care to become one of the courses in a dragon’s dinner. A brilliant red flash moved just above him. He was half way into an evasive maneuver when he realized it was the phoenix.

“Oh, it’s you!” exclaimed the smithmage with considerable relief. “I fear that I am a bit edgy out among wild dragons. Although, I suppose it’s stupid to be jumping at you. Only American Blues and and Greens live here and you are clearly red.”

Here and there a sturdy pine or juniper persisted, springing out persistently from the charcoal grey rock soil. Some, exposed to the worst of the ravages of wind were twisted and gnarled like giant bonsai trees. One of the older junipers had even grown up under a large two by one foot pumice stone and over the years lifted it with itself to a height of four feet. The stone was inextricably grasped by the heart of the branches, held as tightly as a lover. This tree was the Apparition landmark Gavin had homed on.

Fawkes settled into the tree and watched Gavin as he found his way to the nearly invisible thread of a path through the black rough stone that made up most of the ground. This was an unfriendly place to fall, and he walked carefully, mindful of how he placed his feet. The rocks were frozen black froth possessed of glass sharp edges. The sun was hot but the constant wind that blew his chestnut hair into his face made it tolerable.

He glanced around at the charcoal landscape. The partly cloudy sky was brilliant blue with fluffy sheep clouds drifting across it’s field. The shadows of the sheep ranged over the rough terrain dipping in and out of recesses. He made his way down the slope to a grey road of ropy lava. Here anciently had flowed a river of melted basalt. Now solidified it looked like a highway sweeping around the hills of rougher stone.

He made his way down this road for about 20 yards until he felt his skin begin to prickle and the hairs stand on end. He drew his knife and cut a figure-8 through the air commanding, “Aperio.” Then he could see power pulsing, flowing in patterns in the air ahead of him. He analyzed the knotwork of threads and saw that there was a narrow path through them. Knife in hand he continued along this path cautiously. Suddenly, the lava road dipped into the earth and a cave yawned above it.

He could hear a sharp ringing sound that he knew as intimately as his own heartbeat, a hammer on steel. He descended into the cool darkness and paused waiting for his eyes to adjust. Clear of the power maze he move to the left side of the wall so he would not be outlined against the sky by anyone looking out of the cave. When his eyes began to accept the subdued lighting, he saw a tall raven-haired woman standing at an anvil examining the steel she had been hammering. She turned and placed it in the fire again.

He scanned the cavern for sign that anyone else was present. Sensing no one he returned his attention to the woman. Her long straight hair was braided in a single plait that hung to her waist. She had features that spoke of a Native American heritage.

Tongs in the left hand and and hammer in the right the woman smith pulled the glowing metal from the forge. She positioned it on the the anvil, adjusted her grip on her hammer and swung three blows. Smiling at the responsiveness of the metal she began to sing in a strong clear alto voice in time with the hammer blows.

“The lady sits at her own front door...As straight as a willow wand...And by there come a lusty smith....With his hammer in his hand.

Crying bide, my lady bide....For there’s a nowhere you can hide...For the lusty smith will be your love....And he will lay your pride.

Why do you sit there lady fair...All in your robes of red....I’ll come tomorrow at this same time....And have you in me bed.

Crying....”

Gavin smiled. The smith’s clear alto continued the story with the lady in red telling the coal black smith to “get lost”. The lady swears that he won’t have her. The blacksmith swears he will. With the next verse it becomes obvious that this is no ordinary lady or smith.

“So the the lady she turned into a mare ...As dark as the night was black...Ah, but he became a golden saddle....And clung upon her back.”

The hammer blows continued in rhythm to the song as he crept closer. The steel was hammered thin now and the smith coated the surface of the metal with a handful of sugar and placed it back in the flames.

“So the lady she turned into a hare....And ran all over the plane....Ah, but he became a greyhound dog....And ran her down again”

The sugar began to caramelize then burn. The acrid smell of it filled the cave. The woman stared into the fire waiting for the sugar to burn to carbon. Gavin, semi-crouched, silently crept closer.

“So the lady she turned into a fly...And fluttered up into the air...Ah, but he became a big, hairy spider...And dragged her into his lair.

Spinning...bide, my lady bide....For there’s a nowhere you can hide...For the lusty smith will be your love....And he will lay your pride.”

Blackened at last, the glowing steel was pulled from the inferno and placed on the anvil. Repeated blows drove the carbon into the hot steel fusing the layers.

So the lady she turned into a sheep...Grazing on yon common...Ah, but he became a big horny ram...And soon he was upon her.

Bleating...

The size of Gavin’s large grin was nearly obscured by his Celtic style mustache. Merlin’s Beard, what will those staid English make of her? Not that she would give a Tinker’s dam one way or the other.

So the lady, she turned into a dove...And flew up into the air...Ah, but he became and an old cock pigeon...And they flew pair and pair.

Cooing...

Gavin was as close now as he could get without abandoning all cover. He was crouched behind a stalagmite boulder that had formed when melted rock had dripped from the ceiling. Still he remained there watching his former apprentice work.

So she turned into a full dress ship...And she sailed all over the sea...Ah, but he became a bold captain...And aboard of her strode he.

Ordering....
At the anvil she folded the steel on itself and hammered along the length of it.

So the lady she turned into a cloud...And drifted away in the air...But, he came forth as a lightning bolt and zipped right into her

Shocking....

Her hammer blows kept time for the music. Yet even though it was extream exertion her voice stayed steady from long practice.

So the lady, she turned into a tree... a mulberry tree in the wood... but he came forth as the morning dew and sprinkled her where she stood.

Dripping...bide, my lady bide....For there’s a nowhere you can hide...For the lusty smith will be your love....And he will lay your pride.”

So the lady she turned into a stream.... a sparkling, bright, and gay... but he became a great horned stag and lapped her where she lay.

Drinking....

Back into the forge went the steel. She set the hammer across the anvil and wiped the sweat dripping from her nose with the back of her leather gloved hand. She wore buckskin pants with a peasant style shirt. Brown leather arm bracers laced up her forearms, protecting her from the hot metal. She paused a moment in her song to drink from a plain metal stein.

So the lady she ran into the bedroom...And she changed into a bed...Ah, but he became a green coverlet...And he gained her maidenhead.

And once she woke he took her so...And still he bad her bide...And the lusty smith became her love......For all of her ..mighty pride.

He popped up from behind the stone. “Hello, Prentice!” he said heartily.

The woman started up dropped the tongs and steel and turned and ran with the hammer still in her right hand. “Wait,” cried Gavin, realizing she was fire-blind from her forge and couldn’t see him well in the shadows. He rushed forward to catch up to her. His feet seemed to be sinking into half melted marshmallows. He looked down and saw that the floor was an amorphous pool of thick goo that was quickly gelling to solidity. He was drawn to a halt and was ankle deep when it snapped solid.

A rich laugh echoed around him. He had drawn his large knife and was searching the dark walls for the source of the mirth.

“Well Smithmage, what do you think of my illusion trap?” the alto voice inquired.

Gavin relaxed slightly but continued to subtly search for the location of the voice’s owner. “Well, I think this trap pool should be deeper, maybe knee deep, but the visuals were impressive. Sight, sound, smells.... very, very,” he chuckled, “cutting edge.”

“Well, that is praise indeed, coming from you.” Her voice seemed to be from another direction this time. “Especially, since you are completely familiar with what a scene at a forge should look like. Do you think it will do?”

“Why don’t you get me out of it and we can discuss it’s merits,” replied Gavin.

“What? Are you afraid that something unusual might happen if you merely used Finite Incantantum?” she grinned broadly separating herself from one of the larger shadows.

“Oh, of that I have no doubts!”

A twin of the woman at the forge stood before Gavin. She drew her sword blade and came forward. Pointing it at the solidified pool she commanded it, “Libero.” It liquified momentarily and expelled him. He staggered a moment regaining his balance and then sheathed his knife and looked at the woman who had been his apprentice.

“So this is what you have been working on out here in this wilderness for the past eighteen months.”

“Yes, I have decided to end it. They want my death so badly. The only way to be free of them is to give it to them.” She sheathed her sword and turned away. “Come I have some coffee on and we can talk.”

Gavin followed the black-haired woman deeper into the cave where there was a small alcove that she had walled off to make living space in this huge cavern. There she had a coffee pot set on a grate over a cold fire pit. The coffee was still hot though and she caught up two cups from the small rude wooden table and poured.

“It should still be hot. I only killed the fire when I realized I had a visitor,” she offered as explanation. “I was hoping it was you. I’m not expecting the others just yet although they’re drawing close.”

“How close?” Concerned, Gavin looked over the rim of his coffee cup, his breath chasing the steam around.

Prentice leaned against the wall. She sipped from her cup and drew up one leg and braced that foot on the wall while contemplating her coffee. “Oh, just within a hundred mile radius.”

“They could be here within a day, then.” Gavin paused long for a long moment observing his former apprentice. “This is very risky. One bad turn and the whole plan could go to hell.”

“I think it will take them two days because of the rough unfamiliar country. Are you offering to help me pull it off then? Dose Lena know you’ve come? Is she OK with that?”said Prentice a little apprehensively.

A thundercloud crossed Gavin’s face then cleared. “Of course she knows. She said to tell you that all is right between you two. She would like you to come home when you can.” He drew a chair and set down to the table with his coffee. “Besides, you were my most talented apprentice. I poured more of my knowledge of this dying art into you than in any other that I have ever taught.” He scowled at her, “I’d hate to see all that effort wasted.”

Prentice ducked her head, her black hair swinging forward to hide the naked emotion that flashed across her face. She took a sip of coffee to wash the knot out of her throat and moved to the table to sit across from the smithmage.

“Here, she sent you this.” Gavin pulled something loose from his belt and put a drawstring bag on the table. Prentice picked it up and started to loosen it when the sent tickled her nose.

“Licorice! Real licorice!” she exclaimed her eyes dancing. She shook out some of the jet black beans and popped them in her mouth. With her eyes closed her face was that of complete ecstasy. Gavin broke up laughing.

“What?” Prentice demanded. “Just what is so damned funny?”

Gavin brought is laughing to an end with a deep sigh though his smile still remained. “You are. It is amusing to see an accomplished, even ruthless warrior be six years old again for the joy of candy.”

“Candy!? This is no mere candy. This is licorice. Real licorice. The kind that by the sixth or seven bean you mouth goes numb as well a black,” she exclaimed with almost religious fevor. “You almost can’t find it in Muggle shops. They have this tame black stuff they pass off as licorice but it is all fake. As if weakening the flavor would gain them more sales. You either like licorice of you do not, there is no middle ground.”

“Well, you can have my share. I can’t stand the stuff.”

“So how is Lena?” Prentice asked cautiously.

“Pregnant with our second child,” he said proudly. “The mediwitch thinks it will be a girl this time..... Which brings me to the main reason I came. Gavin drew out a parchment scroll and handed it to her.

She carefully unrolled it, taking notice of the broken seal. She read it twice before looking again to Gavin, her face incredulous. “Hogwarts. Hogwarts has asked you to teach? The British wizard’s school? That Hogwarts?”

“Yes, and if I am unavailable the Headmaster asked if I could make a recommendation from some of my former apprentices. I can’t take it myself. Lena just won’t go to Scotland and that’s that.”

“Gavin, I am no kind of teacher! If half of what I am responsible for was known I would be put away. I have spent the last eight years running from that hornets nest I stirred up.”

“And if your plan works you can put that behind you and start new. Why not in Scotland? The position is the Defense Against the Dark Arts instructor. What have you been doing these past eight years if not that? Last I checked Juagar-men were evil-wizard-preists.”

“But teaching? In Scotland? Why would they even look at me. I don’t have a ‘proper’ teaching background?” She got up and poured herself more coffee.

Gavin stroked his mustache smooth. “Well, they have had trouble keeping this position filled. Maybe they are more interested in getting someone who can last it out than has ‘proper’ credentials. Where were you planning to go anyway?”

“East I think. I’ll become Alira Storm again since she is the only legitimate identity I have. I suppose I’ll perform on the Renfaire circuit for awhile.” She finished off the coffee in her cup.

“You’re wasting your talents there.”

“Am I? I seem to recall meeting a certain smithmage at one of these fairs. Though it was true that he wasn’t selling enchanted blades to Muggles only well made Damascus steel.” Prentice pinned him with her sharp eyes.

“One goes where they are appreciated.” Gavin tossed back the last of his coffee and stood up and helped himself to more. “At least many of the Muggles showing up there know enough about Damascus steel to respect the skill in its making. The wizard world has all but forgotten how to use the magic blades much less understand the skill in making them.” Gavin sat down and leaned across the table his hands up imploring, “Look, take the job, spend a year in Scotland. Make a clean break with the Americas. Let the trail grow totally cold here so that they don’t suspect you’re still living.”

“Like they are going to hire a hedgewitch to teach the children of these ancient wizard families,” she said derisively casting her eyes up to the cave’s tall ceiling.

Gavin's open hand slapped the table so hard that the coffee cups jumped in the air. “You are not a hedgewitch,” he said, his voice quiet and controlled though his anger seethed just underneath it. “Your life has been unusual so you didn’t attend school the same way others did, but you were thoroughly educated and you know a great deal about some branches of magic that aren’t even taught in a standard school. Don’t ever think you are inferior. It insults me.”

Prentice looked at the scroll still in her hand. At the bottom in an elegant flowing hand it was signed Albus Percival Brian Dumbledore. “Albus Dumbledore. The Albus Dumbledore who took Grindlewald down?” Prentice’s eyes were wide in amazement.

“The very same, I do believe,” replied Gavin casually shielding a smile behind his coffee cup. “Does that make any difference?”

“Quite a bit actually. Douglas, my first teacher used to speak of him. Seems his father told him many amazing stories of Dumbledore’s efforts to protect England from Grindlewald.” Prentice stared at the scroll in contemplation.

“Irish wasn’t he? Douglas McNeil or something?” said Gavin.

“O’Neal, he was an O’Neal..... Well if that was his real name anyway.” The silence stretched for awhile. “Alright then, say I survive this confrontation, I will go and interview for the job.”

“Good! Now what can I do to make sure you survive it?”