Renaissance

Chapter 1: Awakenings

"Let me go!" The boy's pleas went unheeded as he was dragged unceremoniously by three burly men down towards what could only really charitably be called a 'town square'. Struggle as he might, he was still lifted almost bodily off the ground, feet dragging in the mud, the iron grip of those restraining him limiting his movement to nothing more than wild flailing. Down between the wooden and thatched houses they went, along the muddied street, past the shops of blacksmiths and weavers.

Even though the town were crowded around, even though all eyes were fixed on him, not one person stepped forward to assist. For once, unexpectedly, there was no shouting, no heckling; nothing was thrown, nothing was said. In sheer deathly silence, the town gathered to just watch the boy be dragged towards the square.

An even larger crowd were there, assembled. These were less quiet, the air full of shouts and abuse, though the focus there was on the lone figure who stood at the centre, a tall, thin man wielding a long axe looking suited more to cutting wood than doing harm to another being. Still, he stood above every other, and when he shouted responses back to the crowd, those yelling fell silent, satisfied with their answers.

As the boy reached the square, his gaze fell upon this man, and with a phenomenal surge of strength he broke away from those holding him, turning and attempting to flee. But although the men who had been restraining him were staggered, the largest recovered quickly, and lashed out. A huge, swinging blow struck the boy at the temple, and he went sprawling down into the mud.

Now jeering did start from the crowd as they turned towards him, and within seconds the boy was struck with the first of a deluge of waste - rotten fruit, wooden tankards, and rocks, as he was dragged by the foot, stunned from the blow, into the centre.

"Shire-Reeve, here is the boy," the largest of the men said to the tall individual in the centre of the square, who turned away from the crowd to face the focus of the attention.

"Cease this!" the Reeve shouted, raising his free hand, and almost instantly the deluge of rubbish assailing them all came to a halt. But the crowd were obviously not yet satisfied, for low, bitter muttering continued, and they still gripped their makeshift hurling weapons with a wary air.

"Edgar. Stand up." The Reeve stood before the boy as the three men stepped back. Axe still in hand, long, sallow features looking serious indeed, he was an imposing sight; perhaps more imposing, to the boy, than the angry crowd or the burly men.

Edgar stood shakily; his head still rung from the blow to the temple, and his legs were unsteady beneath him. He could not have been more than thirteen or fourteen, and was small for his age. "M'lord... please don't kill me, m'lord..."

"I am not the lord, as well you know. I simply enforce justice on his behalf. Do not try to curry my favour by fawning over me," the Reeve said darkly. "As for killing you, that shall depend upon your guilt." He straightened up, eyes scanning the crowd. "Where is Wybert? Where is the thatcher?"

There was a brief hubbub amongst the crowd, then an older man stepped forward, broad of chest and obviously having been once strong and vital, but age had evidently taken its toll. His gait, however, was uncertain as he approached the Reeve, and he said nothing.

"It was to you that the accusations were brought. It was to you that the boy's deeds were recounted. Tell us all, now, here," the Reeve commanded, his voice, although with as common an accent as any other, that of a man used to being obeyed.

Wybert shifted his feet, but straightened up. "It all starts... as you all heard, with young Edgar losing his employ at Gideon's farm, for not doing the work right, letting that calf die. Well, that was a fierce argument they had, young Edgar getting all... threatening, and out of sorts." Wybert grimaced, looking unhappy, before a dark glare was turned in the direction of the terrified-looking Edgar. "And then, when it was all over... we know what happened. A good quarter of Gideon's herd just died, like that." He snapped his fingers.

"A strange occurrence," the Reeve agreed, nodding curtly, "but do you have any further connection?"

The thatcher chewed on his bottom lip for a few seconds. "Gideon swore he heard him muttering under his breath as he left. And saying things... Gideon said he didn't know what they were. Some other language."

"There is more," the Reeve said, expression not giving away what he thought of this last accusation.

"Aye." Wybert nodded. "Edgar's father. Just dropped down dead one day. Folk don't do that. Nobody saw it happen, but there weren't a mark on him when he was found."

"He was an old man!" Edgar protested, the first thing he'd said since his pleading to the Reeve. "I didn't touch him!"

"And you didn't need to, did you, you filthy devil-worshipper!" Wybert snapped at last, lip curling and taking a large step forward towards the boy.

But it took only a nod from the Reeve for one of the burly men who had been manhandling Edgar to move in and block him, not reaching out but folding his arms and doing a sufficient job just by looking menacing, and with a reluctant sigh, Wybert stepped back.

"There have been other things I have heard, Shire-Reeve," Wybert continued grudgingly, casting another dark glare at Edgar. "Of how he has consumed strange potions and done unholy deeds. These stories I know that you know, for we live in the same town and talk to the same people."

The Reeve seemed to consider all of this for a moment, stroking his chin and swinging the axe almost thoughtfully. "None of this is deeply conclusive," he said at last.

"Shire-Reeve, we did discover some things in his house," the smallest of the burly men said at last, looking a little sheepish.

The Reeve tilted his head at the man. "What did you find, Jacob?"

Jacob reached down to the pouch at his waist. "When we burst in, he turned on us and waved a small stick in our direction. We tackled him before he could cast any unnatural magics on us, but I kept it, as I thought you might wish to see it." Indeed, he pulled out a long, thin, dark stick of wood, perhaps ten inches in length, and extended it towards the Reeve.

He took it, lifting it to eye level and tilting it this way and that. The Reeve's expression remained impassive throughout, until he lowered it and looked at Jacob. "A wand, maybe. Or equally, perhaps just a stick. Was there anything else?" he asked quietly.

"Indeed." Jacob shifted his feet. "Inside the house was an array of... equipment. They looked to be for the purpose of brewing, such as the medicines put together by the wise women. But the boy has never shown a talent for such things."

The Reeve looked down at Edgar, arching one eyebrow. "What do you have to say in your defence, boy?"

Edgar, by now, looked as if he wanted to curl up on the floor. "I... don't think it'll matter what I have to say, sir. Your decision will be made anyway."

"You know that is not the way of things," the Reeve replied briskly, but not unkindly.

"And yet this is no true method of justice! You bring a mob in the street to judge me! There is no priest present, there are none of the lord's men to hear my words!" Edgar protested.

"I am the lord's man, and I am listening." The Reeve's expression darkened. "The charges against you are dire indeed, and the evidence concerning. If you will not speak for your own defence, then it speaks poorly of your innocence, boy."

The Reeve then lifted his axe. Whether this was to heft it, use it, or wave it threateningly, nobody would know as with a sudden flash of light, the weapon went flying from his hands and skidding across the square.

"What in God's name..." The Reeve turned to look at the axe, then back in the opposite direction as a great murmur in the crowd sprung up, the gathered peasants splitting apart to let through a rider on a dark horse.

"It is not your place to judge his innocence, Shire-Reeve."

There was a pause as all regarded the intruder, sitting tall astride his horse and not seeming to care greatly that he was interrupting these most serious proceedings. He looked broad of shoulder and well fed, with strong features partially hidden behind his red hair and beard. His clothing could not be seen under the thick cloak that he wore, but all could see the large, shining sword slung over his back.

The three thugs drew back and Wybert went scurrying to return to his place in the crowd, but the Reeve turned to face the newcomer, folding his arms across his chest and tilting his head curiously. "I enforce the lord's justice here; selected by the people who surround you. It is my place to find out if this boy is one of us, or a devil-worshipper, stranger."

The newcomer snorted, his breath misting in the cool, damp spring air. "He is neither, Shire-Reeve. It would thus be best if his own kind judged him, rather than the fears and prejudices of those who have turned against us."

There was a pause from the Reeve, the strong eye contact only breaking as his gaze flickered briefly in the direction of the axe. But it was several metres away in the dirt, and Jacob and the other two thugs looked disinclined to approach, almost on the verge of fleeing as they were.

"His own kind. And so who are you, stranger?" he asked coolly at last.

"My name is Godric Gryffindor. You fear this boy has performed magic against you?" The newcomer reined his horse in a little, straightening up to regard the crowd as a whole. "I do not believe this is so. It is not uncommon for disasters and misfortunes to be blamed upon an innocent. However, it is indeed possible."

"Possible." The Reeve repeated this, looking a little stunned. "You know something of this? Then step forward and assist us, Lord Gryffindor, in discovering the truth of the matter."

"That is not a truth for you all to know," Gryffindor replied, shaking his head ruefully. "I regret to sound so arrogant and distant, but it is so. Once upon a time, you all... understood the old ways. Now you have grown afraid of that which is different."

"I have grown afraid, sir, of that which threatens my people," the Reeve replied curtly, straightening up. "But if you are so distant from us, then what is your intention?"

"To take this boy. To discover the truth of the matter. And to act accordingly." Gryffindor narrowed his eyes. "Even if you judge, Shire-Reeve, that he is innocent, do you think these townsfolk will ever accept him after these accusations?"

The Reeve didn't answer this, lowering his gaze and taking a deep breath before he looked back up at Gryffindor. "And if you take him, how can I know that justice will be done? How do I know you shall not simply be spiriting him away to perform... more evils?"

Gryffindor smiled thinly. "You do not. You have my word that this will not be the case, but you may not value it."

"I fear that I cannot."

There was a pause, then Gryffindor reached up to grasp the hilt of his sword. "Then you are belabouring under the mistaken impression that I am asking you. It is not safe here for the boy, regardless of your judgement. As such... he is coming with me."

"I have an entire town behind me, Gryffindor," the Reeve claimed, opening his arms. "And I do not respond well to threats."

There was a flash as Gryffindor drew the sword one-handed, the sun flashing briefly off the blade - then the Reeve went flying back from the second, subtler gesture, of a wand pulled from the belt and waved briskly at the other man, along with a muttered incantation.

"Boy! To me!" Gryffindor bellowed as the crowd then exploded in uproar, a large array of peasants incredibly angry but also far too afraid to charge the dangerous man on horseback. They were, however, brave enough to make a charge for Edgar, even if the three bruisers had hurried towards the Reeve's side.

Both urgings, verbal and very physical, were enough to see Edgar hurtling towards Gryffindor's mount as if his life depended on it - which it very likely did. He grabbed the rider's outstretched hand as he got there, leaping into the air and helped the rest of the way onto the horse by Gryffindor's strength, settling onto the saddle behind the man.

"I do not wish to hurt you!" Gryffindor shouted at the gathering townsfolk, who drew short of closing with them as they saw the boy was near the strange wizard, but still encircled the group. Somewhere, in the crowd, Jacob and his companions were helping the Reeve to his feet, but this was some way away, and for now there was just the push of the peasants.

"Just... just get them away!" Edgar howled with fear, clutching desperately at Gryffindor for stability and comfort.

Gryffindor spat out a curse, then extended his wand again. "Ventus!" he bellowed, pointing it at a section of the crowd who were already trying to scramble away. From the tip of his wand came a gust of air, strong enough to send them flying back faster, and clearing a passage.

The horse needed only the slightest of pressure at its flanks to send it hurtling through the gap in a full canter, Gryffindor targeting the air to push back peasants who might get in the way so they were not knocked down by a charging steed... and before they knew it, through the confusion, through the speed, they were out of the town, and speeding across green fields.

Even as Edgar looked back, chancing a brisk glance over his shoulder, the town was far behind. They had to have been going at full tilt for many long minutes by now, and Gryffindor showed no sign of stopping.

Finally, tightening his grip, he leaned towards the rider's ear. "Where are we going?" he shouted at last, straining to be heard over the wind rushing around them.

There was a short silence where Gryffindor didn't answer, seemingly focused on the ride, ensuring they were far away from those who might hurt them. Then, after several long seconds, "North!" came the curt reply, and nothing more was said.

* * * * * * * * * * *

Ron awoke in a cold sweat, sitting bolt upright with the wind and Godric Gryffindor's voice echoing in his ears. "What the... a dream. Just a dream," he muttered to himself, running a slightly shaky hand through his slick hair before instinctively reaching out beside him.

As with the previous night, and the night before that, he made contact with nothing more than cold linen, and the chill inside of him only deepened. Alone, again.

Several months ago, he would have just rolled over after a strange dream, pulled Hermione closer to him, nuzzled her hair and allowed her warmth to lull him back to sleep even if she didn't awaken. Now he rolled out of bed, bare feet hitting smooth, polished, and cold floorboards, and groped in the dark for a dressing gown.

The clock on the wall told him that it was five in the morning once his eyes had adjusted to the gloom, and soon enough it would be morning. Great. He'd never be able to get back to sleep now, and was probably going to just have to accept that he'd have a whole day of being tired ahead of him.

The rest of the flat was equally silent, something Ron was used to by now but had yet to be comfortable with in the small hours of the morning. When Harry and Ginny had gotten engaged he'd effectively moved in with her, to the point now where the only belongings of his that remained in the flat were those things too large to move or too rarely used to have been picked up. Clothes, toiletries, work stuff, all of that was gone and in her little house in North Wales, rather than in this flat in London.

Leaving Ron on his own, a state of affairs with which he was becoming depressingly familiar. Regardless, it was pleasant to not have to worry about waking anyone else up as he pottered through to the small kitchen and began to make himself a cup of tea, turning the lights on and not bothering to keep his steps quiet - in fact, revelling a little in how he could clatter around and nobody would be disturbed.

It was the small victories that made it bearable, and so with little ceremony or aplomb did Ron put on some toast and ambled over to the window to see if any post had yet arrived.

Harry had pointed out, with their residing in a primarily Muggle location, that they would have to adopt a different system with their post. After all, both of them were out of the flat an awful lot, and with Muggle neighbours the owls couldn't really just hang around out the window waiting for them to come back without somebody getting suspicious or confused.

So instead there was a small letterbox outside of the window, cunningly disguised as a flowerpot, that Ron popped open to see if there was any correspondence, or hopefully the newspaper.

But there were no letter, and the Daily Prophet hadn't arrived yet; nor would it likely do so for another hour or two. There was, however, a copy of the day's Clarion inside, another paper that had risen in popularity as the Prophet had demonstrated its political biases during the war, and established itself as being competently independent in its viewpoints.

Ron also found it really rather dry reading, which was why it was Harry's subscription that kept bringing the Clarion to the flat and was something they'd have to get around to changing soon enough. Most of the time, the paper kept making the quick trip from the letterbox to the bin without any pause, especially since Hermione had ceased being around on any regular basis, for she too still read it.

But the lack of any other reading matter, and the slightly nostalgic twinge the thought of her gave him, saw him taking a brief glance into the headlines.

These were nothing dramatic; yet more upon the various candidates being considered by the Ministry as potential new Headmasters of Hogwarts after Professor McGonagall's pending retirement. And despite the hordes queuing for the chance to direct Britain's magical youth, it all seemed to be down between two people: Alcaeus Sprague, and Gregor Konstantin.

It wasn't that Ron didn't care about the future of Hogwarts, but it was very much the case that he didn't care about any of the candidates, least of all the two front-runners. Sprague was a product of the Fudge years, when the Ministry had seen fit to interfere with Dumbledore's methods of teaching and had been the source of an awful lot of Ministry-directed education initiatives the likes of which had been enforced by Dolores Umbridge. Although Sprague himself was far from being quite so objectionable, and was in fact something of a darling of the Ministry and the public with his broad smiles and boyish good looks, he was unfortunately possessing all of the innovation of a damp shrew.

Konstantin, on the other hand, held all of the competence and drive that his nearest rival lacked. It was thus unfortunate that he happened to be the current deputy of Durmstrang Academy, whose Dark Magic teachings during the Second War were still under suspicion by the British Ministry, and was therefore not necessarily the most trustworthy individual under the sun.

With neither individual high on Ron's list of interest, and with the article not promising to be scintillating reading, he was set to do nothing more than make a bee-line for the bin after he shut the window until a name above the headline caught his eye.

'Out of the Shadows - Hermione Granger gives her first interview exclusive to the Clarion. Turn to Page 12 for more.'

Ron stared dumbly at the words for several long seconds, his attention only broken by the snap of the toast bouncing out of the toaster, followed a few seconds later by the whistling of the kettle.

So he did not yank open the paper and rifle through it to find the relevant page, devouring whatever monstrosity of an interview they had extracted from the notoriously press-shy Hermione. Instead, he set the paper down on the table, retrieved and buttered his toast, made his cup of tea, and sat down very calmly to read just how the world had turned upside-down.

But sure enough, on page 12, there was the picture of Hermione, looking like it had been taken at one of the pubs on Diagon Alley, dressed smartly in her work clothes and appearing a little uncharacteristically sheepish. Above it was the tag-line of 'Friend of the Boy Who Lived, instrumental in the fall of Lord Voldemort, Hermione Granger is most famous for being a loyal sidekick. But as the smartest witch of her generation and a shining light in one of the Ministry of Magic's most progressive departments, it's obvious there are far more stories here than just the ones about Harry Potter - By T. Grey.'

That had to be it. All of the other interviewers who had accosted her wanted, essentially, another perspective on the life and times of the great hero that Harry was established as being. Which was why she had shot them down, one after the other. So as Ron continued reading, he saw how the Clarion had succeeded where others had failed. The interviewer asked her about her work, asked her about the progress made towards the rights of the House Elves, asked her about plans for the future, and even when Ron actively scanned the interview, he couldn't find anything more than the slightest off-hand references to Harry, and all in a very friendly and social context.

There was even less of a reference to him. Only one, in fact, where the interviewer - whom Ron had a sneaking suspicion had been somewhere around their age at Hogwarts, though his memory wasn't offering obvious answers - outright asked her relationship with Ron Weasley, Auror and also famous friend of Harry Potter.

The response Hermione had given, though, was less than thrilling to him. 'She shrugs at this question, though her casual air seems a little forced. "Just as the world's been changing, people change. We aren't as close as we used to be, but that's the way things go. He's still immensely important to me, of course, but... I think it's the definition that's changed." A vague, yet at the same time very pointed answer, so I don't push the issue, instead moving...'

They had argued plenty. About the sacrifices both of them made for their work, about the little time spent together; about the state of things when they'd been living together here, about the late nights, about the missed promises on both times. About how they both let the real world get in the way of their relationship, and neither stepped up to the plate to stop it, though were quite happy to be angry when the other failed to do so. And then there had been lots of storming off, lots of missed Floo and owl contact, then tearful reunions and apologies. Though more of that latter, really. Mostly just the arguments and the distance.

Still, the point was that, while they had been going through their rough times, there had been no... official break-up. And Ron was now having the sneaking sensation that he might have just been dumped via a newspaper interview.

Well, that was certainly a new one.

With a grumble, Ron rolled the Clarion up, not bothering to finish the offending article, and threw it at the open bin, which it missed. He had other concerns. Like managing to drink this tea without scalding himself, or whether he should just get dressed and go Portkey up to Hogwarts right now so he could have breakfast with the school before he needed to cover that lesson for Defence Professor Halvard. Or if the Aurors were actually going to send him back into the field any time soon, and if they were going to assign him an interim partner during Harry's extended leave of absence, or if he was going to be kept to a desk until after the wedding.

Or, really, why he was having quite such messed up, and yet distinctly vivid dreams. For although his mind was still more on the interview, or on his work, there was still a small part of his memory that echoed with the voice of Godric Gryffindor, and felt the winds of Glastonbury on his face.