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.