Chapter Text
Sing, o Muse, the adventures of the man who was driven far and wide from his love after he had sacked the Holy Citadel.
Sing about him, who has suffered a number of struggles to preserve his life and walk back to the arms of those he calls his family.
Sing, o great Goddess, daughter of the Mighty King of Gods, about the King whose name has been damned by the Mighty Earthshaker.
Sing truthfully and begin at what we point you will.
***
It was late at night when the ship finally reached the shore.
Harry had slept through the worst of it, curled against the creaking boards and lulled by the sea’s cruel rhythm. Yet even with sleep behind him, he was still tired. Bone-deep and soul-worn. The kind of tired that two decades leave behind.
The northern star shone brightly above his dear island. His very own island. But even when he wanted to believe he had finally, after two decades, returned home, he had to make sure. The Mighty Earthshaker had deceived helmsmen before, twisting reality into a mirage, and it would not be the first time a hopeful sailor kissed false soil.
So he walked. The cloak gifted by the Mighty Daughter of the King of Gods hid him on the desolate paths. His dear island had not been fit to hold chariots nor big horses, unlike the Holy Citadel, so the only option he had now was to walk.
He followed a narrow path that guided him to a small cottage at the edge of a cliff; from there, he could see the palace he had built so many years ago. His throat tightened.
Then: barking. Loud and sharp. Harry stopped short, hand instinctively going to his sword; a reflex born of years, one he hadn’t managed to unlearn. The dogs were on him in seconds, snarling and snapping at the cloak’s hem. Then came the glow of a lantern, bobbing closer through the dark. A massive figure stepped forward, lifting the light to examine his face.
“Who are you, stranger?” His eyes narrowed and the light caught his features.
Harry’s heart squeezed as he recognised the man on the spot. How could he not? For the man had been one of his most dear servants.
Harry took his hood off and looked down.
“I’m nothing more than a beggar.” Harry lied. “For my ship sank, and all my riches went to the Mighty God of the Seas. I mean no harm, but if you could tell me if this is indeed the land ruled by the son of James Potter, I will be forever grateful. And if you could offer me a warm space to spend the night, I’m sure the Gods won’t look down on you.”
Hagrid tilted his head, the lantern swaying slightly in his grip. Then he gave a great laugh, the sound booming out into the quiet. One of the dogs barked again and was shushed with a pat.
“Indeed, this is!” The big man laughed. “Come with me, Foreigner. Warm porridge is already on the stove, and I always make more than I can eat.”
***
Hagrid’s cottage was exactly as he remembered it: oversized to accommodate his frame, but cluttered with tools and odds and ends that made it feel small.
The man through his clock over a chair and walked inside, ushering Harry to take any seat. Harry saw the Half-giant take a mixing bowl and mix wine with some water to offer the Gods. They both thanked them for the food and drinks. And was Harry the first to talk.
“So tell me, my good fellow, and you might not lie to me for I shall know; who’s your master? What are you doing so far from the city? And why are you walking at night all alone?”
The man looked at the window and smiled sadly.
“As you asked me for the truth, and I have no reason to conceal it from you, I will speak with my heart.” Hagrid took a sip of wine and his eyes watered. “I served in the name of the Mighty house of the Potters’. You must have heard of my king, King Harry, for he went twenty years back to fight at the Holy Citadel. I’m in charge of the cattle, and that’s why my adobe is so far from the main roads.” Harry hummed, and pretended to not know all about what the Half-giant said. “And about why I’m out so late… well my friend, since those suitors had been eating my master’s livestock and wooing the Queen… I have to protect what little is left from strangers and thieves; so you shall not judge me for the ill-treatment that I showed you earlier.”
Harry reached for the wine and poured more into Hagrid’s goblet, letting the silence stretch as the man collected himself.
“Do not fret, my friend.” Harry calmed him down. “I understand. And tell me, before I die of curiosity, is your Master dead? For I know him after fighting under his command in the Holy Citadel. I heard he was returning to his island.”
“Please! Do not tell any lies! My old heart cannot take it. My master disappeared ten years ago, for the conquest of the Citadel finished after ten years of fierce fight.” Hagrid said. “If he had any chance to still be alive, why wouldn’t he have come back earlier to the arms of his dear wife whom my king loved so much and his dear son, whom he left behind when the boy was a mere infant!” Harry poured more wine into the man’s glove and let him wipe in peace.
After a long moment of silence, Harry added: “I am no prophet, friend of mine, but remember my words tomorrow morning: your king is coming back. And shall the Mighty God of the Sky, king of all Gods, strike me if I lie.” Hagrid gasped, and Harry only grinned at him. “But now let us rest, for tomorrow I shall go to the city to try some luck and see if people there are as compassionate towards a beggar as you had been.”
The man showed him to a small place near the fire before trying to convince him to stay there with him, and helped him around with the animals. Harry refused, and after some more idle chatter, the Half giant retired to his own bed, leaving Harry almost alone, for an owl stood by the window watching him.
“Thank you.” He said to the bird. His eyelids were heavy, but there was no way he would not thank his dear friend once again. “Thank you for helping me get back.” And after that he slept.
***
They left that same morning at dawn.
Hagrid tied a sheep with a string of rope after the meagre breakfast, and they walked to the city. “For the suitors,” had explained the half giant when he saw Harry watching him. “They eat two sheep a day, drink my King’s wine. The Queen can do little, for she will not dismiss them nor pick one suitor.”
“Is the Queen still grieving?”
“Every night, for he was deeply in love with the King,” Hagrid answers. “And the suitors are getting impatient by the time. Most people agree on sending him back to his relatives, for the son cannot pick a husband for the Queen, and the Queen will not pick a suitor unless it’s her husband.”
Harry hummed and thought of his dear Queen, whom he had missed so dearly for twenty years.
They walked the rest of the rocky path in silence.
“This is as far as you should come with me. For my King is not here, the Queen rarely shows his face, and the Prince was sent away to ask about his father to those who fought arm by arm during the conquest of the Holy Citadel." Hagrid explained, but Harry was not listening. His eyes and mind were on the figure over the window. A profile lit by the dim light of candles: his queen. “Those suitors are not good, and will look down on anyone who dares to stand against them.”
“Thank you, my friend,” Harry said, looking back at the half giant. “But I shall part ways with you, for I cannot long keep you entreating me, for you have work to finish.”
“Very well. Have a nice trip, my friend." The man patted him on the back and walked to the back doors of the palace.
Harry walked straight to the front gates.
***
Harry counted a hundred and eight heads that would soon roll over his hall. A hundred and eight heads that dare to look and speak to his Queen like he were a piece of meat.
Harry had sat for most of the day at the gates of his own palace, still hidden under the cloak of Mighty Daughter of the King of Kings. Suitors passed near him, and each of them either sneered at him or simply ignored him.
“Who shall you be?” A young man’s voice asked him, and Harry looked up. Bright green eyes and dark black hair fell over the young’s forehead. And even then, Harry could recognise the Queen’s features on the boy. His son, Prince of this land and son of King Harry and Queen Draco.
“A beggar, unlike you my lord who looks like a god. Tell me, and please do not conceal the truth for an old man like myself, are you by chance the master of this palace? Are those friends of yours that have come to celebrate you?”
“My father is, old man.” His son said. “But in his absence the Queen had been dealing with it, while waiting for me to come of age.” The young prince extended his hand to Harry and he took it. The prince helped him stand and invited Harry to follow him inside the palace. “Those men are not friends but foes. For over ten years they had been eating my father’s state.” His son sighed and slummed into the table next to him. “Now, foreigner, tell me, who are your parents, where is your homeland, and where are your ships and crew? For it’s not possible to come to this land by horse.”
“I bid you no malice,” Harry followed the young lad into the hall. “And for that I will not lie.” Harry lied. “My name is Theodore son of Bertrand Nott. My land lies far beyond the Citadel. I owned no ship — it was lost, like so much else, during the war. Misfortunes clung to me, one after the other, until kind hands guided me here. For I heard…” He let his voice falter. “I heard that your father had returned.”
“Nonsense!” he snapped. “Don’t speak such things, my friend. Not aloud. Not here. For I wouldn’t like to have you killed.” Harry inclined his head in apology, but said nothing more. The boy exhaled sharply, rubbing a hand over his face. “But now tell me, how is that you knew my father? Did you two fight alongside during the war?”
“I’m afraid not.” Harry murmured, reaching for the cup of wine at his elbow. “But… he came to my lands once. Years ago. Asking for bread and wine, to feed his fleet and his dearest comrades.”
Harry was interrupted when the doors to the inside of the building opened and the Queen walked out of it. Draco stepped into the room, crowned not in gold but dignity. His hair had been braided over one shoulder, thick and gleaming, bound with silver cord. Around his neck lay the necklace gifted by the Goddess of Wisdom, each polished stone catching the firelight like moonlight trapped in glass. He wore the earring too, the one that Harry had gifted him, though its twin had been long-lost in some distant storm.
“If you’ll excuse me,” the prince said quickly, standing so fast his chair scraped against the stone. He moved like a newborn deer toward his mother.
Draco’s only smile of the night was directed to his son. He reached out and cupped his cheek gently, brushing a thumb under his eye. They murmured something between them too low for Harry to hear.
After a moment, the blonde turned. The prince followed two paces behind, and together they stopped in front of Harry’s table. “My son tells me you knew my husband.”
“Indeed, I do, my Queen,” Harry said, standing and bowing.
Draco hummed and nodded. With a flick of his wrist, he called a servant who came quickly. “Call Dobby, he will see this foreigner tonight.” He turned back to Harry, gaze cool but not unkind. “Eat well. Wash the grime off your skin. And once you are done, come to me. You shall tell me how you knew the King.”
“Yes, Queen.”
***
Dobby had seen under the Goddess of Wisdom's cloak. The man had seen his scar and immediately fell to his knees and started weeping.
Harry caught him before he could take a single breath. He dragged him into a shadowed corner, one hand clamped tight around the small man’s throat. “You saw nothing,” he hissed. “Say a word, even a whisper, and I will see you flayed and fed to the pigs.”
Dobby nodded frantically, feet dangling above the stone. Once Harry released him, the man dropped to his knees again, sobbing into his robes, then began kissing his feet with fevered devotion.
Harry did not stop him.
After a moment, the man was dismissed by one of the Queen’s servants. Draco entered after a moment of wait. He did not look at Harry right away, simply settling into the cushioned seat near the flames.
Harry remained sitting cross-legged on a furred mat near the fire, hair damp, skin scrubbed until it stung. He wore the clean tunic Dobby had laid out, though it felt unfamiliar against his skin. His sword lay near, within reach. Just in case.
The Queen sat on a comfortable couch near the fire.
“I had a dream last night, foreigner.” Draco started. Harry looked up at him, startled. “I was wondering if you could help me decipher it.”
“I am no prophet, my Queen,” Harry said carefully. “But if it would ease your thoughts, I will try.”
Draco plucked a small fruit from a bowl and rolled it in his fingers. “I dreamed of a storm.” He said after a moment. “A terrible one that brought to the shore of my island a beaten owl. Barely alive, I’m afraid. But the owl is strong, but how much stronger could such a creature be?” The queen turned to look at the fire. “The creature shook the salt from its feathers and flew over the island until it perched on a lone branch. Below it: a den of serpents. Twisting, coiled together, nearly twenty in all.” He paused, voice lowering. “The owl dove. Without hesitation. It struck, and one by one, it beheaded every last one of them.”
A soft coo echoed from the open window. His dear friend, watching, always watching. He smiled faintly.
“My Queen,” he said, “the answer is plain, even to one who has never known the blessings of the God of the Sun. Your husband is coming home. And he will shed blood for every insult those suitors have dared to make against you… and your son.”
Draco did not smile, but he looked, for the first time, satisfied.
“Now,” he said, setting the fruit down, “tell me, foreigner, of my husband’s adventures. For you said you knew him.”