The Early Years 11

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I slipped from the Floo, emerging into the main foyer of Dunscaith, and after taking a few steps forward to get my balance, I sighed. “Fucking hell.” The curse slipped from my lips with a sigh of relief. I unsheathed my wand from its holster. “Tempus.” I watched as a faint, ethereal clock appeared in front of me. “Fucking hell,” I repeated.

It was now past seven pm, and I was only now getting home from the Gathering. A meeting that had begun at ten in the morning, and baring the thirty-minute break for lunch, had run for nine freaking hours, without a sodding thing of any importance being agreed upon.

I’d been warned going in by Seumas MacDonald and Ewan MacAulay to not expect much beyond various factions in the Gathering getting into shouting matches, however, what I’d just endured had been little better than a bad joke. Sixty-eight Chiefs from across Scotland spent most of the time arguing about matters that, to put it mildly, were trivial.

I understood that many clans had grievances with others, such as MacLeod had with Clans MacKinnon and MacDonald. However, ninety per cent of those grievances predated the Statute of Secrecy, and had, in theory, been settled either before it by the crown, or afterwards by the Wizengamot. Yet, Chiefs who’d been born during the reign of Queen Victoria couldn’t seem to let go of their grudges and focus on relevant business.

Of course, there’d been no direct slandering, name-calling, or insulting going on, as that could have led to honour duels being called. However, every phrase, every statement and reply, every single piece of dialogue had been, if aimed at someone from a rival clan – or in the case of a sept Clan, at the rival of their overlord Clan – dripping with contempt at best, downright hostile at worst.

During my lessons about how the Wizengamot and Ministry worked with Arcturus, he had commented on the oddly fractured nature of the Scottish Clans. He didn’t fully understand why, as most of the issues were kept out of the Wizengamot, but he knew there was bad blood between many of the Clans and had warned me about it. Yet, hearing it from an English Lord was entirely different from experiencing it firsthand!

Hell, the Chiefs of Clans Douglas and Stewart simply couldn’t stop themselves from offering (what they termed) constructive criticism of anything the other suggested whenever business did turn to matters concerning present-day business. Honestly, if not for the fact that within a decade, I’d have to be more than just a spectator at a Gathering, I’d have found the seemingly pointless bickering amusing.

What didn’t help was that, on top of the ancient hatred between certain Clans, there were long-running issues between the Highland and Island Clans, and the Lowland and Border Clans. From what I’d learnt beforehand from Seumas and Ewan, the former Clans, which included Clan MacLeod, kept to the old ways and were fiercely proud of their ancestry and history. They felt the Lowland and Border Clans had sold out on their country and ancestry, something not helped by many of those clans choosing to be referred to as Lords and not Chiefs.

On the other hand, the Lowland and Border Clans felt the Highland and Island Clans were stuck in the past. Those from the Highlands and Islands were unable to grasp that, within Magical Britain and Ireland, to say nothing of the wider Magical World, they were antiquated relics unable to adapt to more modern issues. Something made clear by their distaste for the Sept system, which they’d abolished. Even if I was unsure about the concept, I felt that was a mistake. The Irish Clans, along with the English Lords, all had septs or vassal houses, though the Irish septs lacked the voting powers of the Scottish septs. That was because they were more akin to cadet branches of the main Clan than separate clans in their own right, and were often just versions of the same name such as Murphy being a sept of Clan O'Murphy.

While it was perhaps an older concept to place one house or Clan in servitude to another older, and in theory more powerful one, there were laws in place to allow those in servitude to separate from their overlord. The more common, but more dangerous, route was for the Sept Clan or vassal House to reach an equal rank as their overlord, defeat the overlord Chief or Lord in a duel that wasn’t allowed to end in death, and if victorious, petition the Wizengamot. The Wizengamot would then vote on the matter, with a simple majority being enough to secure the sept Clan’s or vassal House’s independence. The second method was for the overlord Chief or Lord to state publicly to the Wizengamot that they were releasing their vassal from their vows.

Over the last century, those two ways had only been used seven times, with five being via duel. Since the Overlord had lost the duel, and was thus in the eyes of many diminished, the votes each time had been near-unanimous. The two where the vassal had been granted their freedom had come from Clan Fergusson releasing the last of their sept Clans.

Every time I thought about how a sept could gain their freedom, my mind drifted to concerns about the status of Clan MacAulay as they were four generations from becoming an Ancient Clan. Which was the current rank of Clan MacLeod. If not for the fact that my son – or that of my cousins if they inherited after me – would be the fifty-first MacLeod of MacLeod, and thus have the Clan raised to Most Ancient status, they’d have profited greatly from our deaths at the Massacre.

Without myself or my cousins, the titles would’ve had to travel back up the family tree to a free MacLeod, which from what I understood, was Murdo MacLeod of Duntelm Castle. Though since he wasn’t in the direct family line, every MacLeod of MacLeod from where his branch of the family descended would be stricken from the age-count of the Clan, pushing the elevation of our Clan to Most Ancient back five generations.

Ewan MacAulay couldn’t move against me as he’d sworn his life on the MacLeod torc. As had his brothers and children. However, that didn’t mean they couldn’t help arranging for me or my cousins to have accidents, or that he might not have, in some indirect way, helped to arrange the Massacre that cost me my family. Sadly, I had no proof of that, nor any way to investigate it without calling his loyalty and honour into question.

If I did that, he had every right to challenge me over the insult, and even though I wasn’t yet in Hogwarts, I couldn’t avoid that duel. Since he was the aggrieved party, he could set the terms, which I knew would be that if he won, his Clan would be granted their independence.

I shook my head, clearing that train of thought from my mind once again. Neither of us could move against the other, or in my case, even investigate him, until I’d passed my OWLs. The protection of over half the Wizengamot, including those of every Highland Clan meant he also couldn’t attempt anything against me. Any action by him would result in the magic inherent in the Wizengamot – and the predecessor Wizarding Council – marking the betrayal of his oath, so I didn’t have to focus on the matter for a good number of years.

“The MacLeod is well?”

I sighed as I realised Kadic was present. “Yes, Kadic, I’m fine. Just tired after a wasted day.”

“The MacLeod before The MacLeod often dislike Gathering.” Kadic paused before standing taller, his ears perking up. “Would The MacLeod like firewhisky? The MacLeod before The MacLeod liked firewhisky when The MacLeod came home.”

I smirked, amused by Kadic’s inability to refer to my father as anything except the MacLeod before me. “No, thank you Kadic. I think I might wait a few years before taking up my father’s habit. Could you make me some lemonade?”

“Yes, Kadic do that.” He clicked his fingers and the familiar sound of an elf apparating away echoed in the hall. The first few times I’d come back from a meeting or tutoring session, Kadic had fussed over me. While I understood his need to do so, given I was the last member of the direct family, I’d found his behaviour annoying. After speaking with him about that, he’d promised to relax, and so far, he’d done so.

Once I reached the main sitting room, I collapsed happily into the chair that had quickly become my favourite. The Gathering for this year was over, and I could finally relax and enjoy the last few weeks of the summer. Tomorrow, Magnus, Talulla, and Tegan would come over to spend more time at their ancestral home. With only a few weeks until the start of school, it would be about the last time I see the older two before they started at Hogwarts.

Of the three, Magnus was the one I got along with best, which was hardly a surprise, but there was just enough of an age gap that I wasn’t sure how much longer that would last. A small voice in my head always reminded me that, if the wrong people got into his head, he might well challenge me for control of Clan MacLeod. Thankfully, that, like threats from Ewan MacAulay and others, was years away, but it still danced around in my mind. And was, perhaps, part of the reason I went out of my way over the summer to spend more time with my cousins than any of the Black children.

As much as I’d prefer to simply enjoy my childhood and learn magic, the world I’d chosen was far more hazardous than I’d realised. And, for now, I only knew of the political threats. The more dangerous ones, such as Voldemort, had yet to appear on the horizon.

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I gave the weapon in my hand an experimental shake. When Arcturus had talked about Lords and Chiefs duelling for sport, I’d thought he’d meant with magic. Something that I’d seen when Arcturus took me, Sirius, and Antares with him to watch the British Duelling Tournament of ‘66. Yet here I was, a month after my ninth birthday at the start of 1967, holding a sword.

Now, a sheathed blade hung above the Chief’s chair in the Master Study, one that I’d taken down several times, but I’d thought it was just an heirloom: A relic from back before the Statute when a magical may have to duel a muggle. Yet here I was, in one of the various training rooms of Le Domine Noir, holding a blade in my hand. Or at least, a shortened version of the blade in my study.

“You seem confused.”

I looked up at Arcturus. Unlike most times I saw him, he wasn’t wearing expensive and exquisite robes, instead, like me, wearing relatively tight-fitting clothing. When I’d first been handed the padded shirt and trousers, I’d simply thought they were to protect me when we started duelling. A thought made stronger as I picked out various runic patterns inlaid in the stitching that provided protection, warmth, and comfort. I had wondered why I’d not been given any sort of helmet, but when we’d entered this training room, I’d spotted two sitting on a nearby bench, both made of similar material to our clothing. After he’d helped me secure the protection for my skull, he’d turned and revealed the sword I’d be using today.

“I thought we would be learning duelling,” I replied, pulling the blade from its cover cautiously. The edges looked razor sharp, so much so that when I rolled my wrist, the light coming from sources in the roof flashed as the edge caught it.

“We are. However, while you may have expected to begin training for wand-duelling, we will instead be learning the art of duelling with a blade.” In a move more majestic than a river cascading over a waterfall, he pulled his blade from its sheath, moved his arm, and the blade danced through the air with such grace that my eyes instinctively followed the weapon.

Suddenly, the blade’s movement shifted, and as I felt the torc on my arm warm in warning, I stumbled back. My feet caught each other, and I fell, the blade in my hand clattering to the ground as my back impacted the mat we were standing on.

“The first lesson, and easily the most important, is to watch your opponent; not their weapon,” I grumbled as I looked up at Arcturus, his blade parallel to the ground and perfectly still; the point where I’d formerly been standing. “That said, your reflexes, boosted as they are by your torc, are acceptable.”

As he stood over me, his blade perfectly still as he held what looked to be a perfect fencing position, I had the urge to lash out. To strike at him with magic for trying to attack me. Thankfully for me, I ignored the urge. Ignoring the sheer gap between our magical repertoire, with mine only being up to Second Year in Hogwarts whereas he was decades old and with full access to whatever the family magic of house Black was, it was beyond stupid to lash out. He was older, armed and in position whereas I was exactly the opposite.

He looked down at me, and I saw a faint twitch of his cheeks. A moment later, he leaned back and lowered his blade to a relaxed position. “Good, you are controlling your anger,” he said, both hands resting on the hilt of the blade. “The choice you now face, and will face throughout your life, is how you wish to use that anger. Will you choose it as a burning hot, flaming blade to strike at your enemies with? Or will you harness it, focus it; refining the fury within into a cold, hard edge with which to strike at those who threaten and challenge you?”

I blinked, confused as to where that challenge had come from. While I understood the lesson he was trying to teach, or at least hint at, it was an odd place to have it brought up. Staying quiet, I pulled myself back to my feet, considering his words.

My plans for the future, for post-Hogwarts were still, I would freely admit, vague. Beyond changing the world, and trying to make it a better place, I wasn’t concerning myself with that too much. Yet, Arcturus’ question was as valid when I was an adult as it was now. And the actions, the choices I made now would shape the man I would grow into.

Staying quiet, I walked over to my blade. There was a moment where I considered summoning it to my hand. While I knew the charm, and could almost cast it without speaking, I’d not attempted anything like that without my wand. Hell, I’d barely attempted any magic without one.

Yes, I had chosen a trait to help with wandless casting, but knowing I could do it and doing so were vastly different concepts. Hell, just getting to the point where a simple spell like Stupefy could be cast silently had taken months of dedicated training, casting it over a hundred thousand times.

As I picked up my blade, I shifted my feet. I’d never held a blade before, in either life, yet I’d seen enough movies and I’d learnt, in my non-magical life before the merging, how to fight. From all of that, I felt I understood the very basics of the stance that was needed. From the way Arcturus’ clinical eye looked me over as I moved the blade into position, I did not.

“Shift your body to only present the side, you want to present as small a target as possible, now spread your legs further and lower your centre of gravity, it will help stabilise you, better” He said slowly before moving as well. He lifted his blade, bringing it up, the tip pointing toward the roof. “Before any duel, regardless of the stakes, one must salute their opponent.” I lifted my blade, matching his position. “However, the moment both blades drop, the lesson begins.”

I paused, realising I’d been tricked into starting the lesson. Arcturus was a strict tutor, expecting the best, and accepting nothing less. Our lessons in wand work, be it charms, incantations, transfigurations, or hexes had involved clear reminders – often in the form of painful stinging hexes – when I made a mistake. Even those that I didn’t realise I was making.

As I looked up at Arcturus, his eyes watching me for the slightest movement, I realised that this lesson would be no different. Suddenly, the odd clothing we were wearing brought me comfort. Which would be the only comfort I’d get for the next few hours.

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As Spring turned to Summer in 1967, and my ninth birthday far in the rearview mirror, I found myself, as I often did, entering the Master Study of Dunscaith Castle. There was no one else in the castle bar Kadic, if one excluded the enhanced magical portraits of my ancestors, and I found myself heading to the Master Study at least once a week.

Beyond the various objects, books and memorabilia that were collected here, I found the place oddly relaxing. As if the magic of the castle, the torc, and what flowed through me found a sense of balance, of alignment in this room.

The only place where that balance felt stronger was in the core, but at the same time, as odd as it might sound, there wasn’t as much alignment between the magic within me and that of the sphere that controlled the wards. I knew that one day I’d have to align myself with that core, but I instinctively understood that I was far from ready.

That didn’t stop me from spending time down there meditating on the magic moving through me and that of the mysterious, shifting ball of shadows, but I knew the time wasn’t right to attempt to gain true control of the core. Something my great-grandfather had warned me repeatedly every time we spoke. He would prefer that I didn’t head down to the core, but he and my grandfather understood the (for lack of a better term) pull that came from the shadow core of the castle.

The tall, elegantly engraved velvet-cushioned chair reserved for The MacLeod sat behind the impressive desk that seemed to dominate the room without even trying. Like the chair, the desk was inlaid with runes. While some were Futhark runes, others were unknown to me. My great-grandfather, Alasdair, had explained that the other runes were from other runic languages. While he knew what most of them meant, there were several that he didn’t.

Those were easy to pick out, as while most of the runes, regardless of their source, had sharp, well-defined lines, there were sections along the inside of the desk – where only The MacLeod could see them – where the runes were vastly different. Those runes, which were also on the chair, the faded, worn flag that held a position of prominence above the sword behind the chair, and a handful of other locations in the castle, with the largest concentration being in the passage to, and the chamber containing the ward core. Those runes seemed to flow, as if engraved by a master calligrapher, merging into a series of unique, entrancing markings.

Stolen content alert: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.

As I walked around the desk, my fingers, as they always did, drifted over the flowing, ethereal carvings, and the faint hints of power they contained brushed up against the magic within me. There was power in these runes, power that I knew was beyond anything I’d learn in Hogwarts, or studying under a master runesmith. These engravings tasted of something wholly foreign, and yet distantly familiar. Everything about them, and where they lay in the castle, felt important.

It galled me to know that I was far from ready to learn their purpose, to say nothing of their origin, but I had to accept it. I wanted to know, I needed to know, what they meant, where they’d come from, and what power they linked to. Yet I knew that power taken or learnt before one was ready only led to disaster. The lesson, even if I understood it better than many would realise, had been drilled into me by my ancestors, Arcturus, my Aunts, tutors, and others.

Slipping into the master chair, I sighed in acceptance that the otherworldly runes were beyond my understanding. At the same time, I felt the magic in the chair react to me, shifting the cushions around, finding the location that provided the right amount of comfort without making me too comfortable. This room was a place of work, or business and planning, and while I was far from ready to begin preparing for the future beyond Hogwarts, I still enjoyed coming here.

As often happened once I was settled, my eyes drifted around the room, taking in the mysteries that inhabited it. To my right stood the wall of shelves. Magic coursed through the books, tempting me with what they might contain. Yet, much like understanding the unusual runes carved into the desk and other places, I knew the time to learn what those books contained wasn’t yet at hand. Not least as, of those that had names upon their spines, few were in English.

While I’d begun lessons in Scots Gaelic, it was a difficult language to learn. Far more so than the German I recalled from the adult part of me that had existed in another world before the merging. However, with my Occlumency now progressing to the stage where I could easily recall anything I knew with ease, I could easily access memories of lessons I’d had decades ago. That was slightly frightening but insanely useful.

Beyond the books, there were a handful of objects that continually drew my attention. The skull in a jar turned to watch me as I moved around the room and the strange gem the size of my fist being the two most obvious. The skull was, thanks to magic, alive in some way and the jaw moved as if trying to speak. I had once moved the jar to the desk and watched it for several hours. Yet, for all my curiosity about where the skull had come from – it wasn’t the correct shape to have been human though it was, roughly, about the right size – or what exactly it was saying or wanting, I’d not opened the jar.

While some of that had come from a fear that whatever the skull was might be dangerous, the biggest reason for my reluctance was the runic seals on the lid. Like the desk, not all the runes were Futhark, but what I could understand warned of danger, or fire and pain and I feared that opening it might release some form of unspeakable evil into the world.

The gem was another object I’d spent time watching, though that was because, somehow, it seemed as if it had come from the ward core. When I’d realised the connection between the pair, I’d first examined the core as closely as I dared, seeking a point where the gem might go. However, the core was perfectly smooth across its unerringly ideal shape. I was certain the gem was connected to the core, as they both had shifting, mesmerising shadows inside, yet I was at a loss for how.

Turning to the other side of the room, and where the hidden passage led to the ward core, I looked at the shelves there. There was barely a third of the storage space on that side, and everything stored there was spaced out and given positions of prominence. A dagger inlaid with the same runes I’d seen in Gringotts, and stained with something black, he a place of prominence on one shelf, while on another a ruby-fronted circlet drew the eye every time I looked at it. However, for today, my focus was on the book that sat in a central location on the shelves, resting on a raised pedestal.

While my lessons with Gaelic were slow going, I now knew enough to understand the title of the book: Grimoire of The MacLeod. Since learning that, the mere presence of the book continued to tease me. The knowledge within it was spells, charms, hexes, and all manner of magic created by my ancestors that were known and taught only to The MacLeod.

I lifted my wand and pressed it against the torc. “Thabhairt amach mo shinsear Alisdair MacLeod agus Áine MacLeod, nee O’Leary.” I felt the magic flow through my wand, touching what was within the torc, and then interacting with the magic imbued in the walls of the castle.

A second later, the frame containing my great-grandparents appeared in the room, resting comfortably on the guest chair on the other side of the desk. It was at an odd angle for looking at, but as I’d been more focused on making sure it arrived in a stable position than one ideal for viewing, I could live with it for now. The pair seemed to stumble inside their painting as if the magic of the wards summoning them had been unexpected. It shouldn’t have been since this meeting with Alasdair was planned, but it was still odd to see.

“That is not something I enjoy, but it is what it is,” Alasdair said after recovering from the summoning. “And thank you for including Áine in the summons. While she would only be frozen if she came without permission, I recall my grandmother complaining about how unusual and unnerving that had felt when I summoned my grandparents.”

“Yes, from speaking to her, that isn’t something I wish to experience,” Áine added with a smile. “Now, as this is business for The MacLeod only, I will leave you two to it.” She moved to the side of the portrait and walked away as if simply stepping behind the frame. I knew that wasn’t the case, and she’d instead move to another portrait of her in the house, one that wasn’t as enchanted as this one was. While that would limit her intelligence, in a way, it did seem a better option than being frozen in time with no memory of what had happened but knowing the time had passed.

Once she’d done that, I stood. The painting had to be moved so that looking at my great-grandfather didn’t take place at such an odd angle. I pointed my wand at the painting and tried using the charm I wanted silently.

As the frame drifted upward, caught in the field of effect of the levitating charm, Alasdair smiled. “While only a First-Year charm, that you can now use it silently is impressive. I assume this skill is due to the aggressive tutoring you’ve undergone in the last year.”

I nodded, accepting the praise as I lowered the portrait, placing it at a more advantageous angle. “Colloshoo.” That was the temporary sticking charm and would hold the frame in place for, if I’d used enough intent in the charm, for a few hours. Since it was a Second-Year charm, I hadn’t yet practised it enough to consider trying it silently, and certainly not with Alasdair’s portrait.

Once I was happy the frame was secure, I moved toward my chair.

“No.” I stopped at Alasdair’s command. “The Grimoire, bring it here.”

I frowned, wondering why he was asking that of me. Yes, the book continually had my attention when I was in here – at least if I wasn’t otherwise distracted by the other objects inside – but I’d been warned to not touch it. While the torc and my blood would mostly shield me for the protections on it, the magic inside was, according to my ancestors, far beyond me currently. Given that the last time I’d placed my hand over the book, I’d felt simmering of something within, I found myself agreeing, though that didn’t mean I hadn’t been curious about what might be contained within.

I moved toward the book, its position of importance always obvious by the small, tilted pedestal it sat on; nothing else on that shelf to distract from it. My hands came up, the magic of the book reacting to the magic flowing through me and the torc. The air seemed to thicken as my hand neared the cover, almost as if the book doubted I was worthy of touching it, never mind opening it. Yet, I knew this book, and what it contained, belonged to me. Its secrets are mine to discover and learn, even if today wasn’t the day that began.

A grunt slipped from my lips as it felt as if I was pushing through quicksand with faint, invisible vines reaching out to pull my palm away from its target. Time seemed to slow as I pushed forward, my magic crashing against the protections of the grimoire, demanding its subservience. Each millimetre toward my target brought greater resistance, greater strain, and greater challenge, yet onward I pushed. Eventually, as it felt as if I’d been doing this for hours, I felt my hand crash against the cover.

The magic blocking me ceased as my palm pressed against the odd rough surface of the book. I frowned as I picked it up, turning it over in my hands. The cover was different, made from the skin of something, but nothing like the leather seen on other book covers. Not even the rarer books I’d seen in the Inner Library, at the library of Le Domaine Noir or in any bookstore in Diagon Alley or Horizon Alley.

“Before you ask,” I turned to Alasdair who I couldn’t see due to the portrait facing the main chair, “I don’t know what the cover is made from. The colouring and texture match nothing I’ve ever felt before. Even books bound in dragon skin are smoother to the touch than whatever was used to bind the grimoire.”

I turned, my hands still running over the cover, as if trying to memorise every little nook and cranny of it. “How old is this?” I asked as I walked back to the desk.

“If you can, open the cover.” I paused mid-sit to look at Alasdair. For the last six months, ever since learning the name of the book, I’d been warned to not open it. To not even touch yet. Yet here was my great-grandfather telling me, from essentially beyond the grave, nonchalantly telling me to open it as if I’d not just had to fight the magic inherent in the book to even touch it. “You have proven yourself to the grimoire, and it will allow you to open it. However, it will sense when the spell on the following page is beyond your current ability to cast. The spells inside have, in the hands of one powerful enough and with an inclination toward the required magics, the potential to wipe all life, be it magical or muggle, from these isles. If not the entire continent.”

I gulped. Hard.

That kind of magic… was almost beyond comprehension. I mean, I’d seen clips of nuclear explosions from World War Two and watched videos of conventional weaponry with similar destructive capacity dropped during wars of the mid-twenty-first century. Yet, the spells Alasdair was suggesting this book contained made those seem irrelevant in comparison.

“Do not concern yourself. The first few pages contain no spells, nor wards that, as The MacLeod, you need to concern yourself about.”

Slowly, as if trying to disarm a bomb – which was an apt description – I gently lifted the cover. The odd-feeling material continued to brush against my fingertips as I cautiously revealed the first page. Yet, as that came into view, I frowned, wondering what I was looking at.

Hearing a grunt, I looked at Alasdair, keeping the cover grasped firmly between my fingers. “Yes, there is that,” he said slowly, and I returned my gaze to the first page of the book.

There was writing inside, however, it looked like nothing I’d ever seen. There were enough repetitive movements of whatever hand had placed it on the page, but the styling of the symbols, the odd ways some lines cut back, and the markings above the alien words meant nothing to me. Yet, the more I looked at the characters, and as I traced a finger over them, I felt as if I should understand them.

“What does it say?” I asked with the need to know more about this odd, mystical language.

He smiled broadly, amused by something. “I don’t know.” I blinked, uncertain if I’d heard him clearly. That made him start laughing. I glared, annoyed at the reaction. Yet, I only seemed to make him laugh harder, so I was forced to wait for him to recover. “Forgive me, but I had thought my time enjoying this moment had passed. The foreword of our grimoire, and what message it carries to every MacLeod of MacLeod has been lost to magic.” I frowned, wondering how such a thing could happen. “Centuries ago, in the days before the Wizarding Council had the power to force Clans to seek peace and forgive grievances, back when we faced raids from the Norse and the English, our Clan was attacked by another. That day, the chief, his children, and many of his grandchildren fell in the attack, and while our Clan continued, the torc passed to the third son of the third son; one never brought in on the secrets of the grimoire.”

“He, the first Dòmhnall to be The MacLeod, sought his revenge and wiped our rival Clan from the pages of history. While he was successful in wiping out those responsible for the attack on our Clan, he never recovered any knowledge of what language was used in the grimoire’s foreword. While the spells within can be read, even those written in archaic forms of Gaelic, the foreword, and the handful of spells in that language, have been lost to the annals of history. At least until one comes along and locates something akin to the Salmon of Knowledge.”

I stood there numbly, wondering when this attack had taken place, and just how old the grimoire was. “Wait!” I called out as an idea came to me. “Wouldn’t his portrait know?”

Alasdair chuckled. “That was the same question I asked my father when he told this story. And the same your grandfather and father asked when they heard it too.” He sighed and shook his head. “Alas, while there are Dealbhan Nas Motha going back ten generations before me, they came centuries after your namesake.”

I nodded, accepting that, though the mention of the Dealbhan Nas Motha – Greater Portraits – turned my thoughts back to them, and what knowledge they might hold as they rested in the Memory Vault. From what I’d learnt the room they resided in, which had never been named to not have it diminished into just another location, had a status effect in play. While stored within, time didn’t pass, which, it was theorised would prevent the painting from developing any issues with seemingly living long enough to watch your children, grandchildren and those that followed grow up, grow old, and die. Even with that taken into consideration, there had been MacLeod of MacLeod’s who’d chosen to not have a Greater Portrait created.

I wondered if perhaps my father had been one such MacLeod of MacLeod. He had told my grandfather that his painting was in Gringotts, as he considered it off-putting to speak with a copy of himself. Yet, the more I considered the matter, the more I wondered if, once I gained entry to Vault 243 or 343, I would find the portrait of my parents.

“Now, with that out of the way, close the book. For what you are to begin to learn today, it is no longer needed.” I frowned, caught out by the sudden change in topic, and the fact the book that he’d promised to begin my training with today, was to be discharged. Still, trusting him, I did as asked and then sat in the Chieftain’s chair. “Good, now. Tell me what you felt when you tried to reach for the grimoire?”

“Magic. That of the book, the torc, and what flowed through me.”

Alasdair nodded. “Good, and how did they react, how did they feel around each other?”

“The protections around the book resisted. They tried to prevent me from moving forward, from touching the cover.”

“And the magic within you?”

“That worked to let me reach the cover. The torc helped too as if it was drawing on the ambient magic in the castle.”

Alasdair smiled. “Yes, it did. Which, when combined with the magic that flows through you, as it did for all those who came before you, is what the book sensed. If it had not, then the resistance you mistook for protection would’ve lashed out.”

“What you felt was the book and the magic that helped create it, challenging you. It recognised the magic that flows through you, and wished to deem you worthy.” He paused and looked at the now-closed grimoire. “The magic of the ward core, that flows through the torc, meant it also had to ensure you were worthy to lead the Clan. It also, though I doubt you realised it, helped you see how to pull your magic in a way not taught within your textbooks. To summon it instinctively and harness it, and that the sliver of the ward core’s power that the torc currently grants you access to, to your will.”

I looked down at my hand and the torc that rested around my wrist, processing his words. “This is how I can, one day, use magic linked to our clan?”

“Yes, though I will warn you now to not expect results for years. The MacLeod of MacLeod can choose to teach it earlier, or later, to any of their bloodline, when they feel they are ready, but generally begin until after a young witch or wizard has started Hogwarts with an expectation they won’t learn to use it for anything but the most basic, almost instinctual magical outbursts until they turn fifteen. This helps to ensure they are mature enough, and close to realising their full potential, by the time they grasp the magic within themselves properly to be able to learn the basic magics created by our Clan.”

“Then why now for me?”

“Oh, it’s not because I think you’re ready to learn anything within the grimoire,” Alasdair replied with a grin. “It’s because, ideally, your father would’ve been here to guide you, to help show you how to sense the magic within you and teach you how to focus, harness and control it. However, he is no longer with us, and it falls to me and your grandfather to educate you in this matter.”

“Your progression with spells from Hogwarts is impressive, and as we will be unable to help truly guide you into harnessing the magic within you properly, we felt it best to reveal the reasons why these lessons were needed early.”

“Makes sense,” I replied with a nod. “So how exactly does this work?” While it was annoying that I’d have to wait at least half a decade to learn whatever I started today just to be able to use the spells within the grimoire, I accepted it. And I was glad that I’d be getting some guidance. This was one of those instances where Áine MacDougall had an advantage as our uncle, and her Guardian, Marcas, would know some of whatever magic the MacDougall’s had in their grimoire. And while I was starting this lesson early, other heirs and children from other Houses and Clans would have the support of their sitting Lord or Chief, and their parents and relatives to help with this.

Alasdair smiled, pleased I wasn’t going to wallow in pity of the loss of my parents nor complain that I’d lack the training he and others couldn’t give. “Meditation,” I groaned and rolled my eyes at that. “Lots and lots of meditation. As with learning to tap into your potential, and slowly unravelling the mental and spiritual blocks that you have, you need to focus on how the magic in you felt when you reached for and eventually touched the grimoire. From there, in perhaps two years, just before you depart for Hogwarts, we will see if you can draw your magic out and create a simple, instinctual spell that needs no wand nor words.”

My brow rose at hearing that. The idea of having a spell, even a weak one, that required only calling on the magic that flowed within me was intriguing. Beyond the defensive uses of that, it would, I hoped, help with my ability to use magic silently and wandlessly. To say nothing of how I hoped the spells within the grimoire aligned with the affinities and traits covering various branches of magic that I’d chosen before the merging.

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It was a few months after my tenth birthday, and spring was supposedly near, but until the last few days, it had been hard to tell as the island had been lashed by rain. Thanks to the wards covering the castle and grounds, the worst of the weather missed us, though the rain still came down, offering the forest and other areas moisture. The only area unaffected was the beach, which was covered by wards to prevent it from being anything but usable regardless of the weather.

I found that oddly amusing but the idea of sunbathing in the middle of winter, as the snow falling evaporated against the wards – which were hidden behind muggle-repelling and disillusionment charms – was an odd concept I’d yet to get my head around. It hadn’t stopped my cousins, including Áine, and the Blacks from enjoying the beach to play around. Or bugging me to let the wards allow the snow to fall inside the walls of the castle and the lawns beyond.

I’d enjoyed the day of simply being young and enjoying snowball fights with everyone who’d played. That said, getting pelted with snowballs sent by those who had their wands, with Bellatrix delighting in having hers chase me around, hadn’t been fun. At least until I’d returned fire with spellwork of my own.

That I had the wand wasn’t a surprise to any, as they all knew I had one, but the fact I could just about hold my own in a magically powered snowball fight against those in Hogwarts was. Well, those who were in their first or second year. Those in the higher years, like Bellatrix who was in her Fourth Year, and Fergus who was in his Sixth, even when working with the other with wands, we were overwhelmed, with Bellatrix seemingly delighting in tormenting me.

When the Winter Break had ended, I’d been once more left by myself in Dunscaith. Oh, my cousins not in Hogwarts came over at least once a week, or I went to their family estates, including Dunollie Castle, the ancestral seat of House MacDougall on Oban, which was only a few hours away by Raven. My lessons in everything continued, and I’d begun receiving missives from other Clans.

While I had no intention of accepting their proposals, mainly as I was too young to confirm them to the Wizengamot, I did consider them with my ancestors. Or at least the ones that didn’t include hints toward marriage agreements. That had confirmed the hints Melania had given me years ago about how, while a betrothal couldn’t be officially submitted to the Wizengamot and Ministry until both named parties were thirteen, informal agreements were often reached before then by Chiefs and Lords.

Those that suggested marriage agreements, or even considerations, were given polite, but blunt replies – which I could just about get away with due to my young age and supposed inexperience – saying I wouldn’t be considering any such thing for several years at least. I’d also, far more politely than I’d replied to the letters, confirmed to my aunts and Melania that I wasn’t interested in girls yet, and as such the subtle suggestions regarding my cousins and Narcissa were unneeded.

The only missives I’d truly dealt with had been from Ranlor. Slowly, I’d moved over a hundred thousand Galleons into muggle gold. Even with the ten per cent cut the Goblins took for converting the Galleons into muggle currency, since the price of gold had gone up nearly fifteen per cent since I’d gained control of my accounts, I was out ahead. Plus, as the rush in gold prices wasn’t due to really begin until 1970, I knew my investment would continue climbing. At least more than it ever would by investing in projects that might not pay off, or leaving it sitting in Gringotts.

Still, today was one of those days where I had little to do, and with the skies having stayed clear for the day, after lunch I found myself wandering into the forest that surrounded Dunscaith. At least to a degree.

As I entered the forest, everything seemed fine. The weather was fine and the temperature, controlled as it was by the wards, was warm without being hot. Yet, after twenty minutes of moving deeper into the trees, the sunlight was all but gone with the only light available to me being that generated from the Lumos spell I was generating from my wand.

This was as far as I’d gone before, the torc then, as it was now, warming to warn of potential danger. Yet, as I peered into the shadows of the dense forest, I failed to spot whatever was concerning the torc. I knew that creatures lived in the forest, but I’d barely ever gone far into it. While it wasn’t, in theory, a large forest, with magic hiding its true size, it could possibly be an area equal to a quarter of the island.

Kadic and my ancestors were insistent I didn’t go any deeper into the dark, foreboding forest than the point I was at now. The gentle warning of the torc acted as a marker of how deep I could go. Yet, in the various trips I’d made into the forest, I’d discovered that the warning of the torc came a little later each time. Sometimes it was perhaps another metre or more. Yet, as I grew and learnt more, the torc seemed to scale when it would offer a warning.

That meant that at some point, in theory, I’d be able to go to the darkest point in the forest and confront whatever creatures were lying in wait in the shadows. I knew that day was, like much of the things I’d learnt, or had been hinted at by others over the last year a long way, but it didn’t stop me from entering the forest.

I pushed on, a belief that I’d be safe inside the wards of Dunscaith, at the forefront of my mind. Yet, after only a few more metres, the torc warmed to an uncomfortable level. However, my attention wasn’t on it, but on the faint, indistinct shapes I swore I saw moving in the depth of the darkness that radiated throughout the forest.

Someone, or something, was moving deeper in the forest. Faint sounds of movement as whatever it was scraped against the brush and trees sent shivers down my spine. Whatever was there was dangerous, perhaps even to a fully trained wizard. Yet, as I stayed still, wondering what it was, and the certainty that I was being watched, I realised that whatever was out there wasn’t coming closer.

That suggested intelligence, and possibly an understanding that I was The MacLeod: That if I didn’t go deeper, I wasn’t a threat, but if I did, it would be a challenge from the chief of the land.

Taking a small step back, my eyes, keeping watch on the shifting figures in the shadows. Whatever was out there would have to wait, but I knew now that I’d be back. Not just to discover what it was that lived within my domain, but to prove my dominion over them, and test myself against whatever threat they presented.

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