Còir Buaidh

The Early Years 3

... ...

Two days after waking up in my bed – again – I was wandering the halls of Dunscaith Castle, getting reacquainted with the layout of my home. While I knew much of the castle from the part of me that had lived here before the attack on the summer solstice, much of it had been off-limits to ‘Dom’ before our merging. Yet now I held the title of MacLeod of MacLeod, or as Kadic continued to refer to me The MacLeod, I was able to wander into places that were entirely new.

I’d avoided taking the master bedroom even though Kadic said I could. The wounds of my new family’s deaths were still fresh in my mind. As were the deaths of my wife and kids. Honestly, dealing with two conflicting sets of memories was awkward, but I was muddling through it. Mainly as until this morning, I’d not been allowed to leave my bed and with little to do but lie around and think, I’d worked on overcoming most of the issues regarding my dual memories.

“Come on Dòm, if we don’t hurry, Aunt Siobhan won't make you any of your favourite lemon cakes.”

I spun, wanting to see my mother as she called to me, only to find myself in the empty corridor near my bedroom. I frowned, wondering how much longer I’d have to endure this. A fresh wave of despair passed over me as I remembered she, along with the rest of my family, was dead.

I’d had several moments like this while lying in bed recovering from my encounter with the source of the castle’s wards – whatever it was, wasn’t a wardstone – but they’d been fleeting things. Now, as I wandered the corridors, the memories were coming faster, and with stronger emotions attached to them. Though at least they were only for my life here and not from my life from another time and Earth.

“Give it back!”

“Make me!”

“Torcull! Give Dòmhnall his kelpie!”

I pivoted at the sound of my voice and Torcull but again saw nothing. This time I knew what I’d heard, and I was drawn into the memory.

It’d been about six months ago, during the winter break at Hogwarts. Tamhas and Sine had come home for the holidays, and while we’d been waiting for Father to return from King’s Cross with them, Torcull had grabbed a toy kelpie and ran off. I’d given chase though I was too small and young to force my older brother to return my toy. Mother had forced him to do so, and as soon as it was back in my hands, the floor had turned, and Father had arrived with Tamhas and Sine.

Sine had just finished her first year at Hogwarts while Tamhas had ended his third. At the time, I’d not picked up on why they’d had different coloured ties, or what it meant. However, with my second set of memories, I knew Sine had been a claw – which made sense since her room was full of books – and Tamhas was a snake.

Neither of my parents had cared about them being in either house or at least I’d not heard anything suggesting an issue. Either that meant my family tended to be in Slytherin, which was possible as I knew my grandmother on my father’s side was a Black or the reputation that Slytherin held in canon hadn’t yet reached a tipping point.

My grandparents had died in Grindelwald’s war as my father had mentioned, and while he’d never told me how, or even who they fought for, the subtle comments I could pull from my memories with Emotionless Recall hinted my family was generally anti-muggle at least.

If I’d learnt that with my new combined memories before my time in the Children’s Home, I’d possibly have been repulsed. I mean, in my former life – the non-Dòmhnall one – I’d been a muggle. However, after what I endured at the hands of those religious whack-jobs, I found myself less concerned about my family’s political leanings than I otherwise would’ve been.

Plus, from what I understood, it was the actions of Voldemort, and the inaction of Dumbledore, that made the rivalry between Gryffindor and Slytherin as severe as it was by Harry’s time. Being a Slytherin now, while still having a stigma to it, shouldn’t be a major issue. Hell, I knew Merlin himself had been in Slytherin. Or at least the Merlin in the canon timeline. There were issues with when Merlin was said to have attended Hogwarts and when he was meant to have lived if the tales of Arthur, Camelot et al had a grain of truth to them. However, that was something for researching much later, for now, I had other things I wanted to learn.

I paused outside Alasdair’s room. He’d been my youngest sibling, only having turned five a few days before… before he died. I sighed as memories of him flooded my thoughts. Of him crawling around the main room, trying desperately to get one of Yop’s cookies. Mother had lifted him to stop him, only for a cookie to float toward them. She’d grabbed it before it reached my brother, but she’d then given it to him after congratulating him on using magic. From what I understood, that was the first time Alasdair had used accidental magic. I didn’t know when my older siblings had first displayed their aptitude for magic, but I did recall my first time.

I’d been a babe, still a few months shy of my second birthday, when I’d grown angry at my father for ignoring me. I’d cried and slammed my hands down on the floor. The next moment, the world darkened, and the ground seemed to shake. I started crying, scared of what was going on but after recovering, my father had scooped me up. A large smile had spread over his face as he held me, one mirrored by my mother when she’d rushed into the room wondering what had happened. The pair had spoken of family magic and Father had passed me to Mother before he’d raced off to talk with my grandfather.

I blinked, trying to put that memory together with the fact I knew my grandparents had died decades earlier. It took only a second before I realised it likely meant. “Kadic!” I called out and a second later a faint pop echoed in the corridor as the elf appeared.

“The Macleod calls Kadic?”

I smiled at him. “Yes. I know m… mother and father are dead, but I remember them speaking of my grandparents. How?” I already suspected there were magical portraits of them somewhere in the house, and perhaps my parents as well, but I couldn’t be too blunt about it. Kadic was loyal to the family, such as it was, but if he suspected I wasn’t entirely Dòmhnall, then there might be issues. Even with me now being The MacLeod and having the torc to confirm it.

“Old MacLeod’s have portraits. In the family library.”

I frowned. “Kadic, I’ve been in there. There are no portraits,” I remembered the rows of books and it had been where I’d been planning to go; at least before I’d gotten distracted by my memories.

Kadic’s head tilted to one side for a moment before he blinked and hit the side of his head. “Kadic stupid. Kadic not tell The MacLeod of Inner Library.”

I frowned, wondering what this inner library was, and at seeing him hit himself. It hadn’t been hard, so it might only be him imitating something he’d seen a wizard or witch do, but I’d have to keep an eye on it to ensure he wasn’t forced to self-harm himself when he made a mistake like Dobby had to do with the Malfoys. “What inner library?”

Before I realised it, Kadic had taken my hand and clicked his fingers. The world twisted in ways that made my stomach do somersaults while inside out as I was apparated by the elf.

… …

When we emerged in the library, I looked around, the older component of my combined mind salivated at seeing so many books. When that part of me had lived, books had fallen out of fashion, mainly due to a shortage of trees. Only those with money, real money, could afford to get books and even public libraries had ceased to exist in the decade leading up to my death.

The room I was standing in now, was covered in books. Two floors existed, with a set of stairs leading to the upper level. Every inch of the walls, save where there was a door or window, was covered in bookshelves; each filled to the brim with books. The bookcases were made of dark mahogany, blending well with the dark red, almost like dried blood, carpet while the ceiling… I blinked as it started to move. The air was alive with movement, as delicate forms twirled and swirled above me, enacting a story of their own. It was a scene I recognized, having been here before, yet the experience was different following my merge. The ethereal dance left me breathless, but my curiosity was piqued - I longed to know the meaning behind the performance, a mystery that my parents had never told me about.

From the younger part of my mind, I knew which books had been aimed at children and instinctively I took a step toward them only to stop. I wasn’t here to re-read them, even if the Adventures of Wenslop Wanderling were some of my favourites. No, I was here to see the Inner Library.

I kept looking around, searching for the door, only to stop as I saw a large sofa; one that Mother had often read to me on. I blinked, finding my vision blurred. A hand reached up to my eyes, sweeping away the tears that streamed down my face. I vowed that if it was the last thing I did, I would hunt down those responsible for tearing my family away from me and reap a bloody vengeance. They needed to feel anguish, to understand the depth of pain they had caused.

“The MacLeod is well?”

I turned and looked back at Kadic. Worry was all over his face and I wondered how he was dealing with everything. He’s lived longer than me, serving the family for over a century. And then, in one fell swoop, he’d believed the entire family had been wiped out. Yes, he’d eventually found me, but that likely only made things worse. And explained why he hovered over me, always being nearby to keep me safe.

“As well as I can be,” I replied, looking down at my hand, seeing it wet with my tears. “One day Kadic, one day we’ll find who did this to my… to our family.” I all but snarled as I clenched my fist, wanting to pull the tears back inside.

Kadic nodded. “Kadic will help The MacLeod. Kadic will make the bad ones pay.” There was something in his tone, something that promised violence, that made me smile. Kadic was incredibly loyal to my family, and to me, and to hear him agree with me warmed my heart.

I gave him a nod of thanks, not wanting to voice the rage I felt. I had to maintain that I was seven and immature, not something more. For now, I had to find the door to the Inner Library. It only took a moment as, near the back of the room, a bookcase I’d seen father frequent, shifted as if it were composed of countless tiny particles that shifted and swirled, creating a mesmerising display of shimmering light. Through it, I saw… an archway.

“I love magic,” I whispered as I walked closer to the strange bookcase. A warmth spread across my wrist, as though the torc on my arm had been basking in the sun. I paused, taking in the unexpected sensation, and glanced down at it. To my surprise, some of the runes etched upon the torc were glowing with a molten gold hue, emanating a soft light that bathed my skin. I recognized some of the Nordic symbols- or thought I did, but others were composed of intricate patterns that were entirely unfamiliar to me. “Kadic, can you find me some books on basic runes?” I asked as I remembered I needed to learn what I could about the torc, the Master Study and the strange runes covering both. Plus, those in the odd tunnel that led to the magical heart of the castle. “And any books that Tamhas might’ve had from Hogwarts on the subject?”

I doubted the schoolbooks would tell me anything those stored in the library wouldn’t, but I wasn’t prepared to leave any stone unturned. With the family magic being called Flesh Carving and having taken Runes of the World, I wanted to get started on this branch of magic as soon as I could. What also helped is, at least for learning the basics, there was little need for a wand. Or so I assumed. Still, even if a wand was needed for basic rune work, there was no harm in learning as much as I could before I was old enough to get a wand and attend Hogwarts. The same was true of other branches of magic, and not just those I had taken affinities for, but runes were a more pressing issue with the torc that was on my wrist that refused to be removed.

“Kadic obeys The MacLeod.” I saw a dozen books lift off one of the shelves to my right, though I put that aside as I moved forward toward the shimmering bookcase.

As I approached the shimmering bookcase, a strange sensation buzzed at the edges of my mind, as if trying to lure me away from my goal. The torc warmed further, and the sensation faded. That must mean the torc was what allowed me to enter the Inner Library, or at least overcome the initial defences the Inner Library held.

As my fingers brushed against the partially-there bookcase, a jolt of energy surged through me, causing me to recoil. It was unlike anything I had ever experienced before - not a mere static shock, nor anything like being struck by lightning. Instead, it felt as though I was being judged by a primordial force beyond my comprehension. The Torc on my wrist warmed even further, bordering on starting to hurt. Not enough to burn me, but enough that if I could remove it, I would.

Before I could really think about what was happening, the strange sensation faded and the torc cooled. I felt myself being pulled forward and stumbled.

When I looked up, I gasped. The room had changed, or I’d moved. There were still bookshelves lining the walls, though most only held a few books. The rest of the space was taken up by… things. On one shelf I saw a skull of something that, judging by the elongated fangs, was not quite human. On another, I saw a horn, one that offered a sense of warmth and comfort, unlike anything I’d ever felt. Other shelves were covered in things I couldn’t even begin to describe, yet my focus was quickly drawn to the centre of the room.

There, on a pedestal that towered above me and exuded an aura of danger and power, sat a book. It was elegantly bound in dark red leather, its exterior otherwise unremarkable. And yet, I knew that this book held secrets that were anything but mundane.

Like a moth to a flame, I drew nearer to the book on the pedestal. Its cover glowed in parts, and the torc on my wrist heated up once more, emanating a deep crimson light that was both natural and otherworldly. This tome, it radiated power not just from its contents, but from its very being.

Once I was close enough, I reached out to touch the book. A surge of unfathomable energy coursed through me, throwing me back as if struck by a primordial force. I tumbled head over heels, disoriented and dizzy until I slammed into the wall.. The shelves nearby shook, and as I regained my bearings, I feared something irreplaceable might’ve fallen and shattered. Yet as I looked around, I saw that wasn’t the case.

Save for me, nothing was out of place.

I stood slowly; my eyes locked once more on the book. It had challenged me, I knew this, and had deemed me… unready. Not unworthy, but not yet ready for the knowledge it contained. That was odd as fuck, but I was quickly coming to accept that odd as fuck was normal for magic. Or at least the magic contained within Dunscaith Castle.

“You shouldn’t be here child.” I spun, my body moving me into a fighting stance to face whoever else was there, only to see nothing there bar a row of paintings. “Unusual but impressive, but what…”

“Dòmhnall!” I blinked in shock as an elderly, though not old, lady in one painting turned and slapped the gentleman beside her. “Can’t you see who it is?”

The man in the painting rubbed his cheek and glared at the woman. “What?” My jaw almost hit the floor as I saw the pair converse. “Why’d you do that woman?!”

“Look at him Dòmhnall,” the woman replied, an arm in the painting pointing at me without ever leaving the canvas.

As the man turned, I understood I was seeing a magical painting, and I felt I knew who these people were. “Grandfather?” I asked slowly as I drew on memories of paintings – at least ones that couldn’t speak – that were around the house. Those held paintings of family members going back several centuries and the more recent, as in about two hundred years or younger, could move.

Silence stretched between us as the man in the portrait, my grandfather, Dòmhnall MacLeod's eyes remained fixed on me, searching for answers to the impossible. I could feel the weight of his unspoken question hanging heavy in the air, begging for an explanation. "How?" he finally managed to utter, his voice barely above a whisper.

“Huh?” My reply lacked grace, but given I was now in a conversation with people who’d died decades ago, it was hardly a surprise.

“Dòmhnall, what happened?” The woman, who I knew was called Cassiopeia, asked, one of her painted hands coming to rest on my grandfather’s shoulders. “We know your father died, but that’s all we know.”

“How?” How could they know this? That made zero sense.

“Whenever a MacLeod of MacLeod dies, any portraits of the former MacLeod of MacLeod's return here,” my head snapped to the painting next to my grandparents to see another couple there. Both had features similar to my grandfather, so I assumed they were his parents or grandparents. “At least, if they were moved by the former clan chief.” The man leaned forward: or appeared to since he was just a painting. “As the heir, you should know of this.”

“Dòmhnall wasn’t the heir, father,” my grandfather said slowly. “He was third in line.” The eyes of my grandparents and great-grandparents – and several other sets of ancestors – focused on me. “What happened?”

"We...we were ambushed during the Summer Solstice," I whispered, my voice thick with emotion.

“What?” “How?” “Traitors!” “War!”

“QUIET!” My grandmother’s shout silenced the roar of indignation and rage from my ancestors, ones I realised had been The MacLeod before me. “Let him speak!” She smiled softly at me, “Please, continue.”

“I… I don’t remember much,” I whispered, my voice choked with emotion. “Tamhas found me. He said we were being attacked. We saw Father’s body. I… I saw Tamhas die. Mother saved me, sent me away with this.” I held up the necklace that I refused to remove even when bathing.

There was a stunned silence, broken only by the occasional murmur from the portraits.

“After that,” I continued, “I woke up in a hospital. A muggle hospital.” The grumbles grew louder, and curses were muttered about placing a MacLeod in the hands of muggles.

“Go on Dòmhnall,” Grandmother urged with a smile, though it looked like water was gathering in her eyes. I blinked, shocked to see a painting cry.

“I was sent to a children’s home. Th… they didn’t like me because of my eyes,” which earned a comforting smile from my grandmother and my grandfather seemed to swell with anger. “Th…they tried to do something to me. Something to do with their God.”

“They did WHAT?!” Grandfather roared; his voice was soon joined by others. I took a step back, the fury in his posture seemingly making the painting ripple with anger.

“Dòmhnall!” Grandmother snapped at him, her hands moving over his arm. “Let him tell the story. All of it. Then we see how to respond.”

My grandfather's rage subsided at her words, though the painting still seemed to crack with tension. Eventually, he growled. “Finish the story, boy.”

I gulped, feeling small under his piercing gaze. The Matron had never scared me, but this man, this painting of my grandfather... he was on a whole different level. He had once wielded power that could level cities with ease, and I couldn't help but feel a deep sense of fear in his presence. “When they… tried what they were doing, I… I lashed out. I… killed them. Then Kadic found me.”

“That’s my grandson,” the painting settled as my grandfather smiled down at me. “Teach those… things, they shouldn’t mess with their betters.”

I ignored him and looked around. “Wait? Where’s Kadic?”

“He can’t get in lad,” I turned back to my grandfather. “Only the chief, the heir and the head elf can enter this library. I suspect that with the deaths of Tamhas and Torcull, you’d be the heir now.”

“Actually,” I began before holding up my arm. The sleeve of my pyjama top had slid down to reveal the torc in all its intricate detail.

Grandfather's eyes zeroed in on the torc, his expression shifting from surprise to something more intense. “How?” he demanded, his voice low and intense.

“How old are you boy?” That came from my great-grandfather.

“Seven,” I replied, making him blink. A moment later he started laughing.

“Father! This isn’t funny!”

“No Dòmhnall, it’s incredible,” my great-grandfather replied. He looked over to where my grandparents were, though I doubt they could see each other due to the frames on their paintings. After rolling his eyes, he returned his gaze, one that carried with it, experience and power that demanded respect, to me. “That torc, as Kadic should’ve told you by now, means you are now The MacLeod; chief of Clan MacLeod – in both the magical and muggle worlds – and lord of Dunscaith Castle. And other things, though those will come later. Come here,” he knelt in his painting as if that would give him a better look at me and the torc.

I did as he asked, keeping my arm up so he could see the torc. His eyes wandered over it more than me before he chuckled and stood.

“You don’t realise what you’ve done, do you?” He shook his head again with another laugh. “If you weren’t all that remained of our clan, and still missing a wand I’d be arranging betrothals for you.”

“Alasdair!” My grandmother barked sharply.

“Quiet girl. You may have married into our clan, but there’s much you never learnt of our history.” Alasdair shook his head. “As it is, I almost pity you, boy.” I frowned, my confusion deepening as he spoke, and I couldn't help but feel a sense of foreboding. "No MacLeod has ever claimed the title of MacLeod of MacLeod before reaching their maturity. Not since the founding of Hogwarts, at any rate. You have now entered a world that you are wholly unprepared for, where men far wiser and more powerful than I or your grandfather will fight to gain control of you." I swallowed, feeling overwhelmed by the weight of his words. Taking control of the wards suddenly felt like a grave mistake, and I couldn't help but wonder if I had doomed myself. "Wodin, you may have even-" he paused, his hand hovering in the air before he waved it dismissively. "No, there's no chance of that."

I stared at him, wondering just what could be worse than having older and more powerful wizards and witches fighting over me. A cold chill ran down my spine as if someone had walked over my grave. Whatever he was speaking of, I hoped never to discover what it was. At least not until I was far older, wiser, and more powerful.

… …

… …

My head snapped up as my great-grandfather, Alasdair, mentioned something several hours after I’d first entered the Inner Library. “Wait? What?!” I whipped around, drawn toward the tome that sat in the middle of the room.

“Aye, lad. That tome holds the family magic; the ability to carve runes and the like into the skin of yourself and others of our bloodline.” I shifted a hand, planning to head back to the book, any interest in my ancestors gone upon learning the tome was linked to Flesh Craving.

“Dòmhnall Fionnlagh MacLeod! Don’t even think about touching that thing!” Cassiopeia, my grandmother snarled, freezing me mid-turn. “You're decades away from being ready to learn that!”

“Perhaps not decades as my darling Cassie suggests, but it certainly isn’t something to touch until you’ve gotten a good base in runic magic.” That came from my grandfather, Dòmhnall, and as I turned back to their portrait, I saw Cassiopeia had turned her wrath on him. “He is The MacLeod my darling. The tome will be opened eventually, and as my father said, others will look to control him, to gain access to that very tome. Just as your uncle did by arranging our betrothal.”

“I chose you, ‘Nall. The betrothal simply kept those harlots away,” Cassiopeia replied as she patted his arm. “Or are you saying you regret our years together?”

“Of course not," Dòmhnall said after a moment of silence. "Please forgive my overreaction. I am simply concerned for the well-being of our grandson." After a smile and nod from Cassiopeia, he turned back to me. “I need you to promise me boy that you’ll not try and open, not even bond with the tome until I, my father and others agree you’re ready?” From the way he looked at me, it was clear he was worried for me, but I felt as if there was more to it than that.

“My son only wishes to avoid seeing another member of our clan punished for reaching too far, too quickly,” my great-grandfather chimed in, his wife, Áine, held his hand, her gaze falling to the ground. “Dòmhnall wasn’t born my heir. His brother convinced he was ready, attempted to open the tome. It… It extracted a fatal price for his arrogance.”

My head turned, taking in the tome. The power I’d felt from it since entering the Inner Library now held a sinister edge. “Oh.” The words slipped from my mouth with ease. I had no interest in dying young. Not after being granted this rare opportunity to live a new life in another world; one not yet irrecoverably ruined by the actions of non-magicals.

“Yes, the tome extracts a toll on those who use it, to prove they are worthy.” There was a pause and I turned back to the paintings to see him rubbing his chin. “Still, if you can become The MacLeod at such a tender age, I have little doubt that one day the tome will reveal some, if not most, of its secrets to you.”

“Why wouldn’t it reveal all of them? I mean not right away, but given time won’t I, wouldn’t you and grandfather have read it from cover to cover?”

The two men shared a laugh. “The tome isn’t just from where we learn flesh carving, it is magic. The leather it is bound in comes from the skin of selkies whose descendants still roam the seas near this island. The pages pressed from the flesh of fallen enemies of our clan and written in the blood of our distant cousins.”

“From what I’ve learnt from those who came before me, the book hasn’t revealed all her secrets to any single MacLeod since the birth of our clan. The best most can hope for a third of the pages to not be blank.” Alasdair added in agreement with my grandfather. “Though legend states that the founder of our house learnt all that was written within the tome. That he used it to shape the elves that serve our clan into something… more than other house elves. There is even…” he paused and shook his head, ending the sentence oddly.

I opened my mouth to ask what he meant, only for a loud rumble to fill the room. I blinked and looked down at my stomach. “I, uh.” My mumbling was cut off by a gentle laugh.

“How long has it been since you’ve eaten?” Cassiopeia asked, her smile matched by her husband.

“Um, I’m not sure. Kadic?” I called out for the elf, only to frown. That faded away quickly as I remembered he couldn’t enter the Inner Library.

“He can’t enter here, child.” I turned and looked up at Alasdair as he reminded me of that fact. “Only you, your wife, heir and those you name as your closest confidants can enter. And even then, only after reciting an oath. Repeat after me: An seo agus an-dràsta, togaidh mi Kadic o a ghlùinean romham, mar a dh’èireas mi ann an cumhachd, mar sin bidh esan, far an coisich mi, leanaidh e, far an cog mi bheir e dìon dhomh, nuair a ghairmeas mi, freagraidh e, nuair a chailleas mi, bidh e dean dioghaltas agus caoidh orm.”

I frowned, not at why Kadic couldn’t enter this room, as that made sense. If the castle’s core and the tome controlling the family magics were in the master study and here respectfully, then access to the room should be restricted. No, I was frowning at the words he said. They sounded similar to what my mother had said before I’d disappeared from the campsite where my family had been murdered.

“An seo agus an-dràsta, togaidh mi Kadic o a ghlùinean romham, mar a dh’èireas mi ann an cumhachd, mar sin bidh esan, far an coisich mi, leanaidh e, far an cog mi bheir e dìon dhomh, nuair a ghairmeas mi, freagraidh e, nuair a chailleas mi, bidh e dean dioghaltas agus caoidh orm.” As I spoke the words, I felt the torc heat up, and when I finished and looked down at it, I saw a new set of runes on it glowing in a soft, dark red light. However, I didn’t have time to contemplate on that, nor ask what I’d said as a faint pop sounded, and Kadic appeared at my side.

“The MacLeod summons…” Kadic stopped mid-sentence, his eyes almost growing larger than his head. “Kadic has failed The MacLeod’s of before,” He started as he fell to his knees, one hand going to his chest. “Kadic must pay.”

“Kadic NO!” Alasdair’s tone stopped whatever the elf was doing in his tracks. “You haven’t failed Kadic; you have saved our clan. And are rewarded for your actions.” He glanced lower and Kadic followed his gaze.

“Ah!” Kadic jumped to his feet, his hands patting at his toga, specifically where the sigil of Clan MacLeod was. However, unlike earlier, the sigil was now a deep red. His eyes locked on me, tears forming in them. “The MacLeod names Kadic head elf?”

I looked at the paintings to see my ancestors nodding. “Um, yeah. I did.” Before I knew it, Kadic snapped to attention. His posture lost all the looseness it’d had before. Almost as if Kadic was a new elf.

“Kadic serves The MacLeod. Kadic dies for The MacLeod. Kadic kills for The MacLeod.”

I blinked at his words, confused by them. He’d already killed to save me if I understood what he’d done in the Children’s Home. “Huh?”

“He is confirming his place as the senior elf of the clan,” I looked up at Alasdair to see a smile dancing on his lips. “Though given he’s the only elf left, it’s not much of a promotion.”

“At least until Dòmhnall here purchases new elves,” Áine added, patting her husband’s hand. “However, there shouldn’t be much need for that for many years.”

“Kadic, Dòmhnall is hungry,” Cassiopeia said, “perhaps you might take him for a meal.” I looked at her, feeling as if I was being dismissed. “Once you’ve eaten, you can return. Unless you wish to bring crumbs into this library?”

“Ah.” While there were tables to sit at, eating or drinking anything but water, in there felt wrong. As if I was disrespecting the castle and the family. “Right.” I turned to Kadic. “Can you take me to the kitchen?”

Kadic smiled and placed a hand on my arm. A moment later, the world twisted in a now familiar way as I was side-apparated away by the elf.

… …

“Might I ask why you sent him away?” Alasdair asked. While he couldn’t see his daughter-in-law, he could hear the gears in her head turning. While he’d never been particularly close with her uncle, he was glad Áine had convinced him to accept the match between her and Dòmhnall.

“He’s not ready for what we need to discuss,” she replied, earning a nod from Áine. “I know I’m not a MacLeod by blood, but even I felt his power."

“Aye, she’s right.” That came from Alasdair’s grandfather, Seumas. “The lad’s got power in his blood. More than any of my progeny have ever had.”

Alasdair rolled his eyes at that. His grandfather had always put down everyone who came after him. Merlin, he’d put down everyone everywhere. Which might be why his sons had killed him during a family vacation in Norway.

“More than that. He’s alone in the world,” Áine offered. “There’s no one to warn him of the dangers that are brewing in our world. The problems that have existed for centuries grow worse with each passing year.”

“I… I have an idea,” Cassiopeia began slowly. Alasdair suspected he knew what she was about to suggest but wished to hear what the others thought before offering his opinion. “I have a painting at my family’s main manor. One which isn’t hidden like we are here. I could reach out to my cousin…”

“NO!” Dòmhnall cut in. “NO! We don’t need his help!”

Alasdair shared a look with Áine. While they were related by marriage, Dòmhnall had never liked Arcturus, blaming him for Alasdair and Áine’s death in Grindelwald’s war. While they didn’t have the memories of how they died - the painting they were having last been imparted with knowledge half a year before their deaths - neither felt Arcturus was responsible for their death. No, this was more linked to Arcturus blocking Dòmhnall’s move to become Minister of Magic.

“Then who should we ask to teach him?” Cassiopeia’s tone was sharp and lethal. “Your brother perhaps?”

Alasdair was glad his son couldn’t see his face. Ruairi, Dòmhnall’s younger brother, was the one regret he kept even decades after his death. Ruairi had always blamed Dòmhnall for the death of their parents; and the last any had heard, the younger son had left Europe after a failed attempt to kill Dòmhnall and become The MacLeod.

“I… No. It would be unwise to ask Ruairi,” Dòmhnall replied to his wife, making Alasdair nod. It seemed his son hadn’t softened in his later years as Alasdair had feared he might. “But Arcturus?”

“I’d say we could ask MacDougall’s to teach our grandson, but Aonghus and Kara’s portrait isn’t here.” Alasdair regretted that. His great-grandson and his wife had a painting commissioned, but finding it unnerving to talk with themselves, Aonghus had placed it in a vault in Gringotts. A decision that now left the paintings with a problem.

“While I have no doubt Arcturus will try to manipulate the boy, he is our best choice,” Alasdair said slowly. “Ruairi will have heard of the attack on his nephew and his family. If he hasn’t already returned, he soon will and attempt to gain control of the castle. Young Dòmhnall isn’t capable of stopping him and we cannot allow my lost son to become The MacLeod. Thus, we are left with little choice but to trust The Black. However, when you speak to him, make it clear we will be advising Dòmhnall to not trust anything he says, nor will any attempt at betrothing one of his nieces to the boy be allowed.”

If one of the Black girls did turn Dòmhnall’s head later in life, Alasdair might not complain. Cassiopeia had been good for his son, and history did love to repeat itself. The issue might be, that from what Cassiopeia had said, only the youngest was the same age as the boy. Though it was the eldest, Bellatrix, who was regarded as the most powerful of the three.

“You know this will backfire somehow? Arcturus always has an angle.”

Alasdair shared a look with Áine before she replied. “Yes, but he is the best choice. The Blacks are more connected and politically powerful than our family, especially now. While there are issues where we might disagree, our interests have aligned more often than not.”

He smiled and kissed his wife on her cheek. Arcturus would try to use young Dòmhnall, but everyone uses everyone. It was the way of the world, with the strong leading the weak. Controlling them if they couldn’t be trusted to act in the interests of the Greater Good. And one thing Alasdair was sure of was that young Dòmhnall had power.

The boy had become The MacLeod at seven. Something he’d never seen in the family history. Not since the Flag of the Fae was given to… Alasdair chuckled. History did enjoy repeating itself. The Flag of the Fae - one of the clan’s most sacred relics - had been given to Dòmhnall, son of Leiod, founder of the clan, by his mother. According to family legend, she may have been a Fae princess and the one whose blood was used to write the tome of Flesh Crafting.

It was unlikely the young Dòmhnall would match their line’s progenitor for power, but he would be powerful. Alasdair needed the boy tested, the potential size and depth of his magic examined. Arcturus would have to arrange that, but it would place the clan in a position of weakness against the Blacks. Now, they weren’t enemies, far from in fact, but Alasdair hated owing anything to anyone. Save, perhaps, his darling Áine.

… …

… …

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