Of Padraic and the Serpents (the Keeping the Faith Remix)
Remix Author: Olukemi
Original Story: Of Padraic and the Serpents by vivien
Summary: War and salvation. Just history repeating.
Rating: PG
Fandom: Harry Potter
Warnings: Character death. Violent imagery.
In the days before the Dark wizard Padraic returned to our shores, magic flowed unfettered in Eire.
***
Hermione stumbled upon the scroll purely by accident while searching the Restricted Section for a tome on tactical applications of alchemy. Under normal circumstances, no students would have been allowed back there, Head Girl or not. But Madame Pince had been dead for more than a month now and circumstances were as far from normal as possible.
The war had been raging openly and brutally since Christmas Eve. In an offensive maneuver to root out and destroy the Boy Who Lived, the fighting had spilled over onto Hogwarts’ doorstep in mid-April. That had been six weeks, thirty Aurors, five teachers, and twenty students ago.
Steel-willed and fiercely intelligent, Hermione had become the new librarian more by default rather than having been officially assigned the task. No one knew the library like she did, not even Dumbledore.
As part of her duties, she was constantly on call to the regiment of Aurors who had been sent from the Ministry to help fortify the school. She searched for and provided any and all information they might need in their effort to develop new means of defense. No one had yet said the words out loud, but they all knew. Hogwarts was weakening and, without some kind of miracle, the school would fall within weeks.
That’s where the text on alchemy came in. It wasn’t a miracle; the information in the book wasn’t that powerful. But it was all they had at the moment.
She had never been that far back into the stacks before, and she was mildly appalled at the haphazard way antique books and rolls of aged parchment were shoved onto the shelves. The book she was looking for, a heavy tome bound in faded purple leather, was wedged in next to a pile of scrolls of varying size and thickness. In her hurry, she had left her wand back at the circulation desk and she had to stretch to reach the manuscript.
She cursed under he breath when, along with the book, came down a shower of rotting paper. Hermione sneezed at the dust kicked up about her, then sighed at the heap of scrolls about her feet. At least she’d found what she was looking for; she could take care of the mess later.
She extricated herself from the clutter as carefully as possible, trying not to damage the aged papers or make the mess worse. As she turned to go, her eyes caught site of a small scroll that had rolled part way under the set of shelves across the aisle. Book tucked under her arm, she bent to retrieve it. It had come open during the fall, and mindful of magic straying from where it shouldn’t, she took care to gently re-roll and seal the parchment.
She stopped halfway when three words leapt out at her.
Serpentis. Crucis. Vincire.
Serpent. Torment. Conquer.
And then—
Magus Obscurus.
“Dark Wizard.” Hermione could hardly hear the breathless words over the sudden pounding of her heart; she barely registered that they’d stumbled past her own lips.
Brutally snuffing the small flare of hope, she finished rolling the scroll and carefully slipped it into the pocket of her robes. Later, back in her room, she’d take a good look at her discovery. If she found anything useful, and only then, she would show it to the others.
She hurried out of the stacks.
***
But then Padraic, who had been raised a slave in one of the warlike clans and fostered by a practitioner of Dark Arts, challenged our existence. He was garbed in the robes of the Light, but his heart was bent on vengeance. He aroused suspicion of our ways in the hearts of the Muggles, preaching to them of a new God who looked upon our ways with disdain.
***
Two weeks.
Two weeks of curling up with a candle and quill and ink, poring over the scroll every night until her eyes ached and her vision swam with old Latin. She couldn’t use any translation spells because the parchment was already heavy with protective magic; anything more would likely destroy it.
Two weeks of injuries and casualties that grew heavier with every day that passed, mourning teachers and friends as they fell. Lupin, Kingsley, oh god, Ron.
Two weeks of hoping, despite her best efforts, that there was something in there that could help them, only to discover halfway through that she was translating a goddamn Bible story?
Hermione felt like screaming. She felt like screeching her rage and frustration to the heavens until her throat tore and she could scream no more. She wanted to tear her hair out from the root until her scalp bled, streaming blood down her face like the tears she refused to shed.
But she did none of this.
Instead, she curled up on her blanket in her small corner of the Slytherin common room—Gryffindor Tower had been destroyed the week before and this was, in fact, the safest place in what was left of the school—and lit her small nub of candle.
She always finished what she started.
***
The next time I met with Padraic, it was to challenge him to a duel for control of my homeland. I called on the spirits of my ancestors, the powers of the elements and our nature spirits to fortify me. It was all for naught. With those Latin words of power, I was shamefully defeated. When word got out to the Muggle populace that Padraic meant to drive all the serpents from Eire - all the magic users - we were forced to flee. Even our strongest warding charms did not protect us from Padraic and his growing mob of bloodthirsty followers.
The Tuatha de Danaan granted us passage into their world to escape and regroup.
***
The day Harry died, Hermione found the answer.
***
Translated from the archaic Latin text dated approx. 550 AD, by H. Granger
The small brass plate rested just beneath the magically reinforced glass that protected a rather innocuous, but incredibly old-looking roll of parchment from all manner of degrading forces. Time, air pollutants, ultra-violet light. And the sticky fingers of little boys.
“Ariel, get away from there!”
Contrarily, a nose joined the fingers already pressed against the glass. “Why’s that paper in there, mummy? Is it important? What does it say, mummy?”
The sigh spoke of a gentle frustration only other mothers would understand. Gently prying her son from the display, she answered as she pulled out a handkerchief to wipe the remnants of a chocolate frog from the boy’s mouth. “It’s a very important paper, love. It helped save the world. A very smart lady discovered it.”
His brow wrinkled as he tried to outmaneuver spit-moistened cotton. “Emony Granger?”
“Her-My-Oh-Knee. Keep still, Ariel.”
“Is that her, mummy?”
Finished with her task, she stood and looked at the wizard photograph on the wall next to the display case. In it were two figures: a young woman with bushy brown hair, too-old eyes and a sad smile, but radiating a quiet triumph, and next to her was a vague female shape, intensely colorful, but swirling and out of focus as if the subject had moved just as the shutter clicked. In the photo, the young woman occasionally blinked but stayed perfectly still. The other figure never moved, yet never came into focus.
“Yes, that’s her.”
“Who’s that next to her?”
“That’s the Lady of the Tuatha de Dannan. She’s our Queen, dear.”
Ariel looked suitably impressed for the full thirty seconds it took him to lose interest. Then he was tugging on his mother’s skirts, wanting to see the rest of the museum.
Looking at the photograph one last time, she sighed in vague regret. She’d never seen Mab in person and likely never would. It was a shame faeries didn’t photograph well.
end.
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