The Rose, the Oak and the Tower

Disclaimer: Harry Potter and all related terms and characters are the property of JK Rowling. The use of copyrighted material is for non-profit entertainment purposes only, and in no way constitutes a challenge to the existing copyright.

A/N: I took up this challenge from Artemis Day, which comprised the following:

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This challenge is 100% AU which means no magic, no Hogwarts, no BWL

*Sir Harry Potter is a knight who has just defeated the evil sorcerer Voldemort, in gratitude the king of the land decides to give him one of his three daughters hand in marriage.

*The three daughters are Princess Ginevra, Princess Luna, and Princess Hermione.

*Harry meets them one at a time (in the order listed above) and becomes attracted to Princess Hermione since she's not an airhead like other princesses (cough-Ginny-cough). Hermione however has absolutely no interest in marrying Harry or anyone else, she just wants to become Queen so she can help the Kingdom.

*Harry attempts to win her over several times, all in vain.

*Later, Harry's best friend Sir Ronald Weasley arrives to visit Harry.

*Princess Luna meets him first and becomes smitten with him the moment she sees him, which creeps out Ron.

*Now Harry is trying to get Hermione too fall in love with him while Ron tries to get Luna to stop chasing after him everywhere.

*In the end, Harry finally wins Hermione's heart and they get married, and when the King dies sometime later, they become King and Queen. Ron and Luna get married and Ginny...well I'll leave that up to the writer to decide.

REQUIRED

*Harry does not like Ginny very much because she is too flirty for his taste.

*He develops a friendship with Luna and nothing more.

*Ron must not like Luna at first (she grows on him)

OPTIONAL

*the portrayal of Ginny is totally up to you but she must be flirty. If you chose not to bash her then you can just put her with Draco or Neville.

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Do you see the problem with this challenge?

Yes, I do, too: It’s a straight-up romance. I hate pure romances; that’s why I don’t write them.

It took me a long time to strip down the plot suggested by this challenge and put together a suitable story while still obeying the tenets of the challenge. Finally, after two solid months of planning, writing, and re-writing, I will unveil the first part of the story.

Coming next from me:

1) TMF Chapter 6 – along with which I hope to have completed Chapters 3 and 4 of the MEtyK overhaul

2) The Pale, Chapter 3

3) The Rose, the Oak and the Tower, Part 2

For simplicity’s sake, a small bit of trivia: The Kingdom subdivides into several Dukedoms, which further subdivide into Counties. The frontier that the Kingdom is currently trying to conquer is its Border Marches, overseen by a Marchion/ Marquess/ Marquise/ Margrave. Margrave is the old-school title, coming most directly from the original German title, Markgraf, and is the title I’m using.

This King and his Dukes are currently at odds with the Margrave, and Border Marches of the Black Mountains have grown largely independent over the last few decades, growing its own armies and allies. That’s where we pick up…

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PART I: Ascension

The screams of dying men filled his ears as he ran. Blood and gore dripped from his body, his dark hair and armor stained an ugly crimson. His heavy footfalls echoed through the hall of the castle as he sped on, his quarry looming ever closer.

The enemy had broken; soldiers of the Lord who occupied this fleshy, demonic mockery of a castle ran though its rib-like corridors away from him. A look of resigned defeat registered on their deformed faces. For all the sorcery that empowered them, their lines had fallen to the might of the Black Knights.

Lord Voldemort, the necromancer called himself. An entire neighbouring province fell to the sorcerer, and the King and his men had done nothing. The province rose again with a new name, a new leader, and a new outlook. An army appeared, seemingly out of nowhere, its soldiers twisted and corrupted by eldritch magics. An entire division of the King’s army lay slaughtered, three cities and countless villages burned; the men pressed into slavery, the women violated repeatedly.

And still, the King had done nothing.

Against this, only the Black Knights stood. A century of advanced metallurgy and rigid military rule marked them as the only allied province unmarred by Lord Voldemort’s armies. His messengers and spies died at their border, and their Knights routed his ragtag forces long before they reached Black fortifications. For ten long years, the Knights skirmished and battled in a never-ending border war with Voldemort’s armies. For ten long years, they had held.

Then, fortune smiled kindly on the Knights: A young Captain, Harry Potter, met and defeated Lord Voldemort in combat not three months ago, severing the sorcerer’s left arm from his body. The necromancer’s retreat and the overwhelming victory won by Knight-Captain Potter’s forces saw the young man promoted to fill the recent vacancy in the ranks of the five Knight-Lords, who answered directly to their Margrave, Sirius Black; overseer of the Frontier of the Black Mountains and the last of his line.

Poor health had kept the Margrave from the bulk of the war effort, but not this day. On this day, he would see Voldemort fall. On this day, he would see his almost-nephew, Harry Potter complete the victory that began when he removed the sorcerer’s arm less than three months ago.

His armor was tight and heavy; so long had it been since he had used it. Countless nicks and cuts lined his face, and blood seeped from weak points where the near-invulnerable plates no longer met, split apart by the twenty pounds of girth he had gained while off the practice field. He smiled grimly as pain lanced up and down the left side of his body, and steeled himself for the inevitable.

He had reached the throne room; a fierce battle waged between the bony pillars, a two-man war fought between the angry necromancer and the young Knight-Lord. Lord Voldemort and Lord Potter circled each other, red, serpentine eyes locked with intense green orbs. Harry had lost his helmet at some point; a good thing, Sirius mused. Intimidation was a powerful force on the battlefield, and anyone who stared into Harry’s eyes was intimidated. The Emerald Death, his legion called him. Of the five Knight Lords, only Harry battled at the front of his forces, holding the line by force of will and force of arms.

Dark magics permeated the room while the two fought. The dead – friends and foes alike – rose repeatedly, to fall again and again to Harry’s sword. Foul energies poured from Voldemort’s outstretched hand to slam against Harry’s shield, and infernal voices whispered sweetly, compelling those who listened to drop their arms and surrender. Sirius staggered against the voices, taking a moment to banish the urges.

A knight rose to their feet, lurching forward towards Harry, its sword arcing high through the air. Faster than Sirius could blink, Harry was behind the corpse, his own blade flashing red as he removed the knight’s sword-arm, slamming the injured corpse away with his shield. The knight’s helmet fell away, and long auburn hair cascaded from the helmet, the woman’s dead eyes staring blankly at Harry as she fell.

Sirius’ grimace matched Harry’s, and the Margrave’s heart fell. The woman had been close to Harry, perhaps a lover. She would have been a strong wife for the Lord, a good companion. To see friends fall in battle was tragic. To see them rise to their feet, compelled by unholy power, to have to slay them again and again…

He was closer now; the dead now rose and fell around him as his own sword danced. He tried hard not to look at faces, focusing instead on making his way towards Harry. The voices were getting louder, more insistent, and Sirius’ respect for Harry grew tremendously. To hear these voices and not obey was so infuriating as to be painful. Sirius kept his focus on his blade, every step he took moving him closer.

A blow from the side forced him to spin to absorb the momentum, and he instinctively brought his shield in close to cover him as he turned. Using the move to his advantage, Sirius bent his knees and brought his sword across low, catching the offending corpse in the knees and sending it back to the ground. At the same time, he thrust his shield out, straightening his legs and bounding out with explosive force. With a massive clash that reverberated through his shield, Sirius connected with one of Voldemort’s still-living guards, a brute at least eight feet tall. He was off-balance now, dropping his enormous axe, and Sirius surged forward, his boots digging for purchase against the ground as he ploughed the giant man towards his master.

With a thunderous clash, they slammed against a pillar, the jagged bone column rocking slightly. Sirius turned his shield out of the way, thrusting upward with his sword, piercing the man through his weak armor. The sword travelled up and up, past his stomach and into his heart, before Sirius pulled down with a savage twist. Blood and entrails poured from the garish wound, and Sirius stepped back as the man’s legs gave out. Sirius moved onward as the man sat against the pillar, his heart’s blood quickly pooling underneath him.

“No!” Harry called to him. “Margrave, stay back! I have him!”

“Margrave?” hissed Voldemort, sparing Sirius a glance. “So, the Great Coward shows his face at last.” He chanted in a sinister tongue as Harry launched himself forward. With the gesture of the necromancer’s remaining shrivelled hand, bones exploded from the dead around him, forming a loose cage around the young Lord.

“The both of you are fools!” Voldemort continued, gathering dark energies to his hand as he faced Sirius. “You stand and fight against me because you see me as evil! You know nothing of what is to come, what my magics have uncovered!” Sirius barely raised his shield in time to prevent the blackness from hitting him. Even so, his arm felt weak, as though his muscles had been cut, and his shield slipped from his numb fingers. He could hear Harry’s shouts of defiance as he worked to dismantle the bone cage.

“You are weakened, Margrave,” the serpent-like necromancer crooned. “You haven’t the constitution of our young Lord Potter. Disease and inaction have cost you your fighting form, and today they will cost you your life.”

“I will live long enough to see you dead,” Sirius spat. He lunged forward, spinning and dropping to his knees halfway through the charge. Voldemort’s magics sailed predictably above his head, and his sword bit through the dark shroud Voldemort wore and into the back of the sorcerer’s leg. Sirius leaned forward and down, sawing through muscle and sinew, separating Voldemort’s hamstring completely from his leg. Voldemort shrieked as the severed flesh hit the ground, pus-coloured blood spattering everywhere.

To Sirius’ great surprise, Voldemort yet stood. Sirius was overextended and prone, and the necromancer’s spell could not miss this time. Coldness penetrated his chest, and suddenly breathing was almost impossible.

Screaming in rage, Harry exploded from the bones, and cut savagely at Voldemort, who could no longer easily move to evade the blows. The magics in the room lessened with every successful strike, fatal wounds that should have slain the sorcerer many times over. Voldemort responded in kind, and spells struck Harry with unerring accuracy, attacking his very soul, feeding on his strength. Sirius struggled to breathe, to throw off the terrible curse; against the demonic powers that Voldemort now brought to bear, an ordinary man would have swiftly perished.

Harry Potter was no ordinary man; he barely flinched as the spells assaulted him, throwing off the effects of the curses as quickly as they assailed him. A decade of training and a decade of battle against these same dark magics had taught Harry and his Knights the mysteries of enduring the foul curses. With the precision of a machine, his shield deflected the brunt of a curse, only to turn out as his blade opened another hole in the staggering necromancer.

Voldemort stepped back, calling upon fell magics to raise the dead, to fortify his body, to weaken his opponents. Harry dropped to one hand and lashed out behind him in an arc with both legs, taking several corpses to the ground. Gathering himself, he leapt forward, slamming his shield against Voldemort’s eldritch defences and bringing his sword up in an arc over his head to pierce the overwhelmed barrier and score yet another blow.

A shadow wrapped itself around Harry and began to squeeze, but the Lord gritted his teeth and pressed on. Sirius began to choke as a similar shadow strangled him. His breathing had only begun to ease, and his chest still ached. The voices were so enticing. Why shouldn’t he lie down and die? He had done so much, hadn’t it been enough?

Voldemort’s shriek brought his mind back to the present. A sword slammed clumsily against his armor, followed by another. The dead had risen again, and Sirius stubbornly beat them down. Blood flowed freely now, and his chest wheezed painfully with every breath; time was limited. Doing his best to ignore the death magics that ate at his body, Sirius lined himself up for Voldemort, and charged. Voldemort’s counter strike hit him full-on; he had expected no less. He fought through the pain, kept running. His sword slipped from his numb fingers, but it hardly mattered. He would not be the one to strike the fatal blow – he was the distraction.

With what little strength remained in him, Sirius crashed against the necromancer, pinning his arms to his sides. He clumsily clasped his hands together behind Voldemort’s back, and squeezed as hard as he could.

“Fool of a man!” Voldemort screamed. “Do you think yourself safe?” Waves of agony coursed through his veins, and tears streamed down Sirius’ face, catching in his short beard. He screamed and howled, and clenched his arms tighter, for above the chanting and his screams, he heard the methodical chopping of Harry’s blade. Slowly, inevitably, the magic grew weaker and weaker, and suddenly, the pain stopped.

“Pawns, the both of you,” slurred the dying sorcerer, pus oozing from his mouth. “There is nothing that will stop it now; you will die…” At long last, Harry’s sword found purchase through the layers of magical protection, and Voldemort’s head flew from his shoulders. With an alarming suddenness, the curses that plagued Sirius’ body ended, and he fell to the ground, his breath weak, and a powerful pain burning in his chest and shoulders.

“Margrave!” Harry’s voice came from above him. “Lay still, Margrave! I need to tend to your injuries!”

“Be still,” he rasped. “There is… very little that can be done for me.”

“Nonsense!” Harry insisted. “You haven’t yet lost enough blood to be fatal. Please, be still.”

“Harry!” he barked, getting the younger man’s attention. “I am dying,” he said. “It cannot be helped. My heart…”

“NO!” With strength that defied his human hands, Harry tore the breastplate away from Sirius, the straps and buckles snapping like string. Those strong hands now rested over his heart, pushing with enough force to crack ribs. “Breathe, Sirius! Breathe deeply! Do not let yourself die!”

“Harry-!” Another voice approached. A friend of Harry’s he knew, but one that his foggy mind could not fathom.

“Ron, quickly! The Margrave’s heart is failing. He needs to breathe!”

Dimly, Sirius registered his mouth being opened and warm breath entering his body. The rattling of the floor meant more knights, more help. Someone was binding his wounds, cleaning them with the painful sting of alcohol. A searing ache in his side told him that Harry had indeed cracked one of his ribs, but the pain in his heart receded as Harry’s impossibly strong hands forced the muscle to beat to the rhythm he set. Breath exploded into his body a second, third, and fourth time, and the pain receded further.

He coughed spasmodically, and hesitantly took a breath on his own. His heart was faint, but it was beating. “Harry,” he croaked. “Come here.”

“Margrave, I’m here.” Harry’s shadow loomed over him, and Sirius searched out his green eyes, smiling as he met them. Fumbling with his hands, he pulled the ring from his right middle gauntlet finger, pressing it into Harry’s hand. Drawing another shaky breath, Sirius continued to speak.

“Come what may, the Black family is finished. Should I survive today, I will likely not survive tomorrow. I am content to step back. You are Margrave, Harry. Keep our people strong. Finish what we started.”

“Sirius, I – I will.” Harry adjusted himself mid-sentence at Sirius’ glare. “Our people will prosper, Sirius; you have my word.”

“Good,” he breathed. “Then I can rest.” And Sirius closed his eyes, and fell into darkness.

The Margrave Sirius Black was not an ordinary man. He survived to reach the High City, and witness the ascension of Harry Potter to the title of Margrave – the youngest ever to do so, at twenty-seven years of age. He watched with approval as Harry appointed his long-time companion, and replacement as Captain, Ronald Weasley to replace him again as a Knight-Lord, and smiled as both young men received the praise and well wishes of the four surviving Lords.

He watched as a lone tear escaped Harry’s eyes as the new Margrave cradled the dead body of the woman he loved, climbing the stairs of the funeral pyre.

“I’ll never find someone to match your strength,” he whispered into her hair, just loud enough for Sirius to hear. “I’ll never be as proud of someone, as I have been of you. I love you, and I always will.”

Sirius observed with satisfaction as Harry laid out his plans to his Lords for the annexing of Lord Voldemort’s lands, and the infrastructures that needed to be laid to improve land and its people. He was pleased, very pleased.

And so, on the third night since their return, Sirius Black allowed himself to die.

-|------

“I never thought that I’d get much further than the street I lived on,” Ron said as he and Harry walked along the stone bridge that separated the fortress of High City from the main road. Neither man batted an eye at the five hundred foot fall on either side.

“Your father must be proud with all you’ve done,” Harry commented as they waved good morning to the bridge guards. “Arthur is a good man.”

“He is,” Ron said. “It feels strange to be supporting my father these past years, rather than the reverse. It must have felt just as strange for you to have been Margrave with Sirius still in the room.”

“I knew that he would die if he left the city,” Harry said, looking at the sun as it mustered the courage to rise for the morning. “I told him to stay behind.”

“He died fighting Voldemort, though. That’s a hell of a way for the Black Family to go.” Harry looked at Ron piercingly, making the redhead turn away.

“It doesn’t matter. His death was pointless. I had the necromancer dead. All Sirius did was hasten the inevitable conclusion.”

“Don’t belittle the man’s sacrifice,” Ron admonished.

“I’m not; I’m bemoaning being foisted into leadership and politics because Sirius wanted one final taste of glory.”

“Ah,” Ron said, “I understand perfectly. By all means, then, bemoan away.”

The two chuckled, and Harry’s gaze returned to the sunrise. “I received a missive from King Gilderoy, requesting an audience to discuss our actions.”

Ron’s eyebrows rose. “Seriously? Does he actually expect you to reply with something other than a spear?”

“Here’s the good part: He expects me to bring this year’s owed taxes with me.” Ron’s laughter was long and loud, and several people turned to regard the two bemusedly.

“Certainly,” he started, wheezing and panting, “Certainly he doesn’t just expect that you’ll roll over and forgive him! He first ignores our pleas for assistance for ten years, and then the ponce allows his own Dukes to suffer. We’ve preserved the entire kingdom by removing Voldemort; he owes us mightily!”

“Agreed, and Gilderoy is not stupid; he must have some inkling of Sirius’ original plans.”

“What do you mean?” Ron asked, looking at Harry askance. The gleam in the raven-haired Margrave’s eyes would chill any enemy to the bone; as it was, it put Ron on his guard. “Did Sirius plan anything that involved Gilderoy?”

“A ten-year, piecemeal invasion,” Harry said, “complete with a timeline. Gilderoy’s losses against Lord Voldemort’s armies have crippled his military. He has nothing to muster against us, and we are still close to full strength.”

“If Gilderoy knows of this, then I can’t see why he’s not attempting to placate,” Ron mused. “It’s his only chance to prevent a war that he knows he can’t win.”

“I’m going to accept the invitation,” Harry decided. “At the least, it will be amusing. At best… who knows?”

“Is this likely to end in an alliance, or independence, or are you going to single-handedly slaughter half the city?”

Harry’s laughter did little to assure his friend.

-|------

There were no walls around Cardis, the capital of Gilderoy’s kingdom. As a port city, surrounded as it was by other fortified outposts, it hardly had need of them. Harry viewed it as arrogance at best, and negligence at worst. For the last three days, people had run scared from his armored destrier as he urged her to canter from village to village. Villagers saw his black plated armor and his green eyes and ran, shouting to the winds that Harry Potter, Margrave of the Black Mountains and Conqueror of Lord Voldemort, was here. The first two villages had scrambled to make proper accommodations for him, while he smiled in cold amusement. When he finally entered the heartland of the kingdom, his reputation had preceded him, and he stayed at the manors of the various Dukes and Counts of Gilderoy’s court.

“Margrave Potter,” called a guardsman on horseback. “His Majesty King Gilderoy the Golden bids you welcome. His Majesty has set aside accommodations in the castle for you, and a stall in the stables for your horse.”

“As expected,” Harry replied coolly, looking the guard up and down. The guardsman promptly looked away, unable to meet Harry’s gaze. “Conduct me there,” he commanded. “I expect no detours.”

“Yes, Your Grace,” the guard responded, turning his mount around.

“Your Grace?” Harry echoed, raising an eyebrow.

“His Majesty issued orders that you are to be treated as though you carried the title of Duke,” the guard clarified. “Your Knight Lords would be greeted as though they were Counts.”

“I see,” Harry said dryly. “Pass along to your comrades as quickly as possible that anyone who refers to me by a title other than ‘Margrave’ will earn my severe displeasure. I’ll not play the king’s games before we have an accord… and likely not afterwards, either.”

“Yes, Yo – err, Margrave,” the guard stuttered, before kicking his horse into motion. Harry smirked as he followed behind; this trip might yet be entertaining.

Word spread quickly, and to Harry’s pleasant surprise, not once did someone slip and call to him by anything other than Margrave. Hundreds of common folk lined the street he rode down. Children wanted to see the signature black armor that he and his horse wore, and speculate on what the armor’s designs symbolized. Adults flicked their eyes between his sword and his face – though never truly his eyes – and whispered the stories of his many victories against Voldemort. By far, the most popular story was the severing of Voldemort’s arm, the telling of which had been greatly exaggerated.

Soon, the vast expanse of Lockhart Castle stood before him, a magnificent building with tall glass windows and spiralling towers. It was built for show, a true king’s castle, secure in the knowledge that no war could ever penetrate so deeply into the kingdom. Harry chuckled to himself as he passed the gates, saluted by a company of guardsmen. Gates, he thought; the castle has gates. No palisades, no portcullis.

“Margrave Potter,” a knight said, saluting him. “His Majesty awaits you in the throne room; I am to accompany you. My squire shall see to your horse.”

“Will he really?” Harry drawled as he dismounted smoothly, turning to the squire. “This, child, is Midnight Fury. If she senses the slightest weakness from you, she will ride you to the ends of the earth.” Handing the reins to the startled youth, Harry brushed past, looking towards the knight. “Lead on,” he ordered, “I have yet to decide if I am staying the night.”

“I gather that you are less than satisfied with your experience, Margrave?” asked the knight, with a hint of defiance. Harry turned to lock stares with the man, his eyes boring into him. The knight was sterner than the folk on the street, but he, too, turned away from Harry after a moment.

“Behold, you have disappointed me,” Harry said, stepping past the knight and walking forward on his own. The knight followed sedately behind him, never once looking up from his feet.

The throne room was straight ahead, and several knights stood near to the closed double doors. The major domo stood there, dressed in finery. His attempt to look down upon Harry failed the moment their eyes met.

“There will be no flowery introductions,” the Margrave ordered. “Open that damned door.”

Two of the knights hastily drew weapons, while their comrades tried to restrain them. The major domo meekly moved to open the lock, but too slowly for Harry, who simply placed one palm on each door and heaved. The lock on the doors splintered, and both doors slammed open, the major domo flying to the side. Several of the kingdom’s nobles were waiting, and looked on with shocked faces. On an elevated platform sat a stupefied King Gilderoy, and a somewhat portly red-haired woman that Harry assumed was his current wife. Behind the couple were three young women, the king’s daughters.

Harry took a moment to look at the three princesses. They were all near to his age, separated by a year or two at least, and each was as dissimilar as sisters could possibly be. The eldest had burning brown eyes and a mane of wild brown hair that her tiara only partially tamed; the middle sister had long blond hair and pale, silvery eyes that radiated calm; the third sister, the youngest, had hair as red as the Queen’s – obviously her mother – and brown eyes that lit lustfully as she appraised him.

“Four days ago, I received your invitation,” he said loudly as he walked towards Gilderoy. “Imagine my immense surprise to see your writing, Your Majesty, suggesting that we owe you.

“You all know who I am,” he said, gesturing around him to the nobles. “You all know what I can do. So tell me, O Wise King, exactly why I shouldn’t kill everyone in this room, right now.”

The reaction was chaotic. The knights entered the doorway, but were reluctant to approach. The nobles backed away until they hit the walls and windows of the expansive room. The Queen was white as a sheet, as was her daughter. The other two princesses were less fazed, though the blond creased her eyes in worry, and a good deal of the fire in the eldest’s eyes vanished.

“Please, please, Margrave,” Gilderoy placated, holding up a hand to halt his knights. “There is no need for such hostility. I have asked you here to talk terms of peace, and alliances to mutual benefit. I have never wished ill upon you or your people. Let us forget the taxes, then; surely, if your reaction is so vicious, then your people need those monies far more than I do. You have fought and won a major victory, and the kingdom wishes to show you its gratitude. What I am proposing will enrich us both, and add to the legacy of both of our lands.”

“Spoken like a true king,” Harry said, clapping his hands slowly, an unnatural sound of metal on metal. “Many flowery words, likely thought up on the spot and none of them remotely useful. Get to the point, and do it in as few words as possible. I am road-weary, and if what you say pleases me, I will retire to whatever rooms you have provided. If not…”

“Of course,” Gilderoy said, clearing his throat. “As you wish. I wish to offer you the greatest prize that I could possibly offer – the hand of one of my daughters in marriage.” Shouts of protest erupted from the gathered nobles, and the reactions from the three young princesses were equally chaotic: shock from the eldest, worry from the middle, and excitement from the youngest. The Queen looked ready to faint. Gilderoy continued over their voices as though nothing had occurred.

“You would stay as my guest for four days in the castle. Each day, you will spend with one of my daughters. On the fourth day, you will make a preliminary choice, and we would then discuss what will happen at that point. Is that suitable to you?”

Harry watched the court go silent, all eyes now on him. Harry looked to each princess in turn, mulling over the possibilities. None of these flimsy waifs compared to the woman he had lost. The youngest certainly seemed willing enough; that might provide a week’s entertainment at best. The middle daughter was forgettable. The fire in the eldest’s eyes, however, caught his attention. She stared at the back of her father’s head, her loathing apparent for all to see. Yes, if she were willing to grow, she would be interesting.

“Half-days,” Harry corrected, “Starting now. I’ll not waste my time here. Where can I find my rooms?”

“Very well,” Gilderoy said, looking away from Harry’s gaze and clapping for a servant.

-|------

Suitably bathed and clean, Harry carefully laid his armor out on the side of his bed, relaxing in the attire provided by the king. The enormous windows provided a breathtaking view of the port and ocean, and Harry found himself reclining in the lush chairs near the window, staring out at the beautiful sunset over the water. A knock on the door drew his attention, and a knight stepped in, bowing.

“Forgive the intrusion, Y- Margrave, the Princess Ginevra is here to see you.” Harry waved the knight away, and turned again to the window.

“Oh, my, but you are handsome outside of that metal,” the princess crowed as she stepped around the knight, shooing him outside.

“My, but we’re quick with the compliments, Your Highness,” Harry returned, smirking. “Are there no men in this kingdom, that your eye is so quickly drawn to foreigners?”

“Oh, Harry – may I call you Harry? Harry, you have no idea,” she said, sweeping over to sit by him, taking his arm in hers. “You make each man in this castle seem a boy, and the rabble outside seem less than human. Have you any idea how many women would offer their souls to be exactly where I stand right now?”

“To hear you speak of it, Your Highness, most of them.”

“Ginevra,” she corrected in a husky voice. “Please call me Ginevra. I was anxious to hear that you would be coming; I had no idea who or what you would be, but my worries faded away the moment you walked into that room. The tales that travel the roads speak of you as a legend, but to see you is to realize they speak only truth. Your eyes, Harry, your eyes…”

She met his gaze fully, her own brown orbs molten with desire. “I would give anything to wake in the morning to see those eyes, to reach out and touch you…”

Her fingers grazed up his arm, across his shoulder to his face. Harry allowed a small smile to appear on his face, but kept his hands folded on the table. “Please continue, Ginevra… tell me more.”

-|------

The princess sped off, giggling away as Harry left his rooms at a more sedate pace. He had given Ginevra a wonderful show of slowly strapping his cleaned and polished armor on, with promises of more to come.

“Silly girl,” he muttered as she pranced out of sight. With a resigned sigh, he turned towards the gardens, hoping to avoid the dandies that plagued the castle.

“Good evening, Margrave.” From out of nowhere, the middle princess appeared, stopping just short of the sword pointed at her throat.

“There is not a word in your vocabulary to describe the danger that lies in startling me,” he snarled, before whipping his sword away. “What do you want, Highness? After your charming sister, I’m hardly in the mood for games.”

Green eyes met silver. For a moment, Harry felt himself impressed; he was in a quiet fury from being snuck up on so easily, and this young woman met and held his gaze. All too quickly, however, she looked away.

“My apologies,” she muttered.

“You’re apologizing? For being in your gardens in the evening, and startling me when I happen to intrude?”

“You scare me,” she replied honestly, looking up at him again. “I have been insulted many times in my life, for my beliefs and my actions… but I have never felt so easily threatened before. I’m afraid of you.”

“Well then, I apologize.” Harry bowed formally. “May I have the pleasure of knowing your name? Your father did you the discourtesy of requiring you to introduce yourself.”

“My name is Luna, Margrave. You have met Ginevra, I believe, and have yet to meet Hermione. If it pleases you, might we speak now, instead of waiting?”

“Of course, Your Highness; speak away.”

Luna moved to walk beside him, and he matched her short strides with long, slow ones of his own. Flowers of many colors bloomed in the gardens, and the trees provided shade during the day and convenient shadow in the evening hours. Harry chose one such shadow to stand under, leaning against a tree.

“I don’t think that you and I would match well,” Luna admitted after a few moments.

“A decision so quickly? Well, at least you’re prompt.”

“I envision my life as a great Oak,” Luna said, running her hand along the tree’s bark. “It stands free and unobstructed. Others may lean against it, as you are, but it lives and dies on its own terms.

“You would trap that oak in a tower of iron, away from the sun, away from its freedom. You would cut at its roots and branches to force it to fit inside, and it would wither and die.”

A small degree of hurt blossomed in Harry’s chest. “Why do you see me so poorly? Do you think me so incapable of compassion or love that I would neglect you as you predict?”

“I…” Luna turned away, wrapping her arms around herself, but Harry had seen enough. He had seen her last glance – toward his armor and sword.

“You’ve been hurt,” he said, the pieces falling into place. Quickly and methodically, he removed his breastplate, gauntlets and pauldrons, and stepped forward, opening his arms. “Highness, come here.”

Luna hesitated, her eyes wide and frightened. Harry stood there, arms extended, and slowly, the princess edged toward him until she was right in front of him. He gathered her to him, his warm, strong arms wrapping completely around her slender frame.

“I want you to know that not all men will restrain you, or injure you,” he soothed. “The iron walls you envision are not around the oak; they’re around the hill upon which the oak grows, bathed in unobstructed sunlight. No one may approach you to cause harm, but those who love you will tend you and keep you healthy, and children will play amongst your branches.”

Luna shook her head against his chest. “Y-you can’t understand… I’ve… those who wield steel-”

“-Are honor bound to protect those around them,” he finished severely. “What you have seen is corruption.”

An involuntary sob escaped Luna, and Harry squeezed tighter. “They’re – they’re supposed to be heroes,” she whimpered. “But they’re – they’re…”

“I will leave tomorrow,” Harry said, gently rocking the crying princess back and forth. “Come with me, and I will show you your heroes, I promise.” He felt Luna nod against his chest as she shivered involuntarily.

“It’s obvious that the notion of staying here is pointless. Come, take me to your elder sister; let’s finish this game.”

-|------

“Good evening, Margrave.” Hermione bowed stiffly and formally as Luna left, the defiant spark having returned to her eyes. “I trust that you have enjoyed your stay thus far?”

“Hardly, Your Highness,” Harry replied, copying her bow. “This castle teems with all the courtesy of rats fleeing the light of a torch. Regardless, it’s hardly you who is to blame for such things.”

“I see that you’ve chosen to open our conversation with insults. Tell me, is rudeness a respected trait amongst your people? If it is, then you must be a fine leader.”

A full smile cracked Harry’s face for the first time since he had arrived. “Oh, you are a brave one,” he said. “You’ve also a fair bit more wit than your sisters, it seems. But tell, me, Highness, what exactly do you think you know about my lands that you would make such a brash comment?”

“I know that your people call you the Emerald Death,” she said, her face set in stone. “I know that the only thing you’ve done of any merit in your entire life is kill others, and I know that my father has reacted poorly to a veiled threat of yours, and this farce of a betrothal is the result. I know that the man who stands before me is nothing more than a brute who feels that his sword is more useful than his head.”

“Oh, well you certainly have me pegged.” Harry moved slowly, deliberately towards Hermione, who backed off predictably. She was remarkably good at reading the threat he posed; a small hand gesture here, a flick of the eyes there, and Hermione reflexively adjusted her course, certain of avoiding him. She gasped in surprise then, when her back hit the corner of the room, trapping her.

“Is this better, Highness?” Harry growled, looming less than a foot in front of her, looking down. Hermione’s hands gripped the wood paneling of the walls tightly, whitening her knuckles. Harry bent forward to look her in the eye more closely, and Hermione pulled her head back, hitting the wall with a small thump.

“Get away from me,” she whispered. “What do you think you’re doing?”

“Being a brute, as you so eloquently put it.” Harry mocked, moving his face an inch closer. “A brute, you see, cares very little for the wants and needs of others, only for his own personal satisfaction. A brute would happily rip the dress from your shoulders, safe and secure in the knowledge that if he wanted, he could murder everyone in this castle and leave within the hour when he was finished.”

“Stop it! You’ve made your point.”

“Have I? A brute, you see, doesn’t care about making points or teaching lessons; he only cares about taking. If he likes what he takes, he might even care about keeping it.

“A brute wouldn’t understand the idea of a political alliance, or be concerned with such trivialities as marriage,” he paused while Hermione sucked in her breath. “He wouldn’t understand that the great King who maintains such a magnificent castle does so only because his lands are relatively peaceful, and that he hasn’t the men to defend it should someone attack.

“He wouldn’t care that the king is capable of doing basic math and comparing the number of his soldiers to those of his potential enemies. Even better, he would be uninterested in the fact that the king could also do more advanced math, estimating the number of his soldiers it would take to kill one of mine.”

Hermione’s expression lost some of its fear, returning to its normal neutrality. Her eyes, Harry noted, flicked back and forth between his, analyzing, gauging his words for truth. “I sense the beginnings of comprehension in you,” he said, dropping his playful tone. “There has always been veiled hostility between the Kingdom and its Border Marches. Gilderoy had never planned on Voldemort, however; he had never planned to lose so much, and he banked heavily on the Black Knights losing similar numbers, so that we would both need to dedicate the next several years to rebuilding. Your father failed to take into consideration that we were superior warriors with superior equipment, and banked far too much upon the fell sorceries of Voldemort causing us more grief than they did.”

“I knew that the Black Mountains had strained relations with my father, but I thought it was-”

“-Less serious,” Harry finished. “Yes, no one seems to hear the war drums beating before the army’s on your doorstep.”

“Please, then- please choose one of my sisters.”

Harry grinned. “And why should I do such a thing?”

“Because I have… I have reasons to remain here; so many plans to help the people that I could not enact if I was with you. My father is not the king everyone thinks he is; he relies on me for plans and strategies, and without me, the people will suffer.”

“Like your sister?”

“The knight that accosted Luna is dead, executed. Such events are all too common, however, and were it not for my voice in my father’s ear, it would occur far more often. Even now, the courtiers whisper deals and offers to my father that undermine the commoners and remove their freedoms and their profit for the gain of a few. They are destroying our kingdom for the sake of a few luxuries.”

“And you would change all that.”

“I would.”

“Then come with me tomorrow.” Harry stepped back, holding out his hand. “Tomorrow I will return to my lands, and your sister Luna will accompany me.”

“As your betrothed?”

“No,” he said, shaking his head. “She’s not strong enough to shoulder that burden, nor my temper. That title falls to you.”

“Margrave, no!”

“One month,” he said, waving her pleas away. “Accompany me for one month, and see for your own eyes just how wrong your impressions of me and my people are. If, by then, you are not satisfied, I will return you safely to Cardis.”

“Forgive me for my comments, but that’s not the point! My father-!”

“Are you so content with being a voice in the shadows that you would spurn the opportunity to become Queen?” Hermione looked at him, shocked. “Yes, Highness, that’s exactly what you’re father’s doing, whether he understands it or not. There will be no one to oppose my ascension once I have married into this family. Do you think I will be so willing to listen to someone whispering over my shoulder, someone who was too weak to assume the throne beside me?”

Harry’s smile widened as he saw the anger spark in Hermione’s eyes. “I hate you for this,” she hissed. “I despise you for forcing this upon me!”

“No you don’t. You hate your father. You don’t know me nearly as well as you need to for hatred to blossom.”

“You are forcing me to abandon my hopes!”

“I am forcing nothing.” Harry grabbed her hands with frightening speed, placing her palms against his face. “Listen to me, Your Highness. I. Am. Human. Your people will prosper under me as if they were my own, regardless of how it comes about. I am not stealing away your dreams; I am giving you the chance to fulfil them.”

“As your wife?”

“As Queen.”

“I-I…”

“Come with me.” Harry held her hands tightly, not willing to relinquish the contact of her warm hands on his face. Her fingers were tense, and they clawed into his cheeks with a strength that Harry found intoxicating. She was amazing, even in her anger. Slowly, her fingers softened, and the fires in her eyes diminished slightly.

“Very well, Margrave. I will accompany you and Luna.”

Harry smiled. Acceptance was a good starting point. He could work with that.

-|------

“Your castle is beautiful, Gilderoy.”

The king screamed as his eyes opened to find Harry looming over him. He rolled away and off the bed, waking his wife by rolling right over top of her. Harry bit back his laughter at the Queen’s startled expletive.

“Come now, Majesty, that’s no way to treat your woman. After all, I’m merely here to tell you that I am leaving.”

“L-l-leaving?” Gilderoy stood, pulling his flimsy nightgown around him and fumbling with a dressing robe. “You broke into my private suites at the crack of dawn to tell me that you’re leaving?”

“That’s absolutely correct, Majesty. Two of your daughters are going to accompany me.”

“Two?”

“The Princess Luna wishes to accompany me to see my lands and people, and I have no reason to deny her. The Princess Hermione is accompanying me as my betrothed.”

“I-I see.”

“Should the betrothal fail, you will see both of your daughters returned in a little over a month’s time. Should it succeed, Princess Luna is welcome to come and go as she pleases.”

“What about Ginevra? She seemed so taken with you.” The first words form the Queen’s mouth brought a smile to Harry’s lips.

“Your Majesty must be a fine mother, to worry for her daughter so.” The Queen pinked, and smiled timidly. “Your daughter is far too easily impressed with my stature and what might be accomplished in one’s bed chambers. Princess Hermione, on the other hand, is interested in issues that are far more pressing and relevant, wouldn’t you agree Gilderoy?”

“Yes, of course. So… today, then?”

“Presently. Your daughters are packing as we speak, and your knights are seeing to their horses. I am certain that we will find suitable accommodations along the road. You needn’t bother to rouse yourself to see us off; I gather that neither of your daughters will care much, in any case.”

“I should arrange for an escort-”

“Gilderoy, please; they’ll be with me.” Harry levelled his gaze at the king, who quickly looked at his feet.

“I should thank you, Gilderoy. You haven’t completely wasted my time, and that was far beyond my wildest expectations. Farewell.” Harry turned and walked from the suite, unlocking the door and casually strolling out, allowing his armored boots to click against the ground. He stopped by his own rooms to grab the small rucksack of belongings he carried with him, and made his way to the stables. Both Princesses were mounted and ready by the time he arrived, their own belongings stowed neatly in their saddlebags. Midnight Fury stood nearby, her plate barding polished and gleaming darkly in the morning light.

“I trust you are both experienced riders?” Both women nodded. “Excellent, let’s be off, then; I’ve promised you both an adventure, after all.” Harry mounted Midnight and settled into the saddle, and urged the horse towards the city, the Princesses following in his wake. Luna had an excited look on her face, not unlike a child out to see the world for the first time. She chatted happily to her sister, who offered small nods and smiles where appropriate. Hermione’s expression was far more reserved, which, considering her position, was as close to happy as Harry believed she would get for the time being.

A piercing scream of anger from the castle cut through the morning air, causing all three riders – even Hermione – to smile at each other. “Come on!” he called to the Princesses. “Let’s be away! I’d rather not deal with Ginevra’s tantrum!” Harry kicked Midnight into a gallop, and whooped with joy as he tore through the city towards the gates, Hermione and Luna urging their mounts to keep up.

He envisioned Ron’s playful jibes on his return, and felt joy for the first time since well before the storming of Voldemort’s keep. Maybe, just maybe, things would work out after all.

-|------

A/N: Review, please! I enjoy hearing what you have to say about my work!