Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter or True Blood/Southern Vampire Mysteries in any way. If I did, I sure as heck wouldn't be writing fanfiction, lol. The characters in this story belong to their respective authors and creators. This is their sandbox – I'm just playing in it.
Author's Note: Hello lovelies 3. This chapter we finally get to meet Godric and get to know a bit of his altered past. Again, conversations are super hard for me, so I hope the flow of their dialogue isn't as awkward as it seemed when I was writing this. This chapter is quite a bit longer than the previous three, which is why it took me almost a month to upload it (not to mention the five uni courses I'm taking -eek). I only gave it a cursory look through after I finished this monster chapter, so that, combined with the fact that I have no beta, definitely means there are going to be some errors. Bear with me – I'll probably go over the chapter later today and edit it more thoroughly. I just wanted to get this posted for ya'll ASAP. Thank you to everyone who favorited, followed, and left comments and kudos on this story – ya'll are great! Reading reviews & comments super inspiring and motivating. Enjoy Chapter 4!
CHAPTER FOUR: MEMORIES AND SHERIFFS
Godric POV
Godric felt the urge to sigh as Isabelle lightly shut the door to his office. He tried to push the feeling of boredom away – he still had a full night of appointments to get through and it wouldn't do for him to be so obviously disinterested, no matter how he really felt. If he was honest with himself, and he was hardly anything but these days, boredom was the only thing he had felt the past two centuries - only interrupted by brief surges of guilt when he was being especially maudlin.
He had lived a very long life, quite a bit longer than most who knew him had any idea of. There were perhaps less than five vampires still alive who had known him in his youth. Most days, Godric felt ancient, barely attached to the world he had walked for over three millennia. At first, he had blamed the detachment on his job at the time. He had been working with the Authority's enforcement branch for around two thousand years. They had found him when he was young and still trying to blend in – migrating from tribe to tribe through the European continent, always moving on when they grew suspicious of his nocturnal ways or ever-young face.
Not having a maker didn't exactly prepare for life as a vampire, so his first five hundred years or so was chock full of trial-and-error. Having nothing better to do, or any vampires to travel with, he had tried his best to make his way back to his village. Never having travelled very far from his tribe's land, Godric had been unable to find a way back to his homeland for many years. By the time he had made it back, his small tribe had been over run and absorbed by the neighboring people. In hindsight, it was probably for the best he was delayed, and eventually unsuccessful, in making his way back home. His blood lust during those first few decades would have almost guaranteed and accident. He could barely fathom the guilt he would have felt from the death of any of his human family – how much it would weigh on his already over-burdened conscious.
After failing to reconnect with anything or anyone from his human life, Godric had been furious. He had slaughtered the people who had then inhabited his former village – seeing them only as invaders and murderers. It was the first time he had lost himself in his rage, but far from the last. After he snapped out of his blood lust, Godric was shocked at what he had done – he still wasn't familiar with the full extent of his new vampiric abilities yet, so he was quite surprised at the speed with which he had dispatched the entire population of the small settlement.
Finally coming to terms that he was something other – something closer to the demons and monsters his tribe spoke of in whispers over the fire late at night than a man – Godric had started to systematically test the limits of his new body. He had lost his sense of time during that period, consumed with pushing his body past any logical boundaries he may have had before waking up into this undead life. Godric wouldn't realize until a millennium later, but during that period, he had gained abilities unknown to manifest in vampires until they were considered ancients in their own right – he had attained them while still a considerably young vampire, somewhere around 500 years old. By the end of his little experiment, Godric could fly, scent animals and humans upwards of 3 days travelling vampire-speed, control his blood lust with an iron will, and run faster than most his age.
However, his favorite discovery was actually more of a rediscovery of sorts. His people were deeply connected to the water – his tribal markings were only a small reminder of how centered his human life was on the ocean and rivers that surrounded his settlement. It went past the normal pagan worshipping of the time and often crossed the line into the supernatural itself, though he hadn't known it at the time. After traveling for a few centuries, Godric finally had a few names to put to what exactly the more talented people in his tribe would have been called – shamans and druids. They weren't magicals in the same sense that today's witches and wizards were – the land's magic was still too raw, too untamed. It would take be another thousand years after he was turned that the first true witches and wizards, as defined by modern terms, started being born. Godric preferred his people's way of practicing – communing with the water, being respectful of it, not taking more than what you could return, and a million other small ways that tied his people to the sea and land.
He had been so scared that his ability to connect with the sea was lost to him upon waking in this new life, so he had avoided trying out any of the small skills he had learnt before his changing. Godric had traveled far in-land, staying in villages cut off from large water sources, so far had he gone in trying to put off what he thought was an inevitable heart break – just another piece of his human life thought beyond his reach.
Eventually, Godric had decided the anxiety over the uncertainty was worse than the pain knowing would bring. He travelled back to the land where his village once stood, a small peninsula bracketed by the modern-day North Sea. For hours or weeks, Godric had no idea how long he stood there – calf deep in the water, sheltered from the sun in a cave by the shoreline, praying to gods he wasn't certain he believed in any longer. Once he had finally gathered enough courage to see once and for all whether his most precious gift had truly abandoned him, he opened his eyes and, for the first time in his undead life, he wept. Tears of blood clouded his vision as he looked down and saw the very same water serpent that was etched along his spine, bobbing around his calves. A sign from his gods, he was convinced – a mark of acceptance, of hope, of home.
He fell to his knees and carefully cradled the dark water snake in his arms, ecstatic. It was the first time he had been able to be so close to an animal since his time as a human, never mind being able to hold and touch one. Godric had knelt there, playing with the large snake, letting the curious thing wind itself across his cool body until his thirst finally caught up with him.
Unfortunately, the wonder of the encounter had slowly left him. While more aware of his new nature, Godric was at a loss at what to do with the seemingly unending expanse of time in front of him. The loneliness of never having met another of his kind also weighed upon him quite heavily. His newly rediscovered ability only just kept his depression at tolerable levels, but he desired companionship, conversation - things his rediscovered connection to the waters just couldn't give him.
He eventually went back to wandering from village to village, this time not avoiding coastal settlements.
After seasons of just going through the motions, feeding and dying for the day over and over in an unending cycle, Godric finally came across one of his own kind on a particularly stormy night. He was sitting on a cliff, observing the stormy waves break against the mountain side, when he suddenly felt he was being observed. His watcher had known when Godric became aware of his presence, coming out of wherever he had been watching the younger vampire from and quickly stating that he meant no harm before introducing himself.
Even though Godric was distinctly weary of the older vampire and his unassumingly powerful presence, he was too excited at finally getting to meet another being like him, so, after getting over his skittishness, he and the newly named Ro got acquainted. After a series of conversations, which over time, his own participation in them went from hesitant to enthusiastic, Godric came to be aware of just how much of an oddity he was when compared to the average vampire. The fact that he had survived so long without his Maker to guide was a first, according to Rom. The older vampire also explained that his Maker's absence may very well have been the cause of Godric's listlessness and despondency – the bond between Maker and Child had only just been created before it was suddenly destroyed, quite forcefully. Said bond was one of the only things that usually kept the newly made Child from losing itself in the madness that was a newborn's bloodlust and increased sensory input.
Nights talking and getting to know both Rom and his new species better eventually grew into moon turns and seasons in each other's company before Rom finally told him about the power structure of their society. Godric, having known nothing except leadership entrusted to a chieftain or elder, was quite perplexed with the idea of an authority structure spanning an entire race of beings. Rom was quite indulgent with him, answering any and all questions the younger vampire had about his new world order. Eventually, Rom had confessed that he himself held somewhat of a position of authority in their society and, by that point intimately aware of the loneliness Godric had harbored, offered for him to come along with him when he inevitably made his way back home instead of parting with his new friend.
After mulling it over for exactly no time at all, Godric had unequivocally agreed to accompany Rom back to Egypt, the then-capital-of-sorts for anything supernatural.
A season of travelling later, Godric and his new friend – mentor, really, but Godric wasn't ready to admit it quite yet – made it to the bustling streets and crowded markets that made up Egypt at the time. Enamored with the advances of humans and vampires alike, he had spent many weeks absently wandering through the metropolis, taking in everything he had missed while he had been, admittedly, hiding away in the farthest reaches of the only land he had known – absorbing and learning just about all he could get his undead hands on all the while.
Eventually, as was becoming a habit with Godric, he grew bored of the busy life inherent to such a place as Egypt. His first and only friend could apparently see the wanderlust apparent in Godric, because Ro had suddenly offered him a job that would routinely take him away from the city for long periods of time. Unsure about being what was essentially an enforcer for the rulers of his race, he had hesitated, but ultimately trusted his friend's promise that it would mostly be intelligence gathering and that at any time he wanted to stop, no repercussions would follow.
After completing the first few jobs he was given, any fears Godric had of being in too far over his head had been well and truly vanquished. The ability to travel often and interact with more of his own kind, all the while learning the extent of his capabilities when threatened by the odd vampire or were, gave Godric a sense of contentment that had been horribly absent since his second life had started. Not to mention it gave him the ability to exercise and nurture his connection to the waters outside of all the eyes and ears that were ever-present in the hub of the supernatural world. New friend or not, Godric knew well and truly how odd he was compared to others of his age – he didn't survive without any guidance in this new life without having a deeply ingrained sense of caution and finely honed instincts.
Godric steadily rose through the hierarchy of what eventually evolved into the enforcement arm of the Authority. At that point, he had no idea how old he was, but he knew that his rapid advancement was just one more oddity that was increasingly singling him out. Discomfited with the attention he was starting to receive, Godric had volunteered for an assignment that was insanely high risk – even for nearly-indestructible beings such as vampires. The fact that it would take essentially giving up one's previous identity, entrusting their life to witches, and not being able to contact any vampire or supernatural for the duration didn't exactly encourage anyone throwing themselves in line, either.
He couldn't truly understand the risk inherent in such an endeavor when all he could see was an escape from the near-constant scrutiny he was subject to. Thus, Godric had enthusiastically accepted the suicidal information gathering and possible assassination mission, deaf to the concerns of his solitary friend.
After quietly disappearing from the night life in Egypt and subsequently making his way toward the emerging power on the northern continent, Godric soon found himself cautiously approaching the small family of witches who had occasionally been more open to cooperating with the vampire community. Stare-offs accompanied by terse greetings were exchanged and he suddenly found himself with a rune branded into his shoulder, untouched by the remarkable restorative properties inherent to vampires. The brand was one the group's most recent advancements - a human-like visage and compulsion to only to be noticed by his target wrapped up in one agonizingly unique scar. While he wasn't enough of a masochist to truly enjoy the experience, Godric was nonetheless impressed by the ingenuity of such a clever piece of magic.
What followed eventually became somewhat of a vampiric legend in addition to what was viewed as the commonly accepted story as to how Godric the Vampire came to be. It seemed a few members of the Authority had been a bit overzealous in hiding his pre-Rome history that very few vampires remembered that he had been an ancient in his own right before becoming undead for seemingly a second time. A twist of fate and bit of misdirection that both the Authority and he were all to glad to let lie – although the Authority's reasons weren't nearly as benign as Godric's. He just wanted to go back to enforcing supernatural law with his new life's only claim to fame being that he may-or-may-not-have killed his Maker while the Authority was never one to snub a bit of beneficial propaganda.
Once he returned to his normal job of information gathering and sometimes being the monster in the night for the actual monsters that roamed the world, Godric realized that those who were aware of his true identity were now paying even more attention to him, as if he had become their new favorite pastime to make the eons bearable for the truly ancient. His seemingly quick rise through the ranks (yet again) could have been passed off as being an extremely capable fighter, but he knew, from Ro's own words, that he was being set up to take a leadership position over the rapidly filling western part of the northern continent.
Glad to be out of the cesspit that Egypt was becoming, filled with beings whom time had numbed down to pale imitations of their former selves, the seemingly 500-year old Godric set up shop on the western outskirts of the Roman Empire and stayed there longer than he had yet to stay in one place before. His false age seemed to give the more violent vampires the sense that his area was a safe place from which to flout the Authority, keeping him busy for more than a few decades.
He watched as one of the greatest civilizations to ever be was sacked (more than once), the Abrahamic god slowly replace the ancient pagan ones of the woods and streams, the governments of man advance, and the population of the humans grow denser even in his far-removed territory. Inevitably, he grew disillusioned with any and everything around him. Not even the one true friend that he had made during his undead life was able to ease his discontent.
Godric decided to go on a sabbatical of sorts. One day he rose for the night, told his second in command that she was in charge until he returned and then ran in no particular direction other than north for a good few weeks. After coming to the shoreline of the North Sea, he opted to try and swim across it in one go instead of suffering through the tiring process of attempting to find a ship that would be secure enough for him to spend his day death in.
Thus, began his next hundred or so years – the calendars were always changing, so he wasn't exactly sure. He travelled extensively throughout the many islands that made up Britain, Ireland and eventually made his way to Scandinavia. Though most of his travels were quite boring, they were interspaced with enough odd happenings – generally of the magical variety – that the dull monotony of traveling alone was almost a reprieve. Meeting only the second mage he had ever encountered, and subsequently spending a few years in his company, was probably the most thrilling thing that had happened to Godric at that point – only the creation of his Child was more exciting to him.
When he had first felt the Maker's Call, Godric just about keeled over in shock. Having just recently left his only-second-ever friend, probably for the very last time, he was understandably distracted while traveling through southern Scandinavia, slowly making his way back to his life as an enforcer. He was mid-run when it suddenly felt like someone had reached into his chest and pulled, as if he was connected to the end of the rope and suddenly compelled to find what or who was yanking on him. Godric had defensively resisted the alarming tugging, both out of reflex and a sense of alarm. However, he had quickly found out that resisting the invisible jerking sensation just worsened the feeling.
He had cautiously followed whatever it was that was dragging him away from his route back home and only then felt the minor relief from having answered the magic, for what else could it be, that was apparently summoning him. Godric was barely able to stop instinctually following the pulling in order to find a secure place to die for the day, the Call was so consuming. He ran for countless nights, his mind a haze of disjointed thoughts, all a variation of get there and faster.
Godric was only able to think clearly once the frantic pulling abruptly ceased. His mind only enjoyed the full range of its functionality for the approximate five seconds before he truly registered the scene in front of him. Finding humans in the midst of bloody, gory, battle was nothing new for him, however the completely incongruous feeling of shock when he first saw the hulking form of the largest human he had ever seen proceeding to make child's play out of dispatching his foes had him feeling like it the first time he had ever seen the awe inspiring and horrific reality of the butchering of men.
He had no sense of time as he stood there, entranced by the sight of the blond giant gracefully swinging his large two-handed broadsword, but the sound of the object of his fascination's pained filled roar startled him out of his unabashed staring. Godric was paralyzed, he knew then, with every part of his undead being, that this is what had dragged him across countries and mountains and seas.
As he watched the tall human's compatriots set up and place their leader on a large funeral pyre, Godric's conscious mind had finally caught on to what exactly was and had been happening to him. The Maker's Call could've been a myth for all the vampire community at large believed in it, changing humans into vampires left and right. Godric, however, had the privilege of being in the confidence of more than one truly ancient vampire and knew that the Call was no myth, but something that was so rare and treasured that most ancients thought turning a Child without the Call present to be something akin to blasphemy for all that vampires had no true religion.
Having no real interest in turning a Child, Godric had all but put the hushed, reverent whispers describing the feeling out of his mind, content to focus on the present and doing his job. But in the darkest corners of his mind, the shadows that he was too weary to acknowledge, Godric longed for the companionship of someone who was unequivocally his – someone who he had no need to guess the motivations of or be weary of getting attached to lest he become entangled in the scheming or power struggles that seemed to be inherent in his race.
So, as his unbeating heart realized that this might be his one and only chance to attain its greatest desire, Godric systematically removed the obstacles between him and his future Child – namely any witnesses to his otherness, the men feasting and drinking while waiting for their leader to leave this world atop his pyre. With a detached sense of cynicism, he realized that murdering who very well may be this man's friends wasn't exactly going to be doing him any favors when he inevitably asked the blond to join him in this unlife. There was nothing to be done about it though – he could hear how weak the warrior's heart had gotten, chugging sluggishly.
He knew he must have looked like something straight out of a nightmare, covered in gore and blood, but the blond human just looked at him unflinchingly, vowing vengeance for his fallen people all the while bleeding out on his funeral pyre. Godric knew then that he had never been as grateful for anything as he was that he had followed the pull. This human would make a magnificent companion, he was sure.
Godric had been proven categorically correct. Over the next century or so, it became clear that if there was ever a human destined for this life, his progeny would be it. Eric took the loss of his humanity as if he were a child and someone had told him that a storm was coming and to get inside before he got soaked – with an offhand acknowledgement before thoroughly enjoying his changed circumstances. Eric danced in the rain that was his vampirism, diving headfirst into every new opportunity with a devil-may-care attitude that for all Godric scolded him for it, brought a small smile and a new sense of vitality to his Maker.
As loathe as he was to interrupt the content found by their new routine, Godric did have a territory to get back to and underlings to oversee. He and Eric slowly made their way back to the continent, taking the scenic route all the while, making time to stop and get acquainted with all manners of supernaturals in order to ease Eric more into his new expanded world order. Those were some of the best years of Godric's life, he thought fondly, the aching sense of loneliness had finally eased with the turning of his Child and he was more than happy to bask in the happiness that Eric's very presence seemed to instill in him.
So, for the next millennia, he and Eric stayed in what was coming to be known as Europe, splitting their time between traveling to oversee the territory the Maker was in charge of and exploring new lands and people to the Child's joy. As time passed them by, not everything was ideal between the pair. With Eric's increasing knowledge about the supernatural community, questions about his Maker's life before turning him inevitably followed.
Honestly, Godric was unsure of why he couldn't just get over whatever mental block that stopped him from giving Eric what he wanted, but every time he thought of those early, terribly lonely, blood soaked years his stomach would've turned if such a feeling was still possible for him. He couldn't stand the thought of the one being who he was so comfortable with, the one person whose heart he could trust, looking at him as if he were some kind of oddity not unlike those ancient vampires whom he had turned away from in Egypt. Even though centuries had passed, and empires had risen and fallen since his stay there, Egypt and its inhabitants stuck with him, leaving a taste not unlike bad blood in the back of his mouth. He realized that the false identity he had assumed since that ill-thought mission in Rome had become his true face. Godric, the vampire that murdered his Maker, was much more preferable than the broken, lonely thing that Rom had found sitting on a cliff all those centuries ago.
What did that say about him, that he would rather see the distrust that came from being assumed to have killed his own Maker than deal with the attention and schemes his true self incited, Godric wondered.
At first, Eric just asked the odd question about his Maker's past. But as time went on, Godric's brush offs seemed to just encourage Eric to ask more and more. It grew from a curious enquiry here and there to fights over trust and transparency, spiraling out of control until there was suddenly a chasm of hurt and pain where before there was only love and companionship. His Child started staying away from their nest for longer periods of time under the guise that he was searching for the vampire who controlled the wolves that had murdered his human family, but was truly due to the fact that his Maker couldn't, no wouldn't, let down the last of the walls that separated them. Eric saw an imbalance of power where Godric could only see trying, and failing, to protect the bond between them that had given him a new sense of hope.
Things came to their inevitable end while they were in Nazi Germany during the second World War. Even though things had been tense between them for more than a century, Godric still couldn't let his progeny, his only Child, go traipsing through war-torn Europe without him. The argument started out as a difference of opinion about the way Eric had been going about trying to find his family's murderer but soon gave way to their commonly rehashed argument over the secrets he kept from his Child. While their conversation followed the well-worn trajectory of the many, many arguments over the topic, this time, however, Godric had underestimated his Child's anger and lack of patience for his usual excuses.
Godric had parted from his child after that final argument, heart heavy with regrets and words unsaid between them. Not able to totally leave his Child to the mercy of the ofttimes merciless supernatural world, even with Eric having a millennia of life behind him, Godric had called in favors and used all of the connections he possessed in order to protect him from afar and stay informed about his moves through Europe. He had more than just his progeny to worry about – his Child having turned Pamela a century before only added to his sense of familial duty. When Eric was eventually pushed to take the position of Sheriff in the New World, Godric had waited a few years before quietly retiring from his enforcement job and requesting to retire to a position as the Authority of Dallas – near enough to his Child to stay attuned to his movements and be on hand for any emergencies.
Thus, began decades of dull monotony, every night an exercise in keeping his patience after listening to the petty concerns of the young vampires in his Area in a never-ending cycle. Godric wanted to blame the dull life of Sheriff-hood for causing his outlook on life to become progressively bleaker, but in the dark corners of his mind, he knew it wasn't the cause.
Truthfully, he had been feeling detached and distanced from the world since right before he and his Child's ill-fated trip to Germany. That sense of going through the motions without really feeling them in no small part contributed to the final argument he had had with Eric.
It was a gradual thing, this falling into not quite despair but something hauntingly close to it.
Eventually, weeks turned into months which quickly snowballed into years and then decades. Godric's state of mind went from fleetingly detached to full blown depression with a quiet suddenness which would have alarmed him if Godric honestly gave a damn anymore, which he assuredly did not.
In his rare moments of clear headedness, usually brought on after slightly lowering the mental shields on his side of the bond with his Child, Godric was confused as to how this came about. While he had often felt moments of sadness, despair, and melancholy – especially in his early years – he was generally one of the more even-tempered vampires he knew. He had committed atrocities, according to human morality at least, but part of embracing vampirism was learning that there were few things left never done when one had an eternity of life looming before them. He went through periods where he was nothing less than a cruel, unfeeling monster, but then he also dedicated time to bettering his society and policing the truly deviant of their kind. Godric had long ago figured out that living an immortal life was essentially about balance – you couldn't ever be one thing all of the time, for hundreds or thousands of years.
Before Germany, before losing Eric, Godric had always had a healthy mindset regarding his past actions. Now it seemed whatever emotional equilibrium he had unknowingly been at was suddenly absent and showing no signs of ever coming back. Suddenly, he was kept awake past dawn with the blood-soaked images of killing the humans that had inhabited what was once his tribe, playing over and over like some macabre record that somebody forgot to take the needle off of. Eventually, every murder, every feeding, every job he ever took as an enforcer became his sick daytime lullaby. Unable or just plain unwilling to shut everything out, Godric forced himself to watch his past come back to haunt him like some kind of twisted repentance that was due to the universe in the hope that if he was just sorry enough, if he was just guilty enough, he would finally be able to have a reprieve from the now-familiar horror that was his mind.
He knew, with the same detached feeling that permeated all of his waking moments, that his distraught behavior was changing him, making him weaker as he lost the will to even feed regularly – refusing to add more fuel for his mind to torture him with at dawn. Routinely getting the bleeds as he pushed himself to stay up later and later into the day just depleted what little strength his advanced age gifted him with. Every time he passed a mirror, a stranger far paler than he could ever recall being stared back at him with empty eyes. In his more lucid moments, Godric thought his countenance gave the term, 'the walking dead,' a whole new meaning.
This week had actually been, not quite a nice one – Godric didn't really know how to have those anymore – but not a terrible one, at least. When he first felt the strong feeling of shock that managed to make its way through the thick, double sided shields both he and his Child kept on their bond, Godric had initially feared that Eric had finally royally messed up and got himself into a situation he couldn't talk or kill his way out of. Even though Eric was essentially an ancient vampire in his own right, Godric knew his Child and his propensity for both mayhem and mischief didn't exactly lend to trusting in his ability to be able to keep himself out of situations he couldn't handle without Godric's intervention for very long. Case in point being the more than just a few a times that his Child ran afoul of a witch or wizard's wards – not to mention that one time in Bermuda around 100 years ago that they both swore never to bring up, ever.
The shock he felt through the bond actually roused some emotions that, while not positive, were decidedly not as far on the negative side of the spectrum as had been his norm for decades now. The following phone call explaining the surge of emotion and his Child's newest resident had actually put Godric in the mood to actually quench his ever-ignored thirst and nearly demolish four donated bags of A+ blood.
As he sat, alone in his spartan office, Godric gave a passing thought to the fact that the mage who had caused his son to reach out to him twice in the same number of weeks would soon be coming to his nest. As far as coincidences went, he wasn't sure what to think about this one. He had met exactly two mages in his not inconsiderable lifetime, and they were both so very different from each other that he had no true framework from which to predict how his next meeting would go. The only things both mages had in common was a propensity to be cantankerous bastards and an inclination to be tight lipped about any and everything concerning the way their magic functioned that frankly bordered on paranoia.
He considered what he knew about the supernatural community and their penchant for coveting powerful beings and things and thought that mages might just be correct in wanting to keep their cards close to their chests.
As he distantly heard Isobel opening the front door to presumably let the mage in, he wondered if the woman in question would end up perplexing him as much as she did his Child.
Morgan POV
As she stood under the covered porch, Morgan was immensely grateful for whatever gods-given bought of insightfulness (or maybe prescience) gave her the idea to do the ritual tonight. The large, two-story Preston Hollow house almost seemed designed to be intimidating in its austerity. In truth, it wasn't the house that was causing Morgan's sudden case of nerves, but instead the task before her.
She was fiercely independent as a rule, sometimes (mostly) to her detriment. A combination of growing up with her horrible relatives and her (rather rough) first two years in the magical world taught her from nearly the cradle to be both self-sufficient and cunning enough to take care of her most basic needs and safety. Turns out habits formed in those formative years really stick with a person because, for all the support and help her family – both blood and chosen – surrounded her with starting at 13 years old, her first instinct remained to take any and everything on alone. Over nearly two decades, and many, many, lectures, she had started to ignore those instincts and started relying on others, especially after a few too many times of getting in over her head because she didn't have information that others had.
That personal growth was why she had actually gone through with stopping by the Dallas Sheriff's house at her ex-husband's suggestion. After working as a semi-Unspeakable and doing the odd job for the non-magical government agencies, she had truly come to realize how important any intelligence she could get her hands on was. It was often the difference between successful or failed mission. Morgan wasn't going to chance the fate of both her father's and his team's lives just because she was a tad skittish about including the vampire authority in regarding her plans.
Tom wasn't the only one who had managed to hear of the Dallas Sherriff's reputation. Before she moved to the southern United States, Morgan had, of course, done some research into the more well-known supernaturals in the area, which definitely included the Area Sheriffs. Godric, commonly known as the Gaul, came from a time before family names were used commonly and was exceptionally difficult to get any concrete information on that went further back than the last century. Even what she did know about him was mostly hearsay – a fact that bothered both her and Blaise Zabini's mother, whom she had called in a favor with in to get what little information she had in the first place.
There wasn't an agreed upon date for when Godric lived as a human or when he was turned into a vampire. One of the only hints that Lady Zabini was able to uncover was that he was supposedly turned in Rome during the height of its power, but even that information was iffy at best and contradictory at worst.
Morgan had access to a veritable treasure trove of journals from members of various families both in extant and extinct. It was a small coincidence that she had read about a vampire in one of these ancient journals that may or may not have been Godric. The only identifiers in the journal were a pretty accurate description of the tattoos the ancient vampire was known to have. The journal wasn't dated in any way that Morgan could truly rely on, but the writing and magic on it both gave her at least a 500-year period to guess from, and that journal more than likely predated the widely accepted time of Godric's turning. However, Morgan also knew that tattoos, especially in the European tribes pre-dating Rome, were a very common thing for both men and women to have. The language the journal was written in didn't have gender specific pronouns when describing the vampire, so she was hesitant to even consider that the two were one and the same.
Mysterious background or not, the information that Morgan did have on Godric all pointed to him being an efficient, if somewhat non-typical, vampire Sheriff.
She was brought out of her thoughts by the quiet sound of the large, dark, metal door in front of her swinging open on its hinges. A beautiful vampire with dark hair and dark eyes, around Morgan's height, was standing in the doorway. She quickly looked Morgan up and down in a cursory glance and said, "Good evening. You must be Ms. James?"
Morgan nodded before replying aloud, "Yes, I am. I have an appointment to see the Sheriff in about ten minutes."
The brunette vampire gave a quick nod of her own before moving aside to allow the door to open wider, a soundless invitation inside.
The two slipped into a few moments of companionable silence as they walked down the hallway, the only sounds being the click of the vampire's tall heels and Morgan's soft, booted footsteps. Morgan saw the unnamed vampire give her a few quick glances before she finally broke the silence, "Pardon my manners, my name is Isabelle and I'm Godric's second-in-command for Area Nine."
Morgan gave the vampire a small smile to let her know that no offense was taken, "It's a pleasure to meet you, Isabelle." Deciding to do a little bit of digging, she asked, "How long have you been working in this Area?"
"About 50 years. I spent most of my life between Spain and Portugal before deciding a change of scenery was needed and came to the New World. My Maker wasn't exactly pleased but ended up contacting one of his old acquaintances who happened to be the recently appointed Dallas Sheriff and asked if he would take me on and 'keep me out of trouble,'" the vampire quoted fondly.
She was surprised that the vampire had parted with as much information as she had. Morgan made a quick decision to push her luck a bit more, but as soon as she was preparing to open her mouth to question the talkative vampire further, the vampire stopped before a beautiful door made of light wood – apparently they had made it to their destination while making small talk.
"This is where I leave you. It was a pleasure meeting you Ms. James," the vampire said in a soft voice, already turning toward another hallway leading away from the presumed office of the Sheriff. Turning around, she added, "Have a nice evening and I hope you enjoy your stay in Area Nine."
Morgan watched the female vampire leave before mentally shaking herself. The nice, chatty vampire had thrown her off a bit, but she was here for a reason, after all.
She turned back towards the intricately carved door made out of a light wood – a beautiful pine, if her guess was correct. Morgan snorted quietly, pine wood for a vampire – particularly one who she had a hard time finding any information on – was quite apt. She wondered if this vampire had any knowledge of wand wood symbolism.
Taking a closer look at the door, she noticed that the painstaking etchings illustrated hundreds of individual scenes. She wished she had time to sit and get a good look at the odd piece of art. The door was one of the only departures from the austere architecture that was devoid of personalized touches. She rationalized that this was, perhaps, where the Sheriff spent most of his time and decided to have the door be an eye catcher.
Putting thoughts of pretty doors aside, Morgan finally knocked on the subject of her previous attentions. A quiet voice bid her to come in, so after taking a deep breath and mentally soothing what nerves she could feel even though she was Occluding, she turned the knob and entered the Sheriff's office.
The first thing Morgan's mind registered was that whatever interior designer decorated the rest of the house was definitely not responsible for the office in front of her. Everything was soft plush rugs and dark honeyed wood. The wainscoting matched the deep blue wallpaper with tiny designs on the top half of the walls. There was a fire going – a real, wood fire, not one of those new (awful) gas ones – in the beautiful stone fireplace located on the wall to her right. The wall opposite that was almost entirely taken up by small paintings, mixed and matched together to create a whole wall of collaged artwork.
Her eyes eventually turned forward and saw what was, arguably, the best part of the room. She had a thing for desks, she'd readily admit to it. She felt that you could learn a lot about a person by their desk – what it looked like, what they kept on it - a thousand other tiny things gave hints to the personality of the owner.
Echoing the door behind her, the desk was artfully crafted from pine. She couldn't resist letting lose a curl of her magic to brush against the desk and she was delighted by what it told her. It was old and hand carved from a single tree. Whoever had made the desk had left an imprint of their joy and pride along the planes and notches in the woodwork. It was there, barely distinguishable, under the sense of stress and dispassion that was the owner's more significant imprint.
Lost in her own admiration for the fine piece of craftsmanship in front of her, Morgan did a very stupid thing. Or, rather, she stupidly forgot to do something – reign her magic back in to settle in her body.
She could hear Snape calling her a dunderhead from half a world away.
Morgan's breath caught as her magic unintentionally brushed the vampire quietly staring at her, seemingly content to let her examine his office. She finally looked at him and internally cursed as she met his stormy grey-blue eyes. What was it with her magic and its strange reactions to vampire Sheriffs?
She really wished that she had had time to do a little digging and find out, why, exactly, her magic wanted to crawl out of her and absolutely smother not one, but two vampires now. The fact that it didn't react the same way around all vampires just made the puzzle more complex. She knew her life was somewhat of a cosmic joke to whatever-powers-that-be out there, but really? She thought by coming to the States, she would be leaving the mystery and intrigue that marked her life in Britain behind.
Mentally giving it up for a bad job, she broke both the weighted silence and the stare-off. Once again casting her eyes around the cozy office before asking the first question that popped into her head, "What is it with vampires and not liking the United States? Is there some kind of vampire-taboo or something?"
The corner of his mouth twitched before he answered in a soft, carrying voice, "Ah, I see Isabelle talked about how she came to be in my Area," at her nod, he continued, "Most of the older vampires see North America as something not unlike how 19th century Americans saw the 'Wild West,' interesting, but not somewhere that most would want to stay for a considerable period of time."
Deciding to continue being a snarky mage, because why not? she followed up with another question, "Were those same older vampires in charge of the designations for each Area's authority? Because, if they were, I'd have to give it to them for committing to the aesthetic."
As the corners of his eyes just barely crinkled in amusement, she let her gaze sweep over the male vampire in front of her. It had taken her a while to notice how different he looked from a typical vampire, with her magic itching under her skin and all, but he was one of the only vampires she had met that truly looked other – besides the pale skin tone that is. She didn't know if it was the way he spoke or held himself or maybe even his ancient looking eyes, but no one could mistake this being as human.
Unlike the other vampire Sheriff that she had had a similar reaction to, this one was just on the shorter side of average for a man – standing a shade or two above her own 173 centimeters. He had dark brown hair and eyes that couldn't decide between being grey or blue. Most would say that his light linen shirt and pants set was an odd choice in clothing, but Morgan came from a world where it was common for both men and women to wear what was essentially a dress with no underclothes. Consequently, his attire ranked very low on the 'weird' spectrum for her.
It was what she could just barely make out under the lightweight shirt that caught her attention. Large tattoos surrounded both biceps and his clavicle. Morgan was intrigued – she was aware that this vampire was known to have tattoos, but still, this was the first time she had actually been able to see any of the undead having them, even concealed as they were. She saw that one of the bicep tattoos wasn't solid – instead made up of tiny, indistinct ones – and had the errant thought that she'd like to see it up close one, one day, without the barrier of his shirt hiding it from her sight.
Shaking off thoughts of tattooed vampires in dubious states of undress, Morgan focused her attention back to the strange vampire's face. He seemed to be studying her and her admittedly strange attire just as much as she studied him.
When it seemed that both of them had finished inspecting the other, the Sheriff waved his hand indicating for her to take a seat. After Morgan got situated in the lovely blue wingback chair, the vampire broke the silence by answering her sarcastic question, "For the most part, yes. A good amount of those ancients serve on the European Council, and thus, are somewhat responsible for setting up the American vampire system. Sentiments about ancients and their questionable naming choices aside, welcome to my nest, Ms. James. My name is Godric, the Sheriff of this Area."
Morgan would never admit it, but she was somewhat entranced by the sound of his voice. It was soft yet carrying - full of authority without being overbearing – and sounded nearly as ancient as his eyes looked. It didn't carry the cold undertones that Tom's did when talking to anyone that wasn't Alex or herself. It also lacked the playful and cocky quality that was present in the voice belonging to the other object of her frustration, Mr. Northman.
She was a little indecisive about how to go about informing him of why exactly she was there. She had already decided to go ahead and drop the alias – it would no doubt save her from a pissed off vampire later on. Question was, how exactly do you tell a vampire Sheriff that he has a coven of pests making trouble in his backyard and she was here to clean up the mess without stepping on any toes? Especially when those toes belong to an ancient, powerful, vampire Sheriff?
Being a mage, having quite a few years of first-hand experience living side-by-side with Britain's (unknowingly) reigning Dark Lord, extensive career training, and an attitude that could be summed up as wholly unaffected by any and everything – probably due to the exposure of the chaos that was generally her life – had somewhat conditioned Morgan out of any nerves that would generally accompany possibly pissing off powerful people. She consciously didn't think about how, when she was a teenager, before most of those circumstances would come to dictate her life, she tended to go out of her way to aggravate people who held any semblance of authority of her. When her adolescent antics were brought up – and they often were – Morgan tended to blame it on a double inheritance of Black madness and the Evans' propensity be increasingly antagonistic with every breath they took.
So, she decided to do the Sheriff a small kindness before probably ruining his day, and started off by properly introducing herself, "Good evening, Sheriff. I'd like to clear up something before we really get into why I've made this appointment tonight. My true name Morgan Potter-Black. James is my middle name and I frequently use it as an alias. My name is rather recognizable across the Atlantic, so I tend to employ a bit of necessary subterfuge when I'm trying to get about without drawing attention."
As she explained the necessity of her cloak-and-dagger routine, one of the vampire's eyebrows had started a slow and steady trek up his forehead. She kept track of their ascent out of the corner of her eye, wondering just what it was about her explanation amused or irked the vampire – he was in possession of a solid poker face, so she couldn't tell which it was quiet yet.
After the eyebrows-of-doom had finally come to a stop, Godric spoke, "I know of you, mage."
Morgan must have looked as panicked as she felt, because bloody hell, she wasn't planning on revealing that, quirky magical reaction to yet another vampire or not, since he just gave her a look that conveyed he thought she was funny for even coming into his territory and trying to pull a fast one on him, by omission or otherwise.
While she was internally categorizing escape routes and alternate ways to go about her mission without this uncomfortably knowledgeable vampire's help, the subject of her unease seemed to disregard her inner turmoil and continued, "You have so many names – is it Morgan Potter? Or Lady Potter-Black-Gryffindor? Did you, perhaps, take your husband's name and its now Morgan Ravenclaw? It's been a long time since I've met a human so steeped in rumor and mystery and even longer since the last time I was in the company of a mage."
His first few statements somewhat calmed Morgan's freak-out – it wasn't exactly classified knowledge that she had been married or even the names she used when her presence was needed in the Wizengamot. The entire European Vampire Council was passingly familiar with both her and Tom, and this vampire was most definitely old enough to possibly be aware of the Council's dealings.
It was the Sheriff's last sentence that brought all thought in Morgan's mind to a halt.
Ever since Morgan had learned what she was – down in the bowels of Salazar's Chamber at 12 years old, dirty and underfed, but still having the energy to be pissed off at the world after yelling both Tom's diary horcrux and a 1000 year old basilisk into submission, because 16 year old boys were universally idiotic, only part of a soul or not, doubly so if they had giant, killer snakes to do their hormonal bidding – she had been ruthlessly looking for any kind of information on mages that wasn't just hearsay and conjecture. Salazar's parselscript journals only mentioned an ancestor of his having met a mage long before the Founder was even born.
According to the Salazar, his parselscript writings were just a translation of another ancient diary that was passed down from father to son in the Slytherin family. This translation of a first-hand source was the first and most complete information about mages that she had found yet. The squiggly writing in the ancient, worn diaries detailed the mage and his characteristics pretty well. Morgan had holed herself up in the study behind the main statue and got lost in Salazar's description of a being who used magic as easily as breathing yet struggled to control it – just like her.
That journal had completely changed the trajectory of her life. Before she read it, Morgan still considered herself a freak, her twelve-year-old mind not being able to completely ignore years of conditioning by her loving relatives. After finishing that section, she knew that she wasn't a freak of nature even amongst other witches and wizards, but that she was more, she was something other, and that there were other people like her. Even if the only one she had heard of lived over 1000 years ago, it was still more hope than she had had before reading Salazar's journal.
She had gone through the last weeks of her second year in a daze, trying to internalize the complete shake up of her world view. After a few days of being locked inside Dudley's second bedroom (for all that she slept there, it was never hers, nothing in that house was ever hers), Morgan came to the realization that whatever hold the Dursleys had on vanished when the first time she read the word mage and felt the way it resonated with her very being.
What followed was a hasty conversation with the diary horcrux (not that she knew what exactly that was at the time) about how to get to Diagon Alley, a bit of midnight lock-picking to liberate her school things, and an absolutely mad ride on the Knight Bus to one of the lesser known entrances to the magical shopping district.
She had booked a room at an inn that Tom had told her didn't pry into their patron's business (or, more importantly, ask about their ages or lack of guardian accompanying them) and spent the rest of the summer getting better acquainted with the world she had previously felt separate from after her introduction to it 2 years ago.
One of the first stops the newly-freed twelve-year-old Morgan had made was Gringotts – and dear Morgana, if that meeting wasn't a revelation nearly on par with finding out she was a mage. After days of meetings interspaced with viciously uttered death threats - in Gobbledegook, English and Parseltongue – she immediately asked the goblins if it was possible for her to camp out in her vaults so that she could search through the thousands of books for any further hints about her unique inheritance.
She got what she guessed was a baffled look from one of the goblins in the room before they promptly shrugged and agreed after giving her a list of things she would need if she truly was going to go through with the inanity of spending weeks in a damp, dreary vault. One mad dash through Essential Ally and one goblin alert ward system set up for her use later, and the newfound mage got lost in three ancient families' collections of rare and obscure books.
Spending her summer going through literal mountains of books and finding nothing had alerted Morgan to the scarcity of mages in history. Later, when she had access to the Slytherin, Gaunt, and Ravenclaw libraries, she would be disappointed once again. Even the Slytherin vault only had vague mentions of that long-dead ancestor's anecdotes of which Salazar had translated.
So, for her to come across anyone – vampire or not – who had any information at all about mages? Not to mention, if the Sheriff was to be believed, having actually met one? She felt like that American term – hitting the lottery – would be more than applicable at the moment. It was definitely enough to stop her half-formed plans on attempting the poorly thought out obliviate-and-escape attempt she had in mind after he revealed his knowledge of her being a mage.
Cursing her luck for what had to be the thousandth time that month, Morgan lamented that she was here on important business, important, time-sensitive business, which didn't lend itself to letting her follow around the ancient vampire Sheriff like some kind of manic puppy, begging for any and all information about this mysterious mage he claimed to have met.
She must have been staring at Godric for longer than she had thought, because the eyebrows-of-doom were making a rapid comeback.
Dredging up every last bit of Occlumency skill she possessed, Morgan struggled to say something that wasn't please tell me everything you know, right now, or when, where and how did you meet a mage? She was finally able to get out, "Let's just skip the part where I pelt you with questions about what you just said, because, dear Morgana, there's a lot to unload there," she wanted to scowl when his lips seemed to twitch in humor, but continued, "but I did request an urgent meeting for a reason, Sheriff."
At the solemn tone of her voice, the vampire's expression became serious, "Yes, of course," he said replied while he finally took his own seat.
He gave her a long, unreadable look after he got settled before stating, "As you can probably understand, I'm quite interested in why exactly you requested a meeting tonight."
Morgan allowed herself a small sigh, blowing the fringe of her bangs out of her face before answering, "Well, I'm not sure how to say this without possibly pissing you off, so I'll get right to it. You have a problem in your Area, Sheriff. A hedge-witch coven of necromancers type of problem."
Immediately, the vampire's face closed off. Good news – he didn't look angry, yet.
She barreled on through her explanation with all the grace of Dobby's bludger from her ill-fated second year, "I honestly couldn't care what happens in this Area, but that coven is suspected in the abduction of two high-level groups of operatives from both the American and British magical governments."
If Morgan wasn't mistaken, she thought she saw the vampire wince – barely, but still something. She just gave the Sheriff a look confirming that yes, indeed, this was a problem.
He tilted his head while looking at her in consideration before decisively typing something at a supernatural speed on the desktop to the side of him. Glancing back toward Morgan as he typed, he said, "I know the coven you speak of. We've been collecting information on them since the uptick in supernatural disappearances began – around two years ago, actually."
Seeming to be done with whatever he was doing on the computer, he stopped typing and turned his body to face Morgan once again then continued, "Before I get in to the history of this coven, might I ask how you came to be involved in all of this? What exactly is a mage who also happens to be both British aristocracy and somewhat of a celebrity doing chasing a coven of hedge-witches across the Atlantic?"
Fair point, Morgan thought. Still, she wasn't exactly ready to lay all her cards on the table. Deciding to give him enough of a reason to continue giving her information without further exposing her personal stake in this, she waved her hand and slid over the identification she carried that marked her as a member of both MI5 and a consultant for the Unspeakables.
He took a short moment to glance at the documents before giving her a searching look. Seeming to come to a decision, he turned the monitor toward Morgan so that she was able to view whatever he had pulled up on the screen. While she started quickly reviewing the information packet, Godric started to speak once again, "This is a summary of the most pertinent information about the Dallas coven. Base of operation, frequented locales, members – both confirmed and suspected, and just about any other significant pieces of information we were able to cobble together."
She hummed in acknowledgement as she started reading the list of locations where the coven was frequently reported being seen at. She was struck by a fit of deviousness and looked at the vampire in front of her slyly before suggesting, "How do you feel about joining me to do some on-the-ground intelligence gathering? This is your territory, anyway, so I would feel like I was intruding if you didn't come with me."
Godric seemed to notice the mischievous bent her mood had taken, giving her a bit of a side-eye before replying, "What do you have in mind?"
Morgan didn't bother to conceal her Cheshire grin this time. From what she had observed from Godric, he seemed to be a tad up-tight, so really, it was her civic duty as a Black, forces of chaos that they are, to bring a little excitement into his life – she would eat her wand (well, one of them, anyway) if he had had any fun in the past year. Seeing the corners of his mouth tighten in what could only be exasperation as she just stared at him, grinning dementedly, admittedly, she finally asked, "These hedge-witches seem to frequent one place more often than the others – ever heard of a place called Inwood Tavern?"
The vampire looked a tad bit weary as he gave a small nod. Morgan's smile only grew even bigger (and maybe a touch sadistic) when she saw this.
"Brilliant," she said, sounding delighted, "let's go scope the place out, Sheriff."
Author's Note, part two: I've done a lot of research so far on wood meanings and the symbolism inherent in using particular woods for certain things. I loved the idea of using a pine door to start Morgan's journey into our favorite, mysterious vampire's life. For this particular wood in this chapter, I used Pottermore's Wandlore page as I found that it fit Godric perfectly – because, ya know, mysterious loner, semi-immortal vamp and all. Not to mention it's a bit of hint to what will be going on in later chapters *evil cackling*.
Pine - The straight-grained pine wand always chooses an independent, individual master who may be perceived as a loner, intriguing and perhaps mysterious. Pine wands enjoy being used creatively, and unlike some others, will adapt unprotestingly to new methods and spells. Many wandmakers insist that pine wands are able to detect, and perform best for, owners who are destined for long lives, and I can confirm this in as much as I have never personally known the master of a pine wand to die young. The pine wand is one of those that is most sensitive to non-verbal magic.
Also – fun fact – Inwood Tavern is actually a bar in Dallas, Texas! It's the oldest continually-operating bar in the area!