Author's Note: I don't own Harry Potter but I do own any OC's you see in this story (there's going to be a lot of them!)
Key!
This- Journal entries
This- Memories
This- Modern world
000- Scene break
A warning to you all: This particular tale will be laden with violence and citrus so people under the age of majority should clear out and read something else! The rating is M for a reason!
Without further ado, a different kind of fanfiction...
Chapter One
The Finding of the Book
Sixteen year old Harry Potter raced through the corridors of an old castle in the Scottish Highlands, the old man's shouts reverberating from over a corridor away. He didn't see what the big deal was, he just left a few dungbombs in the his office...
Perhaps if the cantankerous caretaker wasn't so bloody horrid he'd be pranked less?
The boy turned another corner and ascended several staircases until he reached the very familiar seventh floor corridor. Harry paced three times in front of the section of the wall across from the tapestry of some daft old man teaching trolls to dance. A roughly hewn wooden door sprung from the tiles and Harry grinned.
He yanked the door open and paused; instead of the replica of the Gryffindor Common Room he'd requested, the room had configured into a dark, almost closet like space. It was so dark that Harry couldn't see more than a few paces in despite the flickering light from the torches in the wall sconces.
"You can run but you can't get away!"
Harry's head whipped towards the far side of the corridor by the moving staircases. He could see Filch's shadow bobbing up and down against the wall, and next to him, Mrs. Norris the demon cat!
His decision made for him, Harry stepped into the dark room and shut the door. Harry lit his wand with a muttered, 'Lumos!' Walking along cautiously, Harry increased the power to his wand and magnified the beam of light at it's tip. Raising his hand, Harry looked around, trying to spot something familiar. But it was no good, the room was blanketed in a velvety blackness and the only solid thing he could see was a hazy cloud of dust in his light's glare.
Swallowing nervously, Harry continued onward as he could still hear Filch banging around the corridor. Harry walked only a few more minutes when he saw something in the distance. Something outlined in a white light. Harry picked up speed, he didn't know why he was running, only that it was important that he get to the light as soon as possible. So he ran as though he was a child participating in a game of Harry Hunting.
As Harry approached the light, he had to take care to shield his eyes for a moment as they adjusted. Stepping into the light, which seemed to have no source and instead just shined from everywhere and nowhere all at once, he saw a white pedestal, on which rested a large book bound in soft, red leather. It's pages were crisp despite the apparent age of the tome and something whispered in the back of his mind that he should pluck the book from it's stand and read it.
Harry winced, the blissful feeling the whisper caused felt more similar to the Imperious Curse instead of the overt mental attacks he had suffered from both Snape and Voldemort over the course of the previous year. But still... The book seemed to call to him. As though all his problems would be solved if he would but grab the grimoire and claim it as his own. And before he knew what he was doing, he had done just that.
The leather was even softer than he thought, but not from age. No... It seemed as though it had always been so and to think otherwise would be an insult to whatever noble creature provided the flesh to be worked upon. And it was indeed a noble beast who's skin had been tanned to make the book's plain covering, for no mere cow, goat, or pig could provide the long lasting protection this priceless treasure obviously deserved. Harry turned the book over and he could swear that the tome pulsed in his hands.
Breathing out, Harry slowly opened the cover to a title page that read:
Memoir's of an Immortal.
'Immortality...' the word seemed to echo in Harry's head for a moment before he found his eyes drawing back to the book.
Ireland 1120 A.D.
Hello, Reader. My name is Amoda, though I have collected many titles and alias' over the course of my one hundred and fifty years (though I'm assured that I don't look a day over thirty.) I suppose that the Magicks binding this book have done what they are supposed to do and assure that the correct people read it! (I certainly don't want such a useful tome wasting away in some dreadful library someplace!)
000
Harry snickered, he'd have to show Hermione that line.
000
The fact that you have found the book (or perhaps the book found you, Magick is a fickle thing after all!) means that you are worthy of reading the tales of my exploits now that I pen them as I prepare to shuck off my mortal coil.
I have successfully managed to enchant this book with my memories, and the memories of people close to me. This, as well as my own hand-written accounts, ensures that this is, most assuredly, a truthful story.
Furthermore, I have added a spell that will translate the language to whatever the reader is most comfortable with, how successful this has been I don't know (I just hope the common tongue is still just that, common!)
Now, I know what you're thinking, 'But Journal, I simply don't have time to read/watch a century and a half of your life!' Well calm down! When you want to take a break just shut me, and I'll automatically pause where I am in this particular telling. Open me back up and I'll start playing where you left off. If you want to select a previously viewed memory to rewatch then all you have to do is tap the page with your wand and say the date you want. Simple, really!
Remember, that if you show me to other people, then you have the ultimate power over my functions (at least for this reading.) I will not work if you are not there! Since you are the one who found me, I have, just over the course of these few paragraphs, formed a sort of mental link with you, that will tell me if you are near. If on the off chance that you die or are unable to complete the reading, then I will simply disappear to a new (but still prearranged) location to await being found by another worthy individual.
Well, these things have a beginning and I suppose I should start there. I was born in 970 A.D in a little town at the heart of Vikingdom...
000
Suddenly, the pages of of the journal started glowing like a television screen. The scene opened up in a dark room lit by what seemed to be dozens of candles. A pregnant woman laid on a pallet of furs, her legs spread as a woman knelt between them.
000
Scandinavia, 970 A.D.
"I can see the head! Push now!" yelled a midwife, her blonde hair plastered to her forehead by sweat. The woman on the bed screamed, her voice obviously raw from the strain, when suddenly she stopped and slumped, boneless, on her pillows.
"It's out!" said the midwife, cradling the babe in one arm as she cut the umbilical cord and tied it off.
"My baby..." slurred the new mother tiredly. "What is it?"
The midwife quickly wiped the child off with a damp cloth and swathed it in warm linens before handing it to it's mother. "Congratulations," said the midwife wearily over the shrill voice of the crying babe; that had been one of the more difficult births she had overseen. "You are now the Matr of a baby girl."
The mother snuggled her daughter and choked back a sob; this had been her third pregnancy but only her first birth, the other two being miscarriages. The mother slowly pulled herself together and raised her head. "And what of Drogo?"
The midwife smiled and made to leave the room. "I'll go call in your husband now." said the blonde over her shoulder...
000
The book's screen slowly faded and more writing appeared on the page. Despite how similar this was to Tom Riddle's diary, Harry couldn't help but trust this 'Amoda.' as though he had known her his entire life.
A chair appeared behind Harry and he chose to sit down.
000
My Matr was in labor for over twenty-three hours, which is something I can respect despite never having borne my own children.
After my birth, My Fatr named me Amoda, after his deceased Matr. It is a name that, amongst other things, means both 'Wrath' and 'Courage.' It was very much an odd name considering I spent the next fourteen years living the peaceful life of an ordinary village girl. I helped clean and cook. I learned to sew and to take care of my homestead's animals. For you see, I was the daughter of a successful farmer and rancher and I acted accordingly, I wore a maiden band and nice wool dresses and when my Matr finally bore my Fatr a son, I helped raise the lad (his name is Freki, which means 'Odin's Wolf,' another tough name for a farmer's son) while my mother recuperated from another difficult birth.
I didn't realize it then but I was slowly being prepared to be auctioned off to the family willing to pay the best Bride Price.
On my fifteenth birthday, my parents pulled me aside and told me that a rich trader had put forth a lucrative offer. He wanted to wed me to his son, a boy I knew from the village and was a known braggart and lout.
My parents deferred to me as much as custom dictated, but I could tell it was just a formality. My Fatr wanted my Bride Price and nothing would stop him. At least my Matr was genuinely happy for me; knowing that I'd live a life of luxury, having many slaves to do any actual work.
Not having much choice, and knowing that this would indeed bring prestige over to my family, I accepted the offer and was prepared to be tied down. Ha! I, Amoda, who's name practically screams Adventure, would become naught but a simple housewife to a boy I found repugnant!
I suppose that I should be thankful that they demanded I see the local Healer, to determine my worth...
000
Once again, the book's pages glowed like a monitor and Harry found himself getting comfortable to watch the memory.
000
Scandinavia 985 A.D.
A pretty teenage girl with clear, icy blue eyes, sat in front of a mirror combing her long, auburn hair. Seemingly satisfied, she twisted her locks into an elaborate braid with practiced ease. The girl smiled to her reflection when suddenly the skin separating her pallet from the rest of the house was pulled open by her Mother who was holding her now two year old son.
"Are you ready to go, love?"
Amoda uncurled her body and stood to her five foot, nine inch frame and placed her comb on a set of drawers.
"Of course, Matr."
Amoda left the house and wrapped her shawl around her shoulder's a bit tighter. Shivering in the crisp Fall air, the girl began the trek down the road where the Healer, an old woman named Ylffa, lived with her two sons and one daughter. It only took a moment to make the walk but Amoda was still shivering slightly when she knocked on the unadorned wooden door.
The door was opened by Healer Ylffa, the only witch in the village, having not managed to pass the gift on to her offspring. "Come in, child." smiled the old woman leaning on her gnarled walking stick. "I've been expecting you."
The old lady led Amoda deeper into her house until she peeled the skin blocking the entrance way into a sort of examination room and ushered the auburn-haired girl in ahead of her. It was small and lit with a single fire pit that held a tiny flame. There were no windows and herbs, grasses, and other odd things hung from the ceiling. Jars holding ingredients Amoda had never seen were stored on shelves and sealed, oak barrels were tucked into dark corners. In the middle of the room was a raised dais large enough for even the tallest person to lay on comfortably. It was covered in weird, squiggly markings.
"Now, child," began Ylffa. "If you would be so kind as to take your dress off I'll be able to begin my examination."
Amoda ducked her head and blushed hugely; she had never before let anyone other than her mother see her in the nude. Being an intensely private person, she had always visited the bath house much earlier than the other village women every Lördag (Bath Day.)
"Come now, dear. Didn't anyone tell you what would be happening today?" Amoda shook her head and Ylffa clicked her tongue. "Well I assure you that you don't have anything more than I haven't seen before, being a woman myself and raising a daughter. So please strip, knickers included!"
It was clear that Amoda was mentally scolding herself for acting silly before she undid the bodice to her dress and slipped out of the thick garment showing a light dusting of brown freckles on her slightly muscled shoulders. She then unrolled her chest wrap, allowing her modest, yet perky, breasts to spring free before doing the same to her lower wrappings, revealing a tuft of soft-looking hair at the junction of her legs. All in all, she cut a beautiful figure, halfway between a young maiden and a fully-grown adult body.
000
Harry made a strangled choking noise, his face beet red, and he would swear that the book wiggled as though giggling at him.
000
"Now sit atop the altar, dear. And please, try to relax. This will feel a bit strange."
Amoda did so and almost immediately, the Healer lit some smelly, oily powder on fire for a moment before blowing it out, she allowed the pungent, green smoke to coalesce above the unnerved girl. Then the old lady began chanting something in a dialect that Amoda had never heard before. Ylffa brought her cold hands down onto Amoda's flat stomach, making the girl jump slightly in surprise. The elder gently rubbed circles and other strange markings into her skin using just the pad of her fingers, all the while mumbling under her breath, her face scrunched in concentration.
Suddenly, the Healer's eyes snapped open and the air cleared, the weird tingling sensation where the healer touched faded, and Amoda turned frightful, questioning eyes back to Ylffa.
"It is well known that your mother had extremely difficult births," began the Elder mournfully. "That is why you were sent to me, I was to see if the same would happen to you. Only, it is much worse than I feared. I'm so sorry, child, but you are barren, you will never be able to bear children...
000
And there it is. I don't know what year you are from, Reader. But back then (and even now) a barren woman was basically unmarriageable, considering that the main focus of a wedding was to ensure an heir to a family is born. To say nothing of alliances or business deals - love never entered the equation, you were expected to try and make the relationship work. If all else failed then there were laws allowing for divorce so that both parties may part on good terms, before a bloody feud erupted between the two families.
As you can expect, my Fatr and Matr were devastated, though for entirely different reasons. Matr was worried for my well being, like a good Matr should be. Fatr, though... He had to inform the prospective groom and his Fatr that I would be unable to do my 'womanly duties' and procreate with the idiot.
Hehe, if it's not obvious, they canceled the contract and he went on to woo some other hapless girl. And while I saw this as good news (the not marrying said braggart part, not the barren thing - that was one of the single most painful bits of news I've ever received) my Fatr did not. In his eyes I was useless! Never mind that I was, at that point in my life, an experienced farm hand! He wouldn't be able to sell my womb to the highest bidder!
My Fatr had never been a kind man. And when he came home he was in a rage...
000
Harry's eyes were wide with sympathy behind his glasses; he could understand hateful family better than most people. Harry sighed and, remembering the instructions from the first entry, shut the book, pausing the story.
Harry stood and stretched, he contemplated leaving the book, but now that he thought about it, it was uncanny how sophisticated the enchantments on the tome really were. They were able to bypass the power of the Room of Requirement, which is, by itself, an impressive feat. Then it was able to compel a lad who can throw off Lord Voldemort's Imperious Curse to pick it up and read the thing... No, Harry would take the book and show it to the Headmaster at their next history lesson.
His decision made, He shrunk the book and stuffed it in his robe's pocket before leaving the room. Harry creeped all the way to Gryffindor Tower and, when he entered his dorm room, he sneaked past his slumbering friends and stashed the book at the bottom of his trunk. Casting the strongest locking charm he knew at the trunk, he climbed into bed, not even bothering to change from his school robes.
Harry fell asleep nearly instantly.
000 Chapter End 000
Hello all~ Faffy here with a new story! I wanted to try something different and I've seen those 'Harry and friends read the books' stories (I even have a few on my favorite list) but I wanted something I've never seen done before. And this is it! It's an original story, set in the wizarding world's distant past, being read by our favorite Order of the Roasted Chicken in an AU!
Now, this chapter is relatively short. But this is just a prologue so it's alright. To ensure timely updates on this one, I've drawn up an outline for Amoda's story (something I've avoided.) I have up to Amoda's 34th year planned out and have even filled in most of the details. If anything, the parts that are going to take long are Harry's bits.
As I said, this story will be a play on the Harry/OC pairing (It won't be romantic, but there will definitely be a deepening connection between the two despite being from different timeframes. As for the citrus I mentioned at the beginning of the chapter, I will say only one thing: Amoda gets around.
Review please!