Story [Harry Potter] Godric's Squire (Godric Gryffindor Multi-Chapter Fic for Mod Challenge)

Title: Godric’s Squire

Fandom: Harry Potter. Set over a thousand years before the events of the main books and movies.

Author: devilinthedetails

Genre: Horror; Action; Adventure; Friendship; Flashes of Humor.

Characters: Godric Gryffindor; OCs.

Summary: Sir Godric Gryffindor and his erstwhile squire set out to slay an undead child around All Hallow’s Eve.

Author’s Note: Written for the “Something Borrowed Something New” Mod Challenge. My challenge prompts were the following: the trope of the Undead Child; the line of dialogue: “And you won’t have to think about the rotting;” the words “legitimate,” “obelisk,” and “megafauna;” the random story element of trying on skintight leather pants; and a picture of a rocky coastline with yellowed grass.

To write this story, I used a combination of Harry Potter lore and legend from our own world. I have taken some liberties with the history of our own world, but the Harry Potter series themselves contain anachronisms so the reader would do best picturing this story as transpiring in a vaguely medieval milieu (post the Norman conquest) rather than a more Dark Ages setting though that would technically be more accurate to the lives and times of the Hogwarts Founders.

A Potter in the Hollow

I write this chronicle of one of the most celebrated heroic adventures of Sir Godric Gryffindor by flickering orange candlelight as my eyes grow dim after a long life. Sir Godric–may God and all the saints grant his soul rest in peace–has been dead for many decades, but he is very much alive in my memory. Far more animated in my mind and heart than he is in the great stone obelisks that have been erected in his honor throughout our fair green isle. Starting in the Hollow and spreading like seeds in a peasant’s field during spring planting to the tips of the wild, far north of our island.

I have not the skill to decorate the margins of this manuscript with illuminations as the learned monks recording and preserving the words and wisdom of the ancients in the scriptoriums of their abbeys do. The task I have set myself is a humbler one, but still I am the only one who can do it. The only one now living who remembers the true Godric Gryffindor in all his flaming-haired glory and impulsivity.

Therefore, it is my solemn duty to compose this humble chronicle of him so his essence will not be lost but will endure on these pages long after I have departed to meet my Maker. To face His judgment of my life.

Sir Godric was a brave man. Radiant in the gleaming sun-gold of his armor, he was the boldest man in all of England, Scotland, Ireland, and Wales. It is my honor to do what I can to ensure that he is remembered as such. Revered as the most valiant knight ever to grace our lands but not transformed and elevated to the emptiness of mere legend alone. It was to me to provide an account not only of his chivalry and courage but also of his hot temper and lionish pride.

I myself was born in the Hollow. The third son of a village craftsman who wrought drinking and storage vessels from clay. My father was the descendent of many generations of such potters who had been trained in the occupation by his own father. Due to the many generations in which our family of artisans had plied this trade, my father had inherited the surname of Potter from his ancestors. Thus, I was baptized by the village priest as Henry Potter.

Neither of my parents were magical. Nor were any of my brothers and sisters. It was Sir Godric, lord of the manor, who first suspected that the strange feats of which I was capable–a source of bafflement to my parents and the Hollow’s priest–was magic. It was he who plucked me from my father’s cottage at the age of nine and named me his squire though the story I am about to relate transpired when I was thirteen. An unlucky number according to priests and diviners alike.

Once I was in Sir Godric’s service, it did not take me long to discover that he was not only a knight of some repute throughout the realm, but also a wizard of some renown among the families up and down the island who had magic flowing like blood in their veins. The progeny of such wizarding families often regarded me with suspicion. Perceiving my magic not as a legitimate power granted me by God at the moment of my conception but as something that should never have been my birthright. Something stolen from them. Something vile that explained why some of their own offspring were Squibs.

Sir Godric, however, was embraced and esteemed by all. Wizards and Muggles alike called on him at the castle. Appealing to him to rid their manors and villages of the monstrous megafauna that tormented large swaths of our island in those dark days. The giants and trolls in the northern mountains. The ghouls that lurked in the shadowed corners of castles and monasteries. The kelpies that haunted the lakes and lochs. The Red Caps who died their hats crimson with the blood of their unfortunate, bludgeoned-to-death victims.

We had just returned from slaying such a Welsh Green dragon that was plaguing a village in Devon when a messenger rode in from Cornwall with a request to aid a coastal community in dealing with the unquiet spirit of a dead child who refused to remain dead.

Sir Godric was proud of his dragon kill. He ordered the Hollow’s tanner to make him pants from the green leather of its skin. Thus, he stood before the mirror in the solar. Admiring the dashing figure he cut in the leather breeches that were so tight they left little to the imagination. Proud as a prancing thoroughbred stallion carrying a victorious knight before an applauding crowd at a tournament.

“What do you think, Henry?” he asked me. Planting his strong hands on his broad hips to better accentuate his impressive musculature. “Do my new pants flatter me?”

“They are rather green. ” I couldn’t contain a snigger at the risk of having my ears boxed by a Sir Godric who was never particularly patient when his fashion sense was slighted by an impertinent underling. “Green is not your color, sir. It clashes with the copper of your hair and beard.”

“Hmm.” Sir Godric’s swagger seemed dented as he contemplated the undeniable truth of my blunt statement. “That is so, but, vain creature that I am, I do love to wear the trinkets of my bravery.”

“You could have the pants dyed, sir,” I suggested with the cheeky adroitness of one well-schooled in both pleasing and teasing my master. “A bright crimson. Then people might think you had slain a Fireball from the Far East.”

“No. That is more than enough impudent nonsense from you.” Sir Godric cast a reproachful glare in my direction. “I cannot make a false claim to valor by wearing the skin of a dragon I did not slay. That would be vulgar as bearing a shield with a coat of arms I did not earn.”

I was spared the indignity of attempting to appease an eminently unamused Sir Godric by the appearance in the doorway of the manor’s steward. A sour-faced man called Robert.

“I beg pardon for the intrusion, sir.” Robert offered an obsequious bow. “A messenger has just rode in from Cornwall. Bearing an urgent petition for aid from Lord Trevik.”

“The stableboys have seen to his mount?” Sir Godric inquired into the routine courtesy that had been extended to Lord Trevik’s courier.

“Of course, sir.” Robert bristled subtly at the implication that his management of the household servants was anything less than perfect. “His horse is being tended to now.”

“Excellent.” Sir Godric waved a dismissive palm. “Please have the man shown to the solar. I will speak with him here. A maid may carry up a pitcher of ale and a plate of food for him to replenish himself after his long journey.”

“All will be done as you command.” Robert retreated from the room with another deep bow, and I experienced a surge of satisfaction seeing this pompous man reduced to such scrapings.

In that instant, in the clouding folly of my youthful arrogance, I did not know it would be the last moment of happiness I would enjoy for quite some time. Until our unholy–and at that time unknown to us–foe was vanquished with an iron stake to the chest.

 

@pronker As always, thank you so much for reading and commenting on my non Star Wars stories!

"House proud" is definitely a perfect way to describe Robert. I very much picture Robert as a man who is proud of the house that he manages and of the overall job that he does.

I'm so glad that you think this story is off to a good start, and I hope that you will enjoy the next installment just as much where the plot will start to thicken a bit. The relationship between Henry and Godric has been a fun one for me to write so far, and I think I will continue to take pleasure in exploring it as the tale progresses. Henry does indeed seem to have a knack for knowing where to draw the line with his sass as you say. A sense of how far would be too far and get him into real trouble. That youthful mischief and spirit of Henry is a treat to try to capture in the narration for sure!

I was able to share the challenge link with you in a PM, and I am absolutely thrilled that you signed up to join in the fun!

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Haunts of the Undead

Robert showed the messenger–whose name proved to be Cadan–into the solar. Promptly upon his entrance, Cadan bowed to Sir Godric and presented him with Lord Trevik’s seal as a token of his authenticity. Of the veracity of the appeal for aid he was about to make in Lord Trevik’s name.

Sir Godric accepted the seal from the bowing Cadan. Examined it for a moment with a furrowed brow. Then, apparently convinced of its legitimacy in a corrupt world where even priests peddled false relics of saint bones to the over-credulous in desperate need of a divine remedy, returned the seal to Cadan.

Bidding the messenger welcome to his keep and gesturing for him to be seated at a table by the crackling fire that had the ambitious assignment of attempting to banish the chill of the autumn winds bellowing and blowing across the moor.

The messenger–joined by Sir Godric and myself, Robert having silently and unobtrusively taken his leave after guiding Cadan into the solar–had barely slipped his bottom into his appointed chair before a maid materialized bearing the pitcher of ale Sir Godric had ordered along with a tankard and a platter of hard cheese and a heel of bread.

The maid, I saw, was a kitchen girl named Anne. She had cheeks that always seemed to carry spring rosebuds inside them and sparkling eyes green as grass. Green as the pants I had mocked Sir Godric for wearing only moments before. She was from the Hollow just as I was and had entered Sir Godric’s service just as I had though she possessed no magic of her own.

I was at an age when I felt a keen, burgeoning interest in all maids. When I strove to impress them by the feats of my strong arms. By the unbreaking iron of my courage and valor in daring battle against monsters and those less schooled in chivalry than myself. By the courteous flattery of my honeyed compliments. Sadly, the maids seemed to be at an age laughed at or otherwise dismissed my attention.

Though the reader should not pity me too much. I did, after all, eventually manage to woo a woman. To convince a witch of the moors to be my bride. We married in the Hollow’s church. Where my parents had wed. Where I had been baptized as Henry by a village priest now buried in that graveyard. Where my own children would later have that holy water poured over them.

Anne herself found a good husband as well. One of the guards defending Sir Godric’s castle. I remember attending her wedding in the village church and the baptisms for her children. Recall the merry revelry that followed in the churchyard after all such occasions. The ale that flowed out of barrels to be guzzled down throats raw with laughter and gesturing.

There can be happy endings to stories. It is important for me to remember that as my life fades. As death, that grimest of reapers nears to claim my soul with a sweep of his sharp scythe. To remind myself that not all stories end with death and grief. Moreover that death is not always the saddest ending. That sometimes being undead is far more horrifying. That death itself can become a mercy bestowed on the suffering.

Dark thoughts–black as the Grim Reaper’s cowled robes–that I only began to understand that day back in the solar. Anne placed the pitcher of ale, its accompanying tankard, and the plate of cheese and bread before Cadan who seemed to interest him far more than I did. He had the distinction of being a stranger. Unknown and mysterious in these parts. Women were always attracted to mysteries. Or so I sulked to myself as I watched Anne smile warmly at Cadan before departing with a curtsy to Sir Godric.

Cadan’s gaze trailed Anne’s swaying skirts out of the solar before Sir Godric reclaimed his attention. Gruffly demanding a report of what had brought Cadan to the Hollow bearing an urgent petition from Lord Trevik.

Messengers were often chosen for their alacrity and flair with words. For the deft way in which they wielded phrases to captivate and manipulate their audiences. Cadan demonstrated that as soon as he spoke after wetting his mouth with a swill of ale.

“It started about two months ago now.” Cadan began to relate a story that first left me breathless. Then turned the hot blood to ice in my veins. “A widow by the name of Morwenna whose husband was a fisherman was lost to the ocean five years ago noticed strange markings dotting her son’s neck. Him we called Branok in honor of his father who was named the same.”

“What manner of markings?” Sir Godric interrupted. Impatient with the pace at which the drama and import of these events was being relayed to us. At the extraneous details to which we were being subjected.

“Not bobos as if he had been stricken by a plague.” Cadan gnawed at a cheese wedge, and I marveled that he could partake of food at such a time when my stomach was churning and knotting as if I were aboard ship on a turbulent sea. “Not bruises either as if some drunkard had tried to strangle him in a tavern brawl. More like bite marks. As if some fanged monster had pierced his neck. Seeking blood.”

I exchanged a look laden with meaning with Sir Godric. Cadan’s description of the bites to which young Branok’s neck had been subjected were consistent with the feeding patterns of vampires. The fashion in which they sucked sustenance and life from their victims. And it was known among wizards in those days that the caves beneath the coastal cliffs were frequent haunts and hiding places of vampires.

“Did this Morwenna summon an apothecary to tend to her son?” Sir Godric asked, and I was unable to contain a derisive snort that drew me a quelling glare from Sir Godric. I had a low opinion of the curative abilities and techniques of Muggle apothecaries.

Bless their well-intentioned but befuddled souls, Muggle apothecaries were always prescribing disgusting potions that were at best useless and at worst toxic in their own right. Or else were drawing blood from patients who were knocking on death’s door or studying the urine of their charges as if all the answers of the universe could be divined from the yellow contents of those clear flasks.

They were, in my estimation, a bigger bunch of quacks than the convocation of ducks that could be found clustered and gossiping around any village pond. The ducks at least seemed aware of their own folly, while the apothecaries invariably believed themselves to be wise men well-tutored in the art of medicine.

“She did.” Cadan was now devouring his heel of bread. “But the boy was so pale by that point that the apothecary didn’t dare to bleed or leech him. The apothecary said there was nothing he could do to save the poor lad. Advised his weeping mother to summon the village priest to shrive his soul before he died. Which the mother did, of course, but neither the sacred host nor the anointing oils seemed to bring the boy any peace before he expired. He died in an almost feverish torment. His last, addled words were all mad ravings about fanged monsters coming to claim him. To eat him. His mother washed his body, and he was laid to rest in a shroud in the village graveyard.”

“That is a sad story, but–” Sir Godric’s tone was level. He never showed fear even in the face of horrors that would have daunted any other man. I remember that even now, decades later as my own death comes for me. “If the boy is dead, what does Lord Trevik wish us to do?”

“The boy is dead, but now whatever claimed him is seeking to steal others too.” Cadan had finished his bread and was back to sipping at his flagon of ale. “His mother and some of his friends–the lads that used to play with him after their chores were done–have got strange markings on their necks just like he did before he passed away, and they have gone as sickly pale as he did when he was lying on his death bed.”

“I see.” Sir Godric’s fingers drummed the table. “We might not arrive in time to save the boy’s mother and his friends, but we will try. We’ll leave tomorrow at first light.”

I groaned at this reference to a daybreak departure. Aware that this required rising, dressing, and preparing my own mount and Sir Godric’s before the dawn. An altogether unholy hour at which to be awake in my view.

A view Sir Godric did not share if the repressive, owlish glance which he fixed upon me was any indication.

I subsided into silence as Sir Godric addressed Cadan once again. “In the meantime, I suggest that you get what rest you can. We’ll need you to show the way to the village.”

“Of course, sir.” Detecting the note of dismissal in Sir Godric’s tone, Cadan stood, bowed, and then took his leave. No doubt searching for an empty blanket in the hall where most of the servants slept as Sir Godric had advised.

After Cadan had disappeared, shutting the solar door behind him, Sir Godric issued the command that left my tongue dry as the distant deserts said to surround Jersaulem, “When you polish my sword tonight, make sure you polish my iron stake as well, Henry.”

His iron stake. The weapon reserved for slaying vampires. Not that I had ever seen him do so in all my years as his squire. Not that I had any desire to see him do so now. Not that he had asked my opinion on the matter. Though that latter did not prevent me, in my sauciness, from venturing one uninvited. I had to venture uninvited opinions when I was young or I scarce would’ve had an opportunity to use my voice, or so I believed at that time. That conviction might have only been another folly of my youth after all.

 

Just caught up with this and am really enjoying it so far! You’ve done an A1 job with the characterization of both Sir Godric and his squire Henry Potter (I see what you did there! ); Sir Godric is a heroic, benevolent lord who is well-loved by his vassals but also known for his temper, and Henry’s a faithful and hard-working squire with a sense of humor and snark reminiscent of his much later descendant; I enjoyed his little additions and asides about his own life (and I’m glad to know that whatever this adventure will hold, he survives to live a long and happy life). Even Robert’s got a clear-cut, distinctive character, and I wonder if his dour demeanor portends anything about his later role in the story. Both knight and squire seem to have quite a dire task ahead of them with the adventure they’re setting out on; the way this vampire (or whatever it is) is targeting children and basically making zombies of them is super scary and very concerning, and I get the feeling this isn’t necessarily a regular old, brand-X vampire. Color me very intrigued!

I’m also very much enjoying your use of the prompts so far—the “trying on skintight leather pants” scene reveals so much about the personalities of both Henry and Sir Godric, I like the way you worked in the three words, and the premise of the “undead child” is making for a very exciting and edge-of-seat tale. Really looking forward to seeing what you end up doing with the “rotting” quote, and how the coastal setting will play in!

Your stories are always such a delight to read, with a great sense of adventure, and it was a real joy and privilege to be part of this challenge along with you. Can’t wait to see where you’ll go next with this delightful and adventurous tale!

 

@pronker Yes, our poor Henry is at that adolescent age where the giggles or scornful glance of girls can truly cut. But on the plus side he is also at the age where he can start to have some fun flirting and admiring the beauty of the young maids he encounters, which he does like to indulge in

The idea that death is not always the saddest ending seemed fitting for a story about the undead (especially undead children as was my challenge element) and like a theme that would be consistent with the theme of the original Harry Potter books, which teach us that death is not something to be feared.

Thank you for your thoughtful words and I hope that you will enjoy this next chapter even though it is a few months late!

@Findswoman As always, thank you so much for your kind and detailed comment!

I'm so glad that you are enjoying this so far and that you are enjoying the characterizations of both Godric and his faithful squire Henry Potter. I couldn't resist giving Harry Potter an ancestor with the name Henry (that can easily become the nickname Harry) especially since Henry is an appropriately medieval name. It just gave me a nice chuckle to do that.

I definitely picture Sir Godric as a very valiant and benevolent lord who is well-loved by his vassals but who can also have a bit of a short temper and can be quite prideful. His personality is a very "loud" one that has been a true treat for me to write. Henry Potter has likewise been a delight because he is hard-working and loyal as you say but also has that cheekiness about him that gets passed onto his famous descendent.

His little additions and asides have been some of my absolute favorite parts to write, and I am so thrilled that they are resonating with you. I am enjoying the process of fleshing out a life for him, and I can promise that Henry Potter will indeed go onto live a long and happy life despite any horrors that await him and others in this story. So it won't all be doom and gloom and I hope to be able to mix in a good deal of Henry Potter humor into the narrative to make it fun and inject a pinch of levity to offset some of the more gruesome horror elements.

Knight and squire do indeed have a dire task ahead of them. There will be some nods to the traditional vampire mythos but also some of my own twists especially to better fit the undead child prompt.

The "trying on skintight leather pants" scene had me laughing as I wrote it but I also wanted to use it to reveal key aspects of Henry and Godric's personalities, and I'm so glad that shone through for you.

I enjoyed the challenge of working in my three words, and I look forward to continuing to use the undead child prompt as a central part of the story. The coastal setting and "rotting" quote should also eventually make their appearances now that I am finally writing this story again after months on hiatus

I am so flattered that you find my stories a delight to read, and I hope you will enjoy the adventure in store for this one! Thank you again for all the kind words that make my day whenever I read them

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A Matter of Prudent Preparation

“Do you think it’s a vampire, sir?” I asked Sir Godric as soon as we were alone in his solar. “Or vampires, I should say?”

“Why–” Sir Godric arched a leonine eyebrow at me– “would you ask such a thing, Henry?”

“Because you ordered me to polish your iron stake as well as your sword tonight.” I made an effort to hide my fear–because if there were any creatures Sir Godric held in contempt more than vampires and other fell monsters of the dark, it was cringing cowards–which resulted in my sounding impertinent. A saucy, too clever underling in need of chastisement. “What enemy except a vampire would you wield an iron stake against, sir?”

“That is a matter of prudent preparation.” Sir Godric’s second eyebrow lifted to join the first. Proof that my insolence had not gone unnoticed. “A warrior should always be ready to fight any foe he might encounter, and a knight should not be craven, but he should make all prudent preparations before battle. I have explained this to you before but your ears must have been closed or your head floating in the wispy clouds of ignorance.”

“My head was no more floating in the wispy clouds of ignorance than usual.” I echoed Sir Godric’s phrasing. My brazenness drawing a deep-chested chuckle of appreciation from him. I was young then. I could dare to spit in the dragon’s eye if that dragon was as fundamentally good-natured and benevolently disposed toward me as Sir Godric.

I went on, spitting directly into the dragon’s eye, “Is it a matter of prudent preparation as well, sir, that we are going to hunt what could be vampires on All Hallow’s Eve? When the dead rise from their graves and when the lost spirits who can’t find heaven or purgatory roam the earth in their torment? Is that not impeccable timing on our part?”

I suppressed a shudder. Thinking of all those cursed souls wandering and moaning their miserable paths across the world on All Hallow’s Eve. Participating in the bleakest of pilgrimages. Oh, how I did not want to become one of their sad company.

“That is foolish Muggle superstition.” Sir Godric scowled at me. He could be sharp with anyone he deemed as inventing fears with no basis in reality. Anybody he could accuse of looking for reasons to run and hide from danger instead of confronting it boldly. Without flinching as he did. Holding everyone to the same high standard of valor as he did himself. “You have trained with me long enough to know there is no truth behind that nonsense Muggle belief.”

“I didn’t ask to train with you.” I jutted my chin out mulishly. Likely presenting as grotesque an image as a gargoyle leering out from a cathedral wall. Aware that Sir Godric preferred my stubbornness to my sulkiness. Inclined to please him in what manner I could even while arguing with him and baiting him as a dog might a bear in the pits of London.

London. A grand city–the largest in England– I had only seen because Sir Godric had taken me on as a student of martial and magical arts. Not that I permitted even a hint of gratitude to color my petulant tone as I continued, “Either as a squire or an apprentice wizard.”

“I am your liege lord.” Sir Godric’s glower intensified. So there was thunder in his voice and forked lightning flashing in his eyes. “You are to render unto me any service I require from you without complaint.”

“I wasn’t complaining, sir.” I bit my lip. Cheeks beginning to burn. “Not really.”

“Good.” Sir Godric didn’t sound particularly appeased by this concession. “If anybody should be complaining, it is me. For I had little choice but to take you on as my apprentice when you were casting your spells all unwitting and terrifying the whole Hollow. I seem to remember you setting fire to the fields and flying onto the roof of your father’s house when there was no wind to carry you there.”

“I set fire to the fields by accident. Because I was angry.” When I was a child, my magic had burst out of me without me realizing it when I was scared or infuriated. Not that my lack of intention would have made a difference to the extremely flammable wheat fields I risked reducing to ashes or to the very combustible thatch roofs that covered every shop and peasant’s hut in the Hollow. The conflagration in my cheeks blazed burgundy as I recalled how I had endangered my village and its livelihood as a boy. All because my older brothers often teased me for the oddity that I was. “And I didn’t mean to fly onto the roof either. I was just trying to outrun my brothers, who were chasing me. Threatening to dunk me in the millpond.”

“Yes, I recall that.” Sir Godric, that paragon of chivalry, appeared faintly amused by my discomfiture. “It was after you took that flying leap onto your father’s roof that I arranged for you to enter my service.”

Sir Godric had indeed been there to witness my father blistering my ears for what he and my brothers claimed was climbing the wattle-and-daub walls to reach the roof (as if even the strongest soldier could clamber up wattle-and-daub as swiftly as I had flown from the mud ground to the thatch roof). Had heard my father threaten to thrash me with a rod if I persisted in lying about not climbing the walls.

Had intervened to spare me. Had made gruff jokes about what a mischievous, spirited lad I was until my father’s temper defused. Had whisked me off to the castle to serve as his squire. Something my bowing and scraping father had seen as an incredible honor. Had been my irascible knight in shining armor. Straight out of the tales of glittering tournaments and noble quests.

“And I remain loyally in your service now.” Almost humble at last, I inclined my head to him. Forced myself to be brave as I vowed, “And I pledge that I will fight even vampires by your side, sir.”

“It might not come to that extremity. As you would know if you listened to me, squire.” Sir Godric clapped my shoulder. A gesture of affection. Not reprimand. “Yet, if it does come to that extremity, we may be blessed to have some holy water with us. Go to the chapel and ask Father John to fill flasks with holy water for us to carry on our journey to battle against our unknown enemy.”

Blessed to have some holy water with us. How he did love his wordplay. Even with him long in the grave, I still grin crookedly as I remember that. Write the details of his humor down for posterity to chuckle and cringe at as is their wont.

As to the holy water, some wizards suggested it was effective at warding off vampires. I thought that was more blatant nonsense than any Muggle superstition about All Hallow’s Eve.

“Should I run to the kitchens afterward and pack any garlic the cooks have in storage?” I smirked up at him. Masking my fear by alluding to another substance wizards believed could fend off vampires.

“It would not hurt and would indeed be a prudent preparation.” Sir Godric nudged me toward the door. Impatient to have me and my incessant questions out of his presence no doubt. “Do so after you have gone to the chapel. And don’t forget what I said about polishing my iron stake as well as my sword tonight.”