Chapter 1
It had been at least three hundred years since he’d last set foot inside Magical Britain. Oh, he’d tip-toed through the magical parts of the rest of the world, but never lingered. Yet, back on his home soil, he’d done his best to pretend like he had never been magical. It had worked for the most part. Then he’d bothered to have a look into things and he’s not sure how they managed to fuck everything up so greatly.
They’d apparently given him a pair of brothers and set things forward by a hundred odd years. He’s also not sure where or how the stories of the Stone and the Death Stick came into things, but they have nothing to do with him. The only reason the stupid cloak was still knocking around is because he made the mistake of ‘dying’ in it, once. Never could get the blood out after that. He lived a nice, relatively long life under as obnoxious a name as he’d been able to choose at the time, and then faked his own death to carry on as his own son.
Then, he’d made the mistake of marrying. Oh, Viola was a lovely woman and a hell of a witch, but the pair of them were stupid for thinking their camaraderie was enough to make a marriage work, especially when he was busy pretending to be something he wasn’t. Iolanthe was the only part of that whole sorry deal that was worth anything. When the time came, long after Viola had already passed on, he’d left the cloak to his little Io and faked his death once more. Then he’d gone off and spent a couple centuries drenching Europe in blood. Innocent, guilty, good, evil. It hadn’t mattered to him. He was a war-mage and a hit-wizard, and it paid the bills and passed the time. So, huh, maybe he was responsible for the Death Stick, somehow.
Anyway, he’d retired from the field shortly after meeting Eleanor. Now, Eleanor? She was a proper wife. A true companion. A once in a life-time love. There would be other loves, of course, just none whom he’d love as he had loved Eleanor. She gave him his sweet Robyn. He’d thought it was a blessing when Robyn was born without magic. Of course, after the bar brawl that stole his son’s life, he’d never been able to stop wondering if being magical would have saved him.
Being drowned as a witch had been an experience, if only because until that point he’d only ever been burnt at the stake. His mother was a Veela, though, so fire magic was sort of his thing. He thrived in flames. Didn’t do so well with water. But, he survived anyway, thanks to whatever deal he’d unknowingly struck with Death all that time ago.
1689 the magical world agreed to go into hiding. He’d already given up magic, essentially for good, by that point, so it wasn’t any skin off his nose. But it was here that the divide started. Squibs being forced fully out of the magical world now, where in the past they’d simply been pushed to the edges. The Constantines were one such line. At one point, they’d been magical barons but the whole line had fallen to squibs and been forced out, yet it would appear they’d never forgotten magic and had used the remnants they had of it to rise back into nobility.
House Gadling, of course, had been stupefying the Wizard’s Court for centuries by the time it was replaced by the Ministry of Magic. House Gadling was a duchy. It was supposed to pass through his uncle’s line, never to fall upon his shoulders. But by the time he’d returned from the war and gained his immortality, his uncle’s line had ended, and he’d inherited the title. For as long as he lives, he will be Duke Peverell of Peverell Vale. Not that he’d wanted it. He’d tried to pass it on to Iolanthe, but she’d laughed in his face. Robyn, of course, wasn’t eligible, given he couldn’t do magic. So, he’s stuck with the damn thing.
Fast-forward to the 20th century and, where Robyn’s line had ended swiftly and unceremoniously before it could even really begin, Iolanthe’s line had stubbornly kept on going. It had been whittled down to one or two survivors through the centuries, but they’d kept on keeping on.
Until now. Well, no, that’s not true either. Apparently, little Harry, the Boy-Who-Lived was continuing that great feat of surviving even against all the odds. The only problem, of course, is that no one knows where the boy ended up after the outrageous death of his parents. This wouldn’t normally be a problem for him, except the Gadling family magic has apparently decided to sit up and take notice. Hence, stepping foot back onto Magical Britain and the shit-hole that is Diagon Alley, he cannot believe how little it has changed since he was last here, in the 1500s!
He hurries down the alley to Gringotts, the goblin sentries give him an odd look, but he pays them no mind as he heads inside. Gringotts, at least, has changed itself up a little since he was last here. Not much, mind you, but a little.
“I would like to speak with the Account Manager for House Gadling,” he states when he makes it to the front of the queue to see the teller. The teller pauses, setting down their paperwork and slowly lifting their head to look at him. “I have my keys if that helps,” he says, with a polite smile in the face of the goblin’s utter stupefaction. Slowly, the goblin writes out a note and places it in the box on their desk, closing the lid with a little thump. The box glows a few moments later and the goblin opens the lid to remove a different note which they read with a frown. “Problem?”
“Account Manager Ironhide will see you,” the goblin grumbles, indicating a set of double doors across the hall.
“Oh, he’s still kicking, is he?” he queries, before thanking the goblin and hurrying over to the doors with a bounce in his step, he’s met there by a very old, yet still familiar goblin with a very epic glower.
“Remembered we exist, have you?” Ironhide asks, as he leads him through the doors and down a few corridors to his office. “Been awhile.”
“Yes, it has, hasn’t it?” he answers with a smile. “Been keeping well, Ironhide?” he asks, utterly ignoring the annoyed sigh he gets in response. “I really do have business for the bank, I’m not just wasting your time.”
“I didn’t think you would be, not after all these years,” Ironhide says with a sigh as he ushers Hob into his office, then shuts the door behind them. “What do you want?”
“I need to find my heir.”
“Your heir?” Ironhide asks, raising an eyebrow as he sinks down into the chair at his desk.
“Iolanthe and Hardwin’s heir. I know their descendants scattered themselves out among the rest of the magical bloodlines like rabbits, but there’s only one Potter left,” Hob answers, rolling his eyes as he sits down across from Ironhide. “My heir.”
“Why do you care about them now? There have been times in the past where there was only one Potter left, yet you never graced my doorstep.”
“Because they are a child,” Hob says with a tired sigh. “If they were grown, the family magic wouldn’t give a single shit. But they are not grown and so they are my problem. Well, I suppose I shouldn’t say that, children are a blessing and all that, but yes, that’s all it is. So, I need the bank to tell me where my heir is. I do not care what the Ministry has to say on the matter.”
“Right. The bank is, of course, willing to find your heir… for a fee. A different sort of fee than we’d normally charge.”
“How different?” Hob asks with narrowed eyes. The bank rarely ever outsourced anything¸ but then, they also never really considered someone to actually be retired. Hob had worked with them, on and off, throughout the centuries as a hit-wizard, before he met Eleanor. They’d consider him one of theirs for as long as they or he lived. Retired or not.
“Retrieval. No witnesses, except for the rescuee,” Ironhide answers, casually, too casually.
“That’s not worth what I’m asking for. Throw in a favour owed to me by the bank and I’ll think about it,” Hob argues, shaking his head. Ironhide hesitates and Hob snorts. “It’s especially not worth it if you’re reacting like that,” he says, because favours from the bank are the starting point of negotiations because the bank never agrees to them. The fact Ironhide is considering it is… a lot.
“A favour. One. To be called in at a later time, but we may decline if your request goes against the good of the Horde,” Ironhide states, his eyes hard. Hob blinks, then slowly raises an eyebrow.
“Who the fuck am I retrieving?” he asks, because they must be someone of incredible importance.
“Dream of the Endless,” Ironhide states and Hob chokes on his own spit.
“What?” Hob demands, shaking his head. “The Endless don’t walk among us except for Death. Who would be so stupid-?”
“Roderick Burgess and his son,” Ironhide says through gritted teeth. Hob sighs and rolls his eyes. House Burgess had been magical earls, until midway through the 1700s, when they’d fallen to squibs. They’d married into the Constantines and rode their coattails back up the ladder into the muggle aristocracy. It was rumoured that Roderick Burgess had captured the devil.
“Wait. If an Endless has been trapped all this time, why are you only now acting upon this?” Hob asks with a frown, Ironhide huffs in annoyance.
“We had no one to send. We can’t send any of our own because it could be considered an act of war. None of the wixen in our employ could be trusted with the task, except you and we accepted your decision not to involve yourself in magical matters after you threatened to behead Ragnok’s grandfather,” Ironhide points out, as if Hob’s an idiot.
“Yes, well, how many times does a man need to say that he’s done before he gets heard?” Hob mutters, recalling the incident. It had almost destroyed his relationship with the Horde, but Radovik’s wife had eventually calmed her fool husband down and the Horde had agreed to leave Hob alone. Now they were offering him a favour. How times change.
“You’re not wrong,” Ironhide agrees with a little shrug. “Now, will you do this task for the Horde?”
“Write up the contract, if I’m happy with it then I’ll sign it. If not, we can negotiate,” Hob says with a sigh, already knowing he’ll agree if this is the price the bank will demand for finding Harry. The family magic is willing to wait, but Hob knows it will not wait long. “What exactly will you need to find Harry?”
“Your blood.”
“Right, should have seen that coming.”
He signs the contract when it comes after only two revisions, mostly to be contrary. The bank doesn’t ask anything out of the ordinary and he doesn’t demand anything outrageous of them, either. They’re already giving him an unspecified favour, no need to push things.
“Right. Fawny Rig, then,” Hob says with a frown as he reads through the information the goblins could provide him. It’s useful, to an extent, but he’s not going to be using most of it. “No witnesses but the rescuee. Are you wanting the manor to still be standing at the end?”
“We care not. The Endless is our concern because already their realm crumbles and we do not know how long we have until the walls between the realms start to crack.”
“Hmm, guess I’ll see how I feel after the rescue,” Hob says, absently flipping through the pages. “Shame there isn’t a Vortex around to pick up the slack.”
“There is one,” Ironhide mutters, shaking his head. “Sleepy sickness got them before the Vortex could settle properly. Now, the magic has gone dormant until the Dreaming is on even keel.”
“It won’t be an even keel if the Vortex wakes,” Hob disagrees, shaking his head. It has been a very, very long time since he had lessons on the origins of magic and the things in the universe that kept existence spinning, but he does remember this. His mother had been a Veela, creatures once created by Desire of the Endless. His mother had made sure all of her children understood the workings of existence. “It is the instability of the Dreaming that wakes the Vortex, the death of the Vortex is what stabilizes it. I suppose that would be it. The Dreaming is crumbling, it requires someway to rebuild itself swiftly.”
“Freeing the Endless and restoring them to their throne will not do that?” Ironhide asks, frowning.
“No, of course not. Perhaps if they were absent for only a handful of years, but no. If the stories are true, it took many years for Dream of the Endless to build the Dreaming. If it is crumbling, repairing it will not be something that happens without a great deal of effort,” Hob answers, putting down the parchments and rubbing at his eyes. This isn’t what he’d been expecting when he made the decision to come to Gringotts. But dealings with the bank can never be simple, more fool him for thinking they would be. “If it is so far gone there is a Vortex waiting in the wings, it is beyond his ability to repair swiftly. The influx of the Vortex’ power as they die will do most of the repair work. Honestly, the Dreaming is a reflection of its creator. If it’s crumbling, I doubt the Endless would even be able to recognize how damaged it is, because he will be just as damaged, if not more so.”
“Well, we had assumed the Endless would return to their realm upon being freed, but perhaps they will need time to recover,” Ironhide says, frown deepening.
“Well, I’m sure the elves at Peverell Keep will be overjoyed to have someone to care for again,” Hob mutters, rolling his eyes. “The bank cannot afford to house such a being; in case the Ministry learns of it.”
“True enough. I suppose we’ll have to renegotiate the contract,” Ironhide says, with a glare at the already signed document.
“No, it’s fine. That will be a matter to settle between the Endless and I. The bank is only paying me to free them, after all,” Hob says, sighing when Ironhide raises an eyebrow. “Not to be rude, old friend, but I don’t want to risk any other bullshit popping up while we renegotiate,” he says, reaching forward to put the contract on top of the information packet. “I will free the Endless, you will find my heir. This concludes our business today. May your vaults overflow with gold. Time is money, of course, and we won’t waste any more of it.”
“Of course, your grace. May our enemies fall before you,” Ironhide answers with an amused smile on his lips, no teeth showing, of course, because that would be a threat. Hob sighs, thanks him for his time and heads out the door to the sound of the goblin’s cackling laugh.
He sighs at the portkey that’d been tucked into the information packet. It’s a very cheap one, but Hob hadn’t expected anything else. Just a slip of parchment with the words ‘Fawny Rig’ written on it. One time use and designed to light itself on fire 1 minute after arriving at its destination. No trace left to be found. Hob’s never missed this cloak and dagger shit.
He takes one last look around his apartment building, everything he wants to keep he’s already put into storage. Everything left here means nothing to him, but he thinks he’ll end up missing this place, anyway. But it’s no place for a child, and it’s certainly no place to hide an Endless while they recuperate.
“Well,” he says with a sigh, clutching the portkey in his hand. “It’s been good,” he mutters, before he closes his eyes. “Fawny Rig,” he says and lets himself be jerked forward by a hook behind his navel. He lands on his feet, on a gravel road leading up to an old manor house. At least goblins were nice enough not to set him down in the middle of the damn manor. He knows they used to do stupid shit like that to some of their least favoured assets when they’d displeased them. Especially for missions like this one.
He lets go of the portkey, watching just long enough to confirm that it catches on fire, before he turns and creeps forward to hide in the bushes beside the front gates. He slips his wand from its holster and refuses to think about he’d had to go digging through his storage caches for the damn thing before his visit Gringotts.
“Revelare omnia animantia,” he whispers as he casts the spell, his preferred variant of the hominem revelio spell. The more common variant only seeks for human lifeforms, even Hob doesn’t show up on in such a search. Besides, it’s always better to confirm there aren’t any pets large enough to be dangerous.
The spell rushes out from his wand and settles over the manor revealing a total of twenty-one humans, one humanoid life-form in the basement, an entire horde of rats, and an injured raven that isn’t quite a raven nesting in walls on the ground floor. None of the animals are animagus, but his instructions had been very clear. No witnesses.
As he’s planning out how he wants to go about taking the manor, there’s a rumbling in the courtyard and he peers through the gate to see a car being loaded. He hums as he watches a pair of maids and a man who must be a guard climbing into it. He ducks down out of the way and keeps himself hidden as the gate is opened and the car drives away. Once it has passed and the gate has closed again he takes a moment to watch the car drive down the road, choices running through his mind before he finally turns away and looks back up at the manor.
“No witnesses,” he says, before he hits the gate with his strongest locking curse. He repeats the spell four times on the other entrances onto the grounds, then he casts the invisibility spell over himself, much more effective than the modern disillusionment charm, and climbs over the fence.
“Revelare omnia animantia,” he murmurs, checking the locations of those on the grounds. He creeps through the darkness until he comes across the pair of guards patrolling the back garden. His instructions said to leave no witnesses, they did not say to make anything look like an accident, or the hand of the gods, so Hob has no hesitation firing out a cutting curse that relieves both guards of their heads. He throws a hasty muggle repelling charm over the bodies before he moves on.
There are another pair of guards in the front courtyard which he dispatches just as quickly, if messily. Then he stops to cast the reveal spell again. There are four people asleep on the top floor. There are two guards inside by the front door, another two at the back door. Two people down in the basement. Two people guarding what he assumes to be the entrance to the basement, and a another set of people asleep nearby. The rats scurry about as they want, and the little not-raven is still in its little nest.
He wanders around the manor, hitting each window and the front and back doors with overpowered locking spells, before he unlocks a window at random with a spell and quietly slips inside, closing the window behind him and hitting it with a locking spell. Even if he messes up and alerts those in the house to his presence, there will be no escape.
He silences his boots and creeps up the stairs, casting the reveal spell midway up to check the location of the guards, but none of them have moved, so he continues on his way. He doesn’t bother checking the sleeping occupants of the rooms, only staying long enough to hit each one with an overpowered somnus, before moving on. All four will sleep and never wake again, if all goes to plan. Perhaps that’s fitting, since it means they could be claimed by the Dreaming upon their deaths. Maybe Dream of the Endless will want some form of revenge?
With that thought, Hob makes his quiet way back down the stairs, detouring to the back door to spell the guards there to slumber, before heading to the same to ones at the front door, then the other four on the ground floor. He pauses to consider a particular wall on the ground floor and the cupboard that hides the entry into the raven’s nest. If it weren’t for the reveal spell he wouldn’t be able to tell there was anything there.
He pushes the cupboard out of the way to reveal the opening into the wall, the pathetic little creature stirring to caw weakly at him. Hob raises his wand to cast the killing curse, to put the poor thing out of its misery when he pauses. Remembers something that had once been common knowledge.
Dream of the Endless always has a raven.
He sighs, slowly lowering his wand as he pinches the bridge of his nose with his free hand. He casts a privacy spell around him and then casts his patronus.
“Message for Ironhide. No witnesses but the rescuee, and the rescuee’s familiar?” he queries, flicking his wand and sending his phoenix soaring away. The response takes a little while to come before Ironhide’s adorable mole scampers through the wall.
“Message for Duke Peverell,” the little thing says with Ironhide’s voice. Hob grimaces, he’s going to have to get used to the title again. “No witnesses but for the rescuee, and the rescuee’s familiar,” the patronus confirms before fading away. Hob throws his head back with a heavy sigh, before gritting his teeth and moving on.
“Very well. Come on, little one,” he mutters reaching into the little hole to scoop out the raven, noting that one of their wings is not broken, but it had been at some point in the past and had healed wrong. The little one couldn’t fly. “Well, I guess we’ll see what we can do about that, later, shall we?” he murmurs, as he settles the creature into the dimensional pocket of his coat, where little thing will be safe. “Right, basement next and then this damn thing is over with.”
As the last two guards slump to the ground unconscious, Hob allows himself a moment to breathe before he turns to look into the basement proper. He startles, gasping as he finds a familiar pair of eyes staring out at him from a glass ball. His heart stutters in his chest, then starts pumping again, one agonizing beat after another. It is not possible. There is no single way that his centennial stranger is an Endless and simply never told him. It’s not possible.
But then it would make sense, wouldn’t it? His stranger never bothered to tell him anything of himself. His stranger thought himself too good for friendship from the likes of Hob, an immortal, half Veela, magical duke. There weren’t many who would place themselves above him and act like Hob was little more than an ant beneath their boot. Maybe it’s Hob’s own fault for not putting what little pieces he had together sooner.
He breathes in deeply and walks on silent feet from the little room. Dream’s eyes do not follow him, rooted as they are on the guard room. Perhaps he can feel the guards slumbering. Not that he’d be able to do anything with their dreams, given the still intact circle.
He steps in front of the glass, far enough away not to be breaking the circle, but close enough that his breath fogs up the glass. Dream startles suddenly and looks right at him, though his eyes still pass through him. Hob sighs and with a flick of his wrist, the invisibility spell falls away.
“I should leave you here to rot,” Hob says, with every piece of betrayed hurt he can find to summon. Dream looks up at him with wet eyes and Hob wants to say they don’t affect him, but Dream has always had a way to get beneath his skin. “These days, I don’t acquire a body count for anyone who isn’t my friend or my family,” he states, grinding his teeth. Dream mouths his name and Hob’s gaze darts down to the circle, eyes swiftly tracking back and forward across the runes until he finds the one that enforces Dream’s silence. He sighs, shaking his head as he turns away, rubbing at his forehead. He hears a muffled thump; he knows is Dream banging on the glass, but Hob needs a moment. Just a moment to think.
He has already killed tonight. Has already shed blood in pursuit of the quest Ironhide gave him. He signed the contract to complete this task. Agreed this would be payment for finding his heir. He could go back on his word and lose his magic forever. He could. But that would make little, one year old Harry Potter the Duke of Peverell Vale and that’s… Iolanthe would come back from the Sunless Lands to curse him up and down the fucking planet for that bullshit. So, as angry as he is in this moment. As betrayed and hurt as he feels, his course of action was decided before he ever set foot in Fawny Rig.
Slowly, he turns back to the cage, finds Dream resting his hand against the glass, tears falling freely from his eyes as he mouths Hob’s name over and over again like a prayer. Hob sighs, shoulders slumping.
“Lucky for you, the price of your freedom has already been paid,” he says, shooting an evenesco at the circle, then one swiftly after it at the cage. Dream hits the stone floor with a small thud, his hands just managing to save himself before he could face-plant the ground. Hob expects him to rise, to draw the power of the slumbering minds around them to him, but instead the Endless simply stays there, kneeling and hunched over, shaking. “Fuck,” Hob mutters, sweeping his coat from his shoulders and stepping forward to drape it over the Endless, a frown forming on his face as Dream flinches under his touch. “Alright, come on then. Job isn’t finished yet,” Hob says, as he hauls Dream to his feet, his old stranger stumbling, his legs threatening to give way.
“Hob,” Dream whispers, barely audible, lacking every ounce of power Hob once recognized in the being’s voice.
“Yeah, mate, it’s me. Come on,” Hob says, leaning Dream against him, then he frowns, remembering the raven tucked away in his coat. “Right,” he mutters, gently setting Dream back on the ground again so he can throw a sticking charm on the coat so it will stick to Dream no matter what. “Have you ever been side-alonged before?” Hob asks, as he grips Dream’s hand with his free one, twirling his wand in the other.
“Side-along?” Dream asks, like the words are an effort to speak, and maybe they are. Hob doesn’t know. Ironhide had said the Dreaming was crumbling. Maybe whatever was left of Dream of the Endless was barely capable of human speech, especially after however long he’s been forced into silence.
“Right, guess that answers that, doesn’t it?” he asks, shaking his head. “That’s gonna be fun,” he mutters, throwing out one last reveal spell. It confirms everything he already knows. The sleeping guards, the skittering rats, the little raven tucked in the coat, and him and Dream. “Sorry about this.”
“About wha-“ Dream’s question cuts off with a gasp as Hob suddenly wrenches Dream up and against his side in the same moment he flicks his wand through the motions for a curse his mother taught him and his sisters almost from the cradle.
“Pestis incendium!” he commands, the fire spilling from his wand in a hungry, roaring wave. It will not harm him, he comes from the flame, was raised in the flame, will return to the flame when he dies. But Dream does not have that same protection, so he shelters the Endless against him while he waits for the stream of fire to end as he commands the flames to consume the manor. The moment the fire stops pouring from his wand he wraps both of his arms around the Endless and spins on his heel as the flames come roaring towards them as the great maw of a dragon…
He keeps his arms wrapped tight around Dream as he tries to force his way through the wards on Peverell Keep. He is the Duke Peverell, the head of his house, the Lord of the Manor, they have no business rejecting him. Even if he has not been home in centuries, the wards should still know him! He reaches inside himself, for the well of the Gadling magic, grabbing it tight and shoving it outwards, into the wards.
He stumbles as the wards give way and set them on their feet in the foyer at Peverell Keep, but he manages to catch himself, them both, before they can trip over each other. He wants to step away, but he can already tell from the way Dream is shaking against him that he’s the only thing holding the Endless up, so instead he sighs and pulls on the Gadling magic.
“Tink!” he calls, looking up at the loud pop! that heralds the arrival of the head house elf of House Gadling.
“Tink’s Little Master Hobsie has returned!” the elf exclaims with a giant smile and a little bounce to her step. Once, a very, very long time ago, Tink had been his nanny elf. He wonders what tasks she’s found for herself to keep her magic healthy, given she looks as young and hale as she had throughout his childhood and the years following. If properly cared for, elves could live forever, so long as they had magic to feast on and purify.
“This is Dream of the Endless,” he says, instead of trying to argue with her about the title. She’s always called him her ‘Little Master Hobsie’ and he’s realized that at this point that’s never going to change. Instead, he beckons her forward and gently presses Dream’s hand into Tink’s own, letting the swell of elf magic hold up his friend in the absence of Hob’s own bulk. “Please see that a guest room is made available for him, he needs to rest and recuperate. Also, there is a raven in the dimensional pocket of the coat that needs tending to, a wing was injured and never healed properly,” Hob says, ignoring the sharp intake of breath from the Endless.
“Tink be calling Dewy to look at the bird, Tink not be healer elf!” Tink tells him with a little tut, as she settles Dream’s hand into the crook of her elbow.
“Tink!” Hob calls, before she can lead the Endless away, suddenly remembering everything he’s ever learned about Dream of the Endless. “He is my guest, please give him whatever he might ask for, within reason. But-” he does not hesitate, does not pause to take a breath or to think through his words, or to even consider the ramifications of what he’s saying before he’s ploughing on through “-you are the defend yourself with extreme prejudice should he grow wrath with you,” he states, ignoring the noise Dream makes in his throat. Tink blinks at him for a moment then inclines her head. “Good, that’s all,” he says, turning on his heel and disappearing with a crack.
He does not need a practical example of the merciless wrath of Dream of the Endless. There is a young woman suffering eternally in Hell as a testament to what happens when one upsets the third eldest Endless. Hob supposes he should count himself lucky for how things went in 1889.
He doesn’t.
He’d rather the universe be in need of a new Dream of the Endless than it be in need of a new Tink.
He’s not sure why it is Iolanthe’s grave he always finds himself at when he needs to think. When he needs to just… process. It’s never Robyn’s. Never Eleanor’s. Always Iolanthe’s. Maybe, it’s because she was the one he got to keep the longest. She and Hardwin had both died of old age. Not like Robyn.
“I wondered if I’d find you here,” a voice Hob does not want to hear right now calls and he looks up at Death with a dark look in his eyes that gives her pause. “What’s wrong?”
“Were you ever going to tell me who he was?” he asks, though he know it’s not really her that he’s angry with. But she isn’t an innocent in all of this.
“I wanted him to be the one to tell you,” Death answers, sitting down beside him, reaching forward to run her hands through the grass over Iolanthe’s grave, leaving little violets behind where her fingers touch. The homage to his daughter does not lessen the emotions roiling inside of him. “Clearly, he finally has.”
“He has not,” Hob answers, shaking his head. “The goblins hired me to free Dream of the Endless. Imagine my damn surprise when it’s my old stranger locked up in the cage.”
“Oh,” Death murmurs, clenching her hands in her lap. “Would you have agreed to free him if you’d known beforehand?”
“I don’t know,” Hob answers, hating the doubt. “I have always been careful about those who I allow close to me. Have always tried to ensure that the people I came to care for were worthy of my affection and were not in my life simply because of what I could do for them. But that’s all I’ve ever been to him, isn’t it? A source of entertainment. A source of amusement. He’s only ever taken from me, never had anything to give.”
“It’s not like that,” Death says, shaking her head. “I knew you would be good for him; it is why I granted you immortality. I knew if anyone could get behind his walls and prod him to open up, it would be you.”
“Well, you thought wrong. He’s never told me a goddamn thing about himself. Not one. When I offered him friendship, he acted like I wasn’t worthy to even be in his presence, to even be breathing the same air,” Hob states with a sneer as he climbs to his feet, his hands clenched into fists as his side. “I should have figured it out, really. Should have known. Only the Endless are so fucking lost in themselves that they don’t give a shit about anyone else. Only the Endless think they’re so much better than everyone else. That they’re the universe’s gift to existence itself. Well, I know now.
“Would I have freed him if I’d known beforehand? If I hadn’t needed his freedom to secure something else for myself? If I hadn’t already agreed? I don’t know. Thing is though, there is a part of me that thinks I should have left him there. Thinks I should have set the place alight with him still in it. We need Dream of the Endless, but maybe our world would be better if the personification of a brighter future, a better life, wasn’t so… him.”
“My brother-“ Death starts, her voice shaking with rage, but Hob scoffs.
“You need not come to his defence!” Hob states, talking over her. He’s sure not many people have ever had the courage to do it, but he doesn’t care. “You could have freed him long before I ever needed to. You chose not to. You drew your line in the sand, Death. He sinks or he swims. It has nothing to do with you,” he says, turning on his heel and disappearing before he can say anything else that he might one day regret.
The goblin sentries say nothing as he stalks out of the arrival point deep in the bank. It’s supposed to only be for employees of the bank, and while Hob has a contract with the bank, he’s not been officially added back onto their payroll, and he refuses to be. But, the sentries no better than to step in front of an angry war-mage. It is the same of all the guards he passes as he stalks through the halls to Ironhide’s office. The bank’s own wards would be telling them that Hob means no harm to any of them, so they have no reason to stop him.
He pauses at Ironhide’s door, stopping long enough to breathe in deeply and let it out a sigh, before he raps his knuckles on the door. It’s late, he knows. Well outside of the bank’s normal business hours for wizards, but Ironhide has always been a night owl.
“Come in!” Ironhide’s call comes just as Hob expected it would and he slips inside, closing the door behind him with a snap. “Well, what’s got you in a snit? The mission go wrong, did it?”
“No, the mission went fine, as I’m sure you already know,” Hob mutters, sinking down into the chair across from Ironhide’s desk. “Turns out, Dream of the Endless and I have history.”
“Oh!” Ironhide says, with all the feeling that revelation requires.
“Yes.”
“Is he still alive?”
“Of course, he’s still alive!” Hob sulks, scowling at the floor. “You paid me to free him,” Hob says sullenly, before sitting up suddenly with a realisation. “Well, actually, you haven’t paid me yet so mayb-“
“Here.” Ironhide says, placing a piece of parchment down on the desk. Hob sighs and reaches for it, frowning.
“4 Privet Drive, Little Whinging, Surrey?”
“This is where your heir currently resides.”
“Oh, lovely,” Hob says, tossing the parchment back on the desk.
“You may wish to remove your heir from the premises as soon as possible. The muggles he’s staying with are… not suitable guardians for a magical child on account of hating and fearing magic.”
“For fuck’s sake!” Hob snaps, scooping up the parchment and climbing to his feet. “Thank you for your assistance, Ironhide. I’ll be in contact at some point to call in the favour,” he says, stalking from the room, back through the corridors to the departure point.
He doesn’t bother knocking on the door, simply places an invisibility charm over himself and unlocks the front door, letting himself inside. He casts a reveal spell and glares darkly at the adult forms slumbering upstairs when the spell reveals a very small form sleeping under the stairs.
He doesn’t waste any time in wrenching open the cupboard door, bending down to peer inside. On a ratty mattress tucked into the corner rests a small boy, covered by a very soft blanket. Hob can only assume the blanket had arrived at the house with the baby, since it seems far too nice to have been provided by Harry’s dubious carers. As Hob lets the invisibility spell fall, the boy shifts to peer at him with a set of bright, green eyes and reaches out to him with Gadling family magic. Hob would have expected him to be filled to the brim with Potter magics, since he was, ostensibly, the Head of House Potter, now. But no. Hob’s little heir is thrumming with Gadling magic.
“Well, that explains why the magic won’t shut up about you, huh?” Hob murmurs, as he reaches into the cupboard and gently pulls his many times great-grandson out, to cradle him against his chest. “Guess you really are my heir,” he whispers, brushing his hand over the boy’s hair, frowning at the very angry and raw wound on the boy’s forehead. He’ll have to have Dewy look at that later. “Come on, then. No use hanging around here any longer than we need to,” he says, turning on his heel, but before he apparates away, he pauses. “How about we cause some trouble for your horrible aunt and uncle, shall we?” he queries, as he walks out of the house with the boy, pausing just long enough to lock the door and re-apply the invisibility spell over both of them.
At the nearest payphone he dials the emergency line and makes a report about a possible missing child. Clearly providing the address when asked. When they ask for his own details, he simply places the phone back on the hook and spins away with Harry cradled in his arms.
“Tink’s Little Master Hobsie finally be bringing Tink a baby to raise?” Tink exclaims the moment she sees them when they arrive in the foyer of Peverell Keep. Hob sighs and rolls his eyes.
“You helped raise Iolanthe!” he exclaims, as he lets her come over to have a look at Harry, the boy giggling and reaching out for Tink, who smiles and offers her hand.
“Mistress Iolanthe be taking Master Hardwin and they be raising their babies elsewhere!” Tink says, with an offended little sniff. “As if Tink not good enough to help Mistress Iolanthe raise her babies!”
“I’m pretty sure that was more about her not wanting to be talked into claiming the title, than anything else,” Hob mutters, Tink huffs but doesn’t disagree. “Anyway, I need Dewy to have a look at him, he’s got a nasty cut on his head.”
“Tink sees,” she says, frowning at the lightning bolt wound. “Is curse wound. Dewy not being able to heal it properly, but a little bit.”
“Whatever he can do will be fine, Tink. Curse wounds never heal properly,” Hob says, looking up at a pop and finding Dewy hovering. “Come, Dewy. Meet Harry Potter, the Heir Gadling.”
“Dewy happy to be having a new heir to fuss about,” the little elf exclaims, scurrying forward to peer at the child. “Dewy heal, then Master Hob rest.”
“Yeah, I probably should, huh?” he says with a sigh as he lets Dewy take Harry to check him over. Hob turns to Tink with a raised eyebrow. “How is my guest?”
“Guest be sleeping,” Tink tells him with a little nod. “He be exhausted. Raven be doing okay, too. Dewy fix her wing, but he say she never fly again.”
“Yeah, I was kind of expecting that,” Hob mutters, shaking his head. “Did Dream say anything to you?”
“We talks a little, mostly about the raven. But Dream Endless tired. He be falling asleep pretty quickly.”
“Right. Thanks for keeping an eye on him, Tink.”
“Is Tink’s duty to House Gadling,” she tells him with a smile. “Tink’s Little Master Hobsie have master bedroom. Tink be adding cot there for the baby,” she tells him, before popping away.
“How’s he doing, Dewy?” Hob asks, as he turns back to the other pair, Harry sitting on the floor making little awed noises as Dewy hands glow with elf magic as he assesses the little boy.
“He be mostly fine,” Dewy answers after a moment, the light fading away, much to Harry’s disappointment. “Wound be worst of it. Heir Harry be little hungry, little tired, but otherwise okay. Dewy have healed wound as much as possible. Scar will stay, is curse damage.”
“Right. Thanks, Dewy. Keep an eye on things, will you?” Hob asks as he scoops the boy up into his arms, Harry giggling and reaching out to pull on his hair.
“Of course, Master Hob. Is Dewy’s duty!” the elf exclaims, before popping away. Hob sighs and turns to look up at the grand staircase.
“Well, come on, little one. Bedtime. It’s been a long day.”
Harry sleeps through the night. Hob hadn’t been expecting it, but he’s grateful for it. Or he is, right up until he rolls over in the morning to check the crib and finds it empty. He frowns, blinking at it for a few moments before calling Tink, who arrives with a little pop.
“Little Master Harry be waking and fussing, so Tink be changing him and feeding him and letting him explore,” Tink tells him with a little bounce in her step. “He be having story time with Dream Endless.”
“What?”
“Little Master Harry be exploring,” Tink repeats, slowly, Hob nods. “He find the Dream room and Dream Endless say Little Master Harry can stay, since Little Master Harry start crying when Tink try to take him away.”
“Oh.”
“Tink be making sure Pitter and Patter be making Little Master Hobsie breakfast!” Tink declares, popping away. Hob sighs, rubs at his face, before climbing from bed to go in search of a shower.
After a very filling breakfast, Hob wanders through the halls of the Keep, trying to remember where exactly the Dream room was located. Before her death, his aunt had redecorated the entire keep. She’d chosen a different theme for every single one of the Keep’s bedrooms. Fantasy, Winter Wonderland, Summer Vacation, Undersea Adventure, the list went on. One such room was the Dream room, full of fantastical creatures and landscapes that his aunt, his uncle, or his cousins had dreamed up. His uncle hadn’t had the heart to make any changes to the Keep after his wife’s death, and when Hob had inherited everything, he’d never felt the need to change anything.
Finally, after a nostalgic walk-through memory lane, he finds the Dream room, the door wide open. When he peers in, the bed is empty but for the raven resting on the pillows. Dream is sat on the floor, his back resting against the bed as he helps Harry build a construction out of little wooden blocks. Someone, probably Tink, had found a set of black, knitted pyjamas for the Endless, and Harry was dressed in an adorable little suit in the Gadling colours, a rich burgundy and gold.
Hob leans against the doorjamb and watches them for a few moments. Harry babbles excitedly at Dream and passes him wooden blocks, sometimes swapping the blocks out with others, before adding onto the construction. Dream gives considering little hums in response to Harry’s babbling, and only reaches out to place blocks on the construction to provide stabilisation, but otherwise leaves things for Harry. Hob thinks they’re building some sort of castle.
“So, the stories are true,” Hob says, startling both. Harry turns to him with an excited squeal, crawling across the floor to tug on Hob’s pant legs until he bends down to pick the little menace up, accepting slobbery kisses. Dream meanwhile looks at Hob with wary eyes.
“Which stories?” Dream asks, his voice still lacking the power Hob’s so used to hearing it imbued with. He still has a voice that makes one turn to listen, but it isn’t the same as what Hob knows it can be.
“The ones that say that you have a soft spot for children,” Hob says, settling Harry back down on the floor when his heir fusses at him. Harry crawls back to Dream’s side and goes right back to building their castle. “Probably a good thing, anyway, considering you owe him.”
“What?”
“This is Harry Potter,” Hob says, indicating the child. “He was the price of your freedom,” Hob continues, shrugging as Dream flinches.
“What?”
“Well, I suppose it would be more accurate to say that your freedom was the price of his.”
“He was captured?” Dream asks, his gaze shifting from Hob to settle on Harry, a soft smile forming as Harry babbles at Dream and snatches a bridge piece from Dream’s palm.
“You could say that,” Hob mutters, because, in a way, Harry had been as trapped as Dream had been. “The goblins wouldn’t tell me where he was unless I freed you. Course, I don’t think they knew how he was being treated, otherwise they’d have told me without a price. Children are important to them,” Hob says, as Harry carefully places the bridge piece on a precariously balanced tower. Dream reaches forward to stabilise it before it can fall, as Harry claps happily and turns back to his pile of blocks.
“Who is he?”
“You mean to me?” Hob queries, Dream nods. “He is my many times great grandson.”
“Robyn’s?” Dream asks in surprise, but Hob quietly shakes his head.
“No. Robyn died before he could ever even think of giving me grandchildren,” he says with a sigh. “No. Iolanthe, my firstborn.”
“Iolanthe Potter?” Dream asks, looking up at him with wide eyes.
“Yes? Did you know her?” Hob asks, frowning.
“She asked me for a favour, once,” Dream answers, looking back down at Harry with a faraway look in his eyes. “She wanted to take a true story and make it into a myth. I told her the easiest way was to tell the story how she wanted people to know it, and then to make sure her story was the only one that truly spread.”
“The Tale of Three Brothers,” Hob mutters, shaking his head. “That girl.”
“I did not realize that she was yours,” Dream admits quietly.
“I never told you about her. She asked that after I faked my death, I not link myself back to her unless I couldn't help it. I suppose she didn’t want to mess up the story she was making sure to tell,” Dream hums in answer before he looks up at Hob with a frown. “What?”
“You warn your elves against me, but you do not prevent me from interacting with your heir?”
“Well, like I said, the stories must be true, after all,” Hob answers, shrugging his shoulders. “Your reputation precedes you, Dream. Your wrath is legendary, as is how swiftly you can turn from friend to foe. I trust you will not harm Harry, for he is a child and there are no stories of you harming children. Not unless you had no choice in the matter at all. The same cannot be said for anyone else.”
“I see.”
“I’m glad that you do,” Hob answers, crossing his arms over his chest even as he pushes away from the door. “Because I wasn’t kidding when I said that you owe Harry. If it were not for him, I don’t know if I would have freed you at all. You made it quite clear how you feel about me, Dream of the Endless. I don’t tend to stick my neck out for those who will quite happily lop it off without a second thought,” Hob tells him, before he turns on his heel and walks away. “Tink, remember to put Harry down for a nap later,” he calls as he heads to the study. He flinches when her reply comes with a hard prod in the family magic well.
“Tink be knowing!! Tink be raising babies long before Tink’s Little Master Hobsie ever even be knowing how to makes them!”