Chapter Text
Rose Cassiopeia Potter, daughter of James and Lily, goddaughter of Sirius Black, child of prophecy and witch, wandered around the small archaeology site near Tintagel Castle in Cornwall. The end-of-school overnight trip was one of the most exciting things she had ever been on, never expecting to visit such a place. Vernon and Petunia Dursley, her aunt and uncle, would never have allowed her to go—except that, somehow, her name had been added to a small scholarship.
Worse, this was the land of King Arthur, knights of the Round Table, and Camelot, whose stories were woven with the magic cast by Merlin and Morgan le Fey. After the school announced the trip location, she wondered if Vernon was having a stroke. But their precious son Dudley wanted to go. After several threats of punishment and comments such as “freaks don’t deserve a vacation,” she was hustled onto the bus.
Since she was little, Rose had dreamt of other times and places—a secret she never spoke about to her relatives. Some dreams were wonderful, a few so terrible that she often woke on the verge of screaming, while others were so sad that she found tears on her face. However, as the bus chewed up the kilometers through Bodmin Moors, she began recognizing the land around her as part of her dreams.
And it was wonderful, if a bit lonely. Unlike other groups of children, Rose moved about the ancient stones by herself. Her cousin Dudley had made sure that either lies or threats of violence isolated her. Even the teachers ignored her, but that didn’t matter; it had been a good day—the best day—because she also felt like she was coming home.
The young witch might have been alarmed at the pull if she’d had any magical training. However, a small part of her had always felt something missing, so when she recognized a ruined wall, she reached out to touch it.
And fell.
Morgaine, youngest daughter of Igraine and Gorlois, wife of Urien, mother of Yvain, wise healer, powerful sorceress, and enchantress, slept. She had entered seclusion after the Battle of Camlann, whose dead covered the field like fallen leaves. Her brother, their King, was dead; his son also lay slain, whom he had protected until his last breath. The Britons had fought bravely, and although they shattered the invading Saxon army, it came at a horrible cost.
It was the end of a dream.
Overwhelmed by magical exhaustion and grief, Morgaine disappeared into her sanctuary. She only needed time to rest. The land, much like the bodies she healed, was broken. It needed time to heal; she just needed sleep. But as the sorceress closed her eyes, she slipped in and out of the Annwyn, the Otherworld. Time would pass as she dreamed, protected by the blessing of the spirits and ancient charms so powerful that even the most learned ward masters could never break them—much less find them.
But at long last, the long sleep was coming to an end. Morgaine was restless. For the last eleven years, foreign but familiar dreams had bled into her own. And now, a missing part of her drew close. She awoke abruptly, feeling as if something had suddenly dragged her out of the Otherworld.
What Rose-Morgaine didn’t expect when she opened her eyes was to find herself face down on the ground. Rolling over, she stared at a ceiling both familiar and unfamiliar.
“Hecate’s breath, why am I not in my bed?” the sorceress murmured, her voice like sweet honey, though spoken in a language forgotten to time.
Wincing at the pain in her head, she sat up and pushed off the ground with dainty hands. Her long hair, which she moved out of the way, was heavy and oddly wet. Then Rose-Morgaine remembered. Reaching up to her face, her hand came away covered in blood.
“Oh, I fell,” she whispered, looking up to find part of the landing had worn down and crumbled beneath her weight.
Stumbling across the chamber, she passed her workshop and entered the bedroom, finding it surprisingly—and thankfully—empty. Passing through the ancient protective enchantments with no issue, the sorceress opened the heavy wooden chest and retrieved from its depths an exquisite bronze mirror. The face reflected on the surface was not entirely her own but a combination of Rose and Morgaine.
“I look like my granddaughter,” she laughed, a little hysterically, while wiping the blood from her face—then stopped. With her other hand, she lifted her bangs to find the much-hated scar gone, as if it had never existed.
Hours later, with bloody clothing tossed aside and vanished, she slipped into a warm bath. Although the many outfits stored in her trunks might be centuries out of style, the now-young sorceress had no plans ever to wear poorly fitting clothes again.
“But what to do next?” she mused, washing her hair.
Obviously, returning to Privet Drive was out; even Uther wouldn’t have thrown her into a cupboard. Although he had married her off to one of his allies, that was expected. Rose-Morgaine wondered if anyone on the bus would report her missing. The teachers, for the most part, pretended she didn’t exist. The girls who shared a room with her at the hotel ignored her. The Dursleys would probably celebrate her disappearance.
Perhaps there was a magical community she could slip into. She knew Rose’s parents—her parents—were magical, from the snippets of memory she could recall. The odd accidental magic she experienced when younger was familiar to her, just as it had been to Morgaine. Unfortunately, as with many non-magical families, the Dursleys’ reaction to it was not uncommon, especially among superstitious peasants. But some magicals should have noticed.
Still, the former Queen didn’t have to decide right then. The ancient charms that protected her Sanctuary were surprisingly intact. There was little chance some archaeologist had stumbled upon her while she slept.
The next morning, feeling much stronger, the young sorceress stared at the raven preening itself while chewing on a fifteen-hundred-year-old apple.
“How did you get here, Breuddwydion?”
The bird looked up, stared at her like she was an idiot, then went back to what he was doing. Her familiar had always been a cheeky little thing.
“Right.”
Her spirit contract was in place, so she obviously hadn’t died. But Morgaine had created it after becoming a sorceress, not Rose—so was she more than the other, or a little of both? What exactly had happened to her? She had memories of living as a healer and a Queen, but also of sleeping in a cupboard.
“But my magic’s still strong,” she said, tossing the apple core into the air and vanishing it with a wave.
After breakfast, Rose-Morgaine, now wearing a transfigured 5th-century dress, stood in the center of the chamber and set the end of the staff on the ground.
“Your show, Breuddwydion,” she said to her familiar, who left her shoulder, circled to the ceiling, and vanished.