Work Text:
By the time they got around to the coat of arms, Salazar was already almost certain that he was going to have to leave.
It was upsetting, most upsetting, to be forced to abandon one's life-work, one's legacy. But as he looked down at the tapestry Rowena had woven, he was sure of the rightness of his choice. The blind woman created her artworks by touch alone, trusting to Sight rather than simple vision to guide her hands to the truth, and this image was truth indeed. Godric's lion opened its mouth in a silent snarl; his own serpent smirked back at it. Beneath them, Mistress Hufflepuff's badger and Rowena's eagle glared at each other in furious disdain.
There was a canker, a wrongness, here: for the sake of the school's survival, someone would have to go, and Salazar knew that he was the most easily spared of the four of them. Rowena, scholar, witch and cripple, would never survive without the shelter of the castle walls, while Godric, leaving, would grow bitter and angry: he would seek revenge. Mistress Hufflepuff - even after three decades of working alongside her, Salazar could not think of her as Helga - was the school, as near as made no difference: the first among them to come to teaching, and the only one of them with a true passion for it. She was as integral to Hogwarts as the Astronomy Tower or the kitchens. She was necessary.
That left himself, and Salazar knew that he was not necessary, not any longer. Others could be found to teach the things he taught, and Hogwarts had no more need of a builder of walls, nor a crafter of intricate spellwork. The Confundus he had woven into the fabric of the castle would hold for centuries, now: the only thing that could strengthen the outermost wards further was time: and the Old Forest (and it was old, older than civilisation, older than humanity) was woven into a sure and certain defence. His tasks here were done, and the friendships that had bound him here were no more.
(And here he paused in his thoughts, remembering - forty years ago and more - Godric, young and proud and wild, always preferring his sword to his wand; Rowena, still new to her blindness and her power, fumbling through both in despair and wonder; Mistress Hufflepuff, fierce and harsh, seeking out those who could learn from her as if doing penance for the death of the son she had refused to teach. She had mellowed since then, Salazar thought. He would not have thought it possible.)
No, those friendships were almost dead, and he had no wish to linger and watch them finish their bitter decay. Better to leave now, while he still could. He was not yet old, and he could still make his way as a wandering wizard: and he had a wish to see Byzantium again, as he had in the days of his youth. Better, surely, to leave now, and let Hogwarts survive: and perhaps his sons and his sons' sons would come here, to learn from the wisest of their kind far from the world of ordinary folk. (Muggles, they were calling them now, in careless disdain that would have been impossible before Hogwarts. Salazar liked the word, but the use of it did not come naturally to him yet.)
That left only one thing to consider, then. Accordingly, he considered it.
The Basilisk was, indeed, a problem.
She was grown too large to be moved from her hiding-place, and he had never intended her to leave it in any case: she had been created as a means of protection, a last desperate defence if the castle was attacked and all else failed, but he had not realised, then, how wild she would grow, how hungry, how mad. She should be killed, he knew, and yet he was unwilling to do it. Like all the great snakes, she was talkative, clever, witty: Salazar had raised her from an egg, had taught her her duties, had talked with her for long hours. He still considered her a friend. He did not think he could kill her.
He could tell the others where she was, he supposed. They would be angry, since he had led them to believe that she was already dead after that particular argument (the first of many) - but he would not be present to see their anger, and they would not hesitate to kill a creature they considered a mere beast. He could tell them; perhaps he should tell them: but they would not be able to kill her. Salazar was almost certain of that. She was clever and dangerous, and he had long since stopped renewing the spells which bound her to obey them as she did him. It was far more likely that she would kill whichever of them went to do the deed (Godric, he knew. Godric whom he would gladly see dead, now - but for the sake of the past, not like that.)
In any case, she was dormant now, and would probably remain so until her death in some distant century, unless some fool took it upon himself to wake her. The weather here was too cold for her, and the food he had given her - sheep and cattle - was bland, not worth rousing herself for. Let her sleep until her death, then. Let her be left in peace. Salazar was aware of the risk involved, but steps could be taken to reduce it. The chances of anyone finding her were already slim indeed; they could be made slimmer before he left. And if anyone did...
He looked down at Rowena's tapestry again. A motto would need to be added to it, and she had brought it to him. You have always had as much skill with your words as your wand, she had said. Do this for me. Hope and worry had been written clearly on her face: she knew what was happening as well as he did. She thought that she could hold it back with gestures like these. It was not enough, Salazar knew, but he had agreed to do it anyway.
He had to leave. The motto had to be written. The Basilisk could not - must not - be woken.
He thought for a moment, and then drew his wand and flicked it over the base of the tapestry. The words faded into sight like a deepening mist on the cloth.
Draco dormiens nunquam titillandus.
Salazar smiled in spite of himself. That was as obvious as he dared to make it. It was a useful sentiment in any case, and one that Godric and his students would do well to note.
He left the finished tapestry with its coat of arms and its motto on the table in Rowena's rooms. Then he went to the Chamber and cast a final handful of spells.
Then he left. He said no farewells. There was nothing, really, to be said.
_
Draco, onis, (m); - a serpent, a large serpent; a dragon.
From The Elementary Latin Dictionary - CT Lewis