What's Past is Prologue

by orphan_account

Summary:

The night before Quidditch try-outs in the Trio's fifth year, a mysterious magical accident takes place in the Gryffindor common room, transporting Harry, Hermione, Ron and Ginny back over a thousand years in time to a century of discord, persecution and tumult, where they lose their memories of their own time and become the Founders of Hogwarts.
When another such occurrence returns them to a time they can no longer think of as their own, Godric, Helga, Salazar and Rowena must defeat Voldemort and overcome the divisions within the school they founded, while simultaneously trying to uncover the reason for their time-travel.
Some elements have been borrowed, with permission, from the work of Wicked Witch of the North on fanfiction.net, who has since closed her account.

Chapter 1: Prologue

This is where it ended:

Helga Hufflepuff was an old woman now, the fiery colour of her hair faded to dull grey by the passage of time. Her eyes were not as keen as once they had been, perhaps, her hands not quite as steady, but her mind was as sharp as ever it had been, and so when her stepdaughter Aethelinda, now quite old herself, heard what had happened she could scarce believe it.

They scoured the Forest looking for the body, for the loss of the last Founder’s magic was evident in every stone of the castle, every blade of grass on the grounds, and no-one could imagine Helga Hufflepuff leaving her students through anything but her death.

The beautiful room at the top of the tower from which the four Founders of Hogwarts had run the school for as long as anyone could remember felt strangely empty without Helga there. Her things had all been packed away and marked with names and bequests for students, friends and family scattered across the Isles, and a heavy sheaf of parchment was left on what had been Helga’s desk with instructions for her successor. With hindsight, it was clear she had known she was dying.

As near as anyone could work out, Helga had left the castle early that morning and headed towards the Forest, disappearing into the treeline like smoke on the wind. The centaurs had not seen her, and she had not emerged. They never found her body, although her black cloak was found near the furthest fringes of the Forest, the brass badger clasp that she had used to fasten it melted almost entirely out of shape.

Aethelinda and her stepbrother Gareth dealt with her affairs, as was their right, and it was not a week before the new head of the school moved into the Founders’ office. Helga Hufflepuff had no funeral, but her passing was marked by hundreds.

And the world turned, and the time of the Founders was gone.

*

Or maybe that’s wrong. Maybe it ended far sooner than that, for gods and men knew that Hogwarts was at its greatest when its four Founders were all together, and that had not been true for decades before Helga Hufflepuff’s presumed death.

It ended, some say, like this:

The argument was an old one, almost as old as Hogwarts itself. Older, possibly, for Salazar Slytherin’s distrust of Muggles had been well-known for almost as long as the school had been open. It didn’t get serious, however, until about ten years after the school was founded, when the wizarding town of Trevena in Cornwall was burnt to the ground by a Muggle mob. Magical communities all across the Isles heard of what had happened and shuddered. It bore too many similarities to what had happened in Eulestadt, where the Muggles had been led by a magbob who had been educated in the town, determined to ‘cleanse’ Eulestadt of its magical population with fire and blood.

Slytherin had been at Eulestadt, had been part of the group that had been sent to hunt the magbob leader of the massacre down. He took the burning of Trevena as a vindication of everything he’d ever suspected about Muggles, and responded in kind.

They couldn’t take the Muggles’ children, Slytherin said. Not yet. Not until they could be sure of protecting them. There had already been attacks on the carts they used to bring the students north, and the protection of those students they already had must be their priority for the time being. Until such time as they could be sure of repulsing any Muggle mob that tried to march on their school, until they had enough grown and skilled wizards and witches to defend them. And then…Not one wizarding child left in Muggle hands. Not one child left to grow up alone and terrified, not knowing why they could do the things they could. Not one more. He had no shortage of supporters. For all his fellow Founders’ idealism, there were far too many in Hogwarts and its environs who had seen Muggles roused to fury and knew all too well what the usual result was.

No-one could really say what had passed between the Founders on the last night Salazar Slytherin had been seen, except that he had stormed out of the Great Hall in a towering fury after yet another argument between the four Founders, and disappeared off into the grounds, his habitual black clothing making him almost impossible to spot in the darkness outside. That was the last anyone saw of Slytherin, and after a while it got around the school that he’d left for good. Probably gone to start his own school of the Dark Arts, a few of Gryffindor’s students muttered to each other, when they were quite sure their teacher was out of earshot. But as weeks and months and finally years passed and no such school appeared, the rumours grew wilder, until no-one was left who remembered the events as they had been.

*

Or maybe that’s wrong, and it ended far, far later than that, when Salazar Slytherin’s early writings were finally uncovered and used to justify purges and butcheries every bit as bad as those that had driven him to such extremes. When the words of a young man burning with rage at the loss of friends, teachers, companions, acquaintances were treated as gospel and used to justify ends and means they had never been intended to support. Bits of the original writings were disregarded and lost, sometimes purposely so, in order to support the opinions of those who cited them; new passages were mysteriously ‘discovered’ and added to the text to support this argument or that and thus the truth was overwritten entirely.

*

But endings are strange things; no sooner do you think the story is over than a thousand more threads reveal themselves. It could be said that the Founders lived as long as their school continued. To say this would, of course, be wildly inaccurate by most reckonings, but nonetheless, one could say it. Beginnings, now, beginnings are about as hard to place as endings, but a good deal more subtle in being so. Where do you say someone really began? With birth? Conception? The circumstances under which that conception came about? And when one brings time travel into the equation…well, one might as well give up entirely. But I have resolved to tell this story, and told it must be.

This is where it began:

By the time Professor McGonagall reached Gryffindor Tower the storm had all but dispersed entirely. Strange, considering how long it had been raging, but then, it had come down suddenly and cleared up about as quick. By the time she got through the Fat Lady’s portrait half of Gryffindor appeared to be congregated in the common room, all carefully avoiding the four chairs nearest the fire, and the blackened, burnt silhouettes still smoking on the chairs and hearthrug.

The Weasley Twins were sitting off to one side, pale as ghosts and uncharacteristically silent. Every so often someone would shoot a glance in their direction, and look away quickly, not wanting to see the devastation on the twins’ faces. A pair of broken glasses lay askew next to the fire, the frames seemingly melted out of shape. On one of the chairs sat a copy of Hogwarts: A History so badly burnt as to be almost unrecognisable.

Professor McGonagall ordered the assembled Gryffindors up to their dormitories as soon as she decently could, and then her instincts from her Ministry days took over. She checked the common room over briskly, and was startled to find that, aside from the silhouettes burnt into the armchairs and the obvious heat damage on the hearthrug, there was no sign that anything out of the ordinary had happened there.

Professor Dumbledore took the news badly, but that was entirely expected. He’d never made any secret of his affection for Potter. Professor Snape’s reaction was far less predictable. He’d gone as pale as paper when he’d heard the news, and McGonagall had to wonder whether he felt any sort of residual protectiveness for Lily Evans’ son after all.

She couldn’t dwell on that, though. There were letters to be written, families to be notified, essays to be marked, anything to keep her from dwelling on the fact that Harry Potter, Hermione Granger and both Ron and Ginny Weasley were in all probability dead.

*

Or maybe that’s wrong. Maybe the beginning came earlier. Maybe it began like this:

On a bright, crisp September morning towards the end of the tenth century, the morning after a storm, four young people were found unconscious on the hillside, their clothing rent and charred and tattered, but they themselves mysteriously unharmed. The villagers who found them were naturally suspicious, but also naturally practical, and all four of the strangers looked wealthy. If there was money to be made from assisting them, then that was all to the good. If there wasn’t…well, it wasn’t as though bringing them to Acton the healer would be terribly much inconvenience anyway.

When the four of them awoke, they identified themselves as Godric, his cousin Helga ferch Matilda and their companions Rowena of Ravensroost and Gríma Fen-Born. Fanciful names, some of them, but nothing to raise an eyebrow at, and the fenlander boy at least had gold. The people of the village that would come to be called Ottery St Catchpole shrugged their shoulders and took the strangers’ money, and that was the last anyone thought of it.

*

No matter where the story began, or where the story ended, the barest bones of it were thus:

That on a stormy September’s night four young people ranging in age from fourteen to sixteen disappeared from the Gryffindor common room. That on a stormy September’s night four young people ranging in age from fourteen to sixteen appeared on the hills outside a village that would come to be named for one of their number.

That those four young people would go on to found a school that would last over a thousand years, and have half a hundred adventures even before that. That fear would divide the four of them, driving one away forever, and that the school would not be right again until the rift was mended.

*

“You said you would keep Lily Evans’ son safe!”

The headmaster’s office was dark and forlorn-looking, and the man himself little better. Dumbledore looked every one of his hundred and fifty years, and the twinkle in his eyes had gone out.

Severus Snape sat in the chair opposite Dumbledore, his head in his hands and his greasy hair hanging over his face like something out of a Gothic novel. A broken man.

“Do you think I don’t remember, Severus?” Dumbledore asked quietly, voice made sharp by grief, “None of us could have predicted that this would happen. Harry was never meant to die this way.” Nor Miss Granger, nor the two youngest Weasleys, either. He had always known there would be losses in this war, and that those closest to Harry would be the most at risk. He had steeled himself for it, even as he fought to prevent it, but even he had not thought the first deaths would come so soon. And that Harry would be one of them – he had always known that Harry had to die, but he had held out hope that his fate could be mitigated, that the intermingling of his blood with Voldemort’s would tie him to this world closely enough for him to escape his fate. He had not anticipated how much it would hurt when Harry was gone.

“What will you do now?” Dumbledore asked, watching Snape closely, “There is no reason for you to remain at Hogwarts.”

Snape laughed, but there was no mirth in it. “Afraid I’ll turn?” he shook his head, “No. If I can’t protect Lily’s son, I can at least avenge her murder.”

“You needn’t stay for that,” Dumbledore said kindly, “I can send you on other work, away from the school.”

“No. The Dark Lord wishes that I remain close to you, in order to report on your actions more closely.”

Dumbledore nodded, and the two sat in silence for a few long minutes, neither one looking at the other. Presently there came a tap on one of the windows, and Dumbledore went to open it.

Fawkes soared in, and as he did so one red-and-golden feather fell from his tail and landed on one of the delicate whirring instruments scattered across the room on spindly-legged tables, which emitted a cloud of silvery-blue smoke. As Dumbledore watched, the smoke twisted itself into strange symbols, as unintelligible as Linear A.

“Ah,” Dumbledore murmured, picking up the feather to run it through his fingers. “Severus,” he added, looking over his shoulder, “It appears we may have spoken too soon.”

Snape looked up, his eyes wide and wild with hope.

*

It was Firenze who found Ginny Weasley’s body on the furthest fringes of the Forest, and risked the ire of his fellow centaurs by taking her to Hagrid’s hut, only to find that Professor Grubbly-Plank, who had been tending to Hagrid's charges in his absence, was already occupied by the unconscious but whole body of Harry Potter, which she had found near the borders of the Forest on the Hogwarts side. They were rushed to the hospital wing with almost unseemly haste.

Ron Weasley was found slumped against the gateposts, drenched from the night’s rain and with his clothes in burnt and bloody tatters, such that none of the Hogwarts house-elves could recover them. It was strange, though, for when he was brought up to the hospital wing there was not a mark on him, nothing to justify the amount of blood they found on his clothes.

Hermione Granger terrified Professor Flitwick almost out of his mind when he went into his office that evening to find her lying spread-eagled across his desk, out cold and still as death.

The four of them took over one end of the hospital wing, their bedside tables laden with cards from friends and family. The Hogwarts rumour mill went into overdrive with theories about where they had been and what had happened to them, with theories ranging from the mundane to the outright ridiculous and covering every possible point in between. The Ministry made all the necessary noises about security and three new Educational Decrees were passed before lunchtime the next morning, and amidst all the confusion no-one even noticed the peculiar hum in the air, the castle’s reaction to magic that had been gone for centuries being abruptly returned.

This is how it continues.

Chapter 2: In which three awake and one remains sleeping

The first thing Salazar registered when he woke was confusion, closely followed by yet more confusion as to why he was confused. There was, after all, nothing so very unusual about waking up in the hospital wing. He’d done it a thousand times over the course of his time at Hogwarts. Except that wasn’t right. He had never been a student at Hogwarts. How could he have been? He had helped build the place. And there was no specific ‘hospital wing’. Students were merely confined to their dormitories when sick, with an older student assigned to check on them every so often, and seen to by whichever teacher knew most about the particular injury or illness they suffered from. This usually meant Salazar himself, or else Helga, who had grown up a wise-woman’s daughter on the Welsh borders and learnt healing magic at her mother’s knee. Except that wasn’t right. He didn’t know a Helga, had never known a Helga, except from the pages of his history of magic textbooks, and he’d never paid much attention to those anyway. There was something badly wrong here, Salazar could feel it, but the two halves of his brain couldn’t agree on what that something was.

He had been in the common room, he remembered dimly, he’d just got back from detention with Umbridge…who was Umbridge? And what would he, the head of Slytherin house, be doing in the Gryffindor common room? Godric and Rowena had a perfectly good set of rooms on the fifth floor if the great hall was too public for whatever they had to say to one another. Quite besides which, he was quite certain that he had spent most of yesterday evening in the Forest. He pulled at the thought, tugging on it like a loose thread until it gave and the snarled tangle of memories inside his head coalesced into something resembling sense.

Harry Potter buried his face in his hands. He was Salazar Slytherin.

Salazar Slytherin buried his face in his hands. He was Harry Potter.

Except that didn’t make any sense. Nothing he had heard or read about in either life had indicated that this was even a possibility. Granted, he had hardly been much of a scholar as Harry Potter, and time-travel had been an unknown phenomenon in what he couldn’t help but think of as his own time, but all the same, it was worrying. He needed to know why this had happened, how it had happened, and if there was any way to go back. It would be easier in this time, when he didn’t have to rely on Aglaea or Pyrrha’s eyes to read by-

But he had killed Pyrrha, and Aglaea would be long dead by now. Poor, bright, beautiful Pyrrha, the little creature he had reared from the egg, his basilisk, forced under the dominion of a psychopath and set to murder the very students she had been intended to protect. And Salazar had killed her. He hadn’t known what he was doing, and it had been her life or his by then, but that didn’t make her any less dead. She’d been a juvenile, the last he’d seen of her, not yet big enough for the sight of her eyes to be fatal, although he’d already moved her down to the Chamber, so as to avoid any unfortunate accidents when she grew powerful enough to knock the students unconscious. He bit back the tears that threatened to come, forced them down. He could grieve later. Later, he would be able to mourn his lost life, his lost family, his dead pet. It wouldn’t do to draw Madam Pomfrey’s attention, not this early, and if six years of study under Edwin of Morpeth had taught him one thing, it was how to put aside emotion and do what had to be done.

He reached over and felt around on the bedside table for his glasses, nearly knocking them off the table in the process. It felt strange, when he put them on, to see the world clearly through his own eyes rather than the eyes of his snakes. He hadn’t been able to see colour through their eyes. He had seen nothing but colour through his own. Seeing the two combined was odd, not so much for the sight itself as his own reactions to it. Half of his mind found it completely commonplace, the other half utterly new, and he needed to sort out his reactions early, before they could give him away. The only way to go about doing that was to puzzle out the connections, to find some kind of match, memory for memory, between the two lives inside his head.

He had had three more years with his parents as Salazar, years that had no correlation in Harry Potter’s life. True, his memories of that time were faint and fragmented, worn smooth with much handling, but they were still there, and now he found he couldn’t think of James Potter without seeing Iago of the Fenlands’ rakish grin and scarred forearms, couldn’t think of Lily without remembering Siusan of the Fenlands' habit of rolling her eyes when exasperated and using her hands too much when she talked. It hurt, not knowing, not knowing if that was really how they had been or whether those memories were entirely false. He could always ask Sirius or Lupin about his father, he supposed, although he was fairly certain already that James Potter hadn’t shared his counterpart’s terror of Muggles, but he didn’t know who to ask to find out more about Lily.

His aunt and uncle were almost exactly the same. Verlyn of Dersle and Vernon Dursley were all but indistinguishable in most major respects, except that Salazar had seen so much less of Dersle. He’d been passed off as the bastard son of Petula of Dersle’s sister, and put to work as a household servant as soon as he was old enough to hold a broom. He’d been Audley of Dersle’s whipping boy growing up, and Audley had taken the same delight in getting into trouble so that Salazar could take a beating for it that Dudley had taken in Harry Hunting.

He had taught himself magic as Salazar. He had accepted that as true for thirty years, but now, looking back, he could see that couldn’t possibly have been the case; he had unpicked enough self-taught wizards during his teaching years to know that no-one who had taught themselves used magic that efficiently. It wasn’t a question of intelligence; the self-taught ones tended to be among the brightest students in the school, even if their magic often started out clumsier than that of their classmates, but without the benefit of a formal training they wasted magic, using twice the amount of energy necessary for even the simplest of spells. Salazar had never had that problem – Gods, why hadn’t he seen it?

Some things were out of order or had wider spaces between them than they had done in Harry’s life – as Salazar he had befriended Helga first, after running away from Verlyn of Dersle’s hall at the age of ten, having gotten as far as the Welsh border before he was caught stealing eggs from Helga’s mother Matilda’s chicken coop. Matilda had taken pity on him and taken him in alongside her own children, of whom Helga, at nine years old, had been the youngest. He hadn’t met Godric for a full year after that, not until the famine had come and Matilda could no longer feed all those mouths, forcing her to send Helga, Salazar and Helga’s second-eldest brother off to live with her twin sister Agnes in the West Country, where Salazar had befriended Helga’s cousin Godric almost immediately.

A few memories were easy to match, even if the trappings of them were different – Helga had written him a blazon when she was eleven and he was twelve. It had begun ‘His eyes are as green as a fresh pickled toad’ and only grown worse from there. He and Godric had had a falling-out at the age of fourteen over Salazar’s participation in a tourney he hadn’t technically been allowed to join. He and Godric had met and befriended Rowena by saving the then-eleven-year-old Lady Rowena from a troll that had taken up residence not far from her family’s hall – he could find matches for all of those moments without the slightest trouble. Others seemed to have been made up from whole cloth, like his uncle’s steward, Vaisey, who had delighted in criticising every little thing about Salazar’s work until Salazar was almost screaming with frustration.

It was strange, the ways they overlapped sometimes. If the two lives he remembered had been completely separate, that would have made it easier. He could have chosen then, one life or the other. The similarities were what made it difficult.

It was stranger still to think of his students, and realise with a start that Harry had known them too, from the pages of his textbooks. That young Merlin Ambrosius, with his overlarge ears and mop of black hair, would become the mighty sorcerer he had read about as Harry was…not surprising, not exactly, for Salazar had always seen the potential for greatness in the boy…but gratifying in the best of ways, and inexpressibly frustrating in that he had not been able to watch it happen. Looking back, he could see the signs of it in Merlin’s last letter to him, in which he had mentioned his work for King Vortigern to determine why a planned castle wouldn’t stand. Salazar had warned him not to grow too close to the Muggles, warned him also of what they were capable of when faced with what they didn’t understand, but Merlin hadn’t listened. No-one ever listened.

“Salazar?”

Salazar’s head snapped around. He stared. “Helga?” he asked, and then, for lack of anything else to say, “What are you doing here?” A mistake, as it turned out.

“What am I-?” Helga’s eyes blazed and Salazar barely had time to blink before he was flat on his back with Helga’s hands bracketed on either side of his face and a furious freckled face glaring down at him, “You,” Helga said distinctly, “Are a complete prize pillock, Salazar Slytherin!”

“So I’ve been told,” Salazar said, nodding and trying to force a smirk. Helga glared at him, but then her arms went slack and she slumped against him, the tension in her shoulders melting away.

“Why did you do it, Salazar?” she asked, avoiding his eyes. Salazar didn’t insult her by pretending not to know what she meant.

“I…It wasn’t my choice.”

“Then whose was it?” Helga snapped, “And if you say Godric’s I’m going to hex you. I don’t care how bad your last row was-”

“No, of course- That isn’t what I meant,” Salazar sighed, “I don’t know what happened.”

“You don’t know?” Helga’s voice was coolly disbelieving,

“I…” Salazar shook his head, “How long has it been, for you?”

“For- Sal, you’re not trying to imply-”

“How long?”

“Sixty-two years.”

Salazar felt the blood drain from his face. “What?”

“The day you left,” Helga said quietly, “That was sixty-two years ago.”

Salazar looked away, trying to process the news. “Gareth, the girls, were they-”

“Aethelinda and Gareth were still at the school when I left,” Helga replied, subdued, “We were all shocked to find you gone, but with all the excitement over Helena-”

“Helena? What on earth could have happened to her?” Rowena’s daughter had always struck Salazar as the most sensible of the children. Not that that had been difficult; all four of Salazar’s daughters had inherited his own youthful tendency to act first and think later, without an Edwin of Morpeth to burn such habits out of them the way Salazar had, and Gareth Hufflepuff had inherited his mother’s temper.

“She ran off a few months after you did,” Helga said, carefully not looking Salazar in the face, “Rowena was never quite right after that. She disappeared two years later, and then a few days after that Helena came back,”

“I didn’t run off,” Salazar snapped, and then frowned, “Wait. Rowena disappeared? In a puff of smoke?” He was rather alarmed when Helga nodded.

“I don’t know what happened, not exactly; she’d seemed a little better the night before, but when I went into her room in the morning she was gone,” she shuddered, “There was a sort of silhouette burnt into the sheets, and the stench…”

Salazar could imagine. “You said Helena came back?”

Helga nodded, but her expression remained grim, “Her ghost appeared at the school three days later.”

“Gods,” Salazar muttered, closing his eyes, “I can’t imagine. Did Godric bear up all right?”

“He coped. We both did. I’m not saying it was easy, but,” she shrugged, “We weren’t exactly overflowing with other options.”

Salazar looked at her, saw the drawn look of her face, the stubborn set of her jaw, and shifted to draw her closer, reaching up to toy with her hair, which lay in a tangle over her shoulders and back. It was an old ritual between the two of them, and Helga leant into it with a small, satisfied smile. Salazar smiled himself, feeling the release of tension he hadn’t even noticed was there.

It was about then that he noticed something on the far side of the room out of the corner of his eye and froze, his hands stilling on Helga’s back.

“Damn!” he hissed, casting a desperate look around the room, “Helga, in the other beds, who are they? If we’ve-”

Helga’s hands closed around his wrists, “It’s all right,” she said, casting a look over towards the beds in the opposite corner, “I’ve already looked. It’s ‘Ric and Rowena.”

Salazar breathed in sharply, “They’re here too?” Helga raised an eyebrow at him, and he breathed out, before saying in a carefully neutral tone, “You might have told me earlier.”

“I was distracted,” Helga replied, sniffing, “And it’s hardly my fault you didn’t think to look.”

“Both unconscious?”

Helga snorted, “You don’t think my cousin suddenly developed a sense of tact, do you,” she said, and then started a little, “My brother,” she corrected, and her voice was higher than usual, “He’s my brother. How is Godric my brother?”

“I believe you are reasonably well-acquainted with the theory,” Salazar said dryly.

Helga glared at him. “Very funny.” She rolled off Salazar and moved to sit on the edge of the bed. Salazar followed. They sat side by side, reeling together.

He wanted to ask what had become of his daughters. Had they been happy, in the end? What had they done with themselves? Had Aethelinda taken the potions mastery she had talked about? Had Lelia been able to find a channel for her merciless intelligence, rather than diverting it into sarcasm and fits of temper the way she always did when denied a challenge? Tanith had always wanted to visit Cathay and India and study under the masters there, had she ever been able to? He damned the magic that had taken him away from his life to the deepest, darkest pits of any underworld that would take them, but it didn’t do him any good. They would be dead now, he realised, and that knowledge was like a knife in the back. Just a few hours ago, his eldest daughter had been a girl of sixteen, rash and headstrong and too clever by half. Her youngest sister Melusine had just turned twelve. And now…

He could still picture Melusine just as she had been the last time they’d seen each other; small and slight and as dark as Salazar himself, with her mother’s bright blue eyes. She’d come to him that morning for help with some piece of transfiguration or other that had been giving her trouble, but he’d been busy and told her to come back after dinner that evening so he could talk it over with her properly.

“How long ago was it, for you?” Helga asked, “Our row.” As if he needed reminding what she meant.

“A little less than two hours,” Salazar replied, “I was out in the Forest, trying to clear my head when a storm swept in, and I didn’t make it back to the castle in time.”

Helga nodded, “That fits. The storm brought down a fair few of the trees towards the borders of the forest, as I remember it.”

“I don’t know what brought me back,” he said, trying to distract himself from thoughts of his youngest daughter waiting up for him in his study near the Slytherin common room, “It’s all a bit of a blur. And you? What happened to you?”

Helga looked away, “I’d been ill for a long time before it happened,” she said, “I was fairly sure I was dying by the end. I didn’t want the children to remember me like that, so I just left.”

“Left?” Salazar repeated, staring at her.

“I’d left instructions for my successor, and I knew the school would be in good hands,” Helga snapped, “And I wouldn’t be around much longer anyway. Better to make it a clean break than keep everyone waiting around for me to kick the bucket.”

“You- You were the last of us, then?”

Helga nodded. “Godric died about twenty years before that,” she said, “Or at least,” she added, looking over at Godric in the other bed, “I thought he’d died. He was accompanying one of the student convoys north when they were set upon by a Muggle mob and ‘Ric stayed behind to give the students time to get away.”

“Sounds like the sort of thing he’d do,” Salazar said thickly. Helga nodded, and the two sat in silence for a long time, lost in memories of a time they could not bring themselves to think of as anything but ‘theirs’.

*

Madam Pomfrey came through to check on them around eight o’clock in the morning;

“Oh, you’re up, are you?” were the first words out of her mouth, “Professor McGonagall should be down in a few minutes, she wanted to speak to you four about where you’ve been for the last three days,”

“Three days?” Helga echoed her, sharing a horrified glance with Salazar, “It can’t have been.”

“It was,” Madam Pomfrey replied tartly, nodding, “I’m afraid you’ve missed Quidditch try-outs, Miss Weasley,” she added, “And Professor Umbridge has taken an interest in the case as well. She was talking about it in the staffroom this morning, and seemed to think there was something strange about where you were found.”

“Why?” Salazar asked, his eyes narrowing, “Where were we found?” They’d ended up in the West Country when they arrived in the time that had become their own, but he couldn’t imagine they’d ended up somewhere that far-flung this time. On the one hand, that would spare them a lot of inconvenient questions. On the other…he’d been in the Forest when he was dragged back to Harry Potter’s life. If he’d been found in the Forest he could imagine all too easily the use something like that would be put to by Umbridge or Snape.

“The Forbidden Forest,” Madam Pomfrey said archly, “I won’t ask. I suppose you were doing something dangerous again – you know, Potter, it isn’t that I don’t like you, but I would like to go a year without having to deal with your latest horrible injury,” she sighed, “Ah, well, at least it isn’t more bone re-growth, I’m almost entirely out of Skele-Gro.”

“That was hardly my fault,” Salazar said stiffly, ignoring Helga’s snickering in the other bed. Madam Pomfrey snorted, and went to check on Godric and Rowena.

“Damn,” Salazar muttered, and then looked over at Helga, “He- Ginny, once we’re out of here, will you tell me-”

“Of course,” Helga replied in an undertone, “I…Sal- Harry, I mean-”

She never got to finish her sentence, however, as Professor McGonagall swept into the room, with the pink-clad, toad-like figure of Dolores Umbridge trotting along at her heels and looking quite distinctly put out.

“-As I was saying, Minerva, this flagrant violation of school rules-” Umbridge was panting, but cut herself off when they reached the end of the hospital wing that held the only four currently occupied beds. Professor McGonagall took advantage of this almost immediately.

“Well, Potter, what was it this time?” she said shortly.

“Professor?” Salazar asked, raising an eyebrow.

McGonagall snorted, “According to your housemates you disappeared from the Gryffindor common room on Thursday night,”

“Disappeared?” Salazar asked, leaning forwards a little, “How do you mean? Apparition, or…?” he let the sentence tail off. It couldn’t have been Apparition. Salazar had helped design the Hogwarts wards, and for all that the Anti-Apparition barrier had been Rowena’s masterpiece, he had known enough of its construction to appreciate the elegance of the spell’s design.

Umbridge cleared her throat affectedly. Salazar, Helga and McGonagall all ignored her.

“What happened, Potter? Weasley?”

Salazar shrugged, and was about to say something when Helga cut him off,

“I don’t know, Professor,” she said, and Salazar started. He hadn’t heard Helga sound that nervous in years. He craned his neck to get a better look at her. She tipped him a wink from under her hair and he understood, “We were all sitting up in the common room together, doing our homework, and then…” she shook her head, “It hurt a lot,” she added, conversationally, “Just pain and white light.”

Umbridge cleared her throat again, a little louder. They all ignored her.

“Is this true, Potter?” McGonagall asked, and when Salazar confirmed that it was, “Did you do anything that may have resulted in a magical accident? Anything at all?”

“Nothing comes to mind,” Salazar replied, dry as dust, “Reading, talking, writing essays…nothing likely to cause the sort of effect you described.”

Umbridge cleared her throat yet again, even more affectedly.

“What is it, Dolores?” McGonagall asked.

“I was just wondering, Professor McGonagall, whether you might be putting the teensiest bit too much trust in Mr Potter’s account,” Umbridge simpered. It was all Salazar could do to keep his lip from curling, “You see,” Umbridge continued, “Mr Potter does have a record of making up stories whenever he feels he isn’t getting enough attention,”

“Really,” Professor McGonagall replied, “You astonish me. Mr Potter has not displayed any such attention-seeking tendencies before.” She pressed on before Umbridge could formulate a reply, “And that’s all either of you remembers?”

“Yes,” Salazar replied immediately, and after a few seconds Helga nodded, her shoulders hunched. Salazar had to admire her acting ability; he almost wanted to comfort her himself, and he knew it was all show.

“What happened after that?” McGonagall asked, and Umbridge made a noise like a frog that had been trodden on.

Helga shrugged, “I woke up,” she said innocently, “Here. I know something must’ve happened, if we were gone that long, but…” she shook her head and flashed an apologetic smile. Salazar thought that might’ve been overplaying it, but McGonagall apparently didn’t, so Salazar just went along with it, nodding and echoing Helga’s words.

“Well,” she said severely as soon as they’d finished, “That sounds plausible enough. Not helpful, but plausible.” There was an element to her voice Salazar didn’t like, and he didn’t need Legilimency to know there was something else going on there. “If either one of you remembers anything else, I want you to come and find me immediately. Is that clear, Potter? Weasley?”

“Yes, Professor,” Helga said, almost meekly – definitely overplaying it, now – and Salazar nodded assent.

“Excellent. You may leave as soon as Madam Pomfrey gives you permission. I think that’s everything- What now, Dolores?”

Umbridge smiled widely. Salazar didn’t think he’d ever seen a less appealing expression, and given the life Salazar had lived, that was saying something.

“There is still the matter of the detention Mr Potter missed on Friday evening,” she said, her smile widening.

“What about it,” McGonagall said disinterestedly, “Potter will, of course, have to take the detention at a later date, but that was always a given.”

“Oh, no,” Umbridge replied, that blasted smile widening still further, “Mr Potter was due to be punished for spreading nasty, seditious, fear-mongering stories, and attempts to evade punishment…”

“He didn’t evade punishment!” Helga said hotly, before McGonagall could intervene, “It isn’t as though he chose to disappear off the face of the earth for three days! Or are you planning to punish the rest of us for missing lessons as well?”

Umbridge gave her a cold stare, “Are you a Ministry-approved and qualified teacher, Miss Weasley?”

The look on Helga’s face was a picture, but she rallied quickly enough.

“Considering that the Ministry approved of Professor Lockhart,” she said tartly, “Who couldn’t fight off a Cornish pixie if it was standing still and had a target painted on its-”

“Miss Weasley,” McGonagall said warningly, and Helga shut up.

Professor Umbridge turned her froglike eyes on Salazar, “So, Mr Potter,” she said sweetly, “I think another week’s worth of detentions would be appropriate, don’t you?”

“No,” Salazar replied, “Not particularly.”

Umbridge smiled widely, “Well I am afraid, Mr Potter, that it is my opinion, not yours, that matters here.”

“You think so, do you?” Salazar asked, arching an eyebrow.

Umbridge’s smile widened, “Detention again, Mr Potter. And…yes, as detentions don’t seem to work on you, maybe something else will. As I remember you asked to postpone your Friday detention in order to attend the Gryffindor Quidditch try-outs,”

Salazar gave her a long, level look, “Yes,” he said after a few seconds, once it became clear she expected an answer, “Well done, you’ve caught me. I Apparated out of the Gryffindor common room, somehow bringing Ro- Ron, Hermione and Ginny out with me, causing a panic about student disappearances and wasting everyone’s time in order to attend the Gryffindor Quidditch try-outs before Apparating to the middle of the Forbidden Forest, somehow finding time to deposit the other three all over the rest of the castle on my way, and stunned myself in order to avoid attracting suspicion.”

Helga snorted, but Umbridge had a nasty gleam in her eye.

“I wonder if you’ve not learnt your lesson, Mr Potter,” she said, “In any case, I expect a new set of try-outs will be needed soon enough. You will not play Quidditch again. Not while I’m at Hogwarts. I will expect you to hand in your broom before the end of the week.”

“You may expect whatever you like,” Salazar said curtly, but was cut off by Professor McGonagall before he could say anything else.

“Dolores, may I have a word with Potter in private?” she asked, in a dangerously level voice. Salazar recognised the tone; he had used it himself more than once in his time, and its use now was probably not a good sign.

“Of course, Minerva,” Umbridge simpered. McGonagall’s expression made it quite clear that if Umbridge ever called her ‘Minerva’ again she was liable to end up a toad in truth rather than just appearance, but Umbridge didn’t seem to notice.

As soon as Umbridge was out of earshot, McGonagall rounded on Salazar,

“Didn’t you listen to a word I said last week!” she snapped, “Dolores Umbridge is not a woman to cross lightly, Potter! She has the full weight of the Ministry behind her, and-”

“And,” Salazar interjected, “Has no business whatsoever interfering with things that should be left to the discretion of the heads of house. She’s a defence teacher. She’s not my head of house, she holds no particular position of authority-”

“Ah,” McGonagall said darkly, with an expression that suggested she’d just swallowed a lemon, “You haven’t heard.”

“Haven’t heard what?” Helga asked, levelling a very nasty glare at Umbridge’s violently pink back.

McGonagall sucked in a breath, “Of course you haven’t,” she said, shaking her head, “The Ministry has seen fit to create a new post at the school. Professor Umbridge is now High Inquisitor of Hogwarts.”

“Wonderful,” Salazar all but spat, “Marvellous. Absolutely brilliant. As if she wasn’t enough trouble already!”

“Potter,” McGonagall said warningly, but there was no mistaking her agreement.

“What sort of powers does a High Inquisitor have?” Helga asked. McGonagall shook her head.
“I’m sure Madam Pomfrey has a copy of the morning’s newspaper,” she said shortly, “I can’t interfere in the punishments Professor Umbridge orders, however. You will have to attend these detentions, and your broomstick-”

“Is at Headquarters,” Salazar said coolly, “I forgot to pack it. I was going to ask someone to send it to me, but it doesn’t look like I’ll have to bother now.” It was a bare-faced lie and they both knew it, but Salazar wasn’t going to give up Sirius’ first gift to him to anyone, least of all a deranged Ministry puppet with no teaching experience, and McGonagall was clearly itching for any excuse to subvert Umbridge’s authority.

“Right, then,” McGonagall replied, nodding, “Try not to let it happen again, Potter,” she added, “Half of the staff have been in a panic ever since you disappeared. Weasley, your mother’s come up to see you and your brother. She’s with Professor Dumbledore at the moment, but she’ll be down soon enough.”

“Thanks,” Helga said, smiling. It was a familiar expression made strange, to Salazar at least, on her young face, without the broken canine on the left side or that horizontal scar across the bridge of her nose that always reminded him of a tabby cat that had prowled the kitchens of Verlyn of Dersle’s manor house. Except that cat had never existed; none of the Dursleys’ neighbours owned a cat that colour, and none of them would have tolerated so scarred and mangy an animal even to live in the area, being almost to a man the sort of people who wrote letters to their tabloid of choice and signed them ‘Disgusted of Little Whinging’. He himself had been the subject of about twenty such letters, at the last count, most of them on subjects such as ‘The Decline of Morality and the Youth of Today’.

Professor McGonagall left not long after that, mercifully shepherding Umbridge out in the process, but that didn’t give Helga and Salazar any time to talk, as Madam Pomfrey bustled in just seconds later to give the two of them one last check-over before they were allowed to leave.

“Really,” she was saying by the time she’d finished with Helga, “You’d think this was a war zone and not a school from the number of strange injuries we’ve had since you four arrived. It wasn’t so bad your first year,” she added, nodding at Salazar, “But after you turned up,” she shook her head, “Not your fault, of course, Miss Weasley, but all the same…” she shook her head, and Helga seized her opportunity,

“Can we stay?” she asked, casting an artfully worried look over at Godric’s bed, “I remember how disoriented I was when I woke up, and Harry was babbling all sorts of nonsense right after he came to. I mean, it probably made some sort of sense to him, but…” she shook her head, and Salazar recognised his cue,

“I don’t remember much of it,” he admitted, “I suppose it made sense at the time…something about Merlin, I think you said, Ginny?”

“Yeah,” Helga replied, “You wouldn’t believe the sort of rubbish he was coming out with.”

“Well,” Madam Pomfrey said, looking from one to the other, “You’ve been let off lessons for the day anyway, given…” she tailed off, but Salazar could finish her sentence for her fairly easily: ‘given we didn’t know if you’d wake up with your faculties intact, and trying to slot you back in now would just be too much effort’. “Your mother will be in soon,” Madam Pomfrey added, “She’s been frantic. From what I hear it took a great deal of effort to keep Molly from storming into the school and tearing the castle apart stone by stone until she found you and your brother.”

Salazar could well believe it. Helga grinned. The effect was less disconcerting this time, but not by much.”

“Do you think we could have a copy of this morning’s Prophet, too?” Salazar added, “Professor McGonagall said Umbridge-”

“I see,” Madam Pomfrey said darkly, “Wait just a moment,” she disappeared into her office and came out holding the morning’s Daily Prophet. Salazar took it with a murmur of thanks, and she sniffed, disappearing back into her office and leaving them alone.

“Let’s have a look,” Helga said, shrugging out of her hospital-issue pyjama top and reaching for the bundle of clothes on the lower shelf of her bedside table. Salazar looked away quickly and reached over to pick up the newspaper.

‘Ministry seeks educational reform’ the headline blared out, ‘Dolores Umbridge appointed first-ever ‘High Inquisitor’’. Salazar read over the rest of the article, growing more disgusted with every word.

“You’re muttering,” Helga said, buttoning up her shirt and reaching for her school robe to go over it, “And…Sal, are you actually blushing?”

“No, of course not,” Salazar said shortly, hunching his shoulders, “Here,”

Helga took the paper and the look on her face by the time she’d finished the article about Umbridge was absolutely thunderous.

“If I ever see Percy again,” she said, in a deceptively calm, casual tone of voice, “I’ll wring his neck. ‘She’s been an immediate success’ indeed!”

“Quite,” Salazar agreed, “I can’t say I’ve developed a particularly positive impression of how teaching methods have evolved in our absence.” There was a worrying gleam in his eyes when Helga looked at him, one that didn’t quite match the polite half-smile on his lips.

“We’ll decide what to do when the others wake up,” Helga said firmly, “You remember the sort of trouble forever going behind each other’s backs caused – that blasted secret chamber of yours, for a start!”

“Oh, gods- Helga, I swear, I never meant-”

“Shut up, will you?” Helga asked, flopping down onto the chair next to Rowena’s bed, “You didn’t petrify all those people.”

“My descendant,” Salazar said hollowly, “My chamber. He did something to Pyrrha…”

“The basilisk you killed, that was…no, Sal, she couldn’t be-”

“Basilisks can live for centuries,” Salazar replied, his voice bleak, “It was her.” He shook his head, “Imperius curse, I think was how he did it. She didn’t sound like herself…” he broke off, disgusted with himself. “I should have thought-”

“And how could any of us have anticipated that?” Helga said harshly, “There were any number of things we should have done and didn’t. And that goes for all four of us, Salazar.”

Salazar was just about to point out that none of the others’ mistakes had ended in dozens of students being petrified and at least one killed, but was cut off by Mrs Weasley entering the hospital wing and making a beeline straight for them.

“Do you have any idea how worried we’ve all been?” Mrs Weasley said breathlessly, reaching out to pull Helga into a hug, “You and Ron and the others all...” she shook her head, looking sickened, and Salazar’s curiosity was piqued. It had been more than just a clean disappearance, then. He’d have to look into that. Helga had looked much the same when talking about Rowena’s sudden vanishment and Salazar remembered all too well the searing pain of his last few moments in his own time. There’d be something to show for whatever had happened to them, and that would be the place to start.

He was cut off midway through his train of thought, however, when Mrs Weasley dragged him into a bone-crushing hug. Salazar went stiff and stock-still for a few long moments, then relaxed into it. He wasn’t used to mothering from anyone after this long, and he couldn’t say he trusted it, which made the part of him that was screaming at him that it was only Mrs Weasley and there was no-one in the world more trustworthy all the more insistent. But then, people Salazar trusted and people who were objectively trustworthy were not two groups that had had much cause to overlap.

He remembered the smell and taste of smoke on the wind as he and Caecilia stood shivering outside the burning wreck of her father’s house, waiting for the Wizards’ Council to arrive and pronounce their judgement, and it took everything he had not to flinch away.

“You’re looking peaky,” Mrs Weasley said, drawing away, “You don’t look after yourself properly; I’ve said it a thousand times…”

Salazar smiled wanly and muttered something about still feeling a bit off from what had happened.

“Of course you are,” Mrs Weasley said, nodding, “Arthur and I were frantic when we heard. Si- Snuffles wanted to come as well,” she added, “But Dumbledore didn’t think it would be safe.”

“Is he all right?”

“Well, he’s frustrated,” Mrs Weasley admitted, “Doesn’t like being cooped up, but other than that he’s fine.”

Salazar doubted it, but didn’t say anything. He sat in silence as Helga and Mrs Weasley talked, fading into the background as best he could. It was a skill he’d perfected during his time with Edwin of Morpeth, and one that had served him in good stead over the course of his years in exile. He’d been a marked man, then, and being overlooked was one way to survive as such.

He wouldn’t be able to do that as Harry Potter. He’d been an object of attention from the moment he’d entered the wizarding world, whereas as Salazar he’d been almost a complete unknown until Morpeth was dead and Salazar had taken the blame for his murder. His old tactics wouldn’t work in this time. He couldn’t disappear into Godric’s shadow as people toasted and cheered the Gryffin d’Or if the Gryffin d’Or was seen to be just plain Ron Weasley and Salazar, who had always worked best from the shadows, was under constant scrutiny.

“Harry? Harry, are you all right?” Mrs Weasley asked, and Salazar was jolted back into the present.

“Fine,” he said shortly, leaning forward to look at the other two. No change, but there was a rust-red mark on Godric’s neck that he didn’t like the look of. He rubbed at it, and dried blood flaked off on his fingers.

“Mrs Weasley,” he asked, wiping his hand on the sheets, “How much did they tell you about where we were found?”

“What- Oh, that.” Salazar’s ears pricked. Mrs Weasley’s voice sounded far, far too casual for the subject, and that was always something to watch. “Professor Dumbledore told me what happened.”

“And…?”

“And what?” Mrs Weasley asked, beginning to look distinctly flustered. Something was definitely up, then. But before he could press his advantage, Mrs Weasley had turned to Helga. “Anyway, Ginny, your father should be here sometime this evening. He wanted to come now, but the Ministry wouldn’t let him take any time from work,”

“Right,” Helga said, sharing a look with Salazar over her mother’s shoulder, and suddenly Salazar noticed it. The voice was wrong, Helga Hufflepuff’s Welsh lilt coming out of Ginny Weasley’s mouth. It was subtle, mercifully enough, but still quite definitely there, and Mrs Weasley had certainly noticed that something was amiss, by the look in her eyes, the forced lightness in her voice as she spoke.

“Yes, well. I sent an owl to Percy about what happened, but I haven’t had a reply yet. Still, Errol came back without the letter, so at least he knows.”

Helga snorted, but didn’t say anything, and Salazar followed her lead. The three of them sat in silence, each lost in their own thoughts. Mrs Weasley kept shooting sidelong looks at Helga and Salazar. Subterfuge, it seemed, did not run in the Weasley family. Salazar had absolutely no idea where Fred and George had got it from. Helga’s well-disguised conniving streak was an absolute mystery.

So, they’d been found in suspicious circumstances and Dumbledore thought something was up. Not an irrational assumption by any means, but a decidedly inconvenient one for their purposes as a group. Then again, distancing himself somewhat from Dumbledore might be helpful in establishing some credibility with his house; it would hardly be difficult, given how Dumbledore had been avoiding him all year. Maybe, once Mrs Weasley had left, he could try and talk Helga into reviving the old ‘heir of Slytherin’ rumour from his second year, which would be even more convenient. On the other hand, the loss of the Order of Phoenix’s backing would likely be detrimental to any attempts to deal with his troublesome descendant, and any apparent friendliness with the current generation of his students would not do him any good on that score. But they were his students. His, come Hell or glory, and he would not abandon them again.

*

It was another hour and a half before the others started to stir, by which point Salazar had dressed and reclaimed the Daily Prophet from the end of Godric’s bed. It was the usual Ministry-approved tripe, with at least one snide comment about either him or Dumbledore per page. He was just about to throw the paper aside when he spotted something in the ‘Wizard of the Day’ column, and snorted.

Helga glanced over his shoulder and elbowed him hard in the side, scowling.

“They couldn’t remember anything about me but my cooking charms!” she hissed, “Of all the-”

“What are you two whispering about?” Mrs Weasley asked, looking up at them.

“Umbridge,” Salazar lied, “You’ve seen the morning’s headline?”

“Yes,” Mrs Weasley replied, a disapproving look crossing her face, and then coming back and camping there. “I don’t often agree with your godfather, but in this case…”

“Snuffles doesn’t like her either, then?” Helga asked, catching Salazar’s eye.

“No,” Mrs Weasley replied, sounding a bit less flustered now, “Nor does Remus. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him as angry as he was when he found out who’d be teaching Defence this year.”

“He knows her?” Salazar asked, intrigued. He couldn’t imagine how they could have met.

“Only by reputation,” Mrs Weasley replied, “But Arthur says she’s always been all for restrictions on werewolf rights, and after Remus was forced to resign from Hogwarts two years ago she was responsible for a new law that makes it all but impossible for werewolves to find work.”

Salazar nodded, outwardly calm but fuming inside. Werewolves had never been precisely accepted, even in their day. Something about knowing that the person sitting next to you would inevitably turn into a gigantic ravening wolf without a trace of its original consciousness and an uncontrollable desire to bite and infect other people once a month was the sort of thing that would make anyone somewhat nervous. Still…he’d taught werewolves during his years in exile; sons and daughters of the nobility considered too dangerous to be fostered with other families but whose parents still wanted them to be able to control their powers. As a poor tutor with no real lineage to speak of, and a confessed murderer at that, Salazar would have been easily crushed had he tried to spread the story of what those children were, and thus presented no real threat to the family. In the first such household Salazar had served he hadn’t known what young Lady Ingelise was for three months of suspicious injuries and illnesses every time the full moon rolled around, and even after he had known he hadn’t seen any real difference between her and his previous pupils except for the fact that she was locked in a triple-barred dungeon cell once every month under armed guard and left there with a haunch of meat until the moon was waning again. They’d never taken werewolves into Hogwarts, as not even Rowena had been so blindingly idealistic as to risk their students’ lives that way. Still, by now, with the Wolfsbane potion and so many other advances that would make it so much easier for a werewolf to live a normal life…he shook his head, disgusted and returned to the Daily Prophet, steadfastly ignoring the all-too-obvious suspicious looks being cast his way by Mrs Weasley out of the corner of her eye and paging forward to the Wizard of the Month article. The illustration didn’t look a thing like the Helga he’d known, except for her red hair, as fire-bright as ever it had been, and the preponderance of black and yellow in her clothing. He frowned at it. The picture bore a rather striking resemblance to Mrs Weasley; was this just an older Helga then? One he had not lingered long enough to see? No, it couldn’t be, she looked to be in her mid-forties in the picture, and that was about as old as she had been the last time he had seen her before he was dragged back to Harry Potter’s life. She’d been a formidable woman then; a head shorter than Salazar himself and all muscle from long hours in the forge, her hands and forearms marked all over with burn scars from her work. The hands of the woman in the picture were almost perfectly smooth, her nails un-chipped and her serene smile almost entirely untainted by the edge of mischief that had never been far from Helga’s expressions. Helga looked over his shoulder again and made a face.

“Cooking charms,” she whispered, somehow managing to do so contemptuously, “I ask you!”

Salazar laughed, but was forced to disguise it as a coughing fit when Mrs Weasley looked over. It was about then that he noticed that Rowena’s hand, which had been slack and dangling off the side of the bed a few seconds earlier, was now half-curled into a loose fist and her breathing was quicker and shallower than it should be.

“Mrs Weasley,” he said quickly, putting the Prophet to one side, “Could you get Madam Pomfrey? I think she’s waking up.” Was it his imagination or had Rowena’s eyelids just flickered slightly?

“Of course, Harry, dear,” Mrs Weasley said quickly, getting to her feet and moving with almost unseemly haste in the direction of Madam Pomfrey’s office. Salazar wasn’t complaining, though.

“It’s all right,” he said as soon as she was out of earshot, “She’s gone, we can talk,”

Rowena was sitting up against the headboard almost before he’d finished speaking, and Salazar knew from the look on her face that he’d be in for it any second now.

“Sal-”

“Keep your voice down!” Salazar hissed, casting an anxious glance over at the door to Madam Pomfrey’s office, “We’ll explain everything later-”

“What-?”

“Do you remember your name?” Helga asked, sharing a worried look with Salazar. “Both your names.”

“Hermione Granger,” Rowena said slowly, as though remembering something she’d heard in a dream. “I’m- Helga, what’s happening?”

“Do you remember your name,” Salazar repeated. Rowena glared at him.

“Rowena Ravenclaw,” she said sharply, “Of Ravensroost. Satisfied now, Salazar?”

Salazar stared at her for a second, slightly taken aback by the open hostility in her tone, before remembering.

“Rowena,” he said in an undertone, “I swear, whatever you think of me, whatever you’ve been told-”

“They’re coming back!” Helga hissed, and Salazar swore under his breath in Parseltongue, glancing over to see the office door opening and a flash of red hair beyond.

“When they ask,” Helga whispered, “Tell them what happened in Gryffindor Tower, but nothing else. Say you don’t remember the rest. Please, Ro,”

Rowena raised her eyebrows so high they looked to be in some danger of disappearing into her hairline, but was prevented from saying anything when Madam Pomfrey and Mrs Weasley entered the hospital wing.

“You really are awake, then,” Madam Pomfrey said briskly as she went to check Rowena over, “Thought it might be another false alarm; we had a few of those overnight. Now, let’s see…”

Salazar avoided Rowena’s eyes for the rest of the check-over, only half listening to Mrs Weasley rattling on about Bill’s increasingly serious relationship with Fleur Delacour and Charlie’s latest set of burn wounds until Rowena interrupted her.

“Mrs Weasley, would you mind if I borrowed Harry and Ginny for a bit?” she asked, smiling wolfishly, “I’ve got a few questions for them.”

“Of course,” Mrs Weasley said, looking rather ruffled, and the three of them were obliged to get up and move to a far corner of the hospital wing.

“Right,” she said, as soon as they were decently far away from the beds, “Explain. Now.”

“Which bit?” Salazar asked, as politely as he felt capable of.

“All of it,” Rowena said firmly, “Start at the beginning.”

Salazar cast a look over at Mrs Weasley, who was trying very hard not to look as though she was straining her ears to listen to them, and drew out his wand, casting a wordless spell of his own devising, meant to cloud the ears of anyone beyond a certain range.

“Not here,” he muttered, “Helga,”

“He’s right,” Helga said, nodding, “We’ll talk about it later, when we’re all here and we won’t have to repeat ourselves when Godric comes round. You remember everything?”

“I think so,” Rowena said, frowning, “But I’d say that no matter how much I remembered, wouldn’t I?”

“She has a point,” Helga conceded.

Salazar nodded, “All right, then. Do you think you remember enough about what it felt like to be Hermione Granger to fool a casual observer?”

“Yes,” Rowena said immediately.

“That’ll have to do for now.”

Notes:

Hello again! Sorry it's been so long, but I'm in Scotland visiting my grandparents right now and the internet's been a bit hard to come by.
Salazar is, at this point, still in a rather awkward phase of processing both sets of memories, and thus his behaviour is caught somewhere between Harry and Salazar. That this provides a nice little cover for me to get to grips with the character as I write him is just a bonus.
For headcanon, Q-and-A and anything else related to this fic, please go to thornfield13713.tumblr.com. So, if you want to know my fantasy casting for the four founders and anyone else they might have come across in the past, how Salazar would get along with Brynden 'Bloodraven' Rivers (please, god, someone ask this) or what sort of adventures Godric had that gained him the title 'Gryffin d'Or', please ask.
'Tanith' means 'serpent-lady', 'Melusine' is the name of a figure from Breton folklore who purportedly turned into a serpent and 'Lelia' is the Latin form of Lily. 'Iago' comes both from the Shakespeare villain and from the fact that it could be considered a variant of the name 'James'. 'Siusan' is a Celtic form of Lily.

Chapter 3: In which there is exposition of a depressing nature

It was evening before Godric awoke, by which point all three of them were starting to worry that whatever had happened to him before his return had caused more damage than could be mended. Mrs Weasley hadn’t left his bedside all day, and Mr Weasley had joined her late that afternoon, looking grey and careworn and far older than his years. Helga sat with her parents, and Salazar and Rowena had taken up positions on the other side of the bed, sitting in silence and avoiding one another’s eyes.

Rowena hadn’t spoken to Salazar since that morning and seemed to be doing her best to pretend he wasn’t there, and the presence of the Weasleys made it all but impossible to explain the circumstances behind his disappearance to her. He’d tried reading the battered copy of Quidditch Through the Ages that someone had left next to Helga’s bed while they’d been unconscious, but he couldn’t concentrate on the words. The thought of what would happen when Godric woke up kept creeping in around the edges of his mind, the look of disgust on his best friend’s face at the end of their last argument, when Salazar had stormed out of the great hall in a blind fury. For Godric it had been forty years, but forty years was a long time for a grudge to fester and take on a life of its own and Salazar had harboured enough grudges of that kind to dread Godric’s reaction to seeing him again.

Gods alone knew what the girls had thought of him, after he’d gone. Truth be told, that was why he hadn’t immediately pressed Helga for news about what they had done, where they had gone, what they had achieved. He didn’t think he could bear hearing that his daughters had come to despise him on top of everything else.

“Madam Pomfrey says you don’t remember anything,” Mr Weasley said, breaking the silence, “Is that-”

“It’s true,” Helga replied, “Or at least, Harry and I don’t.”

“Me neither,” Rowena agreed, giving Salazar a sharp look from out of the corner of her eye, which Salazar pretended to ignore with reasonable success.

Mr Weasley gave her an odd look, and said, quite calmly, “They found Ron right by the gates, you know. He was covered in blood and his robes were rent to tatters, but there wasn’t a mark on him.”

“Really?” Salazar asked, leaning forwards and resting his chin on his hand. Mr Weasley nodded.

“I was rather hoping you’d be able to tell me how he got that way,” Mr Weasley said.

“I wish I could.”

Rowena made a soft, disgusted noise in the back of her throat behind him, and Salazar knew without looking what he would see on her face if he turned. Mr Weasley frowned.

“Professor Dumbledore seems to think-”

“Professor Dumbledore’s wrong,” Salazar said dully, “I haven’t a clue.” He flicked his eyes over the Weasleys, wondering whether he might be overdoing it slightly in his attempts to sound more like his fifteen-year-old self.

They lapsed back into a tense and uncomfortable silence, and Salazar let his mind wander. I always knew Salazar Slytherin was a twisted old loony, but I never knew he started all this pure-blood stuff. But how had Godric – Ron, he corrected himself, he’d been Ron then – known that when Salazar was fairly certain he’d not been any more twisted or depraved than the next man, and considerably less so than some. Yes, he’d studied the Dark Arts and had been considered something of an expert on the subject, but from the way people had talked about him in Harry’s second year one would think he had gone around kicking puppies and tying young women to railway tracks, which would have been quite an achievement given that he had predated railways by more than a thousand years. He still wasn’t precisely sure how not wanting the school burnt down by a Muggle mob translated to ‘kill all magbobs’. Muggle-borns, he corrected himself again, they were called Muggle-borns now, and unless he wanted to give himself away he had better remember it.

“Look!” Rowena said suddenly, and Salazar looked up, startled, to see Godric just beginning to stir.

“I’ll get Madam Pomfrey,” he said shortly, getting to his feet. He could feel eyes on his back as he made his way over to Madam Pomfrey’s office door, and hunched his shoulders against their scrutiny.

Madam Pomfrey was curled up in an armchair with a book on her lap when Salazar entered, and was not at all pleased to be disturbed.

“What is it now?” she asked, turning a page, “Has our High Inquisitor descended on us again?”

“Nothing so dire,” Salazar replied, his mouth twisting a little at the corners in something that was very nearly a smile. “Ron’s waking up, and given how he was found…”

“Weasley’s waking up? Oh, very well, then,” she closed the book with a snap and made to stand up, only to stop dead when she caught sight of Salazar, who was inspecting the row of healer’s journals on a shelf by the door. “I never suspected you had an interest in healing, Mr Potter,” she said, a little more warmly, shifting a little in her chair.

Salazar shrugged, “I didn’t until recently. It does seem an important thing to learn, though. How do you become a healer, anyway?” He had very nearly ended the sentence with ‘in this day and age’, and cursed himself for it. He’d carried off far harder masquerades than this before for far lower stakes, and he’d be damned if he didn’t manage this one.

“I expect you’ll be getting the leaflet sometime this year,” Madam Pomfrey replied, “It’s your fifth year, that’s when they usually start sending them out.”

“Leaflet?”

“Never mind. Did you experience any unusual symptoms upon waking up? Nausea? Headache? Mood swings?”

“Confusion,” Salazar said immediately, “I didn’t know who I was or where I was for the first few minutes, before it all started coming back to me. Even then, it took me a while to process.”

“Hmm,” Madam Pomfrey said severely, but before she could say anything else was cut off by a loud crash and a thump from the hospital wing. Madam Pomfrey all but shot out of her seat. Salazar drew his wand, more to stay in the role than because of any real fear; he was quite confident in both Helga and Rowena’s ability to defend themselves against any magical threat within Hogwarts Castle, and most of those outside it.

Madam Pomfrey gestured for him to stay where he was, and then threw her office door open. Salazar ignored her and stepped up to look over her shoulder, cursing his suddenly decreased height.

Godric had by now fully woken up, and Salazar would have been fairly worried both about his reaction to Salazar’s presence and the possibility of his saying something he shouldn’t if Rowena hadn’t had a stroke of genius and thrown herself at him, kissing him breathless. Salazar caught Helga’s eye and the two of them shared an amused look. The rest of the Weasleys just looked poleaxed.

“They’ve been like that all month,” Salazar said with forced levity, stepping around Madam Pomfrey to take a seat opposite Helga, “I expect it’ll wind down in a bit, it usually does.”

“All month,” Mrs Weasley repeated, “They’ve been…This has been going on…”

“Since Grimmauld Place, yes,” Salazar replied, “Maybe longer, they’d already been involved a while when I arrived.”

“And they never mentioned-!”

“I don’t think Ron wanted to give Fred and George an excuse to make fun of him,” Helga said, “You know how he can get.”

Madam Pomfrey snorted, folding her arms. “Did he seem in any way confused when he woke up?” she asked.

“A little,” Mr Weasley replied, frowning, “He said something in…I’m not sure what language it was, actually. French, maybe? It didn’t sound like anything I’ve heard before, though. He didn’t manage to get much out before Hermione…”

“Pounced on him,” Helga finished.

Rowena and Godric finally broke apart, and Salazar looked away and off to one side, watching out of the corner of his eye the look of shocked wonder on Godric’s face at the sight of the parents he had for so long believed dead. He avoided Godric’s gaze as Madam Pomfrey marched over to check Godric over and all through Mrs Weasley’s probing questions about why they hadn’t told her earlier, and didn’t they know they could trust her and Mr Weasley not to tell the twins if they wanted to keep their relationship to themselves. She was just starting in on a reminiscence about her early relationship with Mr Weasley and how afraid she had been that her brothers would scare him off entirely when Madam Pomfrey came over to say that, since Ron was perfectly fine and well and would not need to spend another night in the hospital wing, could they please leave.

*

Godric was trying to catch Salazar’s eye all the way to Professor McGonagall’s office, which she had apparently offered for the Weasleys’ use, but Salazar ignored him, staying close to Helga’s side and not talking much as the tide of Mrs Weasley’s voice washed over him.

“As I was saying, you really shouldn’t worry about what your brothers think. I know I was terrified about Gideon and Fabian finding out, but they were wonderful about it, really, and you know Fred and George don’t mean anything by it-”

“Don’t think I don’t know what you’re doing,” Helga said in his ear, just quietly enough that none of the others could hear her, “Just talk to him, will you?”

“Can’t,” Salazar said shortly.

Helga snorted and it seemed like she had been about to say something else, only to be cut off as they reached McGonagall’s office and were suddenly under scrutiny again. Salazar ended up wedged between Helga and the hard arm of the sofa, which suited him perfectly, as it left him out of the way of both Mrs Weasley’s well-meaning enquiries and the others’ accusing eyes.

It was strange, to look around what had been Rowena’s private study and see no sign of her personality left in it. He had spent countless hours in this room, chatting companionably with Rowena about the day’s events or her latest project. Would it have been any easier to find the room completely unchanged, so that he could almost deceive himself into believing that if he went over to the window and looked out he’d see the grounds as they had been in his day, the students he had taught, the landmarks he had known? He didn’t think it would. The sense of familiarity from his time as Harry Potter made the whole thing infinitely stranger, and he dropped his gaze to the floor, the one thing in the room that had remained constant.

“Are you all right, Harry, dear?” Mrs Weasley asked, peering at him, “You’re still not looking well,”

“I’m fine,” Salazar replied, trying desperately to remember how he had acted at fifteen. He could remember the events of Harry Potter’s fifth year well enough, but the turns of phrase he had used, the mannerisms he had adopted, the little tricks of tone and expression that were what made a disguise truly convincing, they were all gone. It had been so much simpler in his years of exile, when he’d at least had the opportunity to create a new persona from scratch, or else follow the person he was meant to be impersonating for a few weeks in order to pick up their salient characteristics before attempting to do so. Impersonating himself, however, was an entirely new experience. Indeed, the greatest problem in doing so was his experience. Salazar had spent almost his entire adult life hoarding facts about others’ vices, mannerisms, habits, ways of speech and stance. He’d acquired those that benefited him and discarded those that did not, looking over every aspect of how he presented himself with a critical, objective eye, looking for flaws or gaps in the act of the moment. As a spy, it had been his greatest asset, the ability to take on a persona after a few weeks’ careful study and then dispose of it entirely when the mask was no longer needed. Now, though, that same experience meant that he could no longer remember what his original habits and mannerisms had been.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t get away earlier,” Mr Weasley was saying, and Salazar’s eyes lingered for a moment on the shadows under his eyes, the defeated set of his shoulders, “But work’s been an absolute nightmare these past few days, and they wouldn’t let me go until this afternoon. Some sort of trouble in the Department of Mysteries, I heard. Kingsley-”

“Arthur,” Mrs Weasley said warningly, and Mr Weasley broke off. Salazar sat up a little, intrigued.

“What does the Department of Mysteries do?” he asked.

“No idea,” Mr Weasley replied, “I told you last year, Harry, next to no-one at the Ministry knows what they get up to in there.”

“But the smart money is on…?”

“Well,” Mr Weasley said, looking shifty, “You hear all kinds of stories. Half my department’s convinced they’re spies, to be honest, but no-one knows for sure. Some sort of magical research, most likely, they’ve been responsible for a fair few breakthroughs over the years.”

“What sort of breakthroughs?” Rowena said, leaning forwards.

“Oh, all sorts,” Mr Weasley said uncomfortably, “So, Ron, how’ve you been getting on this year? OWLs not getting you down?”

“They’re all right apart from Umbridge,” Godric said awkwardly, looking around desperately in search of help. Salazar didn’t feel particularly inclined to give it right then, but Helga kicked him hard enough and offered such a ferocious glare from under her eyebrows that he didn’t feel he had much choice in the matter.

“She is awful,” he acknowledged, “I never thought I’d have a good word for Snape, but he does know his subject. If Umbridge knows anything more about the Dark Arts than what little can be gleaned from Defensive Magical Theory I’ll probably go into shock.”

He knew he had miscalculated when he saw the look on Mrs Weasley’s face, although she disguised it quickly enough. Salazar had been a spy for enough of his life that he could recognise fear and suspicion confirmed.

Rowena made a sound like a kettle coming to a boil at the mention of their textbook, and Mrs Weasley glanced over at her.

“Is it true, Hermione?”

“I don’t know,” Rowena replied, all but spitting fire, “But her idea of what constitutes a lesson is absolutely appalling! As if we weren’t all expected to have read our textbooks before lessons start!”

“Speak for yourself,” Godric said gloomily, “I could barely get through half a chapter before throwing it at the wall.”

“Same,” Helga agreed, “And she favours the Slytherins.”

Salazar only barely suppressed a groan. Wasn’t it bad enough that his house was mostly remembered as being where all the Dark wizards came from without having produced such a creature as Umbridge as well? He could only hope Fudge wasn’t one of his too, or he’d have to drown himself to wipe out the shame of it.

Mr Weasley grimaced, “I can imagine. I don’t see terribly much of her any more, but if she’s anything like I remember…”

“You know her?” Salazar asked, mildly interested.

“She was in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement under Crouch,” Mr Weasley explained, “Handled a fair few interrogations, as I remember it.”

That fitted well enough with what Salazar knew of the woman.

“What sort of interrogations? Death Eaters?”

“I shouldn’t imagine,” Mr Weasley replied, and his voice was harder than Salazar had ever heard it before, “The Aurors handled most of them. But informers, supporters, family of known Death Eaters, the rest of the Department dealt with those.”

Salazar nodded, tucking this new information away to make use of later. “How many were found guilty?”

“At least half,” Mr Weasley replied, his lips thinning. “Some of them are still in Azkaban.”

“And how many were actually…?”

“Harry, Harry, I don’t exactly know,” Mr Weasley said hurriedly, “But I’d be surprised if even a quarter of them were actually guilty. You have no idea what it was like back then…”

From the way Sirius had described it in Harry Potter’s fourth year, it sounded far too much like his day for Salazar’s liking. Constantly afraid for yourself, your family and your friends. Constantly on the alert for the first signs that there might be another attack coming, ready to flee at the first opportunity, or hide if you couldn’t flee. He knew all too well the sort of madness that atmosphere could lead to, had fallen prey to it more than once himself. He closed his eyes, wishing selfishly that he had never come back.

The Weasleys left a little over half an hour later, Mrs Weasley pulling all four of them into bone-crushing hugs on her way. Salazar was suddenly, powerfully reminded of both Matilda and Agnes ferch Elisud as she drew away – hardly surprising, given that his memories of both women had been drawn from Molly Weasley. From the look on Helga’s face she felt much the same way. It was strange, the ways in which the two sets of memories differed, even beyond the basic conversion from the modern world to the Dark Ages, and Salazar couldn’t see the purpose behind most of the alterations. There had to be one, there had to be a reason, but he couldn’t for the life of him deduce what it was.

“Look after yourselves,” Mrs Weasley said, “All four of you.”

“We will,” Godric replied steadily, smiling at her, “Honestly, Mum, we’re not that much trouble.”

Rowena snorted, and got a pointedly innocent look from Godric for her trouble.

“Just try to keep things that way,” Mrs Weasley said shrewdly, “Harry, do try to keep your temper, won’t you?”

“I’ll do my best,” Salazar replied, coming dangerously close to the sardonic. Another round of hugs and the Weasleys were gone, leaving the four of them alone.

Salazar was the first to break the silence, pinning on the faintly cruel smile he had worn so often in his wandering years and asking, “So, what have you all been doing for the last sixty years?”

The reaction, as he had expected, was violent and immediate, but it was at least better than waiting and dreading the outcome.

Godric’s face twisted with fury, and Helga and Rowena each had to grab one of his arms to prevent him from flinging himself at Salazar then and there, although Rowena looked as though she was probably only doing so to have her own chance at attacking Salazar later.

“I should’ve known!” Godric spat, glaring daggers at Salazar, “I should’ve known you’d leave as soon as it was clear you weren’t going to get what you wanted!”

 “That must be very nice for you.”

“You-”

“Me,” Salazar said harshly, “Oh, put it away, Godric,” he added, gesturing at the wand Godric had pointed directly at Salazar’s nose, “I’ve no interest in causing a scene.”

“Why d’you think I care what you’ve got an interest in?” Godric snarled, “You think you can just waltz back in here and-”

“I never waltz anywhere, Godric, as you well know,” Salazar replied, smirking, “You do remember what a fool I made of myself at you and Rowena’s wedding.”

It was really quite worrying that Salazar’s attempts at dancing had been the least nightmarish part of that wedding, although not really much of a surprise. The whole affair had been a disaster almost from beginning to end, what with the bride being visibly pregnant, the groom’s beard still singed from the dragon incident and said groom’s sister’s bastard son wailing his head off throughout the ceremony. Still, it was one of Salazar’s happier memories when all was said and done, and his years in exile had held few enough of those.

Helga huffed and looked as though she might have wanted to fold her arms if they hadn’t already been occupied holding Godric back from murder.

“Will you two give it a rest?” she asked, glaring at the pair of them, “Sal, you tell him or I will, and I won’t make the least effort to be tactful about it.”

Salazar raised his eyebrows at her, “And you think I would?”

“Salazar,” Helga gritted out, and Salazar raised his hands.

“May we at least find somewhere more private?” he suggested, “Professor McGonagall will probably be here any moment, and it would be best if she didn’t hear us. You may rail at me all you like once we can be assured of not being overheard.”

Godric nodded, although he still looked like a bear that had been woken up mid-hibernation.

“Where do you suggest,” Rowena said, letting go of Godric.

Salazar tilted his head to one side, “Is the Room of Requirement still active?”

*

It was strange, walking through the halls and corridors of their school with classes in session all around them, seeing how much it had changed. The portraits were all new, as the technique hadn’t yet been invented in their time, and the ghosts, too, were by and large unfamiliar to Salazar. And yet, every so often he would see something that had remained completely unchanged down the centuries, and be struck by the overwhelming feeling that this was wrong, that Voldemort, Dumbledore, Sirius…everything, in short, that Harry Potter had known, was just a hallucination brought on by a bad bit of venison, and Salazar would wake up safe in his own bed with Helga’s hair in his mouth, another day of lessons in front of him. He couldn’t quite parse why his subconscious would choose to place him in Gryffindor, though, which meant it was probably true. Damn it all.

The four of them stood in front of the tapestry of Barnabas the Barmy teaching trolls to do ballet that had been something of a fixture of Harry Potter’s time at Hogwarts, for all that half of Salazar’s brain was still screaming that he’d never seen the damned thing before in his life and hadn’t the first idea what ‘ballet’ was. Admittedly, Harry Potter hadn’t been quite clear on that subject either, but it was the principle of the thing.

“Bright man,” Godric said conversationally, “One of yours, Ro?”

“Very funny,” Rowena replied, although there was the very faintest suggestion of a smile around her mouth, “Do you want to do it, Helga? You know this room better than we do.”

“All right, then.”

The other three stood back a little as Helga paced up and down in front of the opening to the Room of Requirement, before the familiar door appeared and they stepped through into a near-replica of Helga’s office. It wasn’t quite as Salazar remembered it; a few of the low Roman-style couches had changed positions slightly, there was a new bookshelf against the far wall and a still painting of four young women over the fireplace. Salazar made a beeline for it. The woman on the far left, a tall, willowy woman with a lot of fair hair and a long green scarf around her shoulders, looked vaguely familiar, and as Salazar looked closer he realised with a start that it was his daughter Aethelinda. He turned his attention to the rest of the painting’s subjects, and was gratified to recognise, after a few moments’ closer inspection, the rest of his daughters. It was harder to recognise Tanith and Lelia, who had been thirteen and fifteen respectively and in that awkward phase of early adolescence, all gangly legs and gawkiness. They looked to be somewhere around twenty here, and the unfairness of it all made him want to scream. He’d done his time, hadn’t he? He’d made his amends. He should have been able to watch his daughters grow into themselves, grow into the confidence and poise that was obvious in every line of this painting, even little Melusine, who had been still a child just days ago. He raised a hand to touch Tanith’s face, brushing his thumb over the long scar on her left cheek. How had she got it, he wondered, and when had Melusine gained the confidence to be painted alongside her sisters when she had so stubbornly refused to do so since she had turned ten? There was so much he didn’t know.

“Salazar?” Rowena asked tentatively from somewhere behind him, and Salazar breathed in deeply. He didn’t answer her for a few seconds, but then;

“What is it that you want me to tell you?” he asked.

“Everything,” Rowena said levelly, “Start at the beginning. Why did you leave us, and where did you go?”

Salazar nodded, “Good questions both.”

“Are you going to tell them or not?” Helga snapped, “Salazar, I swear-”

“All right, all right, I’m getting to it,” Salazar replied, raising his hands in mock surrender, “How long ago has it been, for you, since I left?”

“A little over two years,” Rowena replied, crossing her arms.

“Forty,” Godric said tersely, looking at Rowena as though unable to quite believe she was real.

“Fort-” Rowena started, and Salazar smiled. By which it is meant that the corners of his mouth twisted vaguely upwards into something about as cheerful as a plague pit.

“For me, it’s been less than a day. I never even left the grounds.”

“Anyone could say that,” Godric growled.

Salazar arched an eyebrow, “True. But if I had left of my own accord, do you really think I would have left my children behind?”

“He’s telling the truth, Godric,” Helga said, sounding uncharacteristically subdued, “You always said-”

“I know what I said!” Godric snapped, “I just-”

Salazar cut him off, and his voice was cold. “You thought I had left them. You thought that I had become so convinced of the danger of discovery that I fled the school and yet didn’t think for a moment of the students. You thought, in short, that I was a coward and a traitor and a fool. Is that what you ‘just’, Godric?”

Godric didn’t answer, but Rowena did.

“And what were we supposed to think?” she asked, glaring at Salazar, “You disappear into the aether right after the worst row yet, snarling about how if we wanted to be murdered in our beds that was fine, but you wouldn’t stand for it.”

Salazar winced. That did sound both incriminating and something he’d say when in one of his more dramatic moods.

“And,” Rowena continued, “There was the whole matter of your journals!”

Salazar shifted a little, “You know the way things were back then,” he said roughly, “Gods, Rowena, how could you think-”

“Well, none of us thought you’d run off and leave your students to Godric’s tender mercies either,” Rowena replied stiffly, “So after we found the journals it wasn’t hard to accept that we’d never really known you.”

“Don’t you all turn on a hair,” Salazar said, more than a little spitefully, “More than thirty years we’ve known each other, Rowena, rather a long time to keep up a pretence.”

“You’re a good actor, Sal.”

“I wasn’t always.”

“I know that,” Rowena said, “But you’ve changed a lot since then.”

“Haven’t we all?” Salazar shot back, “Honestly, Rowena, if you’re saying you would have expected anyone to remain exactly the same at forty-five as they were at fifteen you’re not the woman I thought you were.” He shut his mouth with a sharp snap, seeing the looks on the others’ faces. “Didn’t any of you think I might not have left willingly?” he said miserably, rubbing a hand across his face.

“Godric did,” Helga said, “Went on about it for years. The rest of us…well, we thought it at first, but we couldn’t think of any reason anyone might have had for kidnapping you, and none of us wanted to think you were dead.”

Salazar stared at his former best friend, unexpectedly touched. Of all of them, he’d have expected Godric to assume the worst. They’d had their share of fallings-out over the years, after all, and had hardly been on the best of terms over the last few months. Godric just looked awkward.

“More reason than you might think,” Salazar said at last, “I made my share of enemies abroad.”

“Oh, don’t start that again,” Helga said, rolling her eyes, “Either tell us everything or tell us nothing, but don’t keep hinting at things.” Salazar nodded curtly and she went on, “And, if you’ve all finished bickering, we’re going to need a plan.”

“A plan?” Godric repeated, staring around, “I thought-”

“We’ve not been able to talk all day,” Rowena said patiently, “And we could hardly draw up plans for all four of us when only we three were up, could we?”

“Yeah, but, what’s there to talk about? Aren’t we going to try and get back?”

“No,” Rowena said heavily, “We aren’t. I told Salazar at the end of third year, terrible things happen to wizards that meddle with time.”

“And? Nothing that bad has happened to us.”

“Speak for yourself,” Salazar said bitterly. He should have known. It had all been too good. In the space of seventeen years he, Salazar, had gone from being an outcast and convicted murderer only grudgingly tolerated in the land of his birth to a respected scholar with four daughters he adored, a wife he would happily have killed for and a vocation that made him happier than he had ever been before in his life. And, miraculously, it had lasted. The universe could not allow one man that much happiness without keeping something truly nasty ready in the wings.

Now it had arrived, and he’d never get to see his little girls grow up.

“Look,” Rowena was saying, “Even if we could get back, we all appear to have come from different times. If Salazar or I go back to the times we left from, that’s likely to erase this version of you from existence, as the timeline that created you will no longer have happened. Even if that doesn’t happen, who’s to say the changes to the timeline won’t erase us all from existence anyway? It’s too much of a risk.”

“You’re sure-” Godric started, but Rowena cut him off.

“Certain! McGonagall told me before I got my Time-Turner. I always meant to do a bit of reading around the subject, but what with one thing and another…”

“Rowena Ravenclaw not have time to read? Gods help us,” Helga said, grinning, “Didn’t you think to use that Time-Turner of yours for extra time to sleep?”

“You know about the Time-Turner,” Salazar said, startled.

“Ro told me about it the summer before the Triwizard Tournament,” Helga replied, “Stop gawking, Godric, you’ll catch midges.”

“Never mind that,” Rowena said, shaking her head, “What are we going to do?”

Salazar smiled thinly, “There is my so-called heir to think of,” he acknowledged, “Although I should be very interested to know whether his claims have any weight to them.”

“And,” Helga said, crossing her arms, “I’d like to make a few changes with regards to the Sorting system. Any method that ends up with the likes of Zacharias Smith in my house has some pretty big holes in it, so far as I’m concerned.”

“You were the one who said we should take everyone,” Godric said, looking shifty, “And who’s Zacharias Smith, anyway?”

“He’s in my year,” Helga replied, “And he’s an arse. But we can’t exactly go around saying who we are, can we? We’d be shut up in the long-term ward at St Mungo’s before we’d finished a sentence.”

“We need to know how we were sent back, too,” Rowena added, “Just in case.” She looked uncertain for a moment, then said quietly, “Is that everything?”

Godric shook his head, “It’s not just the Sorting system that needs work,” he said seriously, “It’s everything. I mean, look at the Slytherins?”

“What about them?” Salazar asked, with the sort of glacial politeness that never meant anything good.

“Not them exactly,” Godric said quickly, “But you won’t see any cross-house friendships any more, will you, or at least not many of them, and you’ve seen the way things get sometimes between the houses, haven’t you?”

“I’m at a loss to know how anyone could miss it,” Salazar said wryly, “Very well, then. So, what have you all been doing since I left?”

A great deal, it transpired. Without Salazar, they had begun to admit magbob- Muggle-born children. Surprisingly, it had not ended in the castle being stormed by a Muggle mob and every man, woman and child inside being put to the sword. Oh, there had been incidents. Muggle ambushes on the carts used to get students to the school, disownments, even one or two deaths, which Godric and Helga related grimly, with a haunted look to them that Salazar had hoped never to see there again, but nothing on the scale that Salazar had expected. Rowena had finally perfected her diadem, which had been stolen by Helena – Helena, of all people! – and Rowena had fallen ill not long after her daughter had absconded. Salazar remembered Helena as a reserved, rather quiet girl, every bit as fiercely competitive as her mother had been at that age but rather better at concealing it. He couldn’t imagine her stealing anything, had thought Rowena’s near-compulsive respect for law and order had been passed on in the blood. Evidently not.

Rowena’s story continued. She had sent one of Salazar’s old students after her, one of Helena’s many suitors, but he had not returned, and Rowena had been dragged back to Hermione Granger’s life before she could send out another.

They sat in silence for some time after she had finished.

“Did she ever come back?” Rowena asked, looking around, and Salazar looked down at his shoes. He’d never forget the soft, despairing sound Rowena made when Godric told her what had happened, how Helena Ravenclaw had died in a forest far away from where she’d been born and brought up.

“Her ghost’s still here,” Godric said quietly, “The Grey Lady, that’s what the students had started to call her when-” he broke off, and there was silence again. Salazar wanted to ask after his daughters, but the words caught in his throat before he could get them out.

“She came back?” Rowena said disbelievingly, “But she-” she cut herself off, distraught. Salazar’s first instinct was to reach out to her, but he stopped himself just in time. She wouldn’t welcome it, not now. Salazar had known ghosts before, a few of them, and none of them had seemed happy with the fate they had chosen. Centuries bound to one place, trapped between life and death, unable to influence the world around you as everything you knew and loved passed away. It sounded a far worse fate than the Hell Dersle and his servants had been so confident Salazar was bound for. Harder by far than the bright Land of the Young he had heard of from Matilda ferch Elisud later on or the grey and dreary but otherwise innocuous Hel of Godric’s faith. The thought of his goddaughter stuck like that was horror. And for Godric and Rowena to know that their daughter had chosen that for herself, knowing what it would mean…He wouldn’t have wished that knowledge on anyone.

“Do you think she’s still here?” Salazar asked, clutching at straws, “Ghosts can go on, can’t they? It’s hard, but-”

“They haven’t invented a spell our Helena couldn’t do,” Godric said, with a trace of pride in his voice, “She always did take after her mother.”

“It’s not a spell, Godric,” Rowena said, slumping slightly against Godric’s side, “If it were I wouldn’t worry. But you have to overcome all fear of death…actually will yourself to die. Well. Die again, really. And Helena…” She trailed off, and they sat in silence again, united in grief.

Salazar lifted his glasses and dug the heel of his hand into his eyes, trying to force away the image of a red-haired girl who had forever been asking questions. She should have achieved so much more, he thought savagely, there was so much good she could have done. Of all the stupid, stupid things to happen to a girl with that much promise.

Could he have talked her out of it, if he’d been there? He didn’t think he could, but he might at least have been able to warn Rowena and Godric, who had never been particularly good at seeing unsavoury truths where their daughter was concerned, before things could come to such a pass.

He had not quite understood, before, just what those thousand years had meant. Now a crushing sense of his own uselessness overwhelmed him, filling him with the cold, empty feeling most often associated with dementors.

Looking around, Rowena looked even worse off, but that was only to be expected. Helena had been her daughter, after all, the apple of her eye. If it had been Aethelinda or Lelia or even his stepson Gareth, little as they got on most of the time…Helga and Godric too looked pained, but it was an old pain for them, at least part healed over, and for the first time Salazar was able to really appreciate how long it had been for them.

He looked over at Helga and caught her hand, only to be struck by the absence of the familiar burns and calluses beneath his fingers. He felt like a lecher just looking at her now. Gods, she was younger than Lelia. By the look on her face, Helga had just come to the same realisation, and her hand tightened around his.

“We should let them alone,” she said, jerking her head towards the door, “Come on. The common room should be just about empty by now.”

It was after hours, but they had no problems with Filch as they walked up to Gryffindor Tower – Gryffindor Tower! The one place Salazar had been certain he’d never set foot – but when they entered the common room they found Fred and George waiting for them, looks of relief breaking across their faces as the portrait hole swung open.

“Ginny!” Fred exclaimed, and dragged her into a hug, “You’re all right then? Being roasted alive not addled your brains?”

Helga rolled her eyes at him, but Salazar frowned. Roasted alive? What hadn’t Madam Pomfrey told them?

“And you,” George said, grinning at Salazar as soon as he, too, had released his sister, “What were you doing to make that sort of a mess? McGonagall just about had kittens over it.” It was said jokingly, but there was a definite note of concern to George’s voice, and it was patently obvious how worried he had been.

“No idea,” Salazar said, “Ginny?”

“Not a clue,” Helga agreed, looking irritable, “I’m fine, Fred, honestly. Go up to bed. You can fuss all you like in the morning.”

They took some convincing, but eventually Fred and George retreated up to their dormitory, looking as though a weight had been lifted from their shoulders, leaving Helga and Salazar to curl up in the two armchairs closest to the dying fire.

Salazar stared into the embers, trying to marshal his thoughts.

“My daughters,” he said at last, “What happened to them?”

To her credit, Helga didn’t try to dress it up. “Aethelinda left us a year after you disappeared,” she said bluntly, “To study under some potions master or other in Alexandria. She came back a few years later after we lost Rowena to take over teaching potions.”

Salazar smiled, “She always did take after her mother,” he said fondly, “And Lelia? Did she do all right?”

“Yeah,” Helga replied, grinning, “Not that you’d approve – she was on the High Council, last I heard from her, and tipped to be the next Chieftainess.”

“Damn!” Salazar said, with feeling, “Are you really telling me that my daughter – my own daughter! – went over to the Dark Side?”

“Yes,” Helga said baldly.

Salazar sighed. “Ah, well. There’s one in every family, I suppose. Was she happy with it, do you think?”

“Very,” Helga replied.

“Good. And the others? Tanith? Melusine?”

“Melusine married Phillip of Bretagne,” Helga offered, “Her son attended Hogwarts alongside Lelia’s daughter Zara. Zara was one of mine,” she added, smirking.

“And Tanith? What about her?”

He knew from the slump of Helga’s shoulders what had happened, but it was still a shock to hear it.

“She died,” Helga said dully, “In a duel. About six years after you left us. She won the duel, but killed herself doing it.”

“Tanith…dead?” Salazar repeated, uncomprehending. It couldn’t be true. He had seen Tanith just yesterday, had given her a scolding for trying to sneak into the Forest again with a few of her friends. How could Tanith be dead?

But Helga had never lied to him yet, and her expression was pained and dead serious. Oh. Oh, gods.

He buried his head in his hands, his shoulders shaking. It had been painful, but not entirely so, to hear about his daughters’ later lives. He had known, after all, that they would be long gone by now, and hearing that they had done well eased the pain a little. But for Tanith to have had so little time and died in such a way…it was too much.

Helga put her arm around him, and Salazar leaned into her, shattered.

“It was my fault,” Helga said in a choked voice, “If I’d gotten there sooner, if I hadn’t-”

“Of course it wasn’t,” Salazar said thickly, “You didn’t kill her. What was the duel about?”

“Some sort of insult, she said,” Helga replied, and Salazar closed his eyes. What insult could have been dire enough to merit Salazar’s daughter throwing her life away because of it?

Helga’s voice was grim as she continued. “I made sure to give her poppy-milk, so she wasn’t in pain towards the end…there wasn’t much else I could do. I’m so sorry, Sal, I should’ve-”

“It’s done,” Salazar said bleakly, “It’s done. And you,” he added, turning to look at her, hoping it wasn’t obvious how close he was to tears, “Did you ever find anyone…?”

“No,” Helga replied, “Men tried, but most of them expected me to leave the school, and I couldn’t do that.”

Salazar couldn’t help a rush of dislike for these faceless men, but it was faint, and far away. Everything seemed dulled right then, far away and irrelevant.

Tanith was dead. He had known, intellectually, that she would be. He had hoped, though, that she had been happy, lived a good life. It had been too much to hope for that she had died in her own bed at the age of eighty, but something more than a pointless, senseless death in a pointless, senseless duel at the age of nineteen had been the least he was expecting.

Helga seemed to recognise his desire to be left alone, but ignored it, sitting close beside him and sharing in the enormity of what they had lost. They had not had any children of their own, but Helga had been as close to Salazar’s daughters as she could be, even if her own son Gareth would insist on referring to them as ‘Slytherin’s brood’. Tanith’s death would have been every bit as hard on her as it was now on Salazar.

It was a long time before either one went up to bed.

Chapter 4: In which a scheme is begun

Notes:

Some dialogue from this chapter, and the whole of Percy's letter, has been taken from the original text of OotP. I make no apologies for this, as it is impossible to improve on Rowling's McGonagall dialogue and Percy's letter, though it appears in a shortened form here, is so very Percy that it was hard to resist.

It was, perhaps, fortunate that Salazar had not been expecting the next day to be at all enjoyable.

Angelina Johnson descended on Salazar at breakfast in a towering temper almost as soon as he had sat down.

“What,” she said furiously, “Could you possibly have done to get yourself landed with a lifetime Quidditch ban?”

“Missed her detention on Friday,” Salazar said shortly, “Apparently Professor Umbridge doesn’t consider disappearing off the face of the earth so thoroughly even I can’t remember where I was to be much of an excuse.”

Angelina swore under her breath, “Damn it! We were going to have to hold try-outs all over again anyway, but…”

“Why?” Helga asked, leaning forwards.

“No decent keeper material out there. Well, one or two, but none who could be on the team.”

“Shame,” Salazar said, although it was no such thing, hiding his smirk behind his goblet. Quidditch. He had read up on the game as Harry Potter, of course, but it was so far removed from the games Salazar had known as a young man that he just couldn’t take it seriously.

“I might try out,” Godric said, spearing a piece of bacon on his fork, “If you’ll have me,”

Angelina gave him an assessing look, “Got any experience?”

“A bit,” Godric replied, “I used to play keeper for my brothers, and I’ve been practicing.”

“Hmm,” Angelina said, looking him over with some interest. “All right, then. I’m thinking of holding the try-outs on Saturday this time. I suppose you’re in detention again.”

“You suppose correctly,” Salazar said waspishly. “Lines. Do you remember when detentions were meant to be useful?”

He’d never seen the point of a punishment that wasn’t of some use to someone – helping in the kitchens, say, or mucking out the stalls for the school hippogriffs. Umbridge, apparently, disagreed with him. It did nothing to improve his opinion of her.

“Detention’s detention whatever it is,” Angelina replied, shrugging, “At least you weren’t going into the Forest again.”

Salazar was just about to snap that he’d far rather be out in the Forest where he knew that he’d be doing something of some value than shut up mutilating himself in Umbridge’s office, but was cut off by the arrival of the post.

Nothing for Salazar, for whom this came as something of a shock after years of being besieged with ravens every morning at the breakfast-table. Breakfast had already presented some problems when Godric, who was never at his best before he’d had his morning tisane, went for the high table just out of habit and had to be kicked very hard in the leg by Helga before he realised his mistake. It was only a mercy that no-one had noticed anything amiss.

Salazar drew his wand under the table, cast a wordless charm of his own invention that would confuse the ears of any eavesdropper, and then turned to look at Godric, a smirk curving his lips. “Godric Gryffindor, cheating? I never thought I’d see the day.”

“I wouldn’t call it cheating,” Godric protested, “You’d be doing exactly the same, if you were only in Slytherin.”

“True,” Salazar acknowledged, “But that’s my house. Pragmatism is rather encouraged. Your lions, on the other hand…”

“Never mind that,” Helga interrupted, “Have either of you seen Rowena?”

Salazar shook his head, hunching his shoulders. He felt uncomfortably exposed like this, with only the penknife Sirius had given him in his pocket and not so much as a poisoned needle to defend himself with. He knew, logically, that he was singularly unlikely to be attacked in any way a knife could prevent, but Salazar liked knives. There was a comforting weight to a brace of them strapped to his forearm under his shirt, another nestled against the small of his back and two more tucked neatly into the breast of his robes.

“She’s over there,” Godric said, pointing to the double doors that led to the entrance hall, where Rowena was coming in, accompanied by Luna Lovegood. The two had their heads together, and were talking in low voices as they made their way towards the Ravenclaw table, attracting a considerable amount of attention in the process.

“Is that allowed?” Salazar heard Lavender Brown say from further down the table. He wasn’t precisely sure of that himself – the house tables had only been for feasts and major events, in his day, when the four houses had been a much more informal affair. But after a thousand years, so much else had changed that he couldn’t be certain.

“’Course it is,” Godric said easily, helping himself to scrambled eggs, “Why wouldn’t it be?”

Salazar wasn’t quite so confident; it had, after all, been a thousand years since they had known the rules of the school, and those rules had been much fewer then. In his day, the house tables had only been a formal requirement at feasts and special occasions, in order to get any new students acquainted with their new housemates as soon as possible. The house system had been far more flexible then, and although changing houses had not been common per se, it hadn’t been unthinkable, the way it was now.

And, true to his expectation, Dolores Umbridge had got up from her seat at the high table and was making her way over to the Ravenclaw table. It was almost enough to make one feel sorry for Umbridge.

They couldn’t hear what was happening from the Ravenclaw table, and as Rowena had her back to them they couldn’t see much of it either, but no-one in the whole hall could have missed the way Umbridge went an uncomfortable shade of off-white and turned on her heel to march back to the high table, leaving Rowena to return to whatever conversation she’d been having with Luna before Umbridge’s interruption.

Neither Godric nor Salazar were able to speak a word to Rowena until the beginning of Charms, but what she had to tell them when they were finally able to talk shocked them both.

“She knew,” Rowena said, before either one of them could open his mouth, “I don’t know how, but Luna knew who I was.”

Godric swore, but Salazar was unconvinced; “How do you know she knows this?” he asked, looking sidelong at her.

Rowena made a helpless gesture, “She walked right up to me outside the portrait hole and told me so this morning. She called me by name, Godric.”

“I sincerely hope you corrected her,” Salazar said sharply, “We cannot afford-”

“Of course I did!” Rowena snapped, “But as she knew anyway, I thought it would be best to find out how much she knew.”

“And how much-” Godric started.

Rowena shrugged, “Who we all are, at the very least. I wasn’t able to get much more out of her, but I don’t think she’ll give us away.”

Even if she did, it would hardly be much of a risk. It was a wild enough story on its own, even without being put about by someone like Luna, whom most of the student body wouldn’t believe if she said the sky was blue. And even then, maybe it would be useful, to have the wild rumour already in place when they chose to reveal themselves – and they would reveal themselves, of that he had no doubt.

“Don’t try to silence her,” he said, “Insist on being called Hermione in public, but don’t silence her.”

“More scheming, Salazar?” Rowena said, sounding somewhere between disapproving and resigned.

Salazar bared his teeth in something approximating a smile, “I’m trying to keep us all safe, Ro. If you have any objection to that…” he let the sentence trail off with a deceptively nonchalant half-shrug, and returned his attention to the work at hand. He hadn’t heard of the charm they were studying today, although he could see where it had its roots in the spell-casting of his own time. It actually seemed slightly less efficient in some ways, which went against his expectation.

He needed a way of winning over his students. It would be difficult – Gryffindor and Slytherin houses had never got along particularly well, even in the beginning, and a snake in lion’s skin would be trusted by neither – but it had to be done if he ever wanted to restore his house to what it had been intended to be.

It would have to start with individuals; Salazar was, on the whole, good at individuals. People weren’t so very difficult, once you got the trick of them; they had their levers just like everything else. But which individuals? It should really be all of them or none at all, but Salazar would take what he could get.

All thoughts of social engineering vanished from his head completely, however, when the three of them arrived in Transfiguration to find Dolores Umbridge already there with a clipboard. Of course. This must be the first of the planned inspections the article had mentioned.

Professor McGonagall gave no sign of having noticed Umbridge when she entered the room, setting Seamus Finnegan to returning the homework and Lavender Brown to handing out the mice they were meant to be Vanishing.

Salazar accepted his essay back with a mute nod, and looked it over with new eyes. His lip curled. He had never been outstandingly skilled in Transfiguration, not in comparison to Godric or Rowena, but being graded ‘Acceptable’ stung his pride. Ah, well. That would change soon enough. He’d better try and work his grades up slowly to start with or someone would notice, and yet more attention was the last thing he wanted right now.

“Right then, everyone, listen closely – Dean Thomas, if you do that to the mouse again I will put you in detention – most of you have now successfully Vanished your snails…” It was, Salazar reflected, quite remarkable how much of McGonagall’s teaching style reminded him of Rowena’s. Next to him, Rowena looked like she’d just noticed the same thing.

“…have got the gist of the spell,” McGonagall continued, “Today we shall be-”

“Hem, hem,” said Umbridge. Salazar felt the almost irrepressible desire to carve her into her constituent parts and bottle them for use in potions.

“Yes,” McGonagall said testily, turning to face her.

“I was just wondering, Professor, whether you received my note telling you of the date and time of your inspec-”

“Obviously I received it, or I would have asked you what you are doing in my classroom,” McGonagall replied, turning her back on Umbridge and returning to her lecture, “As I was saying: today we shall be practising the altogether more difficult Vanishment of mice. Now, the Vanishing spell-”

“Hem, hem,”

“I wonder,” said Professor McGonagall in a cold fury, “How you expect to gain an idea of my usual teaching methods if you continue to interrupt me? You see, I do not generally permit people to talk when I am talking.”

Salazar allowed himself a wolfish grin at the look on Umbridge’s face, but unfortunately there was no further argument for the rest of the lesson. He himself managed to approximate a teenager Vanishing a mouse for the first time in his class work, for all that he was still somewhat concerned he might have done a bit too well in leaving only half – most first attempts weren’t that neat – but Godric didn’t even seem to be bothering, Vanishing his own mouse perfectly first time, to the complete stupefaction of Professor McGonagall. Salazar had to resist the temptation to kick him a few times under the table, but settled for just-loudly-enough-to-be-overheard attributing it to beginner’s luck. As soon as McGonagall had moved away he turned a ferocious glare on Godric.

“You’re meant to be a fifteen-year-old who’s never done this before, act like it!” he hissed, casting a wary look around the room.

Godric gave him a sidelong look. “Yeah, because someone might work out that I’m secretly a time-travelling Godric Gryffindor and not boring Ron Weasley like they’ve always thought.” It was, Salazar thought, something of a testament to what Godric was that there wasn’t any bitterness in that statement. Maybe it was because he’d been older, hadn’t left so much undone. Salazar didn’t know and couldn’t ask.

“Because,” Rowena said, cutting Salazar off before he could say anything, “If you start doing too well, people are going to notice. I mean, you didn’t make much of an effort in lessons at fifteen, did you?”

“And I can’t just pretend to have suddenly decided to apply myself?” Godric asked, grinning, “By all means do,” Rowena said, crossing her arms, “Just try and make it vaguely believable!”

“People are going to get suspicious if I start doing well?”

“Yes,” Salazar said bluntly, and went back to his mouse. He could probably get away with Vanishing everything but the tail at this point, provided it looked as though he’d made a sloppy job of it.

“He’s right, Godric,” Rowena said, sounding as though it was every bit as strange for her to say those words as it was for Salazar to hear them, “We’ve got to be careful.”

“And you can start,” Salazar cut in, “By not using those names in the middle of class where anyone could hear us.”

Godric blinked at him, “But you’ve got a ward up, haven’t you?”

“As it happens, I have, but that’s no reason to be careless. You know as well as I do that wards aren’t entirely reliable.”

“We’re surrounded by fifteen-year-olds, Sal, what’re the odds?”

Rowena snorted loudly. “Children,” she muttered, neatly Vanishing what was left of her mouse. “Can’t you two go ten minutes without getting into a fight?”

Salazar gave her a flat look, remembering all the times he’d had to say similar things in both lives.

Rowena rolled her eyes at him, “We need to be careful. Salazar’s got that much right, and if Umbridge were to find out…”

“We’d be in the long-stay ward at St Mungo’s for the rest of our lives,” Godric said grimly, and then, grudgingly, “All right.”

The rest of the lesson passed mostly without incident, Godric and Salazar handing in half a mouse-tail each when Lavender came around with the box and filing out with the rest of the class towards the Great Hall.

*

Salazar couldn’t suppress a slight, sad smile as they made their way down to the fringes of the Forest after lunch, remembering Tanith’s frustration at her inability to see Thestrals. He’d told her so many times that it wasn’t the blessing she’d thought it was, but Tanith had always been headstrong. All at once, though, the image of the girl he remembered, scowling from beneath an unruly mop of yellow hair, was supplanted by the older Tanith he had seen in the painting, the skin on her face already going waxy and faintly greyish in that way that dead flesh always did, her chest stove in and her hair clumped and matted with blood. Salazar had seen enough violent deaths in his forty-five years to be able to supply the details from what little description Helga had given him. He couldn’t stop his mind from producing the memories of other such deaths, the little part of him that thought it was necessary that he should know it was a terrible way to die. He scrubbed at his eyes with the heel of his hand, a habit from his apprentice days he had never quite outgrown, tried to think of other things, and found that he couldn’t quite manage it, couldn’t tear his mind away from his daughters, long ago and far away and all but forgotten by the rest of the world.

Stop it, he told himself firmly. Get a grip, you can’t afford this. Not now, not here. It would be worse later, he knew, it always was. But here and now it might ruin everything.

“You all right, mate,” Godric asked, shooting an odd look in Salazar’s direction.

“Fine,” Salazar replied brusquely, lengthening his stride a little. He could feel Godric and Rowena’s eyes on his back, and very pointedly refrained from hunching his shoulders defensively.

He liked Care of Magical Creatures, had taught it himself for many years, and had been looking forward to today’s lesson, and the chance of being able to reassess how his old subject was being taught. He was, therefore, not remotely pleased to see Professor Umbridge standing next to Professor Grubbly-Plank, clipboard in hand.

Salazar made sure to work apart from Godric and Rowena this time, and to find a place not too far from where his Slytherins had converged, just close enough to let him hear what was being said. He was, overall, reasonably impressed by Professor Grubbly-Plank’s teaching style, although he’d have taught bowtruckles rather earlier than this, but he couldn’t commend her handling of the house divisions that had sprung up in the thousand years Salazar had been away. The last thing the school needed now was more division.

“What’s the matter, Potter,” came a sneering voice from behind Salazar, “Had a falling out with the Weasel?”

“As it happens,” Salazar replied coolly, not turning around, “Yes. Thank you for your concern.” He said it politely, but no Slytherin worth the name could have missed the decided undercurrent of irony, or the coldness with which it was spoken. He turned to see Malfoy sneering. It was a passable enough sneer, Salazar supposed, but the boy really did seem to be trying too hard. Behind Malfoy, Crabbe and Goyle loomed, and Salazar gave them a quick, assessing once-over. They didn’t look particularly promising, he acknowledged, but then, looks could be deceiving and apparent idiocy could conceal a multitude of sins.

“Merlin, what an embarrassment,” Malfoy said, his sneer growing more pronounced, “If  even Weasley and the mudblood won’t put up with you…”

“Don’t call her mudblood.” It had taken Salazar a few moments to remember what the word ‘mudblood’ meant and how serious it was, or he would have responded sooner. And this was what his house defined itself by now? Salazar would not deny his own faults and flaws, but he had never built his identity around hatred. What purpose would it have served? He had chosen to centre himself around other things; his work, his friends, his children, his students, the school itself, into which he had poured so much of himself that he didn’t think he could ever be happy anywhere else. He turned away, not wanting to see what his house had come to.

“Don’t turn your back on me, Potter!” Malfoy spat.

“Why ever not?” Salazar asked, looking over his shoulder and arching an eyebrow, “You’re not so very interesting, Malfoy.” He went back to taking notes he didn’t need, and was satisfied by the sounds of spluttering behind him that indicated that Malfoy was absolutely incandescent with rage. The boy looked to be in need of a few sharp lessons.

Malfoy didn’t seem to know what to do next, and so stalked off down the table, sitting down just within range of Salazar’s hearing. Salazar smiled to himself and offered his bowtruckle a handful of woodlice, keeping an ear out for any sound of conversation as Umbridge made her way around the class, asking various students questions on magical creatures that most were able to answer about as well as Salazar could have expected.

He wasn’t disappointed.

“Look at him,” Malfoy sneered, and Salazar was forced to wonder for a few brief seconds whether Malfoy knew how obsessed he sounded with a boy he professed to hate. “Strutting about like having that ridiculous scar makes him better than the rest of us.”

Salazar tilted his head a little to look over at the three Slytherins, and was intrigued for a second by the look on Goyle’s face. It looked, for a fraction of a second, like the boy was trying very hard not to laugh. Salazar raised an eyebrow, and caught Goyle’s eye. He grinned and jerked his head in Malfoy’s direction. Goyle’s eyes widened, his eyes flicked over towards the other two to see if they were looking, and then he grinned too, before hastily returning to his usual impassive expression. Salazar went back to his bowtruckles, trying to puzzle out what he knew about Goyle, where the levers might be.

Closely associated with Malfoy was the first thing that sprang to mind, but more a lackey than a friend. Harry Potter had considered Goyle devoid of all intelligence, magical talent and independent thought. He was a Pure-blood and his father was a Death Eater. He had never shown any sign of a sense of humour before.

“-Well, you seem to know what you’re doing at any rate,” Umbridge was saying nearby. Salazar did not like the emphasis she put on ‘you’. “Now, I hear there have been injuries in this class?”

“Fewer than there were under Professor Kettleburn,” Godric said suddenly, “I remember my brother Charlie was always talking about how dangerous Care of Magical Creatures could be. We’ve only had one injury since Hagrid took over, and that was only because the idiot didn’t listen when Hagrid was telling us about hippogriffs.”

Nearer at hand to Salazar, Malfoy looked furious. Salazar allowed himself a small smirk at the sight.

“Oh, really, Mr Weasley?” Umbridge said softly, “I heard from the Committee for the Disposal of Dangerous Creatures that the hippogriff in question had to be destroyed.”

“Biased evidence,” Rowena replied, before Malfoy could even open his mouth, “The complainant failed to give an accurate account of the events leading up to the incident, and there was some speculation that gold had changed hands.”

Malfoy finally managed to overcome his bout of speechlessness, “That thing attacked me!” he spat.

“Only,” Salazar said, just loud enough to be overheard, “Because you were talking to Crabbe and Goyle when you should have been listening.”

Umbridge turned her pale, bulging eyes on him. “Another detention, Mr Potter. And…yes, one for your sidekick Weasley too. You can do them together.”

The look on Godric’s face at being referred to as anyone’s ‘sidekick’ was a picture, but not one Salazar could appreciate.

“Well,” Umbridge went on, “Thank you very much, Professor Grubbly-Plank, I think that’s all I need here. You will be receiving the results of your inspection within ten days.”

“Jolly good,” replied Professor Grubbly-Plank, and Umbridge set off back towards the castle, leaving Salazar feeling decidedly regretful that he couldn’t cast a Full-Body Bind on her and shove her in the lake for fear of revealing himself. He could probably even make it look like an accident.

*

Nothing else of any note happened until just before dinner that evening. Salazar had been separated from Godric and Rowena in the usual chaos that filled the corridors at this time of day. Salazar had nothing more on his mind than getting down to the great hall for a solid meal and maybe some time to talk to Helga, which he hadn’t had the chance to do at lunch.

He was just about to turn down the stairs that led to the entrance hall when he a vaguely familiar voice somewhere behind him.

“-pathetic, aren’t you? I should have known Dumbledore was lying from the start, if weaklings like you are all You-Know-Who’s got.”

Salazar turned, to see three sixth-year boys in Gryffindor scarves who had managed to waylay a small group of small Slytherins, no older than Melusine had been the last time Salazar spoke to her. His temper flared.

The biggest of the three Gryffindors was still speaking, “Look at you! Everyone knows Slytherin’s full of Dark wizards, no-one’d be surprised if you turned me into a horned toad, and you can’t do a thing.”

“I doubt it’d make much difference,” said one of the shorter Slytherins, a black-haired girl with a patrician nose and over-large grey eyes. Salazar had to admire the chit’s nerve, if not her common sense; all three Gryffindors were thrice her size and the shortest of them had a good head and a half on Salazar, which was not something he appreciated in the least. “Come on,” the girl added, looking around at her friends, “We’re going to miss dinner.”

The Slytherins broke off, keeping in a tight knot as they made their way towards the stairs. The big Gryffindor’s face twisted with fury and he reached for his wand, but Salazar was quicker.

He caught the boy’s wand easily as it went flying out of his hand and stalked up to him. Everything had suddenly gone very quiet, he noticed dimly, but he didn’t have time to dwell on that.

“I was under the impression,” he said coldly, “That Gryffindors were meant to have courage.” Dead silence. Salazar looked over at his Slytherins. All of them looked just about fine, if a little shaken, which was a mercy. He went on. “Tell me, when did it become an act of bravery to hex a second-year student without a wand in her hand?”

The boy sneered at him. It wasn’t a very good sneer. “Come on, Potter, I’d have thought you’d be all for it! You’re the one who keeps saying Voldemort’s back.”

“He is,” Salazar replied, “I fail to see what that has to do with anything.”

The boy rolled his eyes, “They’re Slytherins, Potter! You think they’re not up to their eyeballs in the Dark Arts?”

“I think that you raised your wand against a twelve-year-old who had her back turned and wasn’t looking for a fight.”

“She’s a bloody snake, Potter!”

Salazar’s glare could have bored a hole through diamond, and even this Gryffindor, dim-witted though he appeared, shrank a little in the face of it. Salazar was a trifle surprised by this – he had, after all, hardly been imposing at fifteen – but he wasn’t too much inclined to question it.

“Is this meant to make me support you?” he said flatly, “Because you might want to try a different tack. Apologising and leaving would probably be more effective.”

“What are you doing defending a snake like that?” the big Gryffindor asked, in a slightly lower voice, “Merlin, if I didn’t think you were nuts before…more snake than Gryffindor, really, aren’t you?”

“So I’ve been told.” Salazar smiled thinly, “Now. Are you going to apologise, or will I be forced to keep this?” He raised the boy’s wand, holding it between his two index fingers.

“You bloody-”

“What’s going on?” came Godric’s voice from somewhere behind Salazar, “Harry, what are you-”

“This idiot,” Salazar said coldly, “Thought it was a good idea to hex second-years. And he’d been harassing them before he drew his wand.” He turned to look at Godric, who was standing a few feet away, “Here,” he added, throwing Godric the student’s wand, “I think you’ll be able to deal with him well enough.”

“Right. Does he have a name?”

“Cormac McLaggen,” the Gryffindor said sullenly, “I don’t see why you’re making such a fuss. She’s only a Slytherin, everyone knows what they’re like!”

Godric’s expression was thunderous. “Yeah,” he said, “And you’re meant to be a Gryffindor. Want to remind me what that’s supposed to mean?”

McLaggen sneered at him. The sneer did not improve upon closer acquaintance.

/,“What’re you going to do? You won’t take points off me, you want Gryffindor to win the House Cup as much as I do.”

“Won’t I?” Godric snapped, flushed with anger, “Twenty points off Gryffindor, then, for bullying younger students and if I catch you doing this again I’ll double it.” The corners of Salazar’s mouth turned up almost of their own accord at the shocked silence that fell then. He looked over at the Slytherins, who were staring at Salazar as though he had suddenly grown a second head and left Godric to move towards them.

“Would you like to lodge a complaint with Professor Snape?” he asked quietly, returning to himself.

“Um…no, thanks,” the grey-eyed girl said, giving him an odd look.

“All right, then. I’d move along now, before you miss dinner.”

The girl gave him a sharp nod and turned on her heel, the rest of her little coterie following after her. Salazar watched them go, before turning back to Godric, who had finally released McLaggen and was standing looking bewildered in the middle of the corridor.

“How did someone like that end up in my house, Sal?” he said quietly, as they fell into step together.

“About the same way that someone like Malfoy ended up in mine,” Salazar replied, “Or Zacharias Smith, whoever he is, in Helga’s. I daresay Rowena has her embarrassments too.”

Godric snorted, but looked a little happier to hear it, and the two walked down to the Great Hall in silence, each preoccupied by his own thoughts.

*

The common room was all but deserted when Godric and Salazar got back from their detentions that night, both nursing their savaged right hands. Salazar’s ‘I must not tell lies’ was laid open and bleeding once again, having barely had time to scab over, and even Godric, who had not yet had enough time with Umbridge to leave permanent scars, was holding his hand gingerly, as though afraid any movement would bring a resurgence of pain.

“Here,” Helga said as they came in through the portrait hole, gesturing to two bowls on a low table, “Murtlap essence. Rowena reckons it’ll help.”

“I looked it up over lunch,” Rowena said, pushing a bowl towards Salazar, “Immerse your hand in it.”

Salazar did so, and was struck by how much of a relief it was.

“When did they discover this, then?” Godric asked, “I’d have killed for this stuff on campaign.”

“Same here,” Helga agreed, “We’re going to have to work pretty hard to catch up.”

“Wonderful,” Godric said sourly, putting his bag down and fishing out a long roll of parchment.

“So,” Salazar said, in a desperate attempt to change the subject, “How did your day go?”

“A lot less eventfully than yours, from the number of people who’ve come up to me to complain about how many points Godric took from McLaggen this afternoon,” Helga said, from where she was curled like a cat in her armchair. “What happened?”

Salazar related the story as accurately as he could, trying to cast in a comic light the events of that afternoon. Helga listened, asking questions here and there when Salazar brushed things over and, when he had finished she grinned.

“Oh, was that all? The way everyone was talking you’d have thought Godric had taken the points off for breathing too loudly.”

Rowena looked over at Godric, “But that was really dangerous! What if someone realises it’s out-of-character and starts looking into things?”

Godric shrugged, “I can always say I’ve started taking my responsibilities seriously. Bill was a real layabout until his OWL year, so Mum won’t find it too hard to believe.”

“There’s precedent, then,” Salazar said, nodding, “That makes your part easier. As for the rest of us…” he looked around at them, considering, and Rowena spoke up.

“The Ravenclaws were welcoming enough, after a while,” she said, shrugging, “A bit suspicious that I was sitting with them, but there’s no rule against it.”

“There wasn’t in our day,” Helga pointed out, “There might well be one by now.”

“One day,” Rowena said in exasperation, “I am going to make you read Hogwarts: A History! It’s got a full list of all the school rules in the back.”

Salazar tipped his head a little to one side. “Actually, that might be an idea.”

All three of his fellow Founders stared at him with eyes like saucers.

“What?” Rowena said, frowning, “But you-”

“Would like to know how we’ve all been remembered,” Salazar cut in, “I’ve heard a great deal about myself, very little of which I recognise, and I’d like to know where it comes from.”

“Right,” Rowena said, nodding, “I’ll lend you my copy, if you like.”

“Thanks,” Salazar replied, and was about to say more when there came a sudden tapping at the window. Helga got up to open the window, letting in a handsome screech owl.

“Hermes!” Godric said, sounding shocked, “What’s he doing here?”

“There’s a letter,” Helga said shortly, throwing a roll of parchment at Godric, who caught it.

“Hang on,” he said, frowning, “This is Percy’s writing. What’d he be writing to me for?”

“Of course it is,” Rowena said, rolling her eyes, “Who else would be using Hermes?”

“I know, but why would Percy want to write to me? We’re hardly close, are we?”

“Read it, and maybe you’ll find out,” Helga said, draping herself across her armchair. Godric gave her an aggrieved look, but broke the seal and unrolled the parchment. The further down the parchment his eyes travelled, the more pronounced his scowl became. Rowena, who was reading it over Godric’s shoulder, had a look on her face as though reading over a bewilderingly inadequate piece of homework.

“Look at this!” he said furiously, as soon as he had finished reading, thrusting it at Helga, which forced Salazar to perch on the arm of her chair to share it with her, their hands just brushing.

 

Dear Ron,

I heard recently (from no less a person than the Minister for Magic himself, who has it from your new teacher, Professor Umbridge) that you have now become a Hogwarts prefect.

I was most pleasantly surprised when I heard this news, and must firstly offer my congratulations. I must admit that I have always been afraid you would take what we might call the ‘Fred and George’ route rather than following in my footsteps, so you can imagine my feelings on hearing you have stopped flouting authority and have decided to shoulder some real responsibility.

But I want to give you more than congratulations, Ron, I want to give you some advice, which is why I am sending this at night rather than by the usual morning post. Hopefully, you will be able to read this away from prying eyes and avoid awkward questions.

From something the Minister let slip when telling me you are now a prefect, I gather that you are still seeing a lot of Harry Potter. I must tell you, Ron, that nothing could put you in danger of losing your badge more than continued fraternisation with that boy. Yes, I am sure you are surprised to hear this – no doubt you will say that Potter has always been Dumbledore’s favourite – but I feel bound to tell you that Dumbledore may not be in charge at Hogwarts much longer and the people who could have a very different – and probably more accurate – view of Potter’s behaviour. You will by now have heard of Professor Umbridge’s appointment to the post of High Inquisitor, and from this got a good idea of which way the wind is blowing.

Seriously, Ron, you do not want to be tarred with the same brush as Potter, it could be very damaging to your future prospects, and I am talking here about life after school, too. As you must be aware, given that our father escorted him to court, Potter had a disciplinary hearing this summer in front of the whole Wizengamot and he did not come out of it looking too good. He got off on a mere technicality if you ask me, and many of the people I’ve spoken to remain convinced of his guilt.

It may be that you are afraid to sever ties with Potter – I know that he can be unbalanced and, for all I know, violent – but if you have any worries about this, or have spotted anything else in Potter’s behaviour that is troubling you, I urge you to speak to Dolores Umbridge, a truly delightful woman who I know will be only too happy to advise you.

This leads me to my other bit of advice. As I have hinted above, Dumbledore’s regime at Hogwarts may soon be over. Your loyalty, Ron, should not be to him, but to the school and the Ministry. I am very sorry to hear that, so far, Professor Umbridge is encountering very little cooperation from staff as she strives to make those necessary changes within Hogwarts that the Ministry so ardently desired. I shall say only this – a student who shows himself willing to help Professor Umbridge now may be very well-placed for Head Boyship in a couple of years!

I am sorry that I was unable to see more of you over the summer. It pains me to criticise our parents, but I am afraid I can no longer live under their roof while they remain mixed up with the dangerous crowd around Dumbledore. (If you are writing to Mother at any point, you might tell her that a certain Sturgis Podmore, who is a great friend of Dumbledore’s, has recently been sent to Azkaban for trespass at the Ministry. Perhaps that will open their eyes to the kind of petty criminals with whom they are currently rubbing shoulders.) I count myself very lucky to have escaped the stigma of association with such people – the Minister really could not be more gracious to me – and I do hope, Ron, that you will not allow family ties to blind you to the misguided nature of our parents’ beliefs and actions, either. I sincerely hope that, in time, they will realise how mistaken they were and I shall, of course, be ready to accept a full apology when that day comes.

Please think over what I have said most carefully, particularly the bit about Harry Potter, and congratulations again on becoming prefect.

Your brother,

Percy

 

Salazar couldn’t help the laugh that escaped him when he reached the end of Percy’s letter, which had the other three all staring at him as though he had just sprouted a second head.

“Um, Sal?” Rowena said tentatively, “You did read-”

“Of course I did,” Sal managed to choke out through his snickers, “Empty night! Harland of Barret, to the life!”

Helga snorted, but the other two just looked confused.

“Who the hell is Harland of Barret?” Godric asked, sharing a confused look with Rowena.

“Minor functionary of the Wizards’ Council who took the minutes at Salazar’s trial,” Helga said, grinning, “Talkative little man, as I remember it. So puffed up with his own importance it was a wonder he didn’t float away.”

Salazar smirked a little at the memory, but Rowena frowned and Godric looked ill-at-ease.

“I don’t like lying to people,” he said, re-submerging his hand in his bowl of murtlap essence.

“Neither do I,” Rowena agreed, looking about as miserable.

Helga’s shoulders slumped, “I know. But we don’t have any other choice right now. And it’s not exactly lying, is it? I mean, no-one’s actually come up to any of us and asked us if we’re secretly time-travellers, have they?”

Salazar caught her eye and they shared a smile at that.

Godric, meanwhile, had gone back to staring at his brother’s letter with a look of abject disgust on his face.

“How long have we known each other, Sal?” he said. Salazar frowned.

“A little more than thirty-three years.”

“Here, I mean.”

Salazar tipped his head to one side. “Four years, then.”

“And you’ve stayed summers in my house. Percy knows you.”

“Knew,” Salazar corrected, “Gods know I’ve changed a lot since then.”

“Yeah, but still…” Godric said, frowning, only to be cut off by Helga.

“He’s being an idiot,” she said firmly, “Look at some of this rubbish! Just spouting the party line at us as if he’d never met Sal at all! What have you ever done to make Percy think you were violent?”

Salazar gave her a sidelong look, “I’ve hardly lived an exemplary life, El,” he said mildly, daring for the first time since their return to be familiar.

She snorted, reaching up to tangle a hand in his hair, “I think I preferred it long,” she murmured, then added in a louder voice, “And no more self-pity! Percy hasn’t seen anything to give him that idea of you, unless you count de-gnoming the garden, and if he thinks that’s unnecessary violence he’s a complete hypocrite.”

Salazar leant into the touch as he replied, “It’s hardly unexpected. You do remember what happened after I was tried for Morpeth, don’t you?”

“That was different,” Rowena said stiffly, “You’d actually done it that time. I still don’t know how you got off with exile and branding instead of summary execution.”

Salazar smiled, because it was that or tell them the truth, and Helga changed the subject before he was obliged to give an actual answer.

“So,” she said, leaning forward in her chair, “What are we going to do?”

“About what?” Godric asked, looking bemused.

“We’ve been students at our school for a day now,” Helga said, “What are we going to do? I don’t know about you lot, but I want words with that blasted hat.”

Salazar and Rowena shared a worried look for about half a second before Rowena realised what she was doing and broke it off. Helga having words with someone normally ended messily.

“And Sal’s obviously already got plans,” Godric said with a grin.

“He always does,” Rowena agreed, in a long-suffering sort of tone Salazar knew from long experience, “Care to share them with us, Salazar?”

Seeing that he had no choice, Salazar obliged. “I have a responsibility to my students, the same as the rest of you,” he said shortly, “I’m merely trying to carry out those responsibilities I best I can from my current position.”

Helga laughed at him, leaning her whole weight against his side and cackling like she’d just heard the best joke ever told. The tension was broken.

“Seriously, though,” Rowena said, “We can’t help unless you tell us.”

“I don’t need help,” Salazar replied, “It might do more harm than good if you tried. I know the way my house thinks. Leave the Slytherins to me.”

Chapter 5: In which history hates Salazar

Lunchtime three days later found Salazar in the library, where he had caused Madam Pince some consternation by asking her as courteously as he could where the section on magical history was, an event previously unprecedented in that lady’s entire career. She’d been downright helpful after that, even recommended a few titles for him when he mentioned he was interested in the history of Hogwarts itself.

Salazar had settled on one of the tables, which was now practically groaning under the weight of a stack of books almost taller than he was in his current state. It was really quite infuriating, only slightly mitigated by the knowledge that he had less than a year left until the growth spurt which had him reach his full adult height.

More infuriating still were the books.

He had chosen to start with Hogwarts: A History, because Rowena had always spoken highly of it and it did seem the most comprehensive text on the school available to him. Occasionally, he noted something down on the roll of parchment at his elbow. To prevent anyone from being able to read it and discover more than they ought, he had chosen to write in the Russian of his own time and, for further proof against busybodies and spies he knew full well did not exist, in a code of his own devising beneath that.

He should really have known from the first chapter that there was something off about Madam Bagshot’s version of events. Her description of the time in which he had grown up was, in some ways, very accurate. The structure of the Wizards’ Council, wizarding society, tensions between nobles and peasants, all of it vividly and accurately drawn. There was just one major omission. Nowhere in the whole of the first chapter were Muggles mentioned at all. Not even the massacre of Eulestadt, which he had been certain would be remembered for centuries after all involved were dead and dust, seemed to merit a mention. Not a word about the fear that had pervaded their entire society, the sheer terror that was a Muggle attack. They might not be impervious to curses, but that just meant they were obliged to fight harder, come in greater numbers, and they were frighteningly good at thinking around magical defences. One well-armed and well-prepared group of Muggles could wipe a wizarding settlement off the map in a night, and everyone had known it. How could anyone not mention that?

The second chapter was, if anything, worse. He had already known he would not be vindicated by history, had known that even as he argued for patience, but he had not expected quite such extremes of opinion as he now remembered from Harry Potter’s- his own former life. Harry Potter was his own fifteen-year-old self, and he’d be a fool to deny or ignore it.

He wasn’t truly angry, though, until he reached the section dealing with Bergmann.

He had managed to get through the passage dealing with his trial with comparative equanimity, even laughed at Madam Bagshot’s assertion that the only reason Salazar had escaped execution for his role in Morpeth’s death had been the weight of the Slytherin name and Salazar’s father exerting his influence in order to arrange for his son’s release. This came as news to Salazar, who had no idea that the name ‘Slytherin’ even existed until after the trial, when it had been coined as an insult, a jibe directed at his ability to slither out of trouble. He’d adopted it more for spite than anything else, and by the time he was thirty it had become a sort of sideways compliment. By forty, people were beginning to forget where the name had come from. He’d been respectable by then – respectable! – a teacher whose disreputable youth was, if not forgotten, at least safely behind him. After all, Morpeth’s daughter had married him, hadn’t she? He must have reformed somewhat, if she could bring herself to forgive him, who had lost the most by the old man’s death. He and Caecilia had laughed themselves hoarse at the whispers that surrounded them on their wedding day, the suspicious looks and hushed voices that would dog them for the rest of their time together. It was that or cry, after all, and tears had never done either of them any good.

It was when he reached the section dealing with Auric Bergmann’s death that he was first truly angered.

Bergmann had been a monster, plain and simple. A monster Salazar had felt some pity for at the end, but no less a monster for that. His actions at Eulestadt had led to the deaths of hundreds of witches and wizards whose only crime had been to let him into their town, let him learn from their masters and associate with their youths. Bagshot mentioned none of this. Oh, she went on at some length about how generous Bergmann had been, and how beloved of the local Muggles, but not a word about the hundreds who had died for his fanaticism. According to Bagshot, Salazar had simply taken a dislike to the Muggle-born Bergmann and decided to hound him across three countries just on the strength of that. The truth was much more complicated. He had volunteered to go with the original group sent to hunt Bergmann down, and been denied for his blindness and his lack of military experience. Not one of those men had survived, powerful wizards and great soldiers all, and so Salazar had been sent out alone to try his luck. He had harried Bergmann for more than half a year before running the man to ground in a barn in Saxony where he had been forced to take shelter, the lie Salazar had put about having made Bergmann fairly unpopular with the locals. The duel that had followed had levelled the barn, nearly killed Salazar and actually killed Bergmann. Salazar still wasn’t quite sure how that had happened. Well, no, he knew exactly how that had happened; a knife to the throat was quite a definite form of death. He just wasn’t so certain on how he’d been able to get close enough to do it, given that Bergmann had been doing a pretty good job of slaughtering Salazar until the knife went in.

He pushed the book away, disgusted, and suddenly became aware of someone standing not far away. He looked up, to see a dark-haired Slytherin girl he thought he vaguely recognised – one of Pansy Parkinson’s set, perhaps?

She gave him a quick once-over, taking in the tense, exhausted set of his shoulders and the ink on his hands from where the quill had leaked. Salazar just stared coolly back at her, carefully avoiding anything that could be interpreted as a show of weakness, before picking up the book again and picking up his quill, waiting for her to say something.

He watched her out of the corner of his eye as she took two steps forward to rest both hands on the table.

“I’d like a word with you, Potter, if you don’t mind.”

“What about?” Salazar asked, putting the last full-stop on a sentence and setting his quill down. He looked up at her.

“My name’s Daphne Greengrass. Astoria’s my sister.”

It took Salazar a few moments to work out what she meant. “Oh, the girl McLaggen went after on Tuesday? Is she all right?”

“She’s fine,” Daphne Greengrass said tightly, “That’s why I want to talk to you.”

Salazar leant forwards, clasping his hands in front of his mouth. “Very well, then.”

“Whatever game it is that you’re playing with her,” Greengrass said in a low voice, “Stop it. She’s no part in your feud with Malfoy, and nor does the family. Just leave her alone.”

Salazar’s heart sank. He couldn’t say he hadn’t half-expected this, but he had rather hoped that the circumstances would act in his favour.

“I’m quite sure I don’t know what you mean,” he said, “You didn’t expect me to just let McLaggen hex her, did you?”

Greengrass raised an eyebrow. “You expect me to believe that you’d go against your own housemate for some Slytherin?”

Salazar shrugged. “I have never liked bullies. I don’t see why that should change just because McLaggen happens to be in the same house as I am.” Greengrass gave him an odd look, and Salazar decided to press his advantage while he still had it. “Besides,” he said, almost casually, “If I hadn’t met Malfoy before the Sorting I would very likely have been a Slytherin myself.”

Greengrass’s face was a picture, but she rallied quickly enough. “Really?”

“Yes,” Salazar replied, the corner of his mouth twitching up into a familiar smirk. “It would certainly have made things easier for me in second year.”

Greengrass gave him a sidelong look, “Yes. I heard the rumours, of course, but I don’t think many in Slytherin really believed them. You were always too…Gryffindor.”

“Of course I was,” Salazar said shortly, “What else do you do when your own house is watching you to see if you’ll turn traitor, or if you already have. You throw yourself into the patterns of that house so that no-one can doubt you belong there. Not that it’s worked.”

Greengrass raised an eyebrow. “You weren’t lying about being offered Slytherin.”

Salazar smiled thinly. “No. Not about that.” He had never entirely understood why, when he pretended to be an honest man, he was treated with blatant suspicion by everyone where by being entirely open about his nature as a treacherous, lying bastard he could be granted seven or eight positions of the highest trust and have his reliability lauded by all comers. People, it seemed, were in an unholy haste to trust those who advertised their untrustworthiness. This probably explained the startlingly poor life-expectancy of Salazar’s employers. Bagshot had accused him of murdering half of them as well, which he considered deeply unfair. It was, after all, very difficult to collect wages from a corpse. Ye gods, when someone finally succeeded in killing Koschei Bessmertny Salazar had been on the other side of the world, tutoring little Lady Ingelise of Burgundy. He’d been rather sorry to hear of it; Bessmertny had been one of his better employers. Besides, he had never been fond of unnecessary killing. He had killed, he wouldn’t deny it, but wanton destruction was not his forte.

“So,” Greengrass said, sitting down. “What did you want with my sister?”

“Nothing,” Salazar replied, for once entirely honestly, “She didn’t deserve what he was going to do to her. That’s all.”

Greengrass stared at him for a few seconds. “You really mean it,” she said, in a tone that was something close to wondering. Salazar stared back, aghast. Had things really come so far that basic human decency between his house and Godric’s could merit that tone of voice?

Greengrass found her voice again before he did. “I…I suppose I owe you a favour, then, Potter,” she said stiffly.

“There’s really no need,” Salazar said quickly. Accepting would have been taking advantage; that much he knew. He was a teacher, after all, and nothing if not a teacher, and a pretty poor teacher he would have been if he hadn’t defended Astoria Greengrass.

“Yes, there is,” Greengrass said firmly. “I won’t have it said a Greengrass wouldn’t pay her debts.”

“And if there were a debt I’d agree with you. As there is none, you have no obligation to me.”

Greengrass made a sound like a cat being strangled. “Merlin, Potter! I’m not trying to trick you into anything-”

“I never claimed you were.”

“-But I can’t let something like this go by without some repayment.”

Salazar leant back a little, considering, and then.

“I can’t think of anything in particular I might want from you or your family,” he said meditatively, “For now, shall we just say that you owe me a favour and leave it there.”

Greengrass nodded. “All right, then,” she said, and went to get up, only to be distracted by one of his pile of books. “Is that Bones’s history of Merlin?” she asked, leaning forward to take a closer look.

“Yes,” Salazar replied, reopening the Bagshot and scowling, “It’s an interesting subject, provided Professor Binns isn’t teaching it.” He still remembered how fascinated Harry Potter had been with A History of Magic in the August before he first arrived at Hogwarts, and how quickly he had lost interest after hearing it regurgitated back at him in Professor Binns’ droning voice.

“He was one of us, you know,” Greengrass said, trying to be casual and succeeding well enough, Salazar supposed, to fool an unpractised ear. “A Slytherin. Taught by Salazar himself.”

“I know,” Salazar replied, smiling properly for the first time since their conversation had begun. “It was the first thing I looked up when I got my textbooks. The rest of it didn’t mean much to me at first, but even I had heard of Merlin.” The Dursleys hadn’t been best pleased when Dudley came home from school babbling about The Sword in the Stone, which they’d been watching in class as an end-of-school treat, and that was the last time they were allowed to watch films at the end of year thanks to a furious phone call from Aunt Petunia, but Harry Potter had enjoyed it while it lasted.

It was strange, remembering the white-bearded sorcerer on the screen and the boy he had known, scrawny, scruffy Merlin Ambrosius with his jug-handle ears and mop of dark hair. Still, hopefully Bones would be able to cast some light on what his protégé had done with himself between King Vortigern’s castle and meeting the future King Arthur.

Greengrass tugged the book out, looking at its handsome green leather cover, “It’s an old edition,” she said, looking it over, “Do they have the revised?”

“Revised how?” Salazar asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Including the appendices” Greengrass replied, brushing her fingers over the cover, “My mother’s an Arthurian historian,” she added, seeing his bemusement, “It’s something of a family obsession.”

“Right. And these appendices are about…?”

“Historical context,” Greengrass said, shrugging, “Records of his time at Hogwarts, theories about his relationship with Slytherin, some digression on the spells he must have used – so much was lost in the Burning Times, so no-one is precisely sure what sort of spell-casting was around in Merlin’s day.”

I remember, Salazar determinedly restrained himself from saying. “I know,” he said instead, “So, could you help me find this revised edition, then?”

“I expect it’s within my abilities,” Greengrass said dryly. A few minutes later, Salazar had the revised edition of Merlin and a history of the Wizards’ Council prior to the Norman invasion and was discussing how it compared to the modern system with Daphne, who was beginning to remind him slightly of Rowena in her enthusiasm. And if, every now and then, some turn of phrase or other reminded him so powerfully of his own Aethelinda that it was all he could do to talk through the lump in his throat, that was no-one’s business but his.

It was Potions next and, given that Gryffindor and Slytherin had it together, there did not seem to be any particular problem with walking down to the dungeons together, so as to continue their conversation.

Somehow, they had got onto the subject of the school song, which Salazar had always been half-embarrassed by despite having played a fairly large role in composing it on that drunken night in the freshly-completed main keep of the school that had given rise to such ideas as the Sorting Hat and separate dormitories and common rooms for each of the newly-established school houses. Daphne was just wondering aloud whether it had sounded any better in the original Latin (it hadn’t) when they were interrupted by a jeer.

“Ooh, look at that! I can’t say much for your taste, Greengrass – he’s a little scrawny for your taste, isn’t he,” Salazar looked up, to see Pansy Parkinson making some quite mystifying hand gestures around chest level.

“I hardly think you have any right to talk about ‘scrawny’, Parkinson,” Daphne replied in the slow drawl that appeared to have become fashionable in Salazar’s house as of late, “Is darling Draco still keeping well?”

Parkinson coloured blotchily and sneered at them both, but made no further reply.

“Just to be clear,” Daphne added, giving him a sideways look, “If this is-”

“It isn’t,” Salazar said firmly, “I’m seeing someone.”

Daphne nodded. “So am I.”

Salazar was about to try and rekindle their earlier conversation about the sunken city of Lyonnesse, which he had visited once or twice in his thirties, before it became sunken, when he saw Godric and Rowena tramping down the stairs behind Daphne.

“Another time, then,” he said ruefully, “Thank you for the help.”

“Oh, never mind that,” Daphne said impatiently, “I don’t know that many other people who’ve managed to keep an interest in history past Binns’ first lesson. We can continue this later, yes?”

“Of course,” Salazar replied, nodding, “Excuse me.”

Godric gave Salazar an odd look when he joined them. “Who was that,” he said, his tone not quite accusing.

“Daphne Greengrass,” Salazar replied, getting out his wand to cast a charm against eavesdroppers, “McLaggen tried to hex her little sister.”

“Oh, right,” Godric said, “I think I can see the resemblance. What did she want with you?”

“To find out why I did it,” Salazar said darkly, “I’d like a word with you about that, actually, once we’re out of here. So,” he added, turning to Rowena, “What has you in this mood? Normally you’d have interrupted both of us at least twice by now.”

“I saw Helena this morning,” she said quietly.

“Oh. Oh, gods. Did she say anything-?”

“Not a word,” Rowena replied, reaching up to tug at her hair, “I…she just looked at me and disappeared. The look on her face…what did I do that was so terrible she’s still angry with me now? It’s been more than a thousand years, and she still can’t bring herself to-” she broke off, blinking furiously, and Godric put an arm around her shoulders, pressed a kiss to the shell of her ear.

“Are you sure she recognised you?” Salazar asked, as gently as he thought she could bear.

“Certain,” Rowena assured him, “She stopped dead when she saw me and the look on her face…” she shook her head, looking utterly miserable. Salazar looked from Rowena to Godric and back again, taking in the stricken look on Godric’s face, the way Rowena’s hand was wrapped white-knuckled around his wrist. Tanith’s face danced for a second before Salazar’s eyes, tearing away at him, bringing back to full strength the dull pain that had lurked around the edges of his consciousness since Helga had told him of what had happened. Even after that, he still couldn’t quite grasp it. He half-expected to see her around every corner, coming to him with some ridiculous story or other about how her latest scrape wasn’t really her fault. They were, to be fair, very entertaining excuses more often than not, but she hadn’t yet got the trick of making them plausible. He had had less trouble with the others; hearing Helga talking about their children and grandchildren, Aethelinda’s continuation of her mother’s research and Lelia’s hoped-for ascension to the position of Chieftainess of the Wizards’ Council had made their lives real to him, and for all that he still grieved that he had not been there to see it, that he was not even now watching them become the women Helga had described, he could be sure that they had been happy in the end. Tanith, though…Gods, she’d been fourteen years old just days ago, not knowing how little time she had left. There were so many things he wished he’d said, now, so many things she’d never do. And how much worse must it be for Rowena and Godric when the only child of theirs to survive infancy still shunned them even in death?

He looked away, knowing he should try and offer some comfort, but unable to find any words that wouldn’t sound cheap and meaningless in the face of such a grief. It was almost a relief when the dungeon door swung open, and Salazar was faced with the teacher whose lessons he had been most interested in observing. Memory was deceptive, he could not forget that. For years, he had thought of the Isles in the most glowing terms, prevented as he was from returning there, forgetting the corruption of the Wizards’ Council, the barbarity of a system made up of petty warlords squabbling amongst themselves and the peculiarities of the British weather. Just because his thirty-year-old memories of Snape suggested that the man was a petty tyrant didn’t mean the man was necessarily such.

Salazar leant in to whisper to the others just before he dispelled the anti-eavesdropping charm. “Best to make this look good. Remember, we’re not supposed to be speaking right now.”

With that, he stalked off to stand a little removed from the Gryffindors, glowering furiously and burying his hands deep in the pockets of his robes.

The group filed in, and Salazar, adopting the expression of a man walking to his execution, went over to where Crabbe, Goyle and Malfoy usually worked.

“May I sit here, please,” he asked Goyle, pointedly ignoring the other two Slytherins.

The dumbfounded look on Goyle’s face might have been amusing, if it hadn’t been so sad. When had anyone last asked him anything, Salazar wondered, instead of just ordering it done?

“Um…” Goyle cast a frightened look over at Malfoy, who didn’t seem to have noticed Salazar standing there, “I’m not sure…” He had a surprisingly soft voice, Salazar noticed, attempting a grimace of commiseration.

“Please? Ron and Hermione aren’t speaking to me right now, and most of the other Gryffindors are convinced I’m a raving lunatic.”

“Are you,” Goyle asked, and flinched as though expecting to be struck. Salazar pretended to ignore it, filing it away as another piece of the puzzle.

“I don’t know,” Salazar replied, shrugging, “I don’t think I am, but then, I expect most lunatics think the same. Do you mind if I sit here or not? I can find somewhere else if…”

“No,” Goyle said quickly, “It’s…um, it’s fine.”

“Thanks,” Salazar replied, unpacking his cauldron as Malfoy finally noticed his presence.

“What are you doing over here, Potter?” he sneered, “Granger and the Weasel both ditched you?”

“Yes,” Salazar replied casually, not even bothering to look up and see the inevitable look of slightly-flushed fury on Malfoy’s face.

Malfoy was about to reply when Snape swept in after the stragglers, closing the dungeon door with a soft click.

“Settle down,” he said coldly, his eyes raking over the class, and Salazar had to fight to keep his expression neutral as he felt a foreign mind pushing insistently at his shields. So, Snape was a Legilimens, was he? That fit. Salazar spared a moment to thank any and all gods that might be listening that he had insisted on teaching the other three Occlumency during the time in which Hogwarts was being built. They were already taking on students then, although the building of the castle itself occupied much of their time, and this insistence had not been popular, but he could imagine they were glad of it now. He certainly was; the last thing he needed was for Snape to find out the truth and pass it on to the Order…or to Voldemort.

“Potter,” Snape said in a low, carrying voice when he reached Salazar and Goyle’s shared workspace, “Can it be you have finally reached such a level of ineptitude that you can get lost within a classroom?”

“Professor?” Salazar asked, fighting to keep his voice politely questioning, rather than outright hostile.

“Tell me, Potter, where are the rest of the Gryffindors?”

Salazar inclined his head grudgingly towards the lions on the other side of the room.

“May I ask why you are not with them?”

“I don’t see how that’s relevant…sir.”

“Ten points from Gryffindor. I expect an answer, Potter, and not more of your apparently endless insolence.”

“There is no rule to say I am not allowed to sit here,” Salazar said, shrugging, “And if people are going to make snide comments about me, I’d rather they do it openly than otherwise. Will that do?”

Apparently it wouldn’t do, as Salazar lost fifteen more points for Gryffindor before Snape lost patience and stalked away, but as Salazar had no particular desire for Gryffindor to win the House Cup this year, this suited him perfectly.

Snape’s behaviour after that was fairly restrained: he set them a potion, put instructions on the board and left them to it. About what Salazar himself would have done under the same circumstances. However, his hope that he might have misjudged Snape evaporated as soon as the man reached Neville’s cauldron.

“What,” Snape said in a low but carrying voice, “Is this, Longbottom?” with one hand, he lifted a jar of flobberworm mucus. Salazar couldn’t make out Neville’s reply, but no-one could avoid hearing Snape’s reply. “No, Longbottom, it is not syrup of hellebore. To think,” he continued, his voice growing louder, “I should have found a fifth-year student who couldn’t tell syrup from mucus. What must I do to make you understand, Longbottom?”

“Labelling your ingredients might be an idea,” Godric said loudly from the back of the classroom.

Snape’s face went white with anger. “Ten points from Gryffindor,” he snapped, “And another five, Longbottom, for your idiocy.”

Salazar’s fingers tightened around the handle of the knife he was using to slice horned slugs. He had never liked the use of humiliation in the classroom: some people were naturally good at a subject and some weren’t, and you couldn’t change one into the other by making snide remarks or shouting. Practice and hard work were what was wanted, and terrifying the students into hating you and the subject both wasn’t what was needed to encourage either one. That would have been enough to make him dislike Snape on its own, but the sheer savage enjoyment Snape seemed to derive from badgering Neville, the way he would overlook any mistake made by a Slytherin but ruthlessly pick apart that same mistake in a Gryffindor…it disgusted Salazar. The Gryffindors, admittedly, might learn something by it, but for the Slytherins, his Slytherins, to learn nothing because their Head of House coddled them? To come out of school assuming the world would just hand them whatever it is they want from it because that’s what Professor Snape always did? The thought made him sick to his stomach to contemplate. This was not what he had wanted Slytherin House to stand for. He had wanted to create something magnificent, to make up for the horrors of his years in exile, the things he had done to feed himself when there was no other work to be had. How could things have gone so far wrong?

“Chop these, Goyle,” Malfoy said imperiously from a little further along the table, “And be careful with them, you great oaf.” Salazar bit back a groan.

This continued for the rest of the lesson. Goyle seemed to take far less care with his own potion than with Malfoy’s for some reason, which puzzled Salazar slightly until he figured it out and then it seemed perfectly obvious. Of course. The Dursleys had never liked it when Dudley was outshone, and they had just been ordinary suburban Muggles. How much less must Lucius Malfoy like the prospect of his son and heir being surpassed in anything by one of his future bannermen? That would certainly explain why Goyle had seemed to resemble an ape more than a human being for so long while maintaining good enough marks not to have to repeat a year as Sally-Anne Perks had done. Goyle didn’t come across as a natural potioneer, but then, neither was Salazar. He’d been appalling at potions until Caecilia had lost patience with him and taught him herself. He did, however, seem to be a pretty methodical worker, if how much effort it seemed to be costing him to be slapdash was any indication. How had no-one noticed this before? Because he was Goyle, and therefore beneath notice? He had found the first of Daphne Greengrass’s levers without even trying – she had an interest, and no-one to share it with. He didn’t think she trusted him, but she liked having someone to talk to and that would do for a foothold. For Goyle…it hit him then like a bolt of lightning. For Goyle, it was something so simple it was almost sad. The boy had been treated like a lackey by Malfoy and his like ever since he arrived at Hogwarts. Salazar remembered all too well what that had been like, how willing he had been to do anything for Matilda ferch Elisud when she so much as asked him to help her with the supper instead of just ordering him about. He’d been just a boy at the time, but he’d never forgotten. Goyle was anyone’s for a smile and a kind word, and Malfoy an even greater fool than Salazar had suspected.

By the end of the lesson, Salazar had been able to produce a fairly good potion. It was one of Caecilia’s inventions, this one, and it had felt like an insult to her memory to produce anything less than his best effort. Sentimental of him, he knew, but there it was. Snape passed over Salazar’s work with a renewed push of Legilimency and a glare, which meant he had not been able to find anything to criticise. It would be suspicious, Salazar knew, but Snape was known to dislike him and if the plan he had begun to formulate was to work, a few irregularities would have to be noticed in Harry Potter’s behaviour.

“Thanks,” he said to Goyle, once Snape had moved on to sneer at Godric’s work, “For letting me work here. I wasn’t sure if I’d be welcome.”

“’s fine,” Goyle said, shifting awkwardly, “Look, ’bout Tuesday…”

“I won’t tell if you won’t,” Salazar said, “I know you’ll be in trouble if Malfoy finds out. My cousin’s about the same way.”

Goyle flashed a hopeful half-smile and Salazar returned it. It was a start.

*

“Mental, that’s what you are,” Godric said disbelievingly when Salazar joined him and Rowena for their next lesson. “Of all the people in Slytherin house, you go for Gregory Goyle?”

Salazar gave him a hard look. “What is wrong with Goyle?” he said coldly.

 “Well, apart from his being thicker than a concussed troll…” Godric started, looking over at Rowena for support. “I mean…wasn’t there anyone else? Goyle’s father’s a Death Eater, isn’t he? Why actively seek out Death Eaters’ kids?”

“Looks can be deceiving,” Salazar said with a shrug, “And I was under the impression you disapproved of discriminating between students on the basis of what their parents were.”

Godric’s ears went red. “I didn’t mean- Not like that, Sal!”

“Then how?” Salazar snapped, “Please explain to me, Godric, how-”

“Oh, will you give it a rest?” Rowena said exhaustedly, “You’re worse than Godric and I when we were first courting.”

“Sorry,” Salazar said shortly, looking away and out of the window. Outside, he could see a familiar mane of autumn-coloured hair making its way across the lawn to the greenhouses. He’d know Helga anywhere, no matter what. What would Professor Sprout make of Ginny Weasley’s sudden brilliance with plants, he wondered? It wasn’t an area that had come naturally to either one of them, but Helga had taken to it rather more easily than Salazar, and she had used those skills every day on the battlefield, where she had served as a nurse just as often as soldier. Even now, the scent of the greenhouses on the wind brought back memories of Matilda ferch Elisud’s hut on the Welsh marches. Except that hut had never existed, and he had never been found crouched and starving in Matilda’s chicken-coop, his hands full of eggs he had no means of paying for, had never trailed at Matilda’s heels like a dog as she taught him which herbs could be used to cure a fever and which would induce a dreamless sleep. He could find counterparts for nearly every incident of that time he remembered in Harry Potter’s memories, and sometimes it was hard to remember which the original set was.

He shook himself, and returned his attention to Professor Binns for ten seconds before getting bored and giving up.

“Anyway,” he said quickly, “Who did you replace me with? After I…left?” That sounded slightly better than ‘disappeared’.

“No-one for the first year or so,” Rowena said, sounding awkward, “The rest of us tried to balance it, but it seemed unfair on the Slytherins, so we sent ravens to all your old students, asking if anyone wanted to try their hand at teaching, and after that we seemed to end up with a different head of Slytherin every year, almost, until Aethelinda came home from Persia to take over teaching potions.”

Salazar smiled at that. “She was always going to make a brilliant teacher.”

“She was a lot better than I’d have expected of someone her age,” Rowena admitted, “I was a bit surprised by that, to be honest, given how much she took after…”

“After her mother?” Salazar supplied, “I fail to see why. Just because Caecilia didn’t like teaching very much didn’t mean she couldn’t do it.” He noticed that Rowena’s eyes were starting to look misty, and changed the subject before she was reminded even more strongly of Helena than she already had been.

“Do you think we’ll be able to remove Snape before we reveal ourselves?” he asked, quite casually, and saw Godric choke.

“Remove- Sal, are you serious?”

“The man’s a Legilimens,” Salazar said shortly, “A good one. And, moreover, an absolutely appalling teacher. I will not have a man like that influencing the minds of my students. I will not permit it!”

“We know, Salazar, we know,” Rowena said hurriedly, “But we’re still just students, we can’t-”

“Not through direct means, no,” Salazar conceded. “But there are other ways of dealing with people.”

“You’re not suggesting we kill him?” Godric said, disgusted.

Salazar glared at him. “You have killed far more people than I ever did,” he said coolly. “Are you really going to sit there and call me a murderer?” He had seen too much of death in his life. He wanted no more of it. Godric hadn’t been obliged to watch his opponents die, and in the chaos of a pitched battle it was impossible to hear out the dying man’s last words, to stay until the light faded from behind his eyes. Salazar had had to, several times, and the faces of all those men were there behind his eyelids, always. Men with names and families and funny little ways, all gone because of him. “In any case,” Salazar continued, when it became clear Godric wasn’t going to answer. “The loss of Snape would do the Order no favours, and as they’re the only people who appear to have noticed the return of my dear great-grandson, not to mention most of my surviving family being part of it…” he shrugged, “We’ll need to have a replacement lined up ahead of time, of course. I will not have the Ministry foist another Umbridge on Slytherin house.”

“You seem very sure of what you won’t have, Salazar,” Rowena said dryly.

“What would you do if it were your house?” Salazar said bitterly. “How are things with the Ravenclaws, by the by?”

“About as I’d expected,” Rowena admitted, “Luna knows, so she’s been fairly positive, even if I’m still not sure I believe in her theory about what brought us here. The rest have been fairly distant, but I suppose that’s to be expected what with…well, everything.”

“Her theory?” Godric asked, leaning over.

“She thinks…” Rowena shook her head, “She thinks that we were sent back by some sort of wild magic in the storm that night.”

Salazar snorted. “I’m disappointed, I was rather hoping it would turn out to be the work of Crumple-Horned Snorkacks.”

Rowena glared at him. “I thought you liked Luna.”

“I do,” Salazar said, raising a hand to stay the tirade he knew was coming, “I just…wild magic storms? Really? Even in our time, the idea was considered completely insane.”

“Quite a lot of things were considered completely insane in our time, Salazar,” Rowena said tartly, “A fair few of them turned out to exist.”

Godric gave her a strange look, “You’re not saying you believe-”

“Of course I don’t,” Rowena said shortly, “But I can’t exactly discount the idea she might be right. They said most of the things we did were impossible, didn’t they? When did that ever stop us?”

Godric grinned at her, “If I could go back in time…” Rowena glared at him, which only made him grin wider.

“Rub it in all you like,” Rowena said haughtily, “Just because you’ve barely changed since you turned twenty-!”

“I haven’t-!”

Salazar tuned them out. Listening to Godric and Rowena’s bickering always felt strangely intrusive, as though he had walked in on the two of them in bed.

Rowena was right. No matter how sincerely the three of them might try, none of them but Godric could ever fully earn the trust of their students. He did not even want to think of consequences of revealing themselves, letting the whole world believe that Hogwarts was founded by four Gryffindors. No-one would ever let them live it down. And yet, they couldn’t remain in hiding forever, his pride alone would not allow it, and it would be difficult to do all they wished without being known for who they truly were.

And then the idea came to him.

Of course. Why hadn’t he thought of it earlier? It would be difficult, of course, but not impossible, and he already had some idea of how to go about it. The only real difficulty would be in getting Rowena to agree to such a flagrant breach of school rules as this plan was bound to require.

*

Salazar was not able to snatch a moment alone with Helga until that evening, when she returned to the Gryffindor common room later than usual, a smirk on her lips and her long hair in complete disarray.

She threw herself down into the same sofa as Salazar with a satisfied grin, and Salazar was startled when she leant over for a quick, chaste kiss.

“What was that for?” he asked, bemused, when she drew away.

Helga raised her eyebrows, “You’re complaining?”

“No,” Salazar admitted, moving a little closer, “I just…I was expecting that you’d need more time, if you still-”

“I’ve had time,” Helga said, catching his hand, “Years and years of it. Why waste any more?”

Salazar tipped his head to the side, mock-considering. “Well, when you put it like that…”

“I thought as much,” Helga said. This time, the kiss was far less chaste.

Salazar drew away first, one hand still caught in Helga’s hair, and smiled to see a leaf caught in it. Some things never changed.

“What have you been doing?” he asked, picking it out.

“What- Oh, that. Couple of second-year Hufflepuffs wanted to get in some Quidditch practice after the try-outs. Apparently there was some sort of broom accident that meant they couldn’t try out this year. They wouldn’t tell me the details, of course.” There was just a hint of bitterness in that last sentence. “When I’ve finished with that damned hat they’re going to have to re-make it inside-out.”

“Leave some for me,” Salazar replied in an undertone, “And I think Ro will have something to say to it as well. Godric, too, now I come to think of it.”

“About McLaggen?” Helga asked, raising her eyebrows. Salazar nodded, and she snorted. “Of course. He almost makes Smith look tolerable. How did things go with your Slytherins?”

“Well enough,” Salazar replied, shrugging, “And your Hufflepuffs? Any new talent for next year’s Quidditch team I should know about?”

“Some,” Helga replied, a slight, mischievous smirk crossing her face for a second, before coming back and camping there. “Just you wait, Slytherin. Next year is going to be Hufflepuff’s year.”

“That’s assuming a lot,” Salazar said, smirking back at her, and then sobered rapidly when something caught his eye on the far side of the common room. “We’d better try and find another subject,” he said under his breath, “Your brothers are coming over.”

“What- Oh, gods. I’m over a hundred years old, can’t they give it a rest?”

“Probably not, no,” Salazar muttered, bracing himself for the inevitable row. “Feel free to hex them if you want to. I can tell Professor McGonagall it was self-defence.”

“I don’t think she’d believe you if you did,” Helga murmured back, and it looked for a moment as though she might have said more if she hadn’t been cut off by the sudden arrival of her brothers.

“Ron out of the way?” Fred asked, flopping down onto an armchair and looking about himself curiously.

“He and Hermione are on patrol, if that’s what you mean,” Helga said coolly, picking her battered and much-repaired Herbology textbook off the table and opening it, “Why?”

“We, ah, got into a bit of a row with him earlier,” George said, shifting a little awkwardly on his feet, “’Bout the first-years we’ve been using as testers. I’ll bet you anything that Hermione put him up to it.”

“He gave us a right ear-bashing,” Fred agreed, “I didn’t know he could sound that much like Mum.”

Salazar raised an eyebrow, “I’d have thought Percy was the more obvious comparison,” he said cautiously, watching their faces to gage what they thought of that. The glares he got in response were much more impressive than he had been expecting.

“Yeah, well, Percy was different,” George said darkly, “I mean, you saw him when he was a prefect here.”

“I remember,” Helga said, sharing a worried look with Salazar.

“Well, I remember what Bill was like, his last year here,” Fred continued, “And I think Ron might be trying to channel his spirit.”

“What’s wrong with that?” Helga said, scowling at the pair of them. “Haven’t you tried testing them on people your own age?” Salazar knew that tone of voice. It was the same tone she’d directed at him, whenever one of their arguments started over whether or not allowing Muggle-born students into the school was an acceptable risk. Quiet, firm, implacable. I am going to win this argument, that tone said, And I will do so in my own good time.

“Nothing’s wrong with it, it’s just weird,” George said, shrugging, “I mean, he didn’t used to make such a fuss about the snackboxes, did he?”

“You didn’t used to test them on eleven-year-olds,” Salazar said dryly. “I’m with Ginny on this one.”

“Of course you are,” Fred said, grinning, “Well, you got him trained quickly,” he added to his sister, his grin widening further, “We’ll just deliver the customary threat of decapitation if he ever hurts you and be on our way, then.”

“Only decapitation? I’m almost offended,” Salazar replied, but Helga frowned.

“What was it you were going to say before that?” she asked, frowning.

Fred and George exchanged a look, then George sat down in the armchair across from his brother’s.

“We-ell, we just didn’t think Ron would approve of our newest idea,” Fred remarked, almost casually.

“Go on, then,” Helga prodded, when the twins failed to continue further, “You can’t just leave it at that. What new chaos do you plan to unleash on us all?” there was an edge of laughter in her voice, and Salazar smiled a little to hear it. It had been too long.

“Not too good for a bit of honest rule-breaking, then? Thank Merlin. I thought the world was coming to an end when Ron had a go at us earlier.”

Salazar gave a low, dry chuckle. The world truly would come to an end on the day that Salazar Slytherin was thought too good for anything, least of all the bending of rules.

“All right,” George said, apparently taking Salazar’s laughter as agreement, “Given that we’re being threatened with Mum if Ron catches us testing on the first-years, we were wondering…”

“Whether you might help us with something else,” Fred finished, grinning at his sister. “I’ve heard Umbridge is giving you trouble.”

“I lost twenty house points today for correcting her pronunciation of the Cruciatus curse,” Helga said, baring her teeth in a grin.

“The title or the incantation?” Salazar inquired, looking over at her.

“The title,” Helga replied, “She seemed quite familiar with the incantation.”

Why didn’t that come as any surprise?

“Yeah, well,” Fred pressed on, “You’re not the only one. You’ve heard what she did to Dennis Creevey?”

“Made him write lines that carved his hand open?” Salazar asked, his voice dangerously calm. Helga, next to him, had gone white as a sheet, her hands white-knuckled on the arm of the sofa.

“Yeah,” George said, “How did you-”

Wordlessly, Salazar raised his scarred hand. Why was it that he didn’t seem to be able to avoid scarring on his right hand? If it wasn’t the murderer’s brand he had been marked with after Morpeth’s death it was Umbridge and her damnable quill. People in authority had a rather worrying fondness for scribbling all over his hands, and Salazar didn’t like it in the least.

“She’s doing that to second-years,” Helga said furiously, her eyes blazing.

“She’s doing it to everyone,” Fred replied, his voice grim, “A few have tried to complain to McGonagall, but Umbridge has the whole Ministry behind her, and part of this ‘High Inquisitor’ thing is freedom to punish whoever she wants however she wants.”

“So,” George added, “Fred and I were thinking that we might be able to kill two birds with one stone and…”

“Test the snackboxes on Umbridge,” Helga finished for him. “How do I come into this?”

“You’re a lot friendlier with the house-elves than we are,” George said bluntly, “Don’t lie, Ginny. They’ve been falling all over themselves to impress you since we showed you the way down to the kitchens. I reckon they’d do just about anything if you asked them to, including make sure that some of our recipe for the Puking Pastilles-”

“-Or any of the snackboxes, really-” Fred cut in.

“Ends up in Umbridge’s tea.”

Helga grinned widely. “Why didn’t you say so earlier? Of course I’ll do it! How long do the effects last if you don’t swallow the other end?”

“That’s what we’re trying to find out,” George replied, grinning back at her, “Should we give you the potion now, or-”

“Now’s fine,” Helga said casually, returning to her book, “I expect you’ll know when I do it.”

“Right. We’ve only got the Fever Fudge with us,”

“The one with the huge, pus-filled boils that you’ve yet to find a way to get rid of?” Salazar asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Wonderful,” Helga said, accepting a bottle of something light blue and viscous from Fred and leaning back against Salazar’s shoulder. “If I do this, you swear you won’t tell Mum?”

“Our lips are sealed,” George said cheerfully, “You’re going to have to tell her sooner or later, though. I mean, she’s hardly going to mind, not when it’s Harry. She’s practically adopted him already.”

“Thanks,” Helga replied, looking distinctly relived. Salazar wasn’t entirely sure whether to feel insulted or not, having assumed that they were talking about the planned drugging of Umbridge’s tea until his name was dragged into it.

“You two had better go,” he said looking over at the portrait hole, “Ron would probably be pretty keen on the idea of doing something like that to Umbridge, but you can bet Hermione won’t be.”

“Got it,” Fred said, looking the same way and wincing as first Rowena and then Godric climbed through the portrait-hole, “You’ll tell us when-”

“I don’t think I’ll really need to,” Helga replied, mischief glittering in her eyes and lending something faintly diabolical to her smile before raising her voice. “Don’t come over, you two, we’re leaving.”

“Where to?” Salazar asked in a low voice as they gathered up their things and made to leave.

“The kitchens,” Helga replied, “I’d rather not have this overheard.”

*

Activity in the kitchens was just starting to wind down when the four Founders arrived there, so it wasn’t terribly difficult to find a seat at the downstairs equivalent of the high table. The house-elves seemed strangely wary of them now; even Dobby, who could previously have been counted on to run over and say hello, avoided Salazar’s eyes. It stung a bit, to be so distrusted, but Salazar was getting used to the feeling. It felt a bit like one of their old war councils from the early days of the school, the four of them sitting up around a table with a plate of bread and sausages to share and a jug of wine between them.

As always, they got through the meal before anyone thought of speaking – Salazar had missed lunch to research his own legacy, and been too disquieted by it to eat much at dinner and by the way Rowena was getting through the sausages she had spent her breaks in much the same way.

“Which idiot was it,” he said coldly, “That thought that man at all suited to teaching anyone anything?”

The other three exchanged a look.

“Snape?” Helga asked Rowena, who nodded. Salazar took a sip of wine to cover his annoyance, wincing at how overpoweringly sweet it tasted.

“Anyway,” Rowena said, when it became clear Salazar had nothing further to say on the subject of Severus Snape, “Never mind that. Have you been able to make any contacts in your house, Helga?”

“A few,” Helga replied, shrugging, “I already had a fair few friends in Hufflepuff as Ginny, so it wasn’t that hard. How did things go with your Ravenclaws?”

Rowena smiled, “I’ve had a fair few comments about how I should’ve been in Ravenclaw from the start. And there’s Luna, of course. Still, it’s a bit difficult to be trusted, what with…you know.”

“The fact that we’re all in Gryffindor,” Helga said darkly, “When I get my hands on that hat…!”

“Get in line,” Godric interrupted, “I want a few words with it about what sort of people should be let into Gryffindor – McLaggen’s out, for a start.”

“I’m not sure that will work, Godric,” Rowena said, raising a hand to silence him when he turned to her, furious. “No, look, hear me out. We can’t just turn people out because they’re-”

“Arseholes?” Helga suggested.

“Less than we’d have hoped,” Rowena settled on, “I mean, he’s not particularly suited to either mine or Salazar’s houses-”

“Leave me out of this,” Salazar said firmly, taking a sip of wine and wincing at the sweetness of it. He was not accustomed to sweet wine, had never quite got the taste for it, and pushed the goblet away with almost insulting speed.

“-And I don’t think he’d really fit with Helga’s house either, if what I’ve heard about him is true,” Rowena finished, “Really, Godric, where else were we supposed to put him?”

“All right, then,” Godric said, nodding even though he still looked mutinous, “I can’t get rid of McLaggen. What about Smith, though? Helga, you said-”

“Actually, that’s a fairly good point,” Salazar said, looking over, “What is it about Smith that made you want rid of him that much?”

Helga scowled. “He goes against everything Hufflepuff is supposed to stand for,” she said shortly, “He’s a proven cheat, an awful worker, wouldn’t know loyalty if it up and introduced itself in person…” she shook her head, disgusted, “He’s not that bright, though, and he’s a snivelling coward, so I’m not sure where else he’d go.”

Salazar, who knew exactly where else Zacharias Smith would go and was not at all enthused by the prospect, cut in. “First things first,” he said smoothly, “It’s all very well to talk about what to do once we have the Sorting Hat, but the fact remains that we don’t actually have it. Not yet.”

“You’re right,” Godric said, nodding, “Dumbledore’s meant to be a genius, there’s no way he’d just leave something with that much power lying around.”

“I don’t know,” Salazar countered, thoroughly annoying everyone else in the room by so doing, “I was able to just pick it up and put it on in second year. The problem is going to be getting it out of the room without Dumbledore noticing it’s gone,” he paused for a second, then added, “Is the re-Sorting rule still in place, do you know, Rowena?”

“Um…I think so,” Rowena replied, slightly thrown by this shift in the conversation. “It’s really rare, though, and it has to be initiated by the Sorting Hat itself, with the permission of the students to be re-Sorted. I read it in-”

“Hogwarts: A History?” Godric said innocently, “How far back does that go?”

“To before us,” Salazar replied grimly, “I read it this morning.”

Helga gave him a sidelong look, “Not happy with it, were you?” she asked, a grin making its way across her face.

“I don’t see why,” Rowena said, sounding quite affronted, “I remember it as one of the most accurate, reliable and impartial accounts of the school’s history I’d ever-”

“The author accused me of forcing Caecilia to marry me, murdering most of my employers and advocating Muggle genocide.”

Rowena blinked. “Well,” she said awkwardly, “Bagshot’s sources might not have been…”

“I wasn’t even in the right country when most of them died,” Salazar continued, his voice worryingly level, “And then she accused me of being behind the sinking of Ys, despite having mentioned that I was at the court of Marya Morevna in Russia at the time a page and a half earlier.”

“Yes, yes, all right, you’ve made your point,” Rowena snapped, “But it seems mostly reliable on the modern rules, because I double-checked them against Filch’s list September of our first year.”

“Gods, that’s strange to think about,” Godric said, rubbing at his eyes, “Some days I can’t even remember we had a first year here. I keep getting mixed up between the bits of me that are Godric and the bits of me that are Ron.”

“Same,” Helga agreed, pulling a face, “I forgot yesterday that I’m not supposed to spend breaks in the staffroom and only remembered when I reached the gargoyles. They’d have let me in, too, by the sound of it.”

“It is a bit of a nuisance,” Rowena agreed, “But we’re going to have to wait a week or two before we even try to get our hands on the hat. The last thing we need is to be involved in two suspicious-looking incidents in a fortnight.”

“Who says we need to be involved in it?” Helga asked, draining her goblet, “Are you an Animagus or aren’t you?”

“I think an enormous sea-eagle soaring in through Dumbledore’s office window and making off with the Sorting Hat might be a bit conspicuous,” Rowena said, frowning.

“Besides,” Salazar added, “The windows only open from the inside out.”

“They open now?” Godric said disbelievingly, “Bit of a change from our day!”

“A thousand years will do that,” Helga replied, smirking at him. “Has it been a thousand years?”

“Rather more, I should think,” Rowena said distractedly, “I think it could be done, though, if there was someone inside who could open the windows for me.”

Three sets of eyes turned to fix on Salazar.

Chapter 6: In which there are Thestrals

“My lord,”

“What is it, Lucius? Do you bring news?”

“I do, my lord. From one of our spies in the Department of Mysteries. There is…”

“What is it, Lucius?”

“My lord, there is a prophecy-”

“I know of the prophecy, Lucius. You shall have to-”

“My lord, it is not that prophecy of which I speak. There is another, newly made, which claims that, before the equinox, your noble ancestor, Salazar Slytherin, shall return to us, alongside his fellow Founders. It says…”

“Go on.”

“It says, my lord, that the Founders have a part to play in our war. The Ministry is suppressing knowledge of it; they fear it will create a panic, but-”

“You have done well. My ancestor’s return will be a great boon to our cause. Now, leave me. I have much to think about. Try to discover as much as you can about this prophecy. Use all your contacts at the Ministry. Do not fail me. Lord Voldemort does not forgive failure.”

“Of course, my lord.”

Salazar shot bolt upright in a cold sweat, the last words of the dream playing over and over in his ears, the image of Lucius Malfoy kneeling at his feet still imprinted on the inside of his eyelids.

What in the name of all the gods-? Salazar checked his Occlumency shields, and found them whole. Did Voldemort, then, possess some power Salazar did not know? Had Occlumency moved on so far? It was a sobering thought, but one that fell apart fairly quickly when examined. Why would Voldemort want Harry Potter to see what Salazar had? Gaps in Salazar’s Occlumency? Those could be dealt with. In the meantime, there was a new factor to consider. A new piece on the board, Godric would say, although Salazar had never much cared for chess himself.

He relaxed slowly back onto the bed, still feeling strange and uncomfortable so far above ground level. He and Helga had shared quarters underground, deep and quiet and dark more often than not. It felt strange to be lying in this tower dormitory, with four other people’s snoring in his ears and no warm, solidly-muscled body pressed close against his side, Helga’s legs entangled with his and her hair tickling at his nose.

So, there was a prophecy. Two prophecies, if he’d heard correctly, being held at the Department of Mysteries. Well, this at least gave him an iron-clad excuse to visit Dumbledore’s office in a week or so. Prophecy wasn’t Salazar’s favourite thing in the world – most of them were only really decipherable with hindsight, which was no bloody use to anybody, except perhaps historians (and Salazar wasn’t feeling particularly charitable towards them at the moment, either) – but he’d be a fool to deny their potency. He was going to need specifics, and soon. The only difficulty would be in acquiring such.

This latest bout of plotting, however, was soon interrupted by by a tapping at the dormitory window. Salazar looked around. Hedwig was perched on the windowsill, holding her wing at an uncomfortable angle and looking distinctly woebegone. Broken wing, his mind said, even as his hands fumbled with the latch to let her in without taking the risk of tipping her off the sill. He drew in a soft, hissing breath through his teeth once she was close enough to examine properly, and Summoned a towel from the bathroom with a wordless flick of his wand, and set about wrapping her in it, holding her wings close to her body and making sure to support her feet with the other hand.

The break looked like it had been caused by an attack of some sort, which was worrying enough. Thestrals might do something of this sort, Salazar supposed, but he’d never heard of any incidents like this before, and if Hagrid had them tamed well enough to pull carriages, they would certainly have been trained out of going for owls. He’d really have to ask Hagrid how he managed that, when he got back from whatever it was Dumbledore had him doing abroad, Salazar had never managed to do more than train them out of attacking the castle ravens and occasionally allowing him to take one for a ride.

There was nothing for it – the wing needed to be bound as soon as possible, and so Salazar threw on his plainest set of work robes and made his way down to the Common Room, with the intention of visiting the owlery.

The common room was deserted when he went down, the still portrait of Godric on the far wall the only painting in the room from which loud snoring could not be heard. Salazar still remembered the day it had been painted, five years before the last night of Salazar’s former life. They’d all had them done, although there had been no means of animating them then. They had apparently been hung since Salazar had been forced to leave everything he knew, and the portrait had been something of a fixture of Harry Potter’s time at Hogwarts, although he had never paid it much mind. It was very strange, seeing Godric’s face in oils with a plaque reading ‘Our noble Founder, Godric Gryffindor’ beneath it. Possibly the only thing stranger would have been to see a similar monument to himself.

Hedwig gave a feeble hoot from the towel in his hands, and Salazar shook himself, stepping out of the portrait-hole to make his way up to the owlery. It had been the nest of the school ravens, in his day, but the supplies needed were similar, and he couldn’t imagine his methods worked any less well on modern owls than the ravens of his own time.

When he reached the owlery, however, he did not find it quite as empty as he might have preferred.

“Oh,” he said, startled, “Hello.”

“’lo,” Goyle muttered, hunching his shoulders. He was holding a tiny little scops owl in his ham-like hands and had the trapped, hunted look of a small child caught in wrongdoing. Salazar lifted Hedwig a little as he continued.

“She came in ten minutes ago with a broken wing. I’ll probably have to keep her caged for the rest of the month. She’ll hate me for it, but…” he shrugged, and went to busy himself fetching a cloth and some water to see to any open wounds Hedwig might have. There was gauze available, mercifully enough, and he kept his back to Goyle as he bound up Hedwig’s wing and topped up the food and water in her cage before setting her down on her perch. She hooted indignantly at him, nipping lightly at his fingers.

“It’s only for a month or so, and then you’ll be flying again,” Salazar said firmly, shutting the cage door. Hedwig gave him a baleful look and turned away haughtily. Out of the corner of his eye, Salazar could see the tension drain out of Goyle’s shoulders. “What’s her name?” he asked, gesturing to the scops owl Goyle still held.

Goyle stared at him for a few long moments, as though suspecting some trick, and then. “Araceli,” he said gruffly, “I got her over the summer.”

“This is Hedwig,” Salazar replied, gesturing to Hedwig’s cage. “I’ve had her since I was eleven.” As he said it, he fished a rolled-up letter from the canister previously attached to Hedwig’s leg and unrolled it, keeping Goyle in his peripheral vision as he went.

He stepped away to open the letter, giving Goyle a few seconds.

It was from Sirius. Of course it was. Who else would be writing to him? All the same, the thought of his godfather filled Salazar with a mixture of elation and dread. How would Sirius, who had never made any secret of his hatred for Slytherin house, accept a re-Sort, should Salazar and his companions succeed in coercing the Hat into suggesting one? He couldn’t imagine what Sirius would do when he found out the truth of Salazar’s identity, and the mere thought of trying to tell him left a tight, hard knot in Salazar’s stomach.

 

Harry

I can’t say everything I want to in a letter. Can you ensure that you are alone by the fire in the Gryffindor Common Room this Saturday between two and three o’clock in the morning?

Snuffles

 

Salazar stared at the letter in mounting alarm, and immediately checked his pockets for a spare quill. He found one, then looked over at Goyle.

“Could you lend me some parchment?”

“Um…course,” Goyle said, still sounding somewhat wrong-footed. “Um…”

“Thanks,” Salazar replied, taking the offered parchment. “I’ve never heard you speak before, I don’t think.” Goyle went pink and shrugged awkwardly, but didn’t say anything. “I’m not complaining,” Salazar said quickly, “Just an observation.”

He returned to writing a reply to Sirius before Goyle could offer a reply.

 

Snuffles,

Idea infeasible and unsafe. Need to find better means of communication, as new DADA professor likely monitoring all fireplaces, especially Gryffindor common room. Fear your last letter may already have been intercepted.

 

It would need to be delivered via school owl, with Hedwig out of commission, but that would likely be rather safer in any case. Hedwig was, after all, a very distinctive bird – the only snowy at Hogwarts – and Umbridge would be looking out for her specifically. He settled in the end on a handsome eagle owl who bore enough of a resemblance to Draco Malfoy’s that it was unlikely to be targeted. Just to be sure, though, Salazar turned to face the window, forcing himself to trust for just a few minutes in the conclusions he had reached about Gregory Goyle. A quick exertion of his Legilimency and part of his mind was standing there holding the owl, while another part ruffled its feathers as a letter was attached to its leg. Except that wasn’t what it felt like at all. It was as if he were at once man and owl, seeing the world through two sets of eyes, one green and one burning orange, the two parts of his mind both operating almost independently of one another despite being, fundamentally, connected.

The part of him in the owl took off with barely any prodding from Salazar, and for a few seconds it was easy to just let the bird take care of things while Salazar scanned the ground below with the owl’s eyes for any sign of a little figure dressed in pink. Nowhere to be found – apparently early mornings did not agree with the dear High Inquisitor. All the same, he didn’t want to let his guard down too soon, and urged the bird higher, faster, until it had cleared the Hogwarts grounds entirely and the rooftops and chimneys of Hogsmeade could be seen below.

It took a few seconds, when he returned to himself, to remember that he couldn’t actually twist his head around a hundred and eighty degrees, but he’d been using animals’ eyes long enough that he hadn’t actually been waving his arms around the way he had done the first time he used Legilimency on one of the castle ravens. He supposed that was a blessing – it would have been very hard to explain such behaviour to Goyle without coming off as a raving lunatic or, worse, giving too much away.

Araceli still seemed to be giving Goyle trouble – she looked to be quite a young owl, very headstrong, and also to having a fair bit of fun dodging Goyle’s every attempt to recapture her so that he could give her his letter. Salazar snorted and handed Goyle a half-handful of owl treats.

“Hold those out,” he said briskly, “It’s what works best with Pigwidgeon.”

“Pig-who?”

“Ron’s owl. Another scops. This sort of thing seems to be endemic to the breed.” The little owl gave the treats a curious look before landing on Goyle’s wrist and pecking experimentally at one of them. When it failed to explode, she settled down quite comfortably and stuck out a leg as she ate. “Owls aren’t complicated,” Salazar said, in answer to the inquiring look Goyle shot in his direction, “Was she let out of her cage over the summer?”

“Only bought her the last weekend before school went back,” Goyle muttered. “And m’dad doesn’t approve of letting owls out if you don’t ’ave a letter for ’em.”

Salazar nodded. “That should explain it. She’s just not used to being able to fly freely. Give her a month or two, she’ll adjust, though she’ll likely always be a bit hyperactive.” Salazar didn’t realise until he saw the look on Goyle’s face that he had fallen back into the mannerisms of a teacher, calm and firm and matter-of-fact. “My uncle,” he said by way of explanation, “Disapproves of owls almost on principle. He can’t stand magic. Thinks it’s unnatural.”

“Bet he was pleased when you got your letter,” Goyle said, grinning, before remembering himself and stopping it quickly. Interesting. So, Goyle had practice at keeping up the façade when no-one was paying much attention to him as an individual, but it broke down quickly when one engaged him in conversation. Salazar’s contempt for Severus Snape only grew – as Goyle’s head of house, Snape should have at least made an effort to deal with the lad personally once or twice in the course of five years of education. The fact that he hadn’t was clear in Goyle’s reactions now, and it infuriated Salazar.

Salazar forced a chuckle, “He ended up nailing up the letterbox, barricading us all in the house and when that didn’t work dragged us halfway across the country trying to outrun the owls.”

Goyle hooted with laughter, the dullness for once gone from his eyes. “He didn’t! Merlin, the things Muggles do!”

“It was less that he was a Muggle and more that he was an idiot,” Salazar said, shrugging, “It doesn’t do to underestimate your enemies. It never ends well.”

Goyle went stock-still for a moment, giving Araceli, who had now finished the owl treats, the chance to escape. “What’s your game, Potter?”

Salazar smiled thinly, “You’ll have to do rather better than that, I’m afraid.”

“Oh, come on, everyone knows I’m a bit thick-”

“Everyone thinks you’re a bit thick,” Salazar corrected, “Not at all the same thing.” And that was it, that was the key, the cornerstone. Goyle was starved for recognition and respect, longing for it, would do almost anything to attain it. Salazar smiled, offered a hand. “We got off to a bad start, I think. I’m Harry.”

“Greg,” Goyle muttered, taking Salazar’s hand as gingerly as a man might a poisonous snake.

“Pleasure,” Salazar said, entirely honestly, releasing him and pretending not to notice Goyle’s visible relief. “I’d better go; I’ve got a Transfiguration essay I haven’t even started yet due this afternoon.”

Goyle- Greg shrugged, “I don’t really have to worry about that sort of thing.”

“Why not?”

Greg shifted a little on his feet, looking awkward and nervous, “Dad doesn’t like it when I do better’n Draco.”

Salazar gave a soft wince of commiseration, even as the gears kept ticking on inside his head. That was one suspicion confirmed, then.            His first order of business would have to be breaking Malfoy’s influence on Greg, and then Salazar could move on to Goyle Senior. Greg seemed bright enough – to have kept such a masquerade going so long he could be nothing else – and Salazar would not see such talent squandered for the sake of Draco Malfoy’s pride.

“Say no more,” he said, nodding, “We should keep this quiet, then. I wouldn’t want to cause any trouble with Malfoy.” Greg gave him a look of pure, flat scepticism. “All right,” Salazar conceded, “I rather enjoy causing trouble with Malfoy, but I’d rather no-one get caught in the crossfire.”

“Yeah,” Greg muttered, still sounding slightly dazed, “Um…thanks. I mean, that would be good.”

Salazar didn’t quite know how to respond to that, though he got the vague feeling that swearing bloody vengeance on Snape for having let Slytherin get so far out of hand wouldn’t do him terribly much good at this juncture. He settled for a vaguely knowing half-smile and left the owlery as fast as he reasonably could, the gears behind his eyes still turning.

*

It was a grey, rainy Saturday, the sort of morning which would have had anyone with any sense burying their head in the pillows and sleeping in until past noon. Nonetheless, the Gryffindor house table was packed at breakfast when Salazar went down to join Godric there. Potential Keepers, Seekers and their friends (and a few stragglers who just wanted to watch for watching’s sake) lined the benches, most of them talking in low voices.

“You’re not coming,” Godric said firmly, as soon as Salazar had sat down and checked the anti-eavesdropping charms, “The last thing I need is Slytherin knowing more about our line-up than it absolutely has to.”

Salazar smirked at him. “Oh, come now, you’re not afraid, are you? I will admit, my house has a record of Quidditch talent, but with Marcus Flint gone…” he let the sentence trail off and shrugged artfully. He should probably try and find out what Flint was doing with himself, now he came to think of it. The former Quidditch captain would likely still have a fair bit of pull within Slytherin house, pull Salazar would need if his plan was to come off properly. True, there were four years of near-constant dislike between him and the Slytherin Quidditch team, but there was just as long a history of utter loathing between Greg and himself, and Greg had been won over with almost insulting speed. Salazar wasn’t quite sure yet whether that was testament to his own powers of persuasion or Malfoy’s appalling treatment of those he considered his lackeys. Regrettably, the second option seemed the more likely of the two.

Godric snorted, “Pigs will fly before I suspect you of doing anything without an agenda.”

“There’ll be pork in the treetops before nightfall,” Helga said, helping herself to bacon and eggs. “Well, good luck with the try-outs. Try and beat McLaggen, will you? He’s been giving some of my first-years a hard time.”

“Oh for- Will he ever learn?” Godric snarled, swivelling around to look at McLaggen, “If I could give out detentions he’d be mucking out the Hippogriffs from now until Beltane.”

“I don’t think they have Beltane anymore,” Rowena cut in, looking up from her book. “And just because you don’t use it doesn’t mean you don’t have the power to give detentions.”

“Do I? Excellent.”

“Yes, Godric,” Rowena said, rolling her eyes, “I’d better go,” she added, craning her neck to look at the Ravenclaw table, “I promised Cho I’d sit with her this morning. Good luck with the try-outs, Godric.” She kissed him on the cheek and walked off, taking her plate with her.

“I’d better clear off too,” Godric said, craning his neck, “I’ll sort out McLaggen for you, shall I?”

“Go on, then,” Helga replied indifferently, “God, I hate being fourteen! Not that I was precisely keen on being a hundred and six, but…” she shook her head, revolted.

“Being fifteen isn’t terribly much better,” Salazar said gloomily, “At least Ro and Godric get some measure of authority.”

“True enough,” Helga acknowledged.

“It’s not that much authority,” Godric muttered, colouring rapidly, “I’d better go, or I’ll have to wait until after the try-outs.”

“Good luck,” Salazar offered, and then, once he was quite certain that Godric was out of earshot said in a low voice, “I was wondering if we might be able to talk about your plan for the good Inquisitor.”

“Why?” Helga asked, frowning.

“Petty vengeance, partly,” Salazar admitted, “But it might also serve as fair cover for me to have a look around the good Inquisitor’s office. She’s in private correspondence with Fudge, she boasted about it all night the last time I had detention with her. And he wouldn’t have trusted her with this school if she hadn’t earned it in some measure. It’s not a perfect source of information, I know, but it’s the best currently available to us, short of Legilimency, and that tends to be rather lacking as a form of evidence. Besides, both Snape and Dumbledore will be using it, and I’d rather not give them any indication of what I’m capable of just yet.”

“And if you can snap that quill of hers, all the better,” Helga added, nodding, “Do you want me to try and arrange this for a particular time, or-”

“No, just tell me when you’re going to do it and try to make sure she doesn’t get the antidote until I’m out of her office. I’ll lend you the Map.”

“Ok, then,” Helga said, “And what else were you trying to achieve with this?”

“I thought I might be able to frame Malfoy,” Salazar admitted, “But that would require Polyjuice potion and for us to wait until after we’d both been through re-Sorting.”

“Manipulative tosser,” Helga said, with a sort of fond disgust in her voice, “Devious, overcomplicated manipulative tosser. I swear you’d get dizzy if you tried to walk in a straight line!”

“I do have a name for it,” Salazar acknowledged.

“Why not just bribe one of the house-elves into saying it was Malfoy?” Helga continued blithely. Salazar choked.

“Helga, that’s-”

“Obvious,” Helga said candidly, “Dobby would probably work best – offer him a few pairs of socks or some such.”

“Dobby’s not speaking to me,” Salazar replied, gloom overtaking him once again. He had liked Dobby, and it was strange to be suddenly treated with fearful formality rather than the exuberant friendliness he had been used to as Harry.

“Then use this as a way of patching things up,” Helga replied, shrugging. “Really, Sal, it’s not that hard.”

This statement succeeded in reducing Salazar to inarticulacy for some minutes, much to Helga’s lasting amusement.

*

Salazar found Daphne Greengrass lounging against the bole of a tree not far from the lake, a fair-haired girl’s head pillowed in her lap and a large leather-bound book balanced against one knee.

“Can I have a word?” he asked, leaning against the tree.

“What-! Oh, it’s you. Well, all right, then.”

“About the medieval style of spell-casting. Do you know if there’s anywhere I can read about how those spells worked? Has anyone tried to reverse-engineer any of them?”

“Oh, dear Merlin, there’s two of them,” said the blonde girl, “Tracey Davis,” she added, when Salazar directed an inquiring look in her direction, “You’re Potter?”

One day, Salazar promised himself, he would be able to meet someone new without some remark of that nature being made.

“Yes,” he said shortly, and then, feeling that something more was required, “Pleasure,” he settled on at last, then returned his attention to Daphne. “May I sit?”

“If you like,” Daphne replied, “But you’re wasting your time there. No-one understands how those spells worked. The secret’s been lost.”

“All of them?” Salazar asked, giving her a sideways look, “Surely a few must have survived…”

“None of the forms mentioned in that book,” Daphne said, “Everything else survived in some form, but those spells are lost forever,” she shook her head, “It’s a pity. Illusion magic was supposed to be very potent, in the right hands.”

“I can imagine,” Or rather, he could remember. He had, after all, refined the technique to almost an art form in his day. Shame to see it gone, but then, it suited his purpose so he had no real reason to complain. Except…he had passed those techniques on to every student he had ever taught. Some took to it, some didn’t, but it hurt more than he had expected to know that that too had been lost. What did he have left for a legacy, then? History books that warped everything he’d ever tried to achieve, students who bought into every word hook, line and sinker and a descendent hell-bent on provoking the Muggles into full-scale war. The only thing keeping them safe was the Statue of Secrecy, and that would come down soon enough, if Voldemort had his way.

“Look at the two of you,” Tracey Davis said, in a tone of well-worn and affectionate exasperation, “Lunatics. It’s Saturday, and here you are, talking about schoolwork.”

“No, we aren’t,” Daphne said, rolling her eyes, “We don’t cover Merlin’s time in History of Magic. A complete waste, if you ask me.”

“It does seem something of an oversight,” Salazar agreed, “It would probably make an excellent starting point for the first-years, now I come to think of it. Everyone’s heard of Merlin.”

“Yeah, but it’s not really relevant, is it,” Tracey pointed out, “I mean, how is knowing the name of Merlin’s pet owl-”

“Archimedes,” Daphne and Salazar said together. Salazar remembered that owl. It had been just a chick the last time he and Merlin had spoken. He couldn’t help but wonder vaguely whether Merlin had ever managed to train it to speak as he had hoped, and if it had ever shut up once he had.

“Right,” Tracey said, looking equal parts amused and exasperated, “How is that meant to help you become Minister for Magic?”

“Do you want to become Minister for Magic, then?” Salazar asked, raising an eyebrow.

“What if I do?” Daphne said, looking defensive for a moment, “I suppose you’re planning to become a professional Quidditch player or an Auror or some such nonsense, most of you Gryffindors are.”

“Actually, I was thinking of teaching.”

That brought her up short.

“Oh. Then, yes, I am planning to be Minister one day. And to answer your question, Tracey,” she continued, ignoring the mingled pride and amusement on her friend’s face, “Merlin is very relevant to today’s political structure. How else do you expect me to learn how to run a country if not by looking to the example of those who came before me and trying to avoid their mistakes?”

“I’ve seen no evidence yet to suggest that knowing how to run a country has anything to do with the matter,” Salazar said dryly.

Daphne gave him a sidelong look, “Were you always this cynical?”

“Probably not,” Salazar replied, “But then, five years of being alternately praised to the heavens and condemned by all comers would make a cynic of anyone.” It wasn’t entirely a lie. He’d been cynic enough at fifteen, after all, or so he had thought before Edwin of Morpeth made it clear to him just how naïve he really was.

“Was that everything?” Tracey Davis asked.

“I think so,” Salazar replied, getting to his feet, “Do you know if anyone has any theories about how illusionism worked?”

“Ask Madam Pince,” Daphne replied, one hand toying with Tracey’s hair, “It’s not a field I’ve ever had much interest in.”

“Why ever not? The potential applications…”

“Oh, dear,” Tracey said, sighing, “Did they call you mad?”

Salazar blinked, “Haven’t you been reading the Daily Prophet recently?” he asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Do you have any intention of ‘showing them all’?” Tracey continued. Salazar cast a bewildered look in Daphne’s direction, only to find that she looked every bit as bemused as he felt. “And preventing ‘them’, whoever they are, from ever laughing at you again?”

“Well, yes,” Salazar admitted, “What has this got to do with-?”

“Oh, come on, Potter, I thought you were Muggle-raised!”

Salazar blinked. “You’re a half-blood?” he asked, smiling.

“Yeah,” Tracey replied, shrugging, “Seriously, though? ‘Potential applications’? How isn’t that ominous?”

“What has that got to do with my being Muggle-raised?” Salazar asked, raising an eyebrow.

Tracey rolled her eyes. “Never mind. I suppose you want to change the very structure of magic or some such, do you?”

“Not really. Why, do you think it might be helpful?”

“How did you ever end up in Gryffindor?” Tracey asked, shaking her head.

Salazar smiled thinly. “I had a run-in with Draco Malfoy on the train. He mentioned wanting to be in Slytherin.”

“That would be enough to put almost anyone off,” Daphne agreed, pursing her lips. “We grew up together,” she explained, glancing up, “My parents have been trying to arrange a match between us since we were children.”

“My condolences.”

Daphne made a noncommittal sort of gesture, “It’s the way things are done among the old families. Besides, I don’t have to marry him. Mother will be disappointed if I don’t, but I doubt she’ll force the issue. We’re not barbarians.”

This last came as news to Salazar, who had never thought particularly highly of his aristocratic masters, but he didn’t think it politic to say as much. Tracey Davis seemed to feel the same way, for she snorted and sat up a little, only to fall back again with a scowl.

“Look out,” she muttered, “Here’s Malfoy – and his pet gorillas. Goyle looks even more gormless than usual – do you think he’s finally regressed to the level of troll?”

Salazar fixed her with a cold look, “I happen to think rather highly of Gregory Goyle,” he said precisely. “And would thank you not to speak ill of him in my company.”

“Why?” Daphne asked, frowning, “I hadn’t thought you knew each other that well.”

“Well, five years of fairly constant dislike must count for something,” Salazar replied, shrugging, “And he is rather brighter than he chooses to appear, if you ever take the trouble to talk to him.” He glanced up, and suppressed the urge to curse. “And here they are. Good morning, Malfoy. Crabbe. Goyle.” The words were spoken civilly enough, but with a certain edge to them which had Malfoy looking slightly rattled before he’d so much as opened his mouth.

“You’re looking awfully friendly,” Malfoy remarked, arching an eyebrow. “Be careful, Potter. Greengrass’s mother doesn’t like her associating with half-blood abominations.”

“Greengrass’s mother isn’t here,” Daphne said tartly, “And she hasn’t a problem with Tracey, so I fail to see why Potter should be an issue.”

Malfoy sneered at her, but didn’t seem quite able to come up with an answering taunt. He turned his attention on Salazar again instead.

“Protective, isn’t she? Have you got yourself a girlfriend, Potter, is that it?”

“I fail to see what my relationship with Ginny has to do with anything,” Salazar said dryly, before turning to Daphne, “We’ll continue our conversation later?”

“Let’s,” Daphne agreed, “I’ll bring my copy of Herpo’s collected writings, if you like.”

“Please.”

Malfoy looked as though he’d just been slapped. Salazar had seen that look before, on the faces of some of the children he’d tutored before the school’s founding. Malfoy, it seemed, wasn’t used to being dismissed and had yet to realise just how useful a tool it was to be easily overlooked. He knew how to manipulate the systems he’d grown up with, and shown some degree of skill there, but entirely failed to realise that this was not the extent of what could be done from his position.

“Is that it?” Malfoy said in a tone that was probably meant to seem haughty but came out merely pettish. “Running away?”

“Walking, actually,” Salazar replied, getting to his feet and finding himself disoriented for a moment to find himself only just of a height with Malfoy. “I’m in no mood to put up with your carping just now, and I do have other things to do with my time. I look forward to talking again,” he added, glancing over at Daphne, and without so much as turning to look at Malfoy walked away towards the Forbidden Forest.

That should do for a beginning, he thought, carefully not looking back even as the sound of arguing was heard behind him. Daphne would come out the victor, that was clear from two conversations with her, and that would be another blow to Malfoy’s pride. Yes, Salazar was quite confident that Malfoy’s standing in Slytherin wouldn’t be so very hard to demolish.

He passed Hagrid’s deserted house, its windows still dark and dusty, and crossed into the borders of the forest, reaching into the pocket of his robes for a parcel of cold sausages wrapped in paper he had requested from the kitchens that morning between his meeting with Greg in the owlery and breakfast in the great hall. It wasn’t quite the best thing for the task in hand, he knew, but he didn’t want to attract attention by carrying a whole carcass around with him if it wasn’t absolutely necessary.

This, at least, had barely changed at all since his day. The Forest was cool and dark and full of the soft rustlings and muted footfalls that were to be expected in such a place. Once the trees closed behind him it was easy to imagine himself back in his own time. However, when he reached the clearing he had always used to deal with thestrals, he found it already occupied.

“Hello, Professor Slytherin,” Luna Lovegood said dreamily, holding out a strip of raw meat to a thestral foal.

“Just Salazar does,” Salazar replied, moving over to join her, “I never called myself Professor. How long have you known?”

“Since before we met.” Luna said it simply enough, as though that in and of itself did not break all the rules of the world as Salazar knew it. “You weren’t you then, of course, but I knew you would be. I was sorry when we met,” she added, “Because you were nice to me, or you tried to be. I didn’t want to see you become yourself.”

“You expected the monster Bagshot wrote about,” Salazar said dully, a bitter little twist of a smile on his face. “But how did you find out?”

“The Grey Lady told me,” Luna replied. “She recognised your eyes the moment she saw you, but she knew you weren’t you yet so she didn’t say anything.”

“She seems to have talked to you about it a great deal,” Salazar said, giving her a sideways look.

Luna smiled, “I listen,” she said, “And I think it gets pretty lonely, being a ghost.”

Yes, Salazar reflected bleakly, it would. More than a thousand years alone would wear on anyone, even his fiercely independent goddaughter. He could never have borne it himself.

“Can you have a word with her?” he asked, glancing over at Luna, “Try to convince her to talk to her parents? I know it would mean the world to Rowena.”

He shot her a glance from underneath his eyelids, hoping he had read her correctly. Luna was, after all, a Ravenclaw, and appealing to that loyalty seemed more likely than anything else to work.

“You don’t need to do that, you know,” Luna said dreamily, “I’ll tell her anyway.”

Salazar had the grace to look slightly sheepish. “Sorry, force of habit.”

Luna stared at him. It was a very odd expression, at once unsettlingly penetrating and strangely unfocused. “You’re not what I expected.”

“Thank you.”

They stood in silence for a while, watching the thestrals eat. It was a strangely beautiful sight, provided one wasn’t put off by leathery wings or the speed with which they tore the meat to shreds.

“The Grey Lady says that you used to train thestrals,” Luna said mistily, not looking at him.

Salazar smiled, “I learnt in Hungary. They’ve been riding thestrals there since before Rome fell.”

“I told Hagrid,” Luna added, “But he says he worked out how to train them on his own.”

Salazar felt a sharp pang of loss at that. Had anything he had done lasted, really? His house warped into almost the exact opposite of what he had hoped for, his last living descendant a murderous lunatic worse than Bergmann  and Pyrrha, poor, poor Pyrrha dead by his own hand.

“I’d want a rest if it were me,” Luna said, looking up at him.

Salazar forced a smile. “I haven’t the time.” Later, when all of this was over, he’d journey back to the fens of his childhood, the Welsh mountains where Matilda ferch Elisud’s hut had stood and try to come to terms with the life he had lost. For now, there was work to be done. He stared moodily at the ground, only to be distracted by the sight of two bare feet, almost blue in the dappled light under the trees. “Aren’t you cold?”

“A bit,” Luna said, picking another long strip of meat out of her bag, “All my shoes have mysteriously disappeared. I suspect the nargles are behind it.” She smiled at him, but Salazar did not return it.

“I’ll talk to Rowena about it,” he promised. It was her house, after all, and this looked likely to be an internal issue, meaning that if he got involved without telling Rowena there likely wouldn’t be enough left of him to bury after she found out. “If that doesn’t work, talk to Helga. She knows a few interesting hexes that might do for a deterrent. Nothing lethal,” he added quickly, “But probably quite humiliating. They’ve fallen out of favour since our day, so I doubt your…nargles will be able to counter them,” he stared over at the thestrals, thinking.

“It’s good of you to try. Not sure it’ll do much good, though. Nargles are notoriously resistant to magic.”

“Call it a favour to me.” Salazar dug out the sausages from his pocket and stared at them ruefully, “I don’t suppose they’ll want these with fresh meat available. Ah, well. I expect Crookshanks might like them.” He pocketed them again, and looked over at Luna, “I’d thank you not to mention this conversation to Ro or Godric. They wouldn’t appreciate my interference.”

“Why not?”

Salazar shrugged, “They’ve made it quite clear what they think of my scheming.” Not that they were alone in that. Most of Salazar’s employers had objected to his scheming, and that had been what they paid him for. Well, that and tutoring their children, on the rare occasions that anyone let him take such work, but mostly scheming.

“I don’t think they’ll mind,” Luna said serenely, “You’re only trying to help.”

Salazar shot her a sidelong look, “There’s a Muggle saying about the road to hell that might be relevant to your interests. No, best that I stay out of this, or at least be seen to. Do give my regards to my goddaughter.”

Notes:

Yeah, I know, this is a short one. I've been kind of busy lately, but I will make it up to you with a longer chapter next time.

Chapter 7: In which Godric and Rowena raise Hell

Summary:

This was originally intended to be part of one larger chapter, but said larger chapter has got so much out of hand that you will have to wait to see Helga tear the Sorting Hat a new one. Sorry to anyone who has been looking forward to that.
As always, concrit appreciated and if anyone wants to beta for me, please drop me a line.

The common room that evening was a whirlwind of activity, with Godric at the centre of it all, having beaten McLaggen handily in the morning’s Quidditch try-outs. Salazar had to admit to feeling faintly uncomfortable in the face of such a riot, and by the look on her face Rowena felt about the same.

The two of them soon found themselves a pair of armchairs on the outskirts of the throng near the fire. Salazar drew his wand out, and Rowena snorted.

“That seems a bit pointless with all this noise,” she said, gesturing over at the main part of the common room, “You might as well save your breath.”

“I’d rather be sure,” Salazar replied, “Call me paranoid, but I don’t like leaving loose ends.”

“You’re as bad as Mad-Eye,” Rowena said chidingly, but drew her wand to cast the anti-eavesdropping charm anyway. “What is it?”

“I want to move the plan up a few days,” Salazar said quietly, and smiled at the look on her face.

“Sal! You can’t seriously-”

“Dumbledore left the grounds an hour ago,” Salazar said quietly, “I’ve been watching, and he’s normally gone at least a few days on each of these little trips. Monday, I think, would be the best time for it, that gives us tomorrow to prepare and then-”

“But if we’re caught! And so soon after-” she broke off, apparently unable to describe the events that had led to their becoming the people they were presently, and Salazar seized the moment.

“If we’re caught, I already have a fairly plausible reason for my being there, and you won’t even be suspected. You’ll be in your Animagus form throughout the whole thing, and last time I looked, Hermione Granger wasn’t on the record as being able to transform herself into anything. Besides, being caught would be as big a problem a month from now, and no amount of waiting will change that.”

“True,” Rowena said, still sounding slightly dubious, “And I suppose it would be best to get this done as quickly as possible, but shouldn’t we talk to the others before we decide? It’s their business as much as ours.”

“Probably,” Salazar agreed, “But as we’re the only ones directly involved with the execution of the plan, I thought it best to talk this over with you ahead of time. Are you for it?”

“I think so,” Rowena said, frowning, “Have you thought about how to explain the Hat going missing?”

“If all goes as planned, it won’t be,” Salazar replied, and told her all about his meeting with Daphne Greengrass.

“Illusion? But Sal, that’s really dangerous! What if Dumbledore tries to talk to the Hat or something and it can’t talk back?”

“That’s a risk we’re just going to have to take,” Salazar said grimly. “That hat’s got a lot to answer for.”

Rowena looked as though she wanted to say something sharp about that, but was cut off by Helga breaking away from the crowd in the common room to join them.

“Have you got spells up?” Helga asked, sitting down on the arm of Salazar’s chair,

“Yes- Wait a second,” Rowena said quickly, raising her wand to let Helga in, “Better?”

“Much,” Helga replied, smirking. “So, mind letting me in on what you were doing?”

“Let’s wait until Godric comes over,” Rowena said, looking over towards the fireplace, where Godric was trying on what looked like Oliver Wood’s old Quidditch robes, “I don’t want to have to explain this twice.”

“That might take a while,” Helga said, snorting, “D’you remember how he got sometimes after they started calling him Gryffin d’Or? You had to hex him at least once a week or his head would have swollen so much it’d be a wonder if he didn’t float away.”

Salazar snickered, and even Rowena, worried as she was, managed a slight smile at the memory.

The party wound down soon enough, the Gryffindors gradually dispersing as the evening wore on, until there were only a few people left in the common room. Angelina Johnson stopped next to Salazar’s chair on her way up to bed.

“You should know that we’ve found your replacement,” she said briskly.

“Oh, really? Who?” Salazar asked, leaning forwards.

“Colin Creevey,” Angelina replied, “He’s good, too – not on your level,” she added, “But better than anyone else I’ve seen. Apparently all that time he spent watching us practice in his first year paid off.”

“Great!” Helga said, grinning, “I’ll bet he’s thrilled, he always fancied playing Seeker.”

“Yeah,” Angelina replied, “I’d better get up to bed, we’ve got practice first thing tomorrow. See you around, Potter, Weasley.”

“See you,” Helga replied, watching the last of the Gryffindors trooping up towards the dormitories, leaving the common room dim and almost silent as the three of them decamped to join Godric by the fire.

“All right?” he asked, looking over at them with a smile that made him look more himself than he had since their return. “What’ve you been doing all evening? I wanted to tell you, guess who our new Seeker-”

“Angelina already told us,” Helga said, throwing herself down on the sofa next to him, “Colin Creevey. Can he actually play?”

“Yeah,” Godric replied, “Wouldn’t have believed it if I hadn’t been there, but that boy can fly.”

Salazar shook his head, remembering an earnest eleven-year-old who had been forever taking pictures and who had been the first victim of the wave of petrifications in Harry Potter’s second year at Hogwarts, and the memory of Tom Riddle’s second victim. The thought niggled at Salazar, although he couldn’t have said why, only that there was something about that whole business that didn’t add up.

“Never mind that,” Rowena said quickly, and recounted their earlier discussion as quickly as she could.

As soon as she’d finished, Godric nodded. “Right. So, leaving aside the possibility of Dumbledore coming back early and finding you holding the Sorting Hat, not a bad plan.”

“Has the advantage of simplicity,” Helga agreed, “Honestly, Salazar, aren’t you feeling well?”

Godric laughed at the affronted look on Salazar’s face, forcing Salazar to glare at both of them rather than just Helga.

“I think I should be the one to look after the Hat until we can spare the time to return it,” Helga said, blithely ignoring Salazar’s glare with the ease of much practice. “You three were always the ones getting into trouble before, so they won’t suspect me, not if I’m careful.”

“Which, of course, you always are,” Rowena said, her voice fairly dripping with irony. Now it was Helga’s turn to glare.

“Ssstop it,” Salazar said firmly. Or tried to say firmly, at any rate. It was an unfortunate habit of his, and one that the history books had mercifully forgotten, but he always tended to hiss a little when he forgot himself. This was probably a mistake, as he now had both Helga and Rowena glaring at him and Godric snickering at him nearby. “Anyway,” he continued, trying and failing to get the hissing under control, “I think I have sssome idea of how to disssguise the Hat going missing.”

“Illusionism?” Godric asked, looking over at Rowena, who nodded.

“Probably,” she replied, a long-suffering look on her face. This, Salazar reflected, was the problem with having been friends with someone almost all your life: nothing ever seemed to surprise them anymore.

“Look,” he said, irked, “It’s not going to be easy.” And it wasn’t, either. Quite aside from the difficulties of getting the damned hat out in the first place, illusionism was no simple discipline and when trying to create an illusory version of a magical object like that damned hat…well, Salazar wasn’t too proud to admit he wouldn’t have risked it unless there was no other choice. Which, at present, there wasn’t. Lovely. Brilliant. Marvellous. Gods damn it.

“Anyway,” he added, when it became clear that the others weren’t going to answer him, “I have other news.” Quickly, he relayed what he remembered of the last night’s dream.

By the time he had finished Rowena’s eyes had gone wide, “But you shouldn’t be able to see that! Occlumency-”

“Looks like it’s moved on without us,” Helga interrupted.

“Not that much, it hasn’t,” Salazar said darkly, “I’ve been researching it. There’s something else at play here, I just can’t put my finger on it.”

“Brilliant,” Godric muttered, “Just what we needed, yet another complication. I’m really starting to hate this descendant of yours, you know, Salazar.”

“Only starting?” Helga asked, poking her brother in the side with her foot. “Anyway, about this prophecy. Anyone got any ideas about how we should deal with this?”

“Well, if both the Ministry and Voldemort know, it’s very likely that the Order will find out soon enough,” Rowena pointed out, “They’ve got spies in both camps.”

“I doubt it,” Godric replied, “The Department of Mysteries is pretty secretive at the best of times.”

“So, we’ll have to make sure they find out, then,” Helga said, nodding. “Sal had better handle it, as he’s the only one with a window into Voldemort’s mind. As for the rest of us,” she continued, looking around at them, “Well, I don’t know about you lot, but I refuse to let any student of mine lose a year of their education because of Umbridge.”

Godric frowned, “Not much we can do about that, though,” he said, “Not unless we’re considering arranging some sort of accident for her.”

“Impossible,” Salazar replied, “They’d just send someone even worse.”

“Not what I meant,” Helga said, cuffing Salazar lightly around the back of the head, “Look, it’s obvious no-one is going to learn anything from Umbridge, except perhaps how to withstand torture. So, why don’t we teach them ourselves?”

Salazar raised an eyebrow, “Well, since I’m generally considered to be an attention-seeking little fool who likes making up tall tales to make himself seem impressive, I suppose this is one venture you three had best engage in on your own,” he said bitterly, his face seeming to close up and return to the careful blankness he always adopted outside their little circle.

“Don’t be an idiot,” Rowena said shortly, “Of course you’re going to be part of it. How else are we meant to get the Slytherins involved?”

Salazar smiled thinly. “Glad to see I’m still of some use to you,” he said, and there was something in his tone that none of the others could quite bring themselves to like. It was too sharp a reminder of just what sort of a man it was that they called friend. ‘Treacherous, sorcerous sneak’ had been perhaps the kindest appellation applied to him over the course of his life, and not without good reason. Salazar had always seen what he had done for a living in his youth as necessary, and had never quite understood how it was any more honourable to go about removing a king by having a great big bloody war that would cause a great deal of mess and disruption in the lives of the common people than by a discreet knife between the ribs or a few drops of a rare poison in His Majesty’s bedtime cup of wine. Kings and princes tended to take a rather dimmer view of the matter, and as they were the ones who wrote the history books, or at least ordered the history books to be written, Salazar had not come out of them at all well.

“Oh, gods,” Helga muttered, “He’s brooding again.”

“I don’t brood,” Salazar replied, somehow contriving to be haughty in the face of two disbelieving stares and a bout of snickering from Godric that really ought to have offended him more than it did. “Anyway,” he went on, “If we’re going to do any such thing, we’ll need to have it all planned out before the re-Sorting. The last thing we’ll need afterwards is to be seen conspiring together. Godric not so much,” he added thoughtfully, “But the rest of us are going to need to prove our loyalties early and decisively.”

“That’s a given,” Rowena said, brushing him aside. “Now, are we all in agreement? Undermining Umbridge like this won’t be without consequences, and if we’re caught-”

“We take responsibility,” Helga said firmly, cutting Rowena off. “I’m for it.”

“As am I,” Godric added.

Salazar looked around at the rest of them, and sighed. “Oh, anything to cause Umbridge trouble,” he said lightly, forcing a smile and wishing that he could turn the clock back just a few weeks to a time where his greatest problem was trying to help his daughter learn transfiguration and not mass-murdering probably-descendants (about whose crimes Salazar really needed to find out more, now he came to think about it), sadistic Ministry bureaucrats getting in the way of his students’ education or the looming worry of just what the consequences would be when they did decide to reveal themselves.

*

It was easier to get access to Dumbledore’s office on Monday than Salazar had hoped. The gargoyle that guarded the entrance to the headmaster’s office had jumped aside without the least bit of prompting when it saw Salazar approach, and the Marauder’s Map made it quite clear that Filch, Snape, Umbridge and McGonagall were all far enough away that Salazar would be more than able to make his escape if it came to that.

The office itself had certainly changed a great deal since his day, that was a given. But even so Salazar was momentarily caught off-balance by how different it looked now that there was a new headmaster at Hogwarts.

In his day, there had been no portraits on the walls, looking at him from beneath their eyelids and pretending – none too convincingly – to be asleep whenever he looked back. There had been no delicate silver instruments on spindly-legged tables scattered about the room either, no enormous claw-footed desk. It was strange, looking about the place and seeing none of the mementos of their travels. The lovely bronze oil-lamp that Rowena had picked up in Samarkand was long gone now, as was Helga’s collection of enchanted cups and the strange jewelled egg that Salazar had bought in a market near Buyan in his youth. Only Godric’s sword remained of their reminders, but even that sat within a glass case next to the Sorting Hat rather than being mounted on the wall as once it had been.

But there was no time now to wonder at the changes a thousand years had wrought. Rowena would be here soon, and Salazar needed to be sure of his work. Quickly, without taking any time to think about it, he pulled the false Sorting Hat from his bag and set it on Dumbledore’s desk. It looked just like the real thing, but that wouldn’t be enough to fool anyone if things went wrong. As, Salazar was forced to concede, they usually did when he was involved. Helga had been known to speculate loudly that Salazar had been hit with some sort of counter to Felix Felicis at birth, and sometimes Salazar had to wonder whether she might have a point. Still, he’d tested the false Hat very thoroughly yesterday evening, once he’d finished adjusting his own never-worn uniform hat, and he didn’t think the spells would have worn off so quickly. If he were to put it on now, he knew, he would hear one of perhaps twenty vague, cryptic remarks he had made sure it would repeat, should anyone try and talk to the real Hat while it was absent. Not perfect, but anything more lifelike would have taken weeks to make, and they didn’t have that long.

He picked up the real Sorting Hat with as much care as he could manage, and put it onto the desk beside its copy. Side by side they looked all but identical, except that the real Hat was much dustier and dirtier than its counterpart. Really, hadn’t anyone thought to wash the damnable thing in more than a thousand years?

He checked the Marauder’s Map quickly and swore under his breath more out of habit than any real need for silence. A little dot labelled ‘Albus Dumbledore’ had appeared halfway between the gates and the school and was headed towards the castle at a fair clip. Salazar did some quick mental arithmetic.  He’d be at the castle within five minutes, probably less, and then it would take perhaps five more for him to get up to the office. Ten minutes to make the switch and make his escape, and no sign of Rowena. Cursing his luck, Salazar checked each of the windows in turn, but there was no osprey hovering outside.

“Did things not go according to your plan, then, father?” came a voice from somewhere behind him.

Salazar froze.

Then, very quickly, without taking the time to think about it, he turned to see the oldest, most faded portrait on the wall smiling down at him, a pair of cat-green eyes the very mirror of his own staring down at him, and knew who had spoken.

“Aethelinda,” he breathed, reaching out almost instinctively for all that he knew he couldn’t touch her.

She smiled down at him, and for the first time Salazar saw the edge of cruelty in that smile, the cold light in his eldest child’s eyes. “Hello, Papa.”

“How- How did you know?” Salazar asked, still staring up at her, not quite willing to tear himself away.

“I’ve known since I first saw you,” Aethelinda replied, “When you were sent up to see the Headmaster about your habit of petrifying the students. You really need to be more careful, father.”

“I’ll take it into consideration,” Salazar said wryly, “Do you mean to tell me that there isn’t anyone in the castle who didn’t know me for who I was from the moment they laid eyes on me?”

“Only we who thought we knew you, and we’re only echoes and memories.”

“You’re my daughter,” Salazar said, helpless, hopeless. “What do you mean, you thought you knew me, of course you did-”

“If only that were true. And I’m not. Not really. Just what’s left of her.”

“Lin-”

“What?” Aethelinda asked, voice harsh, “What lie are you going to tell me, Papa? It had better be a good one, you had better make it convincing.”

“What happened to you,” he said softly, “After…”

“After you left?” Aethelinda asked, and for the first time, Salazar noticed how old was the face those bright green eyes were set in, the few strands of fading gold amidst the grey. It felt strange, seeing her so old when just a few weeks ago she had been only sixteen and all fire, with her mother’s instinctive brilliance and her own fierce will to excel.

“Lin, whatever you may believe, what happened that night was not my choice-”

“And so it begins.”

“On my magic, Aethelinda!” Salazar said desperately, lapsing suddenly into Parseltongue.

“Why ssshould I believe you?” Aethelinda snapped back, “You abandoned usss! Melusssine…and Tanith, I don’t suppose you heard-”

“Lin,” Salazar said softly, “I would never have left you under my own power. You know that.”

“I don’t know what I know,” Aethelinda replied, in English again, “What happened, then?”

Salazar’s shoulders slumped. “I hardly know where to begin.” He checked the map and bit back a curse. Dumbledore, it seemed, had just managed to get rid of Umbridge “And I don’t have much time. Lin, you can’t tell anyone who I am, if anyone were to find out-”

“I know.” Aethelinda smiled, “You’ve not changed, Papa.”

“No,” Salazar acknowledged, “Not really.” There came a sharp tap at the nearest window, and he darted over to open it so that Rowena could soar through to land on Fawkes’s vacant perch.

“Here,” Salazar said hurriedly, handing her the dirtier of the two Sorting Hats. “Quickly, Dumbledore’s on his way up, and if he catches us-”

Rowena gave him a stern look, and Salazar subsided, stepping back to give her more room as she spread her wings and launch herself into the wind, gliding towards the Forbidden Forest, where Salazar could see, even at this distance, a flash of red hair between the trees. He closed the window and turned to look at his daughter’s portrait again, only to see her clutching at the arm of her chair as if to steady herself, her eyes over-bright. Salazar turned away to put the false Sorting Hat in its place behind Dumbledore’s desk and cast a wordless charm to coat it in the dust of centuries, knowing how little Aethelinda had liked being seen in such a state when he knew her.

“How do you think I came to be here?” Salazar asked, keeping his back turned so that she could compose herself. “It was hardly a natural assumption for you to make.”

Aethelinda’s voice was even when she replied, “I travelled quite widely after you left. And, on my travels, I encountered a…a belief, in the East, that the soul can be reborn after death into a new life. I assumed…”

Salazar nodded, “I’m familiar with the idea. Rowena wrote to me about it years ago, when she was in Cathay.”

“Is that what happened, then?” Aethelinda asked, her voice grown even colder.

“No.”

“Then what?” Aethelinda said sharply. Salazar couldn’t help the smile that crossed his face at that. It was the same tone he had always used when she or one of her sisters had got themselves into trouble.

“Another time,” he said firmly, checking the Map again and scowling to see that the dot labelled ‘Albus Dumbledore’ had just reached the corridor off which the moving staircase branched. “Professor Dumbledore is nearly here.”

Aethelinda snorted, “Will it take so long as all that?”

“Most likely,” Salazar admitted. “You can wait, I take it?”

“It doesn’t look as though I’ll have any choice,” Aethelinda replied acidly.

“I’m sssorry,” Salazar said, shifting to Parseltongue, “But if thisss fails…”

“I know.” Aethelinda hissed back. The words ‘but I don’t have to like it’ hung unspoken in the air between them.

“I will tell you,” Salazar promised, and smiled a little at the look on her face. “Headmistress of Hogwarts,” he said softly, “I’m glad. I always said…” he broke off then, and didn’t continue, which was just as well, for when he looked down at the map to cover the too-open, too-raw look on his face the dot labelled ‘Albus Dumbledore’ was standing before the gargoyle, and as he watched it mounted the moving staircase. He would have to do this quickly then. Without taking the time to think about it, he tucked the map into his pocket and set off down the spiral staircase. He met Dumbledore halfway down it, and managed to school his face into an expression of startled relief.

“Professor Dumbledore,” he said, almost before Dumbledore could open his mouth, “I was just looking for you!”

“I gathered that much,” Dumbledore replied, smiling but not meeting Salazar’s eyes, “Fortunate that you came when you did, or you would have missed me entirely.”

“Professor?” Salazar asked, raising an eyebrow.

Dumbledore smiled kindly, “It cannot have escaped your notice that I have been away for some days, Harry. And, had you come any later, you would have found me gone, as I have a pressing appointment at Grimmauld Place this afternoon.”

“Oh,” Salazar said, this new information setting his mind awhirl, “Right.” That seemed safe enough, particularly when those peculiarly penetrating blue eyes were aimed decidedly elsewhere.

He followed Dumbledore up the moving staircase to the office in silence, somehow managing not to let his eyes linger too long on Aethelinda’s portrait as he settled himself across from Dumbledore at the desk.

“Well, then,” Dumbledore said as soon as they were both seated, “What was it you wanted to see me about, Harry?”

“My scar hurt again,” Salazar made sure to shift a little nervously in his seat, “And…I saw something. Lucius Malfoy was talking to Voldemort about- about a prophecy or something.”
“A prophecy,” Dumbledore repeated, still not looking at Salazar.

“Yes, Professor. About,” Salazar swallowed, “He- Malfoy- He said something about the Founders of Hogwarts returning, before the equinox, I think he said.”

“You’re sure of this?” Dumbledore asked, his voice unexpectedly sharp.

“As sure as I can be, Professor,” Salazar replied, and then, watching Dumbledore’s face carefully, added, “It’s funny, but Voldemort seemed to think Malfoy was talking about some other prophecy until he explained, but I didn’t hear the details of that one.”

He wasn’t disappointed. The look which flashed across Dumbledore’s face then, subtle though it was, was enough to confirm his suspicions. So, the Order already knew that there was some kind of prophecy about the coming war, even if it wasn’t the one he had heard the gist of. Or what Malfoy assumed would be the gist, at any rate. That was the problem with prophecies: they were always delivered in words, and usually fairly cryptic words at that.

“From what perspective did you see this, Harry?”

Salazar arched an eyebrow, “I- Sorry, sir?”

“Were you overlooking the scene as though from above, or perhaps standing to one side as Voldemort and Mr Malfoy talked.”

“No,” Salazar replied, filing this new interest away in the recesses of his mind. “I- I was Voldemort, Professor. I saw through his eyes.”

There was no flash of surprise across Dumbledore’s face this time, but as Salazar couldn’t see his eyes he couldn’t tell whether the headmaster had simply controlled his reaction better this time or if he had truly expected this. Well. Dumbledore knowing more than he claimed was nothing new, of course, but this changed the game. And why couldn’t Salazar get that blasted diary out of his mind? The precise nature of this connection between himself and his last living descendant had never been quite clear to Harry Potter, and Salazar wasn’t terribly much better off. But then, that was only to be expected. No-one had ever survived the Killing Curse before.

Except that wasn’t quite right either, because Salazar knew now – or could hazard a guess – what had caused his miraculous survival that Halloween night. Voldemort was his last living descendant. By killing Salazar in the cradle he would thus have obliterated the very line he sprang from, thus destroying himself. But if Voldemort destroyed himself, who would kill Salazar in the cradle? This paradox, not Lily’s love, had saved him that night, powerful as the protection she had granted him had been against Voldemort in later years.

Dumbledore was still watching him, though, so Salazar was forced to leave his speculations be.

“Professor?” he asked, “If the Founders really have returned, what do you think will happen?”

Dumbledore spread his hands in front of him, “I don’t pretend to be an expert on the Founders, Harry, but I imagine Lord Voldemort will take an interest at least in securing Slytherin’s aid.”

Salazar bit his lip, “Did you ever try to enter the Chamber of Secrets,” he asked, keeping his voice carefully level, “After Ginny-”

“No, Harry, I have not,” Dumbledore replied, sounding a trifle bemused by this change of subject.

“Only, Riddle – the Riddle from the diary,” Salazar said earnestly, watching Dumbledore carefully, “He said something about sub-chambers, other rooms off the main Chamber. There might be something in there, some information that could be useful if- if Slytherin does join Voldemort.” There. That would be enough to at least get the ball rolling. If nothing else, Dumbledore was an academic and Salazar was now history, no matter how badly wrong most of the history books had got his life.  Quite besides which, having been part of the group responsible for uncovering Salazar Slytherin’s legacy would do a fair bit for Salazar’s standing with his own house, standing he would need if all went to plan.

“I hardly think Salazar Slytherin would have written a list of his own weaknesses, Harry,”

“Me neither,” Salazar replied, “But if we could uncover even a little information about the magic used in the Founders’ day, we’d have a better chance of countering him if he should join Voldemort. It’s worth a try, Professor. And there’s the academic aspect to be considered, too.” Salazar closed his mouth quickly. That last sentence might have been pushing it, but it had worked.

“I’ll bear it in mind,” Dumbledore said, rising, “And now, I’m afraid, you will have to go. Lunchtime is nearly over. You should have just enough time to have a hot meal before your next lesson, if you hurry.”

“Yeah,” Salazar said, making sure to look slightly nervous, “I’ll need it, I’ve got Umbridge next.”

It was a mark of just how loathed Dolores Umbridge was that Dumbledore did not correct him.

“Well then, off you go.”

*

Umbridge was in a nauseatingly good mood that afternoon, humming to herself with a wide smile that Salazar would have called froglike, had that not been a dire insult to any honest amphibian.

“Wands away,” she instructed the class as soon as they were all seated, despite the fact that no-one had been fool enough to take their wands out. “As we finished chapter three last lesson, I would like you all to turn to page fifty-eight and commence chapter four. There will be no need to talk.”

Salazar did as she said, but his mind was not on his work, if work it could be called. Today’s chapter was even more desperately dull than the previous one, which had at least presented some decent arguments, even if they were phrased in such a way as to make even the most determined pacifist abandon the idea out of sheer annoyance. It was not that Salazar had anything in particular against violent solutions, exactly. Indeed, much of his working life had been spent in preventing unnecessary violence, albeit not in quite the way that Slinkhard was suggesting.

Next to him, Rowena had raised her hand. Salazar watched her, bemused but fully expecting that Umbridge would just ignore her, the same way she had taken to ignoring any student optimistic or foolish enough to believe Umbridge knew anything about her subject.

Instead, Umbridge got to her feet and walked around the front row of desks to stand in front of Rowena’s and whisper in a voice just loud enough for Salazar to hear.

“What is it, Miss Granger?”

“I’ve already finished the textbook,” Rowena said coolly, not bothering to keep her voice down.

“Me too,” Godric added from Rowena’s other side, and Salazar saw the conspiratorial look they shared just for a moment, over too quickly for anyone who did not know them as well as he did to notice. He sat up a little straighter. This would be entertaining.

Umbridge blinked but, to her credit, recovered rather more quickly than Salazar had expected.

“Well then,” she said, rather more loudly, “You should be able to tell me what Slinkhard says about the need for defensive magic in chapter twenty-four.”

“He says,” Rowena replied, disdain dripping from every syllable, “That, while very widely practiced and likely necessary in the uncivilised times prior to the introduction of the Statute of Secrecy, the need for defensive magic has since dwindled to the point where no witch or wizard should feel any need to know practical defensive spells.”

Umbridge raised her eyebrows, but Salazar was watching Rowena, having known her long enough to be able to tell when she was planning to give someone a full taste of her famously acid tongue.

“Given, however, that in the last century the wizarding world has seen two full-scale wars against so-called Dark Lords, however,” Rowena added, “I feel that Slinkhard’s opinion represents a wilful ignorance of both magical history and the wider uses of defensive magic.”

“Oh, you do, do you?” Umbridge asked, her voice cold. “Well, I am afraid, Miss Granger, that it is Mr Slinkhard’s opinion, and not yours, that matters in this classroom.”

Godric snorted, “Wonderful,” he said, in a carrying voice, “So, what do you propose we all do about boggarts, then?”

“I’m sorry, Mr Weasley?” Umbridge asked, in her most sickly sweet tones.

“Well, according to the third-years you’ve been taking the same line with them as with us,” Godric said, shrugging, “Even if you don’t believe we’re going to have another war on our hands any time soon-”

“Which seems quite likely given the inconclusive end of the last war and the number of former Death Eaters who were never brought to justice,” Rowena cut in. Salazar raised an eyebrow. It seemed the two of them had been rehearsing this.

“There are still all sorts of Dark creatures loose that can cause trouble if no-one is taught how to deal with them,” Godric continued, “I mean, if we’re going to have a whole generation of wizards who won’t even know how to deal with a boggart by the time they leave Hogwarts, you might as well cancel Defence altogether.”

Umbridge’s eyes went cold, but before she could say anything Rowena spoke up again,
“In any case, what about students intending to join the Auror Office,” she asked, “Or certain divisions of the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures? A lack of previous experience in a combat situation could mean the difference between life and death for an Auror-in-training, and using these spells in an exam context isn’t at all the same as a real fight, or even a staged one.”

“That will do, Miss Granger!” Umbridge snapped. She stalked, or attempted to stalk, back to her desk and stood before them all. “I am going to take twenty points from Gryffindor.”

Godric winced, but Rowena was every bit as serene as Salazar had expected, and he could hear the Gryffindors muttering irritably amongst themselves.

“Why?” Salazar asked, clasping his hands together in front of his mouth and shooting a sideways smile at the other two.

“For disrupting my class with pointless interruptions,” Umbridge replied, smiling. Salazar raised an eyebrow.

“Really. You know, in my experience, questions normally help students learn more about the subject being taught,” he said, “If, that is, the teacher possesses an adequate base of knowledge.”

“Detention, Mr Potter,” Umbridge sing-songed, “And…yes, another twenty points from Gryffindor.” Salazar had to restrain himself from smirking at that.  “I am here to teach you using a Ministry-approved method that does not include inviting students to give their opinions on matters about which they understand very little.”

“Given that most of us finished the textbook over the summer, I don’t see how making us read it all over again helps us understand anything,” Godric said loudly, and the muttering grew louder, even starting to spread among the Slytherins. Salazar’s smile widened.

“I concur,” came a low, husky voice from the back of the room, and Salazar turned to see Millicent Bulstrode lounging at her desk, her black eyes fixed on Umbridge. “You’re meant to be teaching us Defence Against the Dark Arts, so teach us about the Dark Arts.”

There was another outbreak of muttering at that.

“And what is your name,” Umbridge asked, in the tones of a woman who was looking forward to handing out a few more detentions.

“Millicent Bulstrode.”

“Well, Miss Bulstrode, thanks to your interruption I will be obliged to take five points from Slytherin, and you will join Potter and Weasley in detention this evening.”

The Slytherins were now all glaring at Umbridge, but she had either failed to notice this or didn’t consider it much of a concern.

“I understand that your previous education has been quite fragmented, and that many of your previous teachers may have allowed you greater license,” she said, “But since none of them, with the possible exception of Professor Quirrell, would have passed a Ministry inspection I feel no need to continue their example.”

“What was wrong with Professor Lupin?” Dean Thomas said furiously, with murmurs of approval from everyone except Malfoy, who was starting to look decidedly ill-at-ease.

“You are very young,” Umbridge said, attempting to smile kindly and failing, “And probably do not understand, but the dangers posed by such dangerous half-breeds as Remus Lupin-”

The general outcry at that was such that Umbridge could not be heard over it, and Salazar used the cover the noise provided to lean over and ask Rowena.

“How long have you been planning this?”

“About a week,” Rowena replied, “We weren’t expecting any of yours to join in, though.”

“Me neither,” Salazar replied, glancing over at Millicent with a thoughtful look on his face, “I should like to have a talk with her once this lesson is over.”

“Yeah, you probably should,” Godric agreed, the sounds of Umbridge shouting about how she would have order just barely audible over the din,

“So,” Salazar added, “How did you pull this one off?”

Rowena smiled, “Well, it was all quite simple really,” she said, “Godric and I just talked to everyone in our dormitories about Umbridge and may have added that she’s the one behind the new anti-werewolf legislation that means Professor Lupin can’t come back. All I had to do then was get her into a position where she brought up our previous teachers and…”

“Impressive,” Salazar remarked, “Now, about these detentions…”

“What about them,” Godric asked, shrugging, “It’s annoying, yeah, but we’ve seen worse, haven’t we?”

“We might have done, Salazar replied acidly, “But if she insists on using that barbaric device on any student of mine I will be obliged to do something drastic.”

Godric blinked, “But she can’t, can she?” he said, “I mean, you I can sort of understand, but anyone else and they’d be writing home to complain like that.”

“You didn’t,” Rowena pointed out, “And the Ministry won’t stop her.”

Godric looked incredulous, “Yeah, because I didn’t want Mum to worry. If you’ve got a couple of hundred parents writing into the Daily Prophet or something because Umbridge has been cutting their kids’ hands open…”

“I would imagine those letters wouldn’t pass the Ministry screening,” Salazar said grimly, lowering his voice slightly as the noise began to die down, “And even if they did the editors would probably spin it so Dumbledore was responsible and use that as excuse to get rid of him and instate Umbridge as headmistress.”

Godric looked thunderous, “Wonderful. But she can’t have that many quills, can she?”

“Only the two I’ve seen,” Salazar replied, “But that’s not really relevant. If she’s using them on even one of our students, we have an obligation.”

Rowena hunched her shoulders, “An obligation, but no means of fulfilling it. We’re students. I’m the eldest of us, and I’m only sixteen. Do you remember what it was like, being sixteen?”

“All too vividly,” Salazar replied, closing his eyes and neglecting to mention that he and Godric were only fifteen. “But we’re in a better position now than we were then. Well, I am, at any rate.” He’d been a hopelessly idealistic teenager, as he remembered it, for all his pretensions towards cynicism, Hopelessly idealistic and hopelessly unprepared. He hadn’t had the least notion that there was any way to fight a war than just charging in headlong and hoping for the best. Well, Edwin of Morpeth had broken him of that habit, and that was the best Salazar could say of the old bastard.

“How so?” Godric asked, frowning, “We’ve next to no official power, we have numbers against us, little things like this are the best we can do.”

Salazar raised an eyebrow, “You call this a little thing, Godric? I beg to differ. Umbridge’s power is no longer absolute. She knows this now, and will thus guard what power she has all the more jealously. Fortunately, the students know it now, too. This story will be all over the school before dinner, and then we shall see what happens.

“We have more knowledge than we did, certainly,” Rowena acknowledged, “But to deal with Umbridge we’d need actual authority here, authority we don’t have any more. And if we report her…How long do you think it would take before she managed to get a new Educational Decree through allowing those things?”

Godric scowled, “Yeah,” he muttered, “That’s just the sort of thing she’d do. Only she’d probably add in a few clauses so that anyone who goes against the High Inquisitor’s decisions gets expelled without question.”

The noise by this point had reached such a volume that they deemed it more prudent to discontinue their conversation, for all that Godric still looked like he wanted nothing more than to use Umbridge as a tilting dummy.

It took a while for the noise to wind down, less because Umbridge had regained control of the class and more because everyone was beginning to run out of stamina, and Salazar couldn’t quite suppress a slightly feral grin at the way Umbridge looked as she leant against her desk, dishevelled and faintly manic with wide, glazed pale eyes.

“Fif- Fifty points from Gryffindor and Slytherin,” she managed to gasp out, “I will be speaking with your heads of houses.” She slumped a little where she stood, but managed to gather enough strength to fairly screech at them to go.

Salazar really did grin as they all filed out, a full half-hour ahead of time. He wasn’t alone, either.

“That went better than I expected,” Godric said, with a smirk that Salazar had seen in the mirror too many times to be comfortable with the sight of it on someone else’s face.

“Oh, gods, we’re going to be in so much trouble,” Rowena said, looking worried, but to Salazar both the tone and the expression seemed somehow false. He glanced around at the throng, wondering how many of them had noticed that too. Not many, he didn’t think, but even one would be dangerous.

“It was worth it, though,” Godric replied, with a reminiscent smile, “I can’t wait ‘til Fred and George find out about this. Think we should tell Remus and Snuffles about this, Harry?”

“What- Oh, yeah. I’ll put it in my next letter.”

“You’re still in contact with him?” asked Dean Thomas, looking at Godric with some envy.

“Yeah,” Godric replied easily, “We stayed with him for a bit over the summer, actually. He’s living in London now,”

“Is he ok?” Lavender asked, and Salazar could see a fair few of his own students listening in, for all that they tried to hide it.

“A bit the worse for wear,” Godric admitted, “But he seemed fine. He’s staying at a friend’s place.”

Salazar cast a questioning look at Rowena, who nodded. He hadn’t known that Lupin was actually living at Grimmauld Place, had barely seen him at all over the summer. It seemed strange that no-one had thought to tell him before. Still, as plans went, invoking Lupin’s name was hardly the worst he had ever heard. And it had the advantage of seeming completely natural, if it came to that.

He turned his attention to the Slytherins, fading back into Godric’s shadow as best he could. It wasn’t hard, not after the stunt Rowena and Godric had just carried off, which gave Salazar the perfect opportunity to listen and observe. His eyes sought out Millicent Bulstrode, standing at the edge of the knot of Slytherins, all of whom were trying and failing to be inconspicuous about listening in on the Gryffindors’ conversation. Salazar shook his head, a wry smile flashing across his face. Children. Would there ever come a time that they did not believe themselves cleverer than they were? Millicent’s expression was one Salazar knew very well, closed-off, iron-jawed and resilient. A dare for anyone who disagreed with her to say as much to her face. She would be difficult. Salazar ran through all he knew about Millicent Bulstrode. It was depressingly little: she owned a pet cat and was canny enough to put Rowena in a headlock rather than wasting her time with spells she knew Rowena could not be surpassed with.  And that was all he knew of her. He would have to ask. Daphne would probably be his safest choice, as he did not want to test Greg’s loyalty just yet, not while he was still on Draco Malfoy’s string.

Speaking of Malfoy, he was looking distinctly sulky. Salazar smiled at him, in the cruel way he had perfected during his travels, and was delighted to see the flash of impotent rage cross Malfoy’s face. Cruel of him, he knew, but the boy looked to be in sore need of someone who would not give him all he asked for just because he asked it. Besides, Salazar had never much cared for aristocrats. Not that they’d liked him very much either.

“Ginny’s going to be furious that she missed all the fun,” he said, turning back to Rowena and Godric. 

“That or try to outdo us,” Godric replied.

Rowena smiled at that. “I’d like to see her manage it,” she said, “I really would. Gods know Umbridge deserves it.”

Salazar’s smirk widened at the thought of Umbridge on the receiving end of all Helga could do to make her life miserable, but sobered rapidly. “We can’t drive her out,” he said shortly.

“Why ever not?” Rowena asked, frowning.

It was at times like this, Salazar thought ruefully, that he remembered why Rowena had never gone into politics. He couldn’t hold a candle to her where technical knowledge was concerned, he knew, but the sort of back-room dealings that had led to Umbridge’s instatement…that was Salazar’s purview.

“If we get rid of her, the Ministry will only send another in the same mould,” Salazar said shortly, “And the next one might be a bit more effectual. I daresay we’ll be seeing a raft of new Educational Decrees before breakfast tomorrow morning anyway, and that’s all to the good, because Madam Umbridge hasn’t much skill at subtlety.” It was a lesson almost all of Salazar’s employers had failed to learn: if one was openly tyrannical one invited rebellion, wasting one’s resources on quelling a hundred rebellions whilst still maintaining the tyranny where a lighter hand might have been more effective. He cast a look around surreptitiously, to see that his Slytherins were still listening in. He smiled. “Say no more here,” he added, when Godric opened his mouth to argue, “What do we have next, Hermione?”

“What- Oh, Charms. But we’ve got another half-hour before it starts,” Rowena said, sneaking a none-too-subtle glance at the Slytherins. Well, none-too-subtle by Salazar’s standards, at least. None of his students appeared to have noticed.

“We ought to see McGonagall,” Rowena added, looking around, “She’ll want an explanation for this.”

“Yeah,” Godric agreed, “We’d better. You coming, Harry?”

“No, I’ll leave you to it. Good luck.”

As soon as they were gone, he dropped back and shed his Gryffindor tie, tucking it neatly into an inside pocket of his robes and falling in among the Slytherins all but unnoticed. Truth be told he was quite surprised it worked, but then, people, wizard or Muggle, had an incredible talent for self-delusion. He spotted Daphne and Tracey Davis near the fringes of the group with their heads together and moved to join them.

“That went well, I thought,” he said in an undertone, and was pleased by Daphne’s slight start. “May we talk?” he added, “In confidence?”

Daphne smirked, “Always in confidence. What is it this time?”

“Do you remember the whole business of the Chamber of Secrets in our second year,” Salazar asked, falling into step by her side. “It’s still down there, you know, and the part I saw was mostly intact.”

Tracey Davis groaned. “Oh, Merlin. That’s torn it.”

“This probably isn’t a conversation we should have here,” Daphne said, letting go of Tracey’s hand, “There’s a rather good secret room off this next corridor, if you want to discuss this further.”

“I think that would be best.”

They broke off from the rest of the class soon after, and Daphne led her way to a faded oil painting of two armoured knights fighting. Or rather, two armoured knights who had probably been painted fighting. At the moment the two of them were sitting on a log with their visors up, having what sounded like an animated conversation about jousting techniques while their horses, one black and one white, grazed peaceably together in the background.

“Sparhawk,” Tracey said casually, and the portrait swung aside. The room within was almost perfectly round, wood-panelled and surprisingly homelike and, with a start, Salazar recognised it. This had been Gareth’s room, on the rare occasions he had stayed at the castle. Strange, to see it like this, for all that Salazar had never really got along with his stepson. Gareth…Gareth had been too much a man of honour to ever really like Salazar. They’d been civil, or tried to, for Helga’s sake, but that was as far as cordiality had ever extended between the two of them.

“So,” Daphne said, closing the portrait hole behind them. “Why did you tell me about the chamber.”

Salazar shrugged, “I know where it is. I know how to get in, and I’m probably the only person in this castle who can help you do so.”

Daphne’s eyes gleamed. “Yes. But why are you telling me? Shouldn’t you be running to Dumbledore or McGonagall like a good boy?” There was a new, harsh note to her voice now that Salazar was not quite sure of. Something almost forced.

Salazar shrugged, “I may have mentioned it to the headmaster, yes,” he said urbanely, “Any excavation would, after all, require his permission. But it will be some time before he is able to do anything, and it may yet be possible for you to steal a march on him.”

Daphne took a step forward. “Let us be clear, Potter,” she said sharply, “We are not friends. I might like you and you might like me, but we aren’t friends. Maybe we would have been, if you hadn’t met Malfoy before the Sorting, but we aren’t. You’re a Gryffindor and I’m a Slytherin and that makes us enemies. Friendly enemies, but still enemies. And I already owe you one favour.”

“Of course,” Salazar agreed, inclining his head. “Would you like to hear my terms, then?”

“If you don’t mind.”

“I will trade you the location of the Chamber of Secrets and all the help I can offer in entering it – and believe me that you will never enter the Chamber without my assistance – in exchange for all the information you can give me about Millicent Bulstrode, and any other Slytherins who might be willing to work against our beloved High Inquisitor.”

Tracey Davis snorted, “Not asking much, are you?”

Salazar looked at her, “A share in the credit for the greatest archaeological find of this century in exchange for a few names and a bit of background on a sixteen-year-old schoolgirl. If anything, the bargain is weighted in Greengrass’s favour.” He made a point of emphasising the surname. If enemies they must be, he would play the role for her, and so achieve a much more lasting alliance than a casual friendship could create.

Daphne, though, looked thoughtful. “What would you use this information for?”

“The feud between our houses is wasteful and childish. I propose to end it.”

Two sharp intakes of breath.

“How do you plan on doing that?” Tracey Davis asked, “Gryffindor and Slytherin have been at each other’s throats since the Founding.”

“No, they haven’t,” Salazar replied, “I’ve read the early texts and by all accounts there was no particular rivalry between the two houses until the last year or so before Slytherin left.” He should have done more to quell the rivalry then, but it had seemed only a passing thing at the time, and they had all expected it to die out on its own unless they made a fuss of it. “As for how,” he allowed himself a slight smirk, “That is entirely my own affair.”

“You haven’t thought how yet, have you?” Tracey said, sharing a look of profound amusement with Daphne.

“No,” Salazar lied, trying to look convincingly sheepish.

Daphne frowned. “Well, then. How do I know you won’t double-cross me?”

“You don’t. Now, do we have an agreement?”

Daphne looked over at Tracey for a moment, then her shoulders went back, her chin went up and she nodded once sharply. “We do.”

“Well, then?”

Daphne looked away. “I’ll give you your information,” she said, “Once you’ve shown me the entrance to the Chamber and no sooner.”

Salazar gritted his teeth. “Half now,” he said firmly, “Half after my job is done.”

Daphne’s eyes flashed, and he knew then that he had miscalculated, “You suspect me, Potter?”

Salazar shrugged, and then in a more conciliatory tone, “We are enemies, you say. You will excuse me, then, for not taking you at your word.”

Daphne glared at him. As glares went it was an excellent effort for a fifteen-year-old, but Salazar had been glared at by kings and princes and Koschei the Deathless himself. It passed over him like an autumn breeze and had no more effect on his composure.

“You have my word,” Daphne gritted out, “As a Greengrass. You will have the information you asked for once I have seen the Chamber and no sooner.”

That, Salazar reflected, was probably the best he was going to get. “Thank you.”

Chapter 8: In which a Hat is terrorised

Notes:

The Sorting Hat's behaviour may seem a little strange at first, but please remember that it has just received a great shock and is presently in the company of its creators. It is thus regressing emotionally back to when it was a young Hat.

The rest of the afternoon passed peaceably enough, and evening found Salazar walking down towards the Quidditch pitch, where Helga could still be seen in the fading light, her cadre of young Hufflepuffs zipping around her like bluebottles. By the time Salazar reached the pitch, they were still up there, though one little first-year boy all but fell off his broom when he saw Salazar standing at the edge of the pitch.

There were eleven Hufflepuffs there, all told, playing a lively pick-up game of what was probably meant to be a variant of Quidditch without the Snitch or Bludgers. They seemed a talented lot, too, Salazar noticed. His Slytherins were certainly going to have competition soon, especially if they kept on playing the old faces. Well, maybe that was what they needed. The sight was enough to make Salazar ache for his Firebolt, hidden now in the rafters above the Gryffindor boys’ dormitory. He would have given anything, in that moment, to be able to act in such a way with his own students, but he couldn’t.

However, as he watched, the Hufflepuffs’ focus seemed to drain away, with many sneaking nervous looks down at where he stood at the edge of the stands. It was uncomfortably reminiscent of another scene, three years and a lifetime ago, when Harry Potter had walked in on another group of Hufflepuffs discussing whether or not he had been attacking Muggle-borns. Helga seemed to have noticed this sudden lapse in concentration too, because she signalled the group to land not long later, remaining airborne longer than anyone else to be sure of no more accidents and then walking straight up to him and glaring at him.

“We were doing just fine ’til you showed up,” she said.

Salazar smiled back at her. “I could see that,” and then, raising his voice slightly, “I didn’t mean to throw you off.”

She snorted at him and then said in a louder voice, “Ok, everyone, brooms away, it’s getting dark and Ernie will go after me if any of you miss dinner.”

There was a low grumbling from the assembled Hufflepuffs, and a few filthy looks cast in Salazar’s direction, to which he responded with a smirk honed to a knife-edge. “Mind if I join you,” he added, just loud enough to be overheard.

“If you like,” Helga answered, sticking her hands in her pockets, her broomstick leaning against her side, “Just let me get this back to the broom sheds,” Salazar nodded, and turned to watch the Hufflepuffs. Helga had chosen well, he couldn’t help but think. They moved the same way men under her command had done back in the days she’d spent training village militias in the multiplicity of petty kingdoms that would later become Germany, smooth and disciplined, in cohesion with one another without any need for orders. The very flower of Hufflepuff house, in other words. It was not precisely what Salazar would have tried to achieve in Helga’s place, but then, he and Helga had always fostered very different abilities in their favoured students.

Finally the activity simmered down as the brooms and ball were packed away and the Hufflepuffs congregated near the goalposts, only to set off at some unseen signal, sticking close together so that they seem to meld into a mass of black, differentiated only by the flash of yellow at each throat. Helga was at the very back, her cloak thrown casually over her arm, and Salazar fell into step beside her, watching the Hufflepuffs.

“Quick work,” he remarked in an undertone, watching Helga’s face.

Helga grinned, “They’re young. I think the eldest of them is only about thirteen. It’s easier at that age. Besides, my students were never quite as suspicious as yours.”

Salazar barked out a laugh, “I suppose that’s true enough. Did that go for…what did you say her name was?”

“Zara,” Helga supplied.

“Zara,” he repeated. It was not the name he would have chosen for the only grandchild he knew of, but then, he had forfeited any right to comment on the subject.

“And no,” Helga replied, smirking, “She took after her mother. Terrified the hell out of Godric.”

“I’d love to have seen that.” He would, too. The unfairness of all he had lost was…not overwhelming, not any longer, but still present, still there at the back of his mind. They could have had years, decades. He could have seen his granddaughter for himself, could have at least tried to rein Tanith in from the duel in which she had died, could have- But it was no use to speculate on might-have-beens. What was done was done. “What was she like?” he asked quietly.

“Brilliant,” Helga replied, a sort of distant sadness in her voice, “Although as grandmother I may be biased.”

“I shall have to take your word on it,” Salazar replied, “Go on. Please.”

“Zara…” Helga grinned, “Gods, how to describe her. Sharp, I suppose, would be the best word for it. Honourable as they come, but very sharp. It took fully five minutes to Sort her.”

“I can believe that,” Salazar replied. They lapsed into silence, keeping a careful eye on the Hufflepuffs as they made their way up towards the castle. “You have it?” Salazar asked in a low voice.

“In my bag,” Helga replied in an undertone.

Salazar’s lips thinned. “You’re sure that’s safe?”

“As sure as I can be. I’ve got it rolled up and wrapped in my scarf at the bottom of the bag.”

Salazar nodded curtly.

“A neat enough solution,” he said, “But it won’t hold for long. You’ve secured your trunk, I take it?”

Helga grinned, “It’s got a false bottom,” she explained, “Courtesy of Fred and George. They seemed to think Mum wouldn’t search my things for any of their products.”

“Imagine that.”

They were forced to cease their conversation quite abruptly, however, when a little second-year girl with a mop of fair curls came over, looking scared but determined, and addressed herself to Salazar.

“We- Um. That is- We’d like to ask that you stop bothering Ginny,” she said in a small voice that grew stronger as she spoke.

Salazar raised an eyebrow, “Stop-?”

“Oh, gods,” Helga muttered, “Lucy, there’s no need-”

“He came down to the pitch to watch you,” Lucy said stubbornly, casting a look somewhere between nervousness and ferocity in Salazar’s direction, “He watched the rest of us as well, but mostly you. And now he’s spent the whole walk up to the castle pestering you about something you obviously didn’t want to talk about-”

“But that he had a right to know,” Helga interrupted smoothly, “He’s my own housemate, Lucy, and my- and my friend besides. Why on earth would he be bothering me?”

“Justin says Potter attacked him once,” Lucy said sullenly, “With Parseltongue.”

“Justin says a great many things,” Helga replied with asperity, “That doesn’t make him right about any of them.”

“And that he’s been hanging around with the Slytherins,” Lucy ploughed on, “Why would you let someone like that near you?”

Helga looked at Salazar, who gave a wry smile. “She has a point,” he admitted.

“Oh, don’t you start,” Helga said irritably, rolling her eyes. “Lucy. I am…flattered…by your concern, but it’s entirely unnecessary. Harry isn’t threatening or upsetting me in any way and even if he were,” a grin flashed across her face so suddenly it was startling, “I’m almost offended that you’d assume I would be the one in need of protection.”

“Well,” Lucy said, casting another dubious look at Salazar, “If you’re sure. But we’re all right here,” she added, rounding on him, “So if you try anything-”

“Then you are quite welcome to deal with whatever is left of me after Ginny has had her say,” Salazar interrupted, “I understand.” Lucy cast another look at Helga, then nodded stiffly, stalking off towards the rest of the Hufflepuffs. “Well,” Salazar said as soon as she was gone, “It appears your badgers have finally re-grown their teeth. About time, too.”

Helga hit him lightly across the chest, “Just because you didn’t notice they were there, it doesn’t mean they didn’t have any. I’m going to kill that hat. Honestly, ‘I’ll take the lot and treat them all the same’?”

“Well, that was what you said we ought to do,” Salazar felt obliged to point out.

“For the school as a whole!” Helga snapped, somehow managing to do so in an undertone, “No-one is entirely without courage or loyalty or intelligence or ambition!”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Salazar said lightly, “My cousin Audley – Dudley, I should say – came close.”

Helga gave him an incredulous look, “Was he really that bad?”

“Worse.”

“Yeah, but you get my point,” Helga said irritably, “I won’t have it said that Hufflepuff house is just somewhere for anyone who wasn’t good enough for the rest of you.”

“I wouldn’t have expected anything less.”

They carried on in silence, a little way behind the Hufflepuffs, who kept stealing glances back at Salazar as though half-expecting him to go for their throats. Understandable enough, Salazar supposed, given how long they’d spent being spoon-fed stories about what a dangerous lunatic he was. In both identities. Gods, but that was a thought.

“What have you been telling them?” he asked, smiling sideways at Helga to hide the bitter taste in his mouth the thought had left.

“I haven’t told them anything,” Helga replied, “Well,” she added, “Not outright, anyway. I might have implied a few things, but…”

“Oh?”

Helga shrugged, “Eustace asked if it was true you could talk to snakes. Apparently the kid’s mother had a fit over Dumbledore letting a Parselmouth attend Hogwarts.”

“Imagine that.” It had been a common enough attitude in their day, Salazar recalled. He’d used that to his advantage more than once, used the serpents that were his eyes and ears to acquire a nice little reputation for himself as a shield against assassins. After all, everyone already thought he was evil. Having them think him invincible to boot had been the real challenge. “And what did you say to that?”

Helga shrugged, “What else could I do? I admitted you were a Parselmouth and managed to let slip that you were accused of being the Heir of Slytherin in my first year here and that no-one ever properly explained how you were cleared.”

“Minx,” Salazar said fondly, “Thank you. I’m sure that will make my job much easier. How far have they spread it?”

“They haven’t yet, I don’t think,” Helga replied, shrugging, “But then, it was only a day or two ago. Give it a few more and it’ll be all over Hufflepuff, and then the rest of the school.”

Salazar nodded, considering. He hadn’t planned for this, not this early, although he had fully anticipated people thinking back to the whole affair of the Chamber after the re-Sorting. A few adjustments would have to be made, it seemed, if the plan was to come off as it should.

The party filed into the Entrance Hall without incident, and then through to the Great Hall, where dinner was already on the table. They dispersed after that, the Hufflepuffs over to their own table and Salazar and Helga making their way over to join the Gryffindors, where Rowena was already waiting.

“Good session?” she asked, glancing up at Helga with a wry smile.

“All right,” Helga replied as the two of them sat down, drawing her wand under the table to cast a fresh set of anti-eavesdropping charms, “How did things go with McGonagall?”

Rowena pursed her lips, “Not as badly as they might,” she admitted, “We lost a few more points, which Godric wasn’t too pleased about, but other than that…” she shrugged, “She looked almost pleased when we explained what we’d been up to.”

“I can imagine,” Helga replied, and glared at the two of them, “And don’t think I’ve forgotten that you left me out!”

“We couldn’t very well have included you in it, though,” Rowena said matter-of-factly, “You’re not in our year. Besides, Salazar only barely got involved and we certainly didn’t tell him the plan ahead of time.”

“It’s true,” Salazar admitted when Helga looked to him for confirmation, “I guessed fairly quickly, but ‘Ric and Ro did most of the work.”

Helga snorted and helped herself to mutton roast while Salazar turned his attention to the eel stew that had started appearing on the house table about three days after their return. He wasn’t quite sure how the house-elves knew what his favourite food had been a thousand years before, in much the same way that he wasn’t sure how they had known that Godric had become quite obsessive about people going through his things during his years on campaign and so now left his bedside table untouched. Still, it didn’t seem actively sinister and there was so much else to worry about he didn’t have time to investigate.

“Anyway,” he said, glancing around, “Where has Godric got to? I wanted a word with him before Umbridge’s detention.”

“Helping Natalie McDonald with her Transfiguration homework,” Rowena replied, “Along there,” she added, waving a hand along the table. Sure enough, there was Godric sitting next to a girl who looked to be only about eleven or twelve, a textbook open between them.

Salazar frowned. “He’s moving a bit fast, isn’t he,” he said, “You remember what Godric was like at that age, it’s bound to raise suspicions-”

“I’ve been telling anyone who asks that he’s better at Transfiguration than he likes to pretend,” Rowena interrupted, “And tried to imply he was nervous about Fred and George teasing him if he was too good in lessons. I don’t know if it’ll be enough, though.”

Helga grinned, “I’d love to see what Fred and George have to say when they get wind of all this,” she said, “Anyway, we need a place to meet this evening.”

“What’s wrong with Gryffindor Tower?” Rowena asked, frowning. Salazar and Helga shared an exasperated look.

“I’d sooner not have to explain to Colin or anyone why we were sitting up late at night with the Sorting Hat,” Helga said shortly, “Anti-eavesdropping wards won’t do anything for people seeing what they shouldn’t, and illusions would just be a waste when we can avert the problem so easily by using another room.”

“All right, I see your point,” Rowena admitted grudgingly, “But where do you suggest? I don’t care how roomy it is, I’m not using Salazar’s Chamber-”

“No,” Helga replied, the shadow of decades-old pain flashing across her face, “I won’t go back there if I can avoid it.”

Salazar shifted uneasily, glancing down at his hands in their black leather gloves. He should probably venture down into the Chamber soon, to see to Pyrrha’s body. It would be difficult to explain, he knew, but Pyrrha…Pyrrha had been one of his, and she had suffered for it. He could not in good conscience leave her like that, to be prodded and poked by a thousand would-be archaeologists as though she, bright, beautiful, endlessly entertaining creature that she had been, were nothing more than just another curio, just another item of historical significance. He could think up some story, he was sure.

“-Room of Requirement,” Helga was saying, “Only place for it, really. We’ll have privacy, as much space as we need and it’s not associated with any of our houses. It’s where we’ll probably have to meet for the rest of our time as students here anyway, so we might as well get used to it.”

“I suppose you’re right,” Rowena agreed, “But if we’re caught out of bed after hours, the consequences-”

“We do have the Map,” Salazar felt obliged to point out, and wasn’t that a useful turn of events? “And no-one knows the secret passages better than we four.” Well, he hoped not, anyway. That would just be embarrassing.

“Anyway,” Rowena added, “What do you want to talk to him about that can’t wait until after your detention?”

Salazar shook his head, “Nothing. If he’s- Nothing.”

“Salazar.”

“It really isn’t important,” Salazar said, hunching his shoulders, “I just wanted him to pretend we’d had another fight this evening so I can find out a bit more about Millicent Bulstrode. It would be easily done either way, but she might be a bit more receptive without Godric hanging around.”

“Can’t you ask one of your little coterie for help?” Rowena asked, helping herself to roast potatoes. “What about Greengrass? You could ask her.”

“I did,” Salazar said morosely, “And badly endangered our alliance in the process.” It rankled to admit it, but lying to oneself was a detestable habit and one that Salazar had given up decades ago. He would need to make up a lot of ground very quickly, he knew, but how to do it still eluded him. He was not used to working on equal ground with the subjects of his manipulations. He had done most of his best work from the position of a servant in his youth, and with his students he had always kept his distance. It was, he thought ruefully, a rather problematic gap in his abilities. But then, he had had no real equals but his fellow Founders for decades, it was little wonder he had no idea how such things worked, though that was no real excuse for it. It was a weak spot, and one he should have corrected years ago, when it was not yet of vital importance.

He could, he admitted, probably restructure his plans to work without Greengrass. It would be a wrench, but it was possible. Still, what a shame it would be to alienate such a mind, such an example of what he had hoped his house would stand for. Besides which, without Daphne Greengrass it would be all the more difficult to win Slytherin. He could not be seen to influence them openly – better that they seem to influence him – and he would need someone of similar standing to take control once Draco Malfoy’s hold over the house had been broken. Greg would not be that person. He had spent too long playing the lackey to present the necessary authority, and besides, Greg had known nothing but a long string of manipulators all his life. Salazar refused to be another on that string. Gregory Goyle was one of Salazar’s students, he deserved better than that.

“I’ll make it up to her,” he said, picking at his stew, “So, tell me,” he added, “How are things with your Ravenclaws?”

“What- Oh, they’re fine,” Rowena tucked a few locks of hair out of her face and added, “I’ve hit a dead end.”

“With the Ravenclaws?” Helga asked, frowning.

Rowena shook her head, “No,” she said, “With the research. I’ve been hunting down information on time travel since we got out of the hospital wing, and none of what I’ve found seems to fit. No-one in any of the books mentions anything happening to memories-”

“Well, to be fair,” Helga pointed out, “We didn’t even know we’d time-travelled until we got back. Even if there were other cases like ours, how would anyone even know unless whoever it was got transported back to their own time in the end?”

“We did,” Salazar pointed out, and that was another thing that didn’t ring true about all this. Why had they been returned? And why separately? Whatever – or whoever – had stolen them away from their lives must have had a purpose in all this, surely.

“Yeah, but we’re sort of a special case,” Helga replied, abandoning her meal, “I mean, if…if Colin, say, were to start walking around proclaiming how he’d been transported to the Dark Ages and lived out a whole life as a peasant farmer before being sent back, would anyone believe him? No-one’s going to tell anyone something like that for fear of ending up in St Mungo’s for the rest of their life.”

A strange look flashed across Rowena’s face. “Yes,” she said distantly, “I suppose- It is rather like-”

“Rather like what?” Salazar asked, glancing at her.

“There’s a book,” Rowena said, knotting her hands together, “A series of books, really. My dad – Adam Granger, I mean, not Brandon of Ravensroost – used to read them to me when I was a kid-”

“Yeah?” Helga asked, sharing a bewildered look with Salazar.

“It involved these four children going to a magical land and ending up ruling it,” Rowena continued, speaking very fast now, “And when they were sent back to our world they were reverted back to the age they were when they left but kept the memory of having been kings and queens in another world. It does sound a bit like what happened to us, doesn’t it?”

“You don’t think whoever wrote it could have been-” Salazar started.

“I don’t think so,” Rowena cut him off, “Lewis – the author, that is – didn’t seem to like witches very much.”

“There’s no reason why everyone this has happened to should be wizards, though,” Helga pointed out, “It’s a worth a look, isn’t it? I mean, even if this Lewis whatever-his-name-was didn’t have anything like this happen to him, he might have known someone who did.”

“I suppose,” Rowena replied, still sounding distinctly dubious. “Anyway, Salazar, about Cho Chang-” “What- Oh, of course. Is she bearing up all right?” he asked, the instincts of twenty years’ teaching taking over.

“That’s what I wanted a word with you about,” Rowena replied, “She wants to talk to you about what happened that night.”

Salazar considered this. It seemed a fair enough request, to his mind. “It would be best to get that over with soon,” he said by way of reply as soon as he realised that one was expected of him. “I’m considered untrustworthy enough as it is.”

“Then- Then you’ll do it?”

“Yes,” Salazar replied firmly, “If you could help set up a meeting somewhere neutral?”

“I’ll do my best,” Rowena promised, “Just…try to be diplomatic, will you? She’s in a bit of a state.”

Salazar nodded, and might have said more if it hadn’t been for Dean Thomas, who sat down next to Helga and looked over at Rowena with a grin.

“Didn’t think you’d go in for that sort of thing,” he said, as Salazar scrambled to undo the anti-eavesdropping charms under the table.

“I have no idea what you mean,” Rowena said haughtily.

“This afternoon! Umbridge! What did McGonagall say?”

“I have detention next Saturday and Gryffindor lost more points,” Rowena replied, managing to keep up a remarkable façade of worry. “I don’t know what caused it, I was only asking questions.”

Salazar smirked a little and got to his feet, “I’ll leave you to it,” he said, adjusting his gloves and wincing at the way the back of his hand itched. “If you see Ron, tell him I’d like a word, will you?”

“I’ll tell him,” Helga replied, rolling her eyes. Salazar nodded gratefully, turned on his heel and left without another word, his eyes tracking the progress of the silvery shape of the Bloody Baron across the Hall and through the wall towards the anteroom at the back of the Great Hall. He followed.

The antechamber was deserted, and looked likely to remain so, when Salazar reached it and found the Baron already there.

In life, the Bloody Baron had been a tall, good-looking youth a few months younger than Godric and Rowena’s daughter Helena, with a curly mop of black hair and a temper Salazar had warned him about more than once. In death he was gaunt and wild-eyed, his clothes blood-stained and filthy and his shoulders weighed down with shackles. He was very still now, where in life he had been all restless energy, with the air of a condemned man just waiting for the axe to fall.

“Edmund,” Salazar said solemnly, tapping the lock with his wand and listening for the click.

The ghost of Edmund of Muirden turned hollow eyes on his former teacher and said in a voice like the rasp of stone on stone, “Hello, sir.”

“What on earth are you doing here?” Salazar asked, stepping away from the door, “You were on the cusp of leaving the school when I did, what could have brought you back?”

“I might ask you the same thing.”

Salazar arched an eyebrow. “So you might. But this is my school, after all. Where else would I be?”

Edmund stared at him, and the look on his face was such that Salazar could almost imagine that this was the same boy he had taken under his wing all those years ago. Edmund had been only about nine or ten when Salazar first met him, cast out by his Muggle father and under sentence of death. Burning, it had been then, and that wasn’t a common death. The flames were supposed to purify Edmund’s soul so that he would arise to heaven. Salazar still wasn’t sure if that meant the Muggle lord had loved his son or not. Either way, Salazar had been obliged to intervene and take Edmund away with him. That was probably another thing that history had forgotten, unless Salazar missed his guess. Well, he’d been allowed to keep the title of ‘Baron’ in death, anyway, even if he had only been such on a technicality when he was a living man.

“I had meant to ask you that myself,” Edmund said quietly, and that was all wrong, Edmund shouldn’t be calm and quiet while saying words like that. Edmund had always been all sound and fury, to the point where Salazar had been forced to warn him about it more than once. What could have happened, Salazar wondered, to turn that boy into this? But Edmund was talking again now, and some of the old fire had come back into his eyes. “Where were you? You could have stopped it, you could have-”

“Do you really think I don’t know that?” Salazar snapped, “Do you really think I don’t-” he cut himself off, regained his composure with a heroic effort of will and continued in a quieter voice. “There is no point in this. What is done is done.”

For some reason, Edmund went still at that, and silent, and seemed to grow paler even than he already was.

“Now,” Salazar said, frowning, “What happened to you?” He didn’t want to know, though he could definitely imagine what could have turned that hot-blooded boy so cold. But Edmund had been his student, and so Salazar had a duty. Edmund did not look terribly much older than he had been the last time Salazar had seen him. It must have been something serious, then, to wreak such a change in the boy who had spent seven years stealing sweetmeats out of the castle kitchens and trailing after Helena like a puppy.

Edmund shuddered at that, an awful convulsive movement, and then went still.

“Helena,” he said, in a low, choked whisper.

Salazar froze. “What about Helena?” he asked, an awful certainty rising in his chest. Edmund had always been hot-tempered, but he couldn’t believe- What had happened in that Albanian forest that Godric had not known of this?

Edmund hung his head. Salazar didn’t think he’d ever seen anyone look so broken. It was strange, now, looking at Edmund, to remember that Harry Potter had ever been frightened of the Bloody Baron.

“Tell me everything.”

To his credit, Edmund didn’t mess around. His voice was low and clear and empty when he spoke next.

“After I left, I travelled. I couldn’t go as far as you, but I was able to see France and Brittany. I- I never meant to go back, until Mistress Ravenclaw’s message arrived.”

“Helena turned you down, then?” Salazar said, and there was cold fury building in him now, though his voice was quite steady.

“Yes. I didn’t- I would never have tried to force her, sir, I swear! You know I would never-”

“Go on.”

Edmund looked sick now, paler even than he had been before, and Salazar was struck again by how young he looked. Gods, he was barely more than a boy! Edmund swallowed and went on.

“She was in a bad way by then, barely able to speak and all but paralysed. Nothing Mistress Hufflepuff could do could do anything for her except ease the pain a little. She told me what had happened, how Helena had left, and begged me – actually begged me – to find her and bring her home.”

Salazar’s eyes narrowed. “Did she mention her diadem at all?”

“Her- No, of course not. Why should she?”

“No reason,” Salazar said grimly, “Continue.”

“It took me months to find her,” Edmund said, and his eyes were fever-bright, “Even with Apparition. I threw everything I had into the search.”

Yes, Salazar reflected grimly. He would. Edmund had never been capable of dividing his attentions. When he turned his mind to a task it consumed him absolutely. And Apparition had existed then? The idea was just starting to be seriously discussed when Salazar was dragged back to Harry Potter’s life. It must have developed very quickly, then, to be usable within two years of his disappearance. What he would have given to see it develop...It would have revolutionised the magical world, to be sure. If only he could have seen it! All of this in a flash of thought.

Edmund was still talking, the words tumbling over one another like rocks in a landslide. Had he told anyone any of this before, Salazar wondered? Had there been anyone to tell?

“I found her in Albania, in the end. The forests there are so dark and deep it took me weeks even then. She- She wouldn’t listen, not to anything I had to say, I told her all I could, all about Mistress Ravenclaw’s illness, her last request and she still wouldn’t come-”

“Are you trying to make excuses, Edmund?” Salazar asked, and there was something dark and dangerous in his voice now. Edmund dropped his eyes from Salazar’s face.

“No. There can be none.” Edmund closed his eyes, drawing in a long, shuddering breath he could not need. “She laughed in my face, taunted me- Her mother’s dog, she called me. Accused me of…” he broke off, his shoulders shaking. “Said- I knew she didn’t love me, I’d known for years. I thought she might grow to, but I never- What could I have done that she despised me so?”

What indeed? But then, Helena always had had the gift of knowing almost instinctively what would hurt a person, knowledge she had never hesitated to use when she was in a fury. His wild, proud, passionate niece…and it had been the end of her. Not two years after he was gone…nineteen, she would have been, then. Just nineteen. It was no age at which to die. And who was he, this boy, this Muggle lordling’s son to take her from the world? From her parents? Who was he-? But all Salazar’s fury melted away when he looked back at the Baron.

Edmund’s hair hung down over his face and he was trembling now, his eyes still closed.

“And what became of you?” Salazar asked coldly, “Once you’d committed your petty little murder. What then?”

Edmund flinched as though from a blow, still shaking as Salazar had not seen him do since…since the morning a boy of ten stood shivering in the cold air, waiting for the stake to be lit.

“I couldn’t go back,” Edmund said at last in a sort of strangled whisper, “I…I couldn’t just leave her. So-” he broke off. He didn’t need to say any more.

For a few long moments, Salazar couldn’t think of anything at all. It was as though all the fury, all the rage and all the pain in him was very far off, as though Edmund’s words had filled him top to toe with ice, chilling him down to the bone.

Tanith, Helena, Edmund…how many more? How much more could there be? What did he have left to lose? He had known from the first that they would all be dead by now, had thought he could make his peace with that, but to know that it had ended like this…Oh, gods. What should he have done? How could he have stopped this? Why hadn’t he seen…?

He wrenched his eyes away, not knowing what to do.

“Get out.”

Edmund nodded once, eyes blank and unreadable, and melted away through the wall behind him, leaving Salazar alone with his thoughts.

*

He had meant to use the evening’s detention to find out more about Millicent Bulstrode, but Salazar could not stop thinking of his meeting with Edmund. It was a fault, he knew. In his spying days he would never have allowed himself to be so distracted, but then, he had thought his spying days long behind him before he was plunged back into this life that was and was not his. He had not realised, before, just how badly out of practice he was.

Even when he and Godric had left Umbridge’s office, both bleeding heavily and in something of a bad mood, Salazar still couldn’t shake the memory of the look in Edmund’s dead eyes, the fury that rose in him at the thought of what must have happened. Fury that was all the sharper for having no-one to direct it at. Salazar could keep up a white-hot resentment for years if he so chose – had done, indeed, far more often than he cared to admit – but what good was that when the person responsible for Helena’s death was already suffering a fate infinitely worse than any Salazar could devise? He was half-tempted to just tell Rowena what had happened and stand back, but he couldn’t. It was Helena’s secret to tell, not his, and Helena had been avoiding all four of them ever since their return to this time.

“Come on,” he said morosely, pulling his gloves back on. “Did Rowena tell you where we were meeting?”

“The Room of Requirement,” Godric said, nodding, “Yeah, I’d worked that one out for myself, thanks. Are you all right?”

“What?”

Godric frowned at him, “You look awful. Nightmares again?”

“No more than usual,” Salazar said stiffly. He had dreamt of Edwin of Morpeth last night. He still wasn’t sure whether he wouldn’t rather have seen Voldemort. He could still feel Morpeth inside his mind, like cold fingers picking industriously away. He glanced down at his hands, rubbing distractedly at the place where the brand had been. Morpeth was dead, he reminded himself firmly. Salazar had checked and Caecilia had made sure of it. Still the feeling lingered, the memory of what it had been to have no peace, no rest, no privacy, not even those few square inches inside his head to call his own. He reinforced his Occlumency barriers and hoped Godric hadn’t noticed anything amiss.

From the look on his best friend’s face, it had been too much to hope for, but if Godric had noticed he didn’t mention it.

“Helga’s students are doing well,” he said instead, sticking his hands in the pockets of his robes.

“I know,” Salazar replied, lengthening his strides to keep up. “I saw them earlier. I will admit, I wasn’t expecting them to be that loyal that quickly.”

Godric snorted, “They’re Helga’s. That’s what they’re chosen for. Wish Ro was having as much luck.”

Salazar shrugged, “I daresay things will improve once the Sorting Hat has been dealt with. You appear to be doing well, at any rate.”

Godric’s ears went pink. “Yeah, well. I’ve got a bit of a head start, though, what with…everything.” He shook his head. “How did the rest of you end up in my house, anyway?”

Salazar shrugged, “Well, our lives here came first…I know Rowena wanted to be in Gryffindor because Dumbledore was one of yours, and I…” he snorted, “I just wanted to avoid Malfoy. I don’t know about Helga, but I daresay it was something similar. There was family precedent to live up to, after all.”

“Makes sense.” They walked in silence for a few minutes, and then Godric burst out, “I’m sorry, Sal.”

“What for?” Salazar asked, frowning.

Godric ran a hand through his hair. “I should’ve- You kept going on about how dangerous it was, bringing Muggle-borns into the school, and I never asked-”

“I wouldn’t have answered if you had,” Salazar said shortly, “Besides, it doesn’t appear to have done the school any harm in the long run. Quite the reverse.”

“Yeah,” Godric said, but he looked pale and stricken for a moment before ploughing on. “But you weren’t- Well, you were wrong, but after what happened with Ossian-”

“Ossian?” Salazar asked, frowning. “That strange boy in your house, about eleven or twelve when I left? Curly hair, grey eyes?”

“Yeah, that’s the one.” The look on Godric’s face was thunderous. “He disappeared two or three years after that, after Rowena-” he broke off for a moment, and then went on. “We were frantic trying to find out where he’d gone and what had happened. And then he turned up at our gates-”

“-With a Muggle mob at his heels?” Salazar finished for him. He should have known…

“Yeah,” Godric said quietly, “Except…” he shook his head. “He’d gone to them willingly enough, but he wasn’t leading them back by choice. They made him- The things they’d done- Gods, how could anyone do something like that to a child that age?”

“Muggles grow up faster than we do,” Salazar offered, his voice bleak. “Their lives are harder than ours. I suppose that’s why…” he trailed off, the phantom burn of the brand growing stronger. Of all his nightmare imaginings, the dark twists and turns his mind had concocted late at night, when Helga lay snoring softly beside him and the darkness seemed almost like a presence in itself, he had not imagined this. Muggle-born wizards leading mobs to wizarding settlements had been a constant threat, then. Bergmann had been the most notorious, but far from the only one. He had not considered, before…Oh, gods. Oh, gods forgive him.

“How many?” he asked, not wanting to hear the answer.

“Nineteen,” Godric answered grimly, “All older students, those old enough to help with the defence.”

Salazar nodded, the faces of all the children he had known and taught flashing before his eyes. Which of them, he wondered, which of them had died that day.

“My precautions,” he said, for want of anything else. “Did they work?”

“Precautions?” Godric asked, frowning. Salazar made a dismissive gesture, “Pyrrha, did you let her loose on them?”

“What- No, I thought you took her with you…” the blood drained from Godric’s face. “Sal, that basilisk in second year, was that-”

Salazar nodded, dull pain flooding through him.

“Oh- Gods, Sal, I didn’t-”

“It’s fine,” Salazar lied, “It- Death was probably kinder than what had already been done to her.” And that was just one more thing to repay his so-called heir for. Pyrrha, the students, the damage that had been done to Slytherin house…Voldemort would burn for what he’d done. He hunched his shoulders, wishing that Godric would stop looking at him with pity in his eyes.

They walked in silence for a few minutes more, until they reached the familiar tapestry of ballet-dancing trolls and paced back and forth until the door appeared.

Inside, the room was almost the copy of the staffroom as it had been in their day, with a roaring fire in the grate and the tapestries depicting the hunt for a unicorn on the walls. For a moment, it was as though nothing had changed. And then he saw Helga and Rowena, younger than they had been in years, and the illusion died.

The Sorting Hat sat on the low table in front of the fire, the lacquered one that Rowena had brought back from Cathay with her all those years ago, and as Helga looked around she smiled in that way of hers that always meant that someone who deserved it was in for a great deal of trouble.

“Good, we’re all here,” Rowena said hurriedly, moving to make room for Godric on the sofa beside her as Salazar sprawled out in the armchair that had been his, one leg draped carelessly over the arm. “We can start.”

Helga drew her wand and poked the Sorting Hat with it, hard. “All right, you,” she said harshly, “Explain yourself.”

“I have absolutely no idea what you mean, Miss Weasley,” the hat said, in the rather desperate tones of one who knows exactly what they are dealing with but is hoping that by refusing to confront it they can stave off the inevitable.

“Hat,” Godric said sharply, “We all know that you know who we are, so stop play-acting and you might not make matters worse for yourself.”

The Hat turned, which was very strange to see, and took them all in. Salazar did not bother to restrain the smirk that flashed across his face when the Hat seemed visibly to shrink at the sight of him.

“What is he doing here?” the Hat said coldly, or as coldly as an animated wizard’s hat could.

Salazar’s smirk grew still more pronounced. “This is my school, Hat. I helped build it. Where else would I be?”

“Never mind that,” Rowena said, fixing the Hat with a glare that could have peeled paint. “I am waiting,” she continued, “For an explanation, Hat.”

“An explanation?” the Hat asked, sounding distinctly ruffled. “What for?”

“Oh, a few things,” Godric said grimly, “Not least of which is what Cormac McLaggen is doing in my house.”

“Oh, for-” Rowena started.

“Or,” Helga said, cutting Rowena off, “Zacharias Smith in mine.”

If it were possible for any hat to look hunted, that one did. “Look,” it said, and for the first time there was fear in its voice. “You created me to Sort the students, didn’t you?”

“We did,” Rowena said coldly, “A trust which, it appears, was entirely unwarranted.”

The Hat wilted beneath her cool scrutiny. “If you disagree with my judgements-”

Helga snorted. “Hat,” she said darkly, “If that were all, we’d have waited. We need answers.”

“And,” Salazar added, drawing the word out until it seemed alive with venom, “To arrange a re-Sorting for the four of us.”

“The four of us?” Godric said, frowning, “I don’t need one, do I?”

“Not strictly speaking,” Salazar acknowledged, “But the four of us need to stand out, now more than ever. Having you called out with the rest of us and then returned to Gryffindor will heighten your reputation within the house, which can only make matters easier.”

“You sure, Sal?”

Salazar raised an eyebrow at him. “Godric. I was involved in court politics through all my time in exile. If I wasn’t certain it would work, I wouldn’t have suggested it.”

“You’ve been certain of things before, though,” Rowena pointed out, “And the school hasn’t been burnt to the ground by Muggles yet, has it?”

Godric and Helga shared a guilty look, but said nothing, and Salazar shrugged.

“I fail to see what harm it could do,” he said coolly, “Unless any of us here doubt Godric’s place in Gryffindor.”

Helga rolled her eyes. “All right, I get your point. But I don’t know about this technique of drawing attention to ourselves.”

“Well,” Godric said meditatively, “The right sort of attention might be useful. And it’s not like we’ll be able to stay inconspicuous for long, is it? I mean, this is us we’re talking about.”

“Don’t I get any say in this?” the Hat interrupted, sounding almost sulky now.

“No,” Salazar said firmly. “And while we’re on the subject,” he added, glaring at it, “Why, may I ask, were we not placed in our right houses in the first place?”

The Hat seemed to puff itself up like an angry cat, “You begged,” it said accusingly, “You begged me not to put you in Slytherin. And I complied.”

Salazar scowled. “Indeed I did. You were the one who chose to listen. Remind me, Hat, what is the function of the house system?”

“Look,” the Hat said, beginning to sound slightly desperate, “Do you have any idea what it is like to have to deal with an eleven-year-old whining at you because you didn’t put them in the house they wanted?”

“Surprisingly enough,” Salazar said drily. “Yes.”

“And,” Rowena put in, “As you only ever meet said eleven-year-olds once in all of their time at Hogwarts, I’d say that would be the last of your worries. In future, you will place the students in whichever house will be best for them and say no more about it. Is that clear?”

“Yes, Mistress Rowena,” it said miserably, and Salazar didn’t think he’d ever heard a hat sound so resigned.

Still, it needed to be done. If nothing else, if fewer people were getting Sorted into houses just because they wanted to be with friends or family, maybe they’d have half a chance of finishing with a school that wasn’t a roiling mass of barely-restrained conflict between the houses that had been meant, originally, as a way of bringing students together. Salazar had seen what this sort of division led to, had engineered it more than once. He would not see it take hold at Hogwarts, not for anything. Salazar had done terrible things to protect his students before. He could do no less for them now.

“Hang on a moment,” Helga said sharply, “Hat?”

“Yes, Mistress Helga?” Salazar could not quite suppress a smirk at the way the Hat seemed to fold in on itself in the face of Helga’s wrath, which earned him an elbow to the ribs from Helga.

“I’ve heard four of your songs now,” Helga said, giving the Hat an accusing look. “And in not one of them have you treated Hufflepuff or Slytherin houses with the respect they deserve. I’m not happy, Hat.”

Godric winced. Salazar couldn’t blame him. They had all seen what happened when Helga wasn’t happy about something. It tended to end with whoever or whatever had annoyed her being buried up to their neck in the stonework until such time as they felt like apologising.

“Careful,” Godric said warningly, “We’re going to need it, we can’t-”

“I’m not going to do that much damage,” Helga promised, “Well, not if it cooperates, anyway.”

“Look,” the Hat said hurriedly, “You can’t say that I misrepresented you, you did say-”

“I know what I said,” Helga said furiously, “And what I meant by it. And, given you’ve been inside my head, so should you.”

“You can’t-”

“I can, I will, I am. Now stop messing around or I’ll take the scissors to you.”

The Hat seemed visibly to shrink. “I…well, what was I supposed to say? Have you got any idea how difficult it is to come up with a good rhyme for ‘name’?”

“I can name six off the top of my head,” Godric said coldly, “And I could probably think of more if you gave me a bit of time.”

“Never mind that,” Rowena said hurriedly, and Helga nodded her thanks before picking the Sorting Hat up by the very tip of its point.

“This is what is going to happen,” she said, and there was iron in her voice now. “You are going to tell Professor Dumbledore that we four need to be re-Sorted. You will not take no for an answer. You will put us all in our right houses, and you will sing a song that praises Hufflepuff house to the skies. You will do all of this, and if you try to wriggle out of it it’ll be the scissors for you.”

Godric gave her a reproachful look, “Are you sure that’s necessary?” he muttered, “I mean, it’s not as though it can defend itself-”

“Shut up, ‘Ric,” Helga said firmly, still glaring at the Hat.

“Come on, El! It’s not as though-”

“Not as though what?” Helga asked through gritted teeth, “Not as though it hasn’t completely betrayed the trust we all put in it? As though it hasn’t been actively working against our students for the past thousand years?”

Godric looked to Salazar for help, and Salazar shrugged.

“She has a point,” he said casually, “Hat, be sure to work in the better qualities of Slytherin too, won’t you?”

“Anyway,” Rowena said, catching Helga’s eye, “I don’t think there’s any need for this sort of thing. You will do it, won’t you Hat?”

“Yes, Mistress Rowena.”

“And you’ll Sort the students into the houses where they belong, not just where they want to go or where all their family has been?”

“Yes, Mistress Rowena.”

Rowena smiled. “Good.”

“If you don’t, of course,” Helga added, “I don’t think any of us is going to take it well.”

The Hat looked stricken. Salazar still wasn’t quite sure how it managed that. “But what if someone really is suited for a house that you don’t think they are?” it protested, “I won’t be blackmailed!”

“Yeah,” Godric said, “That is problematic. All right, then. Why is Cormac McLaggen in Gryffindor?”

The Hat radiated confusion. “I would have thought that was obvious. He has courage, of a sort.”

“Since when did attacking twelve-year-olds count as bravery?” Godric demanded.

“Look,” the Hat said, “You never said they had to be particularly nice people, just that they had to be brave.”

Godric looked fit to explode and for a moment Salazar feared for the Hat’s continued existence, before Rowena grabbed Godric by the shoulder and pulled him back.

“There’s no point in this,” she said firmly, “Hat, we will of course trust your judgement for the most part. And, should a placement occur that we don’t understand we shall, of course, consult you first. But there are limits to that trust, Hat, and a certain standard of judgment will be expected. We have allowed you far too free a rein, I think, and perhaps…” Rowena looked away, “Perhaps our own decisions and desires played a role in the course your decisions took…” Against his will, Salazar remembered Tanith, hot-headed, hot-blooded, guileless Tanith. Had she ever belonged in his house, he wondered with a stab of guilt, or had his desire to have her always under his eye where he could be sure of knowing about any scrape she got into driven the Hat even then to make the wrong choice for her. How many times had he failed them without knowing it, he wondered, and cursed himself. “But,” Rowena continued, “The fact remains that you have made judgements that beggar belief, and we would all like an explanation.”

“Yeah,” Helga said darkly, “Zacharias Smith, for instance.”

“What about him?” the Hat asked defensively.

Helga fixed it with a glare that could have quelled a basilisk. “How, precisely, did he end up in my house?” she asked icily, “He has no concept of loyalty, has never played fairly for anything in his life, and doesn’t appear to know the meaning of hard work. What, precisely, inspired you to put him in my house?”

The top of the hat’s pointed crown tipped to one side. “You don’t know-?”

“Know what?” Helga asked in a dangerous sort of voice.

The Hat suddenly looked very tired, something Salazar still couldn’t quite wrap his mind around. “You must know,” it said miserably, “That Gareth took up your own trade,”

“Of course I know that,” Helga snapped, “I taught him blacksmithing in the first place. He always did have a talent for it,” she added, smiling slightly at the memory.

Even Salazar, who had cordially detested his stepson for years, couldn’t restrain a reminiscent smile in answer, thinking of Helga as she had been in their wandering days, Gareth first carried on her back and later trotting at her heels. He’d rather liked the boy then, Salazar thought with a pang, before he’d grown up enough to care that Salazar was a known murderer whose name was tantamount to a curse in most of the royal courts of Europe. Once he had, of course, he had never wasted an opportunity to throw the fact in Salazar’s face. The boy had had the same innate talent for finding those things that would wound and exploiting them remorselessly as his cousin Helena, and he had used it mercilessly. And Salazar had let him.

“The family did not long retain the name of Hufflepuff,” the Hat said nervously, “Um…the school…it wasn’t even really a surname…”

Helga growled, “Get to the point,” her eyes dark and furious. Her accent was thicker now, as it always was when she grew angry, and for a moment Salazar wondered what in the magic that had brought them to their own time and deposited them there was responsible for that.

“As Gareth’s son became a blacksmith in his turn, and his daughter after him, and her son after her, the name of Hufflepuff was forgotten and they became known as just another family of Smiths among many.”

Helga scowled. “Does that mean Smith is-”

“Your direct descendant, yes.”

Helga swore, loudly, profanely and at length. Salazar was almost impressed. He wasn’t quite sure what half the words she was using meant, and for a man who had been sworn at in rather more than sixteen languages over the course of a brief but adventurous life, that took some doing.

“So,” Helga said, glaring at the Hat, “You put him in my house just on the strength of a very distant blood relationship between him and me? Knowing that he had not one of the qualities I required of my students, knowing that there was likely another house to which he would be far better suited…”

“I don’t want to have to deal with him either,” Salazar said irritably.

“No-one said it would have to be your house-”

Salazar shrugged. “No-one needed to. You described him as a spineless coward without the brains the gods gave a housefly. That only leaves one house for him.”

“You can’t say he really belongs in Hufflepuff,” Helga said acidly, “You might not have met him, but-”

“No, I believe you,” Salazar said hastily, “But the fact remains that for us to be believed when the time comes, we need to sow the seeds of it now. If other people are being re-Sorted at the same time…”

“Yes, thank you, Sal, we’ve already been through all this,” Rowena interrupted, “Hat, I believe we’ve made ourselves quite clear, have we not?”

The Hat nodded miserably, by which it is meant that the very tip of its point moved up and down in a distinctly dispirited fashion. It was very strange to look at, and Salazar was glad to look away.

“Very well, then,” Rowena said firmly, “I think we’ve said all we need to. Let’s get back to Godric’s common room, now, before we’re missed.”

“A bit late for that, isn’t it?” Godric said, picking up the Hat and pulling a few textbooks from his bag to make room for it, “If we’re lucky, everyone’ll just assume we’ve been up to something dangerous again.”

“And when have we ever been lucky?” Salazar asked, getting to his feet. No-one answered.

Chapter 9: Interlude: Dumbledore

Notes:

Yes, I know this is short and fairly crappy. I've had a bit of a trying time. Also, I don't think I've quite got Dumbledore's voice down yet.

The sky outside the windows of the headmaster’s office was as black as the inside of a cat, a velvety expanse of pure blackness that seemed to swallow up all it touched. Hogwarts lay still and all but silent beneath the empty sky, but Albus Dumbledore was not asleep. His cup of hot chocolate lay untouched and stone cold on his desk as he paced the office, deep in thought.

The Order’s efforts to keep Voldemort from uncovering the contents of the prophecy were continuing as well as could be expected. He could not know the full truth of what had happened that night. All they could do was buy time, though, before one Death Eater managed to get through. Lucius Malfoy had already been allowed access to one prophecy, Snape had confirmed it, and how long could it be now until he was able to reach the other?

Tom Riddle had been the most brilliant student Dumbledore ever taught. If he connected the last lines of the prophecy with the Horcruxes he had created, and at last began to question why Harry Potter spoke Parseltongue as easily as any of Slytherin’s line, then it would not take much for him to reach the same conclusion as Dumbledore had done, and then the plans that Dumbledore had so painstakingly been constructing ever since Harry brought a diary that was more than it seemed back from the Chamber of Secrets – the same Chamber he was now so interested in re-entering. If Dumbledore hadn’t already been concerned by the sudden change in Harry’s behaviour, that would have been enough to make it clear that there was something very wrong with the boy.

His first thought had been that Voldemort had somehow managed to capture Harry, Miss Granger and the two Weasleys and replace them with his own supporters, but Snape’s last report had made it clear that this would be impossible. Whatever had happened that night in Gryffindor Tower, it had not been Voldemort’s work. He could have seen that even without the way every instrument in his office had gone haywire at the very moment when those four young Gryffindors must have disappeared.

There was no denying, however, how much Harry’s behaviour had changed since then. He had not been obvious about it – or at least, not as obvious as he might have been – but all the same, Dumbledore had noticed. How could he not, he who had watched the boy so closely?

If it had just been a matter of Harry spending more and more time with the Slytherins, it wouldn’t have worried Dumbledore nearly so much. After all, hadn’t Lily Evans’ closest friend for most of her time at Hogwarts been a Slytherin? And the end of that friendship had not been Lily’s doing.

It was the smaller things that worried Dumbledore. Harry moved differently now, almost silently and with a sort of tension about him Dumbledore had seen far too many times before. His mannerisms, too, had changed. The constant in-out flick of Harry’s tongue was not something Dumbledore had ever seen in him before, nor was the oddly reptilian way his head swayed slightly from side to side, so slightly it was almost imperceptible to any but the closest observer. More worrying still, though were those things that remained familiar – the edge of cruelty that had seeped into Harry’s smiles, the tones of his voice, the gloves he was never seen without any longer – not Harry’s mannerisms, no, but horribly familiar nonetheless. There was no way Harry could have known those details, the habits that Tom Riddle had already begun to shed before he had left Hogwarts but which Harry used without even noticing that his own little tics and gestures had faded away.

If that night had caused the Horcrux’s power to grow in him, if Harry’s mind was beginning to be influenced, however unknowingly, by the malign presence of a fragment of Voldemort’s soul within it…Dumbledore had tried to look in on Harry’s mind earlier that day, but found it curiously resistant. It did not seem to be that Harry had learnt Occlumency, but whenever Dumbledore tried to look at what Harry was thinking presently, or the events of any day after Harry and his friends’ disappearance from Gryffindor Tower, he suddenly found himself in the graveyard at Little Hangleton, watching Cedric Diggory die.

His first thought had been that it was merely the stress of Cedric’s death that had caused the changes in Harry’s behaviour, but that was too neat, too easy. Certainly, the Harry Potter who had returned to Hogwarts this year was not the same boy he had been a year earlier, but Harry as he was now was something else again. What, Dumbledore still didn’t know, but whether the boy’s will was still his own or not, it would not long remain so. If Voldemort had his hooks in Harry, Dumbledore could scarcely contemplate what might result. They might still win this war. It was possible. But Harry would not survive it. It had been so much easier to contemplate the idea when the boy was a child, when Dumbledore had not seen him, did not know him, had not come to care for the boy who was as fierce a friend as his father and as determinedly fair-minded as his mother. Once, he would have thought trading one boy’s life for a thousand others as a blessedly low price to pay. Not any longer.

And the more like Tom Riddle Harry grew, the likelier it became that that would be the price of lasting victory. Harry was even starting to resemble Riddle physically, now his hair had grown out past his collar and he had started to carry himself differently. That had been enough to convince Dumbledore that this was not a deliberate possession on Voldemort’s part. Ginny Weasley had not shown any such characteristics four years earlier, and nor had any others among Voldemort’s victims. But if the Horcrux was making Harry more like Voldemort under its own power, if Harry became a second Voldemort-

Well. That would mean another war, and three wars in such close succession would break the back of wizarding Britain even if they managed to defeat both Voldemort and Harry. And with the Order and the Ministry’s forces split between the two, that in itself was a fairly optimistic assumption. Dumbledore could feel the future staring down at him, and he didn’t like its expression at all.

This needed to be dealt with now, that much was plainly obvious. He had made too many mistakes in his handling of Tom Riddle. He would not repeat those mistakes with Harry. Occlumency lessons first. Severus would have to be called in for that, and maybe seeing the boy’s mind properly would do a little to weaken the man’s conviction that Harry was everything Severus had hated about James Potter made flesh. Occlumency lessons, and then Dumbledore could plan around what they revealed.

His decision made, he rose, taking a pinch of Floo powder from the dish on the mantelpiece and throwing it into the flames.

“Severus,” he called into the fireplace. “Severus.”

There was a sound of hurrying footsteps, a flare of green flames and then Severus Snape was stepping out of the fireplace, still fully dressed and looking sour.

“What is it?” he asked, taking his usual seat opposite Dumbledore and looking decidedly ill-tempered. “Potter again?”

“Yes,” Dumbledore replied, returning to his own chair and steepling his fingers. “You cannot tell me that you have failed to notice anything strange about the boy’s behaviour?”

Severus made a low, derisive noise in the back of his throat. “Why is it that I am the only person in this castle who can see Potter for what he is?” he snapped. “I cannot say I have noticed anything except that he appears to be making yet another attempt to play the hero and, finding his own housemates have come to see through it, is trying to win the other houses over.”

Dumbledore fixed him with a stern look. “I have told you before,” he said coolly, “That it is your view of the boy which is warped. I will admit, I had hoped the Astoria Greengrass incident would have done a little to change your mind.”

Severus shook his head dismissively, “Potter wanted attention, and likely to impress the Granger girl. It will take more than that to make me disregard seven years’ knowledge of Potter’s character,”

“Five years, Severus,” Dumbledore corrected mildly, “In any case, Harry’s latest vision has made it clear to me that we can neglect the matter no longer.”

“Occlumency?” Severus asked, “I fail to see why you think it necessary. The boy knows nothing of the Order beyond what he has seen, and these visions have been known to be useful.” Severus scowled at the last word, clearly resenting even that small acknowledgement of Harry’s worth.

“There is more than information at stake here, Severus,” Dumbledore said solemnly, “Should Voldemort discover the link between his mind and Harry’s, attempting to possess Harry is only the next logical step. He may well already be doing it – these visions of Harry’s are likely the first manifestations of Voldemort’s will.”

Snape leaant forwards, eyes narrowing. “I thought you had concluded that the Dark Lord was unaware-”

“Not consciously, Severus, not yet, but you do remember what happened to Miss Weasley three years ago?”

“It was a difficult business to forget,” Severus replied sourly. “But I cannot say I have noticed anything terribly amiss in Potter’s behaviour,”

“Regardless of what you may or may not have noticed, you will teach Harry Occlumency. Now, how much have you been able to discover about this new prophecy?”

“Very little,” Severus answered, and it was obvious how much that grated on him, “The Dark Lord has not revealed the words of the prophecy, and without them it will be difficult to uncover the true meaning.” Snape’s lip curled. “He believes that Slytherin’s return will turn the tide of the war in his favour.”

“Do you have any idea where he believes Slytherin will be returning to?” Dumbledore asked. “It cannot be Hogwarts, that is quite clear.”

“Oh?” Severus asked, arching an eyebrow. “And why is that?”

Dumbledore spread his hands on the desk before him. “Simply that we do not have a company of Death Eaters wandering around the school that I know of.”

“That you know of,” Snape repeated, and for a few long moments the memory of Barty Crouch Junior hung in the air like a ghost.

“In any case,” Dumbledore went on, once those few seconds had passed, “I hardly think Slytherin would be able to return here, having been cast out so completely by his fellow Founders. The school’s own magic would have revolted against him, if the historical record is to be believed.” Gareth ap Helga’s account of the Founding and Slytherin’s later banishment had been quite clear on that point, and those who had followed him had followed suit. He laced his fingers together and steepled them. “I take it Voldemort agrees with me?”

“Yes,” Severus admitted, “The Dark Lord is of the belief that Slytherin will not return to Hogwarts until such time as it has been purified. He is still searching for Slytherin’s birthplace, and the place where his master’s house once stood.”

The site of Slytherin’s first murder. Of course that would be what Voldemort thought of first. It was almost childish, really. It would not be long, though, before he widened his net and there were many places throughout Europe where Slytherin was known to have lived and worked before his return to his homeland. And who knew what might be hidden in the marshes and fenlands where the old devil had been born? Salazar Slytherin had, by all accounts, been worse even than Voldemort. Dumbledore did not want to contemplate what the two of them together would be capable of if that were true. He had read far too many accounts of what Slytherin had been capable of in the last few days, stories that became all the more worrying the more of them he found. It seemed that every country in Europe had its share of stories about the man, most of them involving poison and kings betrayed to their deaths. But given Slytherin’s popularity as a villain in mummer’s plays and pantomimes all through history, it was often difficult to tell fact from fiction. If even half the stories of him were true, Slytherin had had a hand in every disaster, every failed regime, every tyranny of his time. Most of them had fallen apart not long after he had left, or even just before in some cases, and many of the stories involved him double-crossing one master in order to ingratiate himself with another. A man like that, incapable of loyalty, willing to use all those around him for his own advancement and utterly without scruple…that would be a dangerous adversary indeed.

“And the other founders?” Dumbledore asked, “What interest has Lord Voldemort taken in them?”

“Very little,” Severus admitted, “Beyond the prospect of revenge as a lure for Slytherin, should he prove unwilling. Not,” he added, “That that seems particularly probable.”

Dumbledore nodded. It would, he reflected, probably be prudent to investigate the other Founders’ birthplaces, just in case they too would not return to the school they had founded. It didn’t seem particularly likely, admittedly, but Dumbledore had not survived two wizard wars without developing a healthy appreciation for the art of the back-up plan.

“If we find them first, what then?” Severus asked, watching Dumbledore with hooded eyes, an indefinable expression on his face. “This isn’t going to be won with open war. What use will Gryffindor or Hufflepuff be against the Dark Lord?”

“They were both supremely talented wizards, by all accounts,” Dumbledore said, spreading his hands across the desk, “Gryffindor was considered one of the most skilled soldiers of his time.”

“Of his time, perhaps,” Severus snapped, “But that was more than a thousand years ago, Dumbledore, and times have changed. And if he and Slytherin knew each other as well as the historical record claims, the Dark Lord will soon know everything there is to know about him and his capabilities.”

“Perhaps,” Dumbledore conceded, “But then, maybe a thousand years beyond the veil have mellowed Slytherin somewhat. Who can say what may have taken place since the last record of Slytherin’s activities? It does not seem to me so far outside the realm of possibility that he might have come to see the error of his ways.” He shook his head. It was a foolish thought, and a wistful one. He had so often in his youth thought of his and Gellert’s feud in terms of Gryffindor and Slytherin, for all that Gellert had never set foot within Hogwarts. But whatever Gellert had been, he was not so senseless a monster as Slytherin. In his own twisted way, Gellert had believed he was acting for the best. It was difficult to imagine any such justification for the man whose first appearance in the chronicles was his trial for the murder of his mentor and who most historians believed had used the Imperius Curse on Morpeth’s daughter in order to force her into accepting his suit seven years later.

Severus’s snort brought him back to reality, and the curl of his lip was enough to make it quite clear what he thought of the idea.

“It is true, however, that we cannot take the chance,” Dumbledore went on smoothly. “If Miss Greengrass is successful in her push to reopen the Chamber of Secrets for archaeological study, we may find the key to dealing with Slytherin. For the time being, though, we need to focus on Voldemort, and how to keep him from joining with his ancestor.”

Severus made a dismissive gesture. “The Dark Lord would not let him live long, I think. Slytherin would be too great a threat to his power, and should they disagree…” he smiled, showing teeth. “I daresay it would not be so very long before they turned on one another.”

“You are certain of this?” Dumbledore asked, not taking his eyes off Severus’s.

Severus inclined his head. “As far as I can be.”

Dumbledore closed his eyes. One Dark Lord might have been manageable. Two working in concert would have been less so, but it would not have been impossible to overcome them. Two Dark Lords operating at cross-purposes against one another and the rest of the world in equal measure would leave all three groups fighting a war on two fronts. The Order couldn’t afford a fight like that, and the damage such a war would cause for the wizarding community as a whole would be vast beyond all hope of repair. All of this and Harry Potter like to turn as well. It was more than Dumbledore had ever planned for, and now he would have to move fast to make up for the time he had lost. Pitting Slytherin and Voldemort against each other might prove their best chance for victory, but only if they could either contain it or whichever of the two sides turned out to be the weaker could be convinced to side with the Order. The enemy of their enemy was their friend, or at least could be. But would that work, when both Slytherin and Voldemort despised all the Order had ever stood for?

There were too many variables here, too many, and not enough solid information to have any idea of what the likeliest outcome of all of this would be. The form of the Founders’ return, too, would have to be considered. Reincarnation? If so, they were all wasting their time and the Founders would not come into play for at least a decade yet. Physical return from the dead? If that were so…Merlin, if that were so, the very laws of magic would be overturned and what that would lead to Dumbledore did not know.

It was then that the Sorting Hat spoke up, cutting Severus off mid-sentence and adding yet another variable to Dumbledore’s calculation. A re-Sorting, the first in nearly three centuries, and that could be nothing but portentous.

“Which students?” Severus asked, subjecting the Hat to a cool, indecipherable stare.

It shifted, appearing almost uneasy beneath the force of those black eyes. “Hermione Granger,” it began, “Ron and Ginevra Weasley.”

Dumbledore breathed out heavily. Miss Granger he could not say was entirely unexpected, or no more so than the news of a re-Sorting, given how many times Filius had complained about her placing in Gryffindor, but the Weasleys? All Weasleys were Gryffindors, and had been for as long as there had been records of the family’s existence. For two of them to be re-Sorted now… “You are certain of this?” he asked mildly, and was startled by the vehemence of the Hat’s response. “Well then,” he went on, sharing a bemused look with Severus, “Alert the other Heads of House, please, Severus. We will need to discuss this in the morning, and ask Minerva to organise a meeting with Miss Granger and the two Weasleys-”

“And,” the Sorting Hat interjected, now sounding somewhere between smug and terrified, “Harry Potter.”

Chapter 10: Author's Note

Ok, everyone, I really am very sorry for this. I always used to hate it when authors did author's notes instead of putting in actual chapters, and I still hate it when they go on hiatus. But here it is: like many stories not properly planned out in advance, this one has run out of steam and until I know for sure what happened in the past, it looks as though it will remain that way. So, sorry about all that.

On a rather cheerier note, I do intend to write a prequel addressing all of this, which may lead to overhauls or adjustments of What's Past while I'm busy working out just what went on a thousand years ago for our leads. So if you have somehow become attached to my versions of these characters, want to find out about their adventures in their own time or just want to harangue me for abandoning this story, please leave feedback. I really am very sorry for this, but it would be unfair to the story and to you, my audience, to continue to write this story to anything but the best of my abilities, and I do not feel that I am presently capable of that. Sorry again, and thank you all for your feedback and your appreciation.

Notes:

As a Ricardian it has always been of great interest to me how historical documents are altered to support this ideology or that, and so that was one of the greater influences on this particular work.
I am using Pottermore for information, yes, but I have chosen to read it as the remembered history of the wizarding world, rather than taking it as pure fact. Canon purists must pardon me on this point, as I know it can be irritating, but I do hope to tell a good story with the elements I have chosen to use.
The story will likely begin fairly gen, but elements of slash and het will appear later.
I have not attempted to write the main body of the characters' time in the past, but flashbacks will appear. If I get any details of tenth-century life wrong, please correct me, as I am using A Song of Ice and Fire as a reference for medieval life, which is probably a few centuries late for the period in which I am writing. On the other hand, wizards do appear to have had stone castles long before Muggles in the area did, so I am also working on the assumption that wizards were initially technologically superior to Muggles, and have only fallen behind since the Statute of Secrecy, which may be the origin of many wizards' rather condescending attitudes towards Muggles.
'Ferch' is Welsh for 'daughter of', and the traditional patronymic for girls. The implications of it being the mother's name used are obvious and, so far as Helga knows, accurate.
Aethelinda is an Anglo-Saxon name meaning 'noble serpent'. Gareth was the name of a knight of the Round Table, the son of Lot and Morgause and nephew of Arthur.
Constructive criticism welcomed and thanks to my wonderful beta Jackie.

Series this work belongs to:

• Part 2 of What's Past is Prologue