The Founders' Tale

Prologue as divided by the transcriber of the text

How do stories come to an end? How do dreams fail? How is one able to put down a book, to accept the ending and to go on with one's life?

Oh, but I suppose that one is uninvolved with a tale that one reads, even if there is some emotional link with the characters. After all, that tale is done and one's own life is still ahead.

But what if the tale is your own? What if you had penned the words yourself and had then looked over them, slowly digesting the letters, reliving the tale over again in your mind. What is you had to decide whether it should live or die--whether some things were best off forgotten or hushed up? Whether the large sheaf of papers on your lap should be thrown into the fire you're looking into...so hot, so ready to consume the horrors you hold.

The first page is not the title page, for thinking of a title seemed unnecessary and pointless at the time. Besides, it is not just a story, for it is my story--our story! How can I make it look like a fiction, like a common knut novelette that one could buy on any street corner?

But it reads like a tale of mystery and of suspense, of love, of hate and of murder and even when I pass my eyes over it now it seems unreal. And then I feel all of those emotions rise up within me and I know--I know that it is all true and that it will always be true and that casting it into the fire would never change the past, would never make things any different.

For that is my true purpose, of course, and I should admit it to myself now. I want to make it all go away. I want to destroy all the pain and all the pleasure and watch the fire turn my past to ashes. I want to believe that things will be different, then. That I'll be magically changed and that I'll never once think on them again.

Or on Hogwarts.

Built with by own two hands and fallen with them as well. Oh, the vision had been beautiful--glorious and we had all been so captivated, so alive and on fire with power and with love. We loved it and we loved knowing it was ours.

Alas, that was not enough. Not for any of us. Removing our humanity from the picture, trying to be what we weren't, pretending we didn't feel, were immovable, were practically demigods, ah the mistakes are so clear to my eyes now, these eyes that will close for the last time very soon.

And when I die, the story will die as well. I know that I am the only one left; I have kept track and I also know that I am the only one who penned this tale. And I hold its life in my hands.

"Shit."

The word was murmured, a casual profanity, as if the speaker had much more on her mind and the word was a way to keep her busy for the moment.

The parchment was old, crumbling much too quickly. That first introduction page was already badly damaged; it was a miracle that it could be deciphered at all! However, the young woman's sharp eyes and experience with old documents aided her as she copied the words onto fresh paper. She had to make up a word here and there, but it was in much better condition than she would have expected.

"I think it will hold together," the woman said, pursing her lips for a moment before looking up at the man who had brought the papers to her. Her green eyes were no longer phased by his presence; she was of a passive nature and it was a good thing too. Though she still had to wonder exactly why this had shown up in his house of all places!

The tall blond ran a hand through his usually tidy hair and looked relieved. Well, as relieved as he could look; he was not one for showing emotion and that had not changed over the years.

"You can copy it, then? Very good," he said, stopping his pacing to take a seat next to her.

"You're going to sit here while I do it?" Ginny Weasley was peering at Draco Malfoy as if he'd lost his marbles. First he turns up at her house five years after graduation with a crumbling sheaf of papers and now he was going to sit there calmly while she took days and hours to complete the process? "I'm sorry--I don't think you realize how long this will take. I can only hope the other pages are as readable as the first. But, still, it will take me quite a while to finish this. It looks to be a few hundred pages," she added.

Draco did not seem phased by the prospect of waiting nor did he seem to be very interested in the pretty redhead he was sitting next to. In fact, he seemed to be trying not to look at her as much as possible, though without the usual sneer that she remembered.

"I want to be here when you work on it," he explained, his eyes focusing on the text almost longingly. "This is a momentous discovery; I cannot imagine how it lay buried for so long."

"Or how it turned up in your attic," Ginny interjected, letting out a quick sigh. "Look, I don't think--" But the look on his face stopped her. Clearly, she was not going to get anywhere arguing with him. "Do you really want to come here everyday and spend hours watching me pore over the manuscript?" she said finally.

"I want to come here everyday and spend hours reading what you can decipher from that manuscript," he corrected and there was even a hint of a smile. It was an elevated one, though; the aristocracy was hard to separate from the man. "I will pay you very well for this, I hope you don't doubt that," he added, focusing on her face for almost the first time since he'd come in.

Ginny nodded. She could use the money and, well, it was her job and her interest. Besides, she knew that part of her was dying to see what was revealed on those pages. If this were a true tale, of course. But the paper tested out to be of the right date and her instinct told her this was the real thing.

"How about we work for a few hours each day? I work in the mornings at the museum, so perhaps after dinner? Seven to ten or thereabouts?" she suggested. It would fill up her already busy schedule, but she had a feeling it might also be her big break. "I can work on restoring the original as well; the top ones might be more brittle, but I think the rest look in good condition. That will take much longer, though. I take it that copying the text is the first priority?"

Draco nodded. "Certainly," he said firmly. Then, after a moment, he looked up at her with that hint of a smile again. "Don't you want to know what happens too?"

Ginny went through her tours of the museum like an automaton, thinking only long enough to answer the usual questions before sinking back into the ordinary routine once more. She kept glancing at her watch, noticing that it was nearly seven already and cursing her tour group for having been late. Of course, her professional smile never faltered and she rushed through as quickly as she could and finished at about quarter past seven.

Retrieving her coat from the backroom, she yanked it on and headed out to the bus stop. Apparation was all well and good, but no one used that as the sole means of transportation. Besides, she was completely bushed after work and likely to splice herself into a few pieces if she attempted that now. And, of course, she hadn't quite earned enough for a car yet; she was still paying off student loans. She had a feeling she'd be doing that for a while.

She reached the bus stop just in time to see the vehicle pulling away. The number 8 had left two minutes early, meaning that she'd be about twenty more minutes late. The last thing she wanted to do was go home to find an enraged Draco Malfoy sitting on her doorstep.

And then it began to rain.

An enraged and wet Draco Malfoy, she corrected herself, though she figured he had probably had the presence of mind to look at the weather forecast before venturing out. The splatters were hitting her head steadily and she sighed, lifting a book over her head.

But before she could despair much longer, a particularly fine-looking car pulled up on the side of the road right in front of her. It was only a moment before a black umbrella emerged, followed closely by her blond commissioner. Ginny checked to make sure she was not gaping like an idiot and took a step towards him. He politely extended the umbrella to cover her.

"I'm sorry I'm late," she started. "The last tour was, of course, not on time and I usually don't have to stay past six-thirty."

Draco seemed neither interested in her story nor bothered by her tardiness. He opened the back door for her and she seated herself. A moment later he joined her in the back and nodded to the chauffeur.

Ginny might have felt excited about being treated like a queen, riding in a fine car and, just then, being asked if she'd like a drink, which she politely declined. However, he didn't seem to care at all about her other than for her skills--and not the feminine ones either. She didn't know if she was bothered by that or relived by it. She hadn't expected him to be interested in her and she didn't really want him to be, but, really, he could show some amount of feeling, could he not?

The silence descended like a winged beast from mythology and she grasped for something to day. She didn't want to ask a banal, trite question just to pass the time, but the fact that no one was speaking at all was bothering her. Finally, the minutes ticking away, she turned to him and burst out with that she had been curious to know since he'd walked into her door.

"This is going to sound abrupt and perhaps rude as well, but I have to know. Why, out of all the other scholars, nearly all of them more famous and celebrated than I--why did you choose me?"

She did not receive an answer, though, for at that moment they arrived at her little flat and he was out the door, speaking quickly the chauffeur. The driver then opened her door and escorted her to it before returning to talk with Draco for a few moments more. Ginny glanced at them, took out her key and opened the door, leaving it slightly ajar for Draco, and then stepped into her little home.

He joined her a few minutes later when she had set up the manuscript on the table with pen and paper ready to write down what she read. He took his usual seat silently and Ginny, growing weary of speaking to someone who never bothered to answer, turned her eyes to the second sheet of parchment and began to write down what she saw.

Chapter One of the manuscript as divided by the transcriber of the text

Shades of Beginning (Title provided by Miss Virginia Weasley)

"We're going to build it, Helga, we're going to!"

A laughing female was crying speaking, dancing around a bit before grabbing her friends' hands and taking her for a whirl as well. Both looked to be about eighteen years old with long hair and expressive eyes. But there the similarities ended. The speaker was tall with a mane of brown hair that liked to tangle. She had brown eyes and a pleasant face with rosy cheeks. The other girl was a little bit shorter and her reddish-blonde hair fell halfway down her back. Her eyes were a gray-green and her face was delicate and very pretty.

"Ronnie," the other girl said with a little laugh, "you can't be serious!"

The girl called 'Ronnie' grinned and spun the Helga around once more before letting go.

"I am perfectly serious!" she said and it seemed that she was, though her eyes were twinkling mischievously. "We've hoped and we've dreamed, but now we can plan. Oh, come now--be more excited! In fact, I think Father likes it very much; he looked quite thoughtful when I mentioned it to him and then tried to pretend it hadn't been a completely splendid idea. He wants to steal the credit, the old bat, but he should know better than to try and pull that on me," she added, a wide grin lighting up her face.

"On us," Helga added, smiling a little herself. "It was not only your idea, Ronnie, but all of ours. I suppose that is what comes from being taught magic by your stuck-up parents and left alone to plot with the same people year after year. They invited this, I suppose, for all of us have sharp minds and even sharper imaginations." She looked thoughtful then. "But sometimes I wonder if they meant for us to do something like this and are secretly rejoicing in triumph..."

"Ah, no matter whether they planned this or not, it hardly matters!" the brown haired girl said with a wave of her hand. "Father said he was going to bring it up at the Ministry and he should be back now. The others will surely have heard as well," she added.

Her eyes swept over the lawn, reaching the castle that stood in all its glory at the top of a large and flat hill. She nodded towards it and made a grab for Helga's hand.

"Come on, then! Don't you want to know what's going to happen?"

Laughing, Helga let her friend drag her along and, skirts flapping as they ran, they made their way up the hill and to Ronnie's home, castle of the Ravenclaw family for countless years.

When they finally reached the large wooden doors with their brass accents in the twisting form of a raven, they were both out of breath. Ronnie knocked once on the door and it opened nearly immediately to show the face of a woman in her fifties, tall and handsome despite her wrinkles. She was dressed in the height of fashion, looking as if she had just been to a social gathering. However, both girls knew that this was how Ronnie's mother usually dressed.

"Rowena! Your father has been shouting up and down the halls for you for the past hour. The others are here now as well and we're all waiting," she scolded. Her face turned to a smile when she looked at Helga, though. "Nice to see you again, darling. Your father is here as well. Now, we've just a few more things to talk about. Godric and Salazar went down the hall. I think they might have been heading for the fencing room," she added distractedly before blowing them a kiss and heading off to the study, the door closing with a heavy click behind her.

Helga and Rowena regarded each other for a moment with twin expressions of absolute horror. Then, as one woman, they turned and bolted down the hall towards the fencing room.

"I don't even want to think about what we're going to find," Helga muttered between breaths, not looking pleased in the slightest.

"Mother is so stupid sometimes!" Rowena hissed. "You'd think they would have learned not to leave those two alone anywhere where there are weapons...but no! They're all simply too busy to care about us even though we're the sole reason that they're having this silly meeting anyway!"

The heave door to the fencing room was closed, muffling any sounds that might be coming from within. Rowena threw herself against it and both girls tumbled in. Helga paused to heave the door shut again, knowing there were likely going to be some raised voices in a few moments. Rowena looked ready to murder someone, especially since there was blood dripping from Godric and Salazar was favoring his right leg. Both were clothed in breeches and open-necked white shirts.

The clash of steel on steel had not stopped with their entry, though both took enough time to make quick glances in their direction, though not too long--neither wanted to be run through.

"Godric Gryffindor and Salazar Slytherin!" Rowena said in her loudest and most annoyed tone. "Just what in the bloody hell do you think you're doing?"

"We're obviously--ouch!--fighting," Godric answered. The 'ouch' had been from a moment of distraction wherein Salazar had been able to nick him with his blade for what looked like the second or third time.

"They'll never learn to blunt their swords," Rowena said through clenched teeth. Her face was red with anger but her eyes were watching them carefully, clearly concerned. They had never been truly hurt while battling, though when they had visited Helga's home's dungeon and found the maces...that had not been very good at all.

Helga, quite ticked off herself but in a quieter and perhaps more deadly manner than Rowena, took a deep breath and stepped between them just as they were about to attack. Both swords clattered to the floor immediately, one making a neat hole through her second-best bodice. Ah well, the price of stopping your friends from killing each other...

"Dammit Helga, what the hell do you think you're doing?" Salazar spat out, though he looked pretty concerned despite his words. It had been his sword that had gotten so close to her.

"Since reasoning has no affect on you," she said sternly, looking him straight in the eye, "I had to resort to other tactics. Why on earth do you like beating each other up all the time anyway? I simply can't see what good it does for men to prove themselves by loss of blood and other body parts."

Rowena tossed them both a towel from a bench on the side of the room. "This may not improve the lovely scent you have going on," she said, wrinkling her nose, "but at least it will clean up the blood."

"I'm hardly bleeding at all, Ronnie, don't be ridiculous," Godric remarked, and then removed the once towel from his chest. "Well, it's not serious at least," he amended.

"I believe I can claim victory that round," Salazar said with clear satisfaction, running the towel through his shaggy black hair.

"You?" Godric said incredulously, looking at his friend with a grin. "Don't be ridiculous. I think you lose automatically for ruining Helga's dress. I, however, have remained chivalric to the end." And he let out a courtly bow to the ladies, both of whom smiled reluctantly and rolled their eyes at his antics.

"As chivalric as a mumble mumble..."

Godric snapped his head back to Salazar. "Did you just say what I think you said?"

Salazar looked as seraphic as possible, which was hard to do with his sharp features. "Probably," he said offhand and then threw an amiable arm around Helga's shoulders. "The parents want to see us, do they? They've certainly taken the bait well; of course, it is a splendid idea," he added with a grin.

"You know, Ronnie's right," Helga told him, slipping out of his arm. "You smell completely awful. My dress not only has a nice hole in it, but it's now drenched with sweat to boot. As always, you two have made my day," she added, though she was smiling.

"You know you like it, love," he replied with a cheeky grin that she would have smacked away if she hadn't known he'd like her to do that.

"Hear, that, Zar?" Godric asked with a grin. "She's mad about us. And why not? Two handsome, strapping lads like us are used to such attention from females. Have to beat 'em off with a stick."

"Just like how Marianne had to curse your nose off before you stopped trying to ask her out?" Rowena asked innocently. "Oh, I'm sure she was only playing hard to get--just like Annette and Flora," she added with a grin, looking over at Helga who joined with her to laugh merrily at Godric's expense.

Before he could retort or try and deny the facts, the door opened and the butler stepped in, looking straight and very unamused.

"Your presence is requested in the study Sir Godric, Lord Salazar and Ladies Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw."

They all exchanged glances; none liked being addressed so formally--it was really quite silly. However, they put on straight faces, thanked the butler and were off to see their parents.

"Your hand hurts," Draco said, breaking the trance that had come over Ginny while she had been writing.

She had been going so quickly and with so much concentration that she had barely noticed how numb and how lifeless her hand was starting to feel. Her penmanship was getting steadily worse too. Flexing her fingers, she winced a little. She was reluctant to stop; she found herself absorbed in the story and wanting to stay up as long as it took to finish it. But she knew it was not practical at all.

"I'm sorry," she said, moving her fingers to keep them from cramping. "I should have noticed my writing had changed; it's nearly illegible."

Draco looked at her then, surprised, and then shook his head. "I didn't mean it to be rude," he told her, a flicker of amusement in his eyes, though something else as well. "I was going to offer to write for a little while. That is, if it's alright with you. If we come to a part that's harder to read you can say it out loud."

"Oh," Ginny said.

She wanted to say more, but instead she pushed the paper and pen over to him, grateful for a break and that they did not need to stop yet. She watched as he took up the pen and as his eyes went to the parchment, taking in the words with an emotion that seemed like wonder. She could identify with that. This was the single most important moment of her career. And yet nothing seemed to matter but the story.

She turned the page carefully for him and waited as he began to write.