Like Pale Fire

Chapter Two: Glass

The boy touched the tree root with a wondering expression, and disappeared. Salazar closed his eyes. Finally, he opened them, gave Godric a wan smile, and sat down slowly. The other man had initially been incredulous and little irritated, but not even he could deny this particular truth for long, and he had half-guessed it anyway.

Was he truly Harry Potter any longer? Truly that bright, oblivious boy who had bumbled through one adventure after another? He wasn't certain. He didn't look much like him. Years of wandering and pain had left him with a nature of tempered steel. He was taller now, almost six foot, and still slender and wiry. Long, ink dark hair spilled over his shoulders and down to his waist, his eyes a pale, wintry green, flecked with silvery-grey. He had lost much of the youthful resemblance to his father, face harder, almost hawkish. The scar had almost faded.

Godric was worried now, although Salazar attributed at least half of it to the sinuous black snake that was regarding him with sleepy yellow eyes. He turned away and bent to search through the backpack his younger self had left. A map, a photo album, a silvery cloak, a Muggle torch, hand-me-downs and an old blanket. The 'gifts' from his aunt, he swiftly incinerated. The other possessions went into a pouch at his waist, charmed to have infinite capacity.

With a smile that was a little too wide and a little too bright, he said, "Shall we?"

Sighing, Godric muttered something under his breath and pulled Salazar into his arms. "Fool."

They stood like that until the Order of the Phoenix arrived, wands blazing as they finally traced the path of their errant charge and found Godric Gryffindor and Salazar Slytherin embracing, a black snake and a kneazel kitten at their feet.

Dumbledore was at the head of the pack, blue eyes almost incandescent, fading to anguish and bewilderment as he approached, and sensed Salazar's magical signature. Gesturing sharply for the rest of the Order to remove themselves, the Headmaster lowered his wand, gaze unsteady and hurt.

"Harry?"

Salazar pulled away from Godric and said calmly, "I don't go by that name any more. But, yes, that was once me." A quiet translation spell flickered from his fingers across to the other Founder.

Glancing around, Dumbledore looked at the notch on the tree root, examined the air. "Time magic. And compulsions. You travelled back in time...why, my boy? Who were you that it's so important that you do this?"

"Salazar Slytherin."

The elderly man blinked back tears. "How could you become- him?"

"I do not care for what you are implying," Godric said coolly. The Founders had their squabbles and their schisms, but they were lived, ate, worked, loved together, and insult to anyone of them was tantamount to high treason. "Salazar is a good man, and it is not your place to condemn him."

"A-And who is this?" Dumbledore looked as though he didn't truly want a reply.

Salazar said it carefully. "This is Godric Gryffindor, Headmaster and Founder of Hogwarts, and my friend and lover."

The other Headmaster looked relieved, and then ashamed. Salazar did not blame him. A thousand years of dark, bloody whispers, murmurs of treachery and hatred, did not lead to a happy, sparkling reputation. The word of a Gryffindor counted for far more than the word of a Slytherin. Yet Salazar was pleased that Dumbledore had the grace to feel guilty about his preconceptions.

Godric remained silent after that, preferring to listen as Salazar said quietly, "I suppose the question is, what now?"

Dumbledore swallowed, hard, and finally replied, "We always need a Defence teacher at Hogwarts. Unless you'd prefer Potions-?"

"That was always Rowena's subject," Salazar said self-deprecatingly. "I usually taught History of Magic."

His old teacher looked as though he had momentarily tried to impose new ideas upon an old world, and found himself trapped halfway between. "Oh. Well, Professor Binns retired at the end of last year, so perhaps-"

"Perhaps."

Salazar sat upon the wide bed in his quarters, Amos at his feet, as he watched Godric murmur incantations and mutter curses. They had not been lovers in a long time, not for six years, and it was faintly awkward as the other Founder, by some unspoken accord, brought his possessions across to Salazar's chambers in Hogwarts. They had joined through loneliness and grief, and parted in melancholy. Now, they united once more.

He wondered if Godric would ever find out about Myrtle.

...Well, Salazar would find his warmth where he could. Even if he burned, Godric never lacked heat. Far too much anger and misery clenched inside that head, behind the bright smile and the casual mien. Muggles had tried to torch him at the age of thirteen, and it was as though the spirit of the firebird had remained within him...

With a flick, he turned his thoughts to other matters. He had taken few of his possessions with him when he had left the other Founders, most remained in these rooms, and preservation spells- probably the work of Helga- had left everything intact. He opened the copy of the History of the Magic syllabus that Dumbledore had given him.

The professor may choose from five different subject areas:

Merlin and the Birth of Magic Pre-476 AD

The Dark Ages 476-1000 AD

The High Middle Ages 1000- 1300 AD

The Late Middle Ages 1300-1500 AD

The Modern Age 1500 AD- present

Sighing, he began to note down the list of books under the heading of The Late Middle Ages- Binns' favourite historical period. After a moment, Godric sat down beside him, and Salazar reached for him.

Grimmauld Place wasn't as he remembered it. Still dank, dim, and redolent with misery, yes, but the Order had made an effort. Someone, probably Molly Weasley, had applied some industrial strength cleaning charms throughout it, and added more windows and skylights to lighten the gloom.

Salazar stepped inside cautiously, Godric on his heels, and followed Dumbledore into the shadowy kitchen. The elderly Headmaster settled down in one of the chairs and conjured a tea set with a fixed expression on his face. He had insisted that they reveal the fate of Harry Potter to the Order. Perhaps he was now reconsidering that decision.

"Harry-"

"Salazar... if you please."

Would the other man ever lose that glimmer of shattered hope, that dash of sunlight across broken glass? Harry Potter had not been a sweet child. He had not been whole or fair or selfless or clever or innocent, and Salazar had laid him to rest a long time ago. That was a ghost (ghoul) that he did not need.

Dumbledore hesitated, finally continued. "Salazar, would you be willing to meet Ron and Hermione again? I know that they will probably seem like- children, now, but it is important."

It was several breaths before Salazar nodded. To see his friends, no longer brave and fantastically intelligent, but simple students, two of the boys and girls whom he taught, scolded and watched over. They would be children to his eye, two children with bright, naïve faces and silly ideas. Could he bear to see two friends whom he had loved reduced to that?

They entered quietly, Hermione clutching her wand and Muggle music player, Ron with a comic tucked under his arm. They looked confused, a little bored, as though they didn't understand why Dumbledore had called them to meet these strangers and, unless the truth was exciting, they didn't really care.

Salazar stared at them until Godric nudged him with an amused tilt of his mouth and took his hand under the table. Hermione, a short, bushy-haired teenage girl with an over-confident, nervous demeanour. Ron, a gangly boy, clumsy and rude. He had never really seen their faults before. Yet, within, there was still that deep well of affection. They had fought together, lived and loved together, and he could see the flicker of those distant friends in their eyes, the manner in which they held themselves, waited quietly.

Dumbledore sighed, steepled his fingers. "Ronald, Hermione, thank you for coming. Please sit down." He paused, sipped at his tea. The others all stared as he drank, the only person to touch the tea set. The cup clinked as he set it on the saucer, the sound sharp and hollow in the silent room.

"What I am about to say to you is very difficult to explain." He glanced around, swallowed more tea, as though gulping down Dutch courage. "Yesterday morning, Harry's aunt threw him out of Privet Drive. He then... disappeared. The Order followed his traces to a small clearing, where they found fragments of compulsion and time magic."

The obligatory gasps, the pale faces. Salazar shifted, feeling vaguely irritated, and felt Godric's hand tighten around his own.

"In short, Harry was sent back a thousand years, to the time of the Founders. He matured to adulthood and assisted in the building of Hogwarts."

Was that jealousy in Ron's pale eyes?

Dumbledore swallowed, hard, and looked into the shadows. "He became Salazar Slytherin. And, at the age of 33, he found himself transported back to that same clearing, where he cast the spells that would transport his younger self to the past, and so fulfilled the circle."

Ron looked as though a sickness had clenched around his throat and sunk bloodied fingers through his spine. Crack, crack. At his side, Hermione had dropped her wand and music player to the floor with a clatter, and was staring hard at the floor, hands twisted into fists, hair falling down into her face. A single tear shivered and fell down onto the fabric of her jeans, staining the blue denim dark.

After a still, bare moment, Salazar said in a tight voice, "I suppose that makes this a reunion."

No one responded. Ron leaned down to pick up Hermione's wand, and bumped into her arm, both choking out awkward apologies, and the clanks as Dumbledore twisted his teacup around on his saucer, round and round and round and round, shattered in Salazar's ears. Perhaps he should not have agreed to this.

He would have left, would have walked out of Grimmauld Place and out of London and out of England, had Hermione not looked up at him and smiled through her tears. "I'm glad you're back, Harry."

And, as much as the mention of his old name ached, as hackneyed as it was, Salazar realised that he was glad too

Ron's bedroom was silent as the three sat on one of the beds, Salazar in the middle, and held one another. It was not a consolation, because it was too late for that. When they finally spoke, they did not shout or scream, and when it was finally over, they did not cry. Salazar did not apologise, and somehow, they were all friends at the end.

It was Hermione, leaning in on his right side, who said softly, once all was said and done, "Did it hurt to be so alone in a strange world?"

"Yes," Salazar said, just as softly.

"I'm glad that you weren't scarred."

"But I was."

Ron lifted his head and stared curiously. "But- that was the time of Merlin, right? You must have been happy."

"Sometimes, Ron." Salazar smiled sadly. "No, Merlin was a very long time before the Founders, and magic had almost been forgotten. It was dark, hard and painful, and it took a long time to find anything meaningful."

"Yet you did," Hermione said calmly.

"Yes, I did. I found the other Founders, a home... I suppose that I found myself," he mused. "It's almost amusing, really, that I lost myself in Harry Potter and found my identity again in Salazar Slytherin."

Neither of the teenagers beside him laughed. Ron paused and said quietly, "And you left a basilisk there... didn't you?" There was a tinge of accusation there.

Salazar looked away, out of the window, down at the dusty floor. "Yes, I did leave it there, and I did tell it to find Muggleborns and destroy them." He didn't give them a chance to respond, but plunged straight on. "And, yes, it was a dirty, monstrous and filthy act, and yes, I hate myself for it. But..." He hadn't even spoken to Godric about this.

His voice was faint. "I felt... empty, as though I would disappear if the sunlight touched me, and I just wanted to be real for a moment, and I hurt, and I spent the whole night afterwards wondering if Myrtle was dead yet and-"

Godric, standing just before him, and startled looks on Ron and Hermione's faces. Salazar was rarely vulnerable. He let the other man hold him.

Finally, the storm passed. Salazar smiled wanly and Godric stepped back. "Apologies. Especially to you, Godric, I-"

The other Founder stared at him for a long moment, before finally smiling back and sitting down on the bed opposite. Salazar's old bed, hard and musty smelling, still made up in plain white and hand-stitched coverlets.

He steeled himself. "Godric, these are two of my friends from- well, my past, I suppose. Ron Weasley and Hermione Granger. Uh, Ron, Hermione, this is Godric Gryffindor." He flashed a bleak grin. "Founder of Hogwarts."

Both Ron and Hermione looked as though they were uncertain whether to be elated or stunned. Salazar Slytherin had been a distant, half-familiar face, one who they almost understood, but Gryffindor was a truly mythological figure, entirely alien to their world of cauldron cakes, homework assignments and quidditch games. There was the same relief that he had glimpsed in Dumbledore's eyes.

Slytherin, well, there was a nearly-known persona, but the darkness. Never mind that Gryffindor had slaughtered, had been cruel and vindictive, that Helga and Rowena had not been respectable little ladies and paragons of virtue. It was Slytherin that mattered. Snake speaker. Wreathed in shadow, probably a vampire, practised black magic, or so they said.

Salazar knew that he was not a kind, sweet person. He knew that the years of pain and struggle had hardened him, forged in threads of spite and loathing, but to be rejected by his friends and mentor, just as Petunia, just as Ollivander, just as the Founders had all spurned him before... That shattered him.

Much as he hated to dwell on self-pity, he found himself wondering. The world mocked him for his softness, scarred him so he hardened, became ice and steel... and then it tormented him for his coldness. There had always been someone greater, someone kinder, some better, to take away his presence...

Such thoughts were useless. He was as he was, malice and all, and he would rather be flawed than dead.

As though she had not realised her own reaction, Hermione smiled at Godric and said, "This must be tremendously difficult for you, being thrust so unexpectedly into another era."

Was that a blush upon her face? Salazar wondered with dismay just what he had neglected. Surely they had made it clear that they were lovers? He wasn't certain whether she was flirting or not, and despised himself for the thought. But now Godric was glancing across to him with an amused expression, almost a reassurance. I won't betray you for a sixteen-year old girl still at Hogwarts, you silly fool.

He relaxed almost imperceptibly. Godric showed little interest in women, especially young ones. In fact, these last few years, he had reserved his attentions for men, maybe even when Salazar had been- gone.

He wondered if Godric had taken any other lovers whilst he'd been away. The thought nudged a fission of pain through his heart.

Godric turned back to Hermione and replied politely, "Yes, it is very hard, but I'm sure that Sal will guide me through it." Courteous, yet brief and almost tokenistic, and reminding her of Salazar's presence in his life.

Hermione flushed more deeply, in shame this time, and Ron took the next turn.

"Is it true that you wrestled with a mountain lion on the Crusades?"

Godric's face was carefully devoid of emotion as he said, "No. It's not."

Groaning, Hermione turned to her younger friend and snapped, "Ronald! The Crusades didn't start until 1095 AD, and anyway, that's a very rude question to ask out of the blue!"

Relieved at the interruption, Salazar glanced across at Godric, who was looking overwhelmed and a little irritated. "I think we'd better leave. Dumbledore wanted us back at the castle before dinner." Well, he presumed so.

They departed shortly afterwards by floo, the two Founders travelling directly to their own chambers. Once there, Salazar stretched, and then laughed softly at Godric's expression. "I am sorry, Godric. This isn't particularly fair on you. I'm forcing you to help me pick up the fragments of a long-forgotten life without even asking."

After several still moments, the other man shook his head, amused. "Always so cagey, always so careful, aren't you, Sal?"

"Cagey? I-"

As soon as his mouth was open, Godric kissed him, laughter rattling through both of them. "Yes, cagey," he teased when they parted. "I saw the look on your face when you thought the girl was flirting. It's not polite to set your friend's hair aflame."

"Oh, I'd rather fill it with snakes," Salazar snapped, and yanked him closer. His eyes were hard and worried as he said, "I should have told you about the basilisk and now it's too late."

"Oh, Sal..." Godric rolled his eyes. "I already knew. Rowena told me, as much good as it did us, what with your little 'safeguards' in place."

So much for Slytherin cunning and artifice. Salazar swore under his breath and glowered at his lover. "And you knew what I told it to do?"

"Yes," Godric said softly. "Yes, I did. I heard when you told the children. But we can do little now." He sighed. "And in a strange way, you probably avenged the poor girl's death when you killed it. These things come in cycles, you know."

It was Salazar's turn to roll his eyes.

"Alright, I'm sorry, no more aphorisms. But you have to stop writing in the margins of my books."

A lofty sniff. "Never."

Godric tackled him with another laugh. "Oh, Sal," he finally said. "I did miss you. Even if you are a foul-mouthed, petulant bastard."

Salazar simply smiled in the sunlight.

Salazar had to wonder if Dumbledore even bothered to read his teachers' application forms as he feverishly scribbled down notes. His only knowledge of the Goblin Rebellions was from O.W.L. level History of Magic, and that had been more than fifteen years ago. As it was, he would have to do some last minute cramming. Thankfully, though, he was accustomed to teaching, and his time in the past and with his various mentors had endowed him with a love of history that Binns' tutelage had never inspired. He would have to teach most of the students from Binns' syllabus, of course, but with the first and sixth years, both beginning new courses, he could delve into his real interest: classical history.

After four hours of frantically hunting through textbooks, study guides, history tomes and research papers, Salazar finally set down his quill. It would suffice for now. He rose, grimaced at his ink-stained fingers, and muttered, "Scourgify."

Godric was flinging out sword forms outside, beside the lake. Salazar paused by the doors of the main entrance and watched with a smile. Rarely did he tire of watching the other man, especially not now. Undoubtedly, close too, the stench of sweat would be rank and heavy, that fine coppery hair slicked with dirt and greasy, but from a distance, he looked handsome enough. Sleek sun-darkened muscles, elegant movements, a hard-boned, attractive face.

After a few moments, Godric saw him and began to approach with a shouted greeting. Salazar called back, trying to hide his wince. Sweat, mud, grease. Mm. He bore the hug with a patient expression, but when a hand slid down to his backside, he wrinkled his nose. "Godric. Bathe. Now."

The other Founder rolled his eyes, as though Salazar had some silly, feminine foible about hygiene. Honestly. One would have to lack at least four senses not to mind. He suspected that if Godric tried to rinse off in the lake now, a tentacle would whip out and knock him away. Nevertheless, Gryffindor trudged back in the direction of their chambers. Silently relieved, Salazar headed for the Great Hall for dinner.

It would have been spectacular, awe-inspiring, beautiful... if he hadn't seen it nine thousand and sixty times now. Salazar walked up to the high table calmly. Only Dumbledore and the four heads of house were here right now, already preparing and organising the numerous lists, forms and timetables for the next school year, and of those five, just Sprout and Snape were early for dinner.

Salazar sat several seats down from them, ignoring them but for an exchange of polite nods, and poured out a goblet of pumpkin juice, sipping at it with a level expression. Silence reigned over all until, with a scuffle of wings, a bedraggled bird with a surly gleam in its yellow eyes dropped down heavily onto the table, a heavy satchel strapped to its talons, etched with weightless charms. Dumbledore always ordered six copies of the Daily Prophet during the summer, one for each for the teachers, and an extra for when one was inevitably lost, torn, or hexed out of someone's hands.

Wrinkling his nose, Salazar cast a summoning charm on the nearest one with a grim expression. Special evening editions were never cheerful playground reading. Taking another sip of his juice, he glanced at the headline. It was fortunate that he had already swallowed his mouthful.

Special Edition!!! Harry Potter Time Traveller!!! Boy Who Lived is Salazar Slytherin!!!!!!

The only thought that pierced the iciness was a brief annoyance at the punctuation. The rest of his mind was given over to a rage so alien and so cold that it felt as though an arctic storm had flooded through his flesh, and left him as snow. There was no place for the naïve Harry Potter in that coolness.

He understood what his aunt had told him all of those years ago, voice almost pitying. "You'll find your own masks." Gather the impotent rage, all of that darkness within, encourage it, let it grow. Mould it a mask, craft and shape it until it's perfect, wear it. Then, when the time is right, lift the mask and let them see the fury within.

Instead of cursing or shrieking, Salazar took another sip of his pumpkin juice and began to read.

The Daily Prophet can report exclusively that as of the 1st August, our Saviour, Harry Potter, has become Salazar Slytherin. Wait a moment, dear readers, do not dismiss this as the fevered boasting of a Muggle tabloid rag.

It has been revealed to us that on the 31st July, Harry Potter (16), was thrown out of his home in Little Whinging, Surrey, by none other than his aunt, the redoubtable Mrs Petunia Dursley nee Evans (43), sister of Lily Evans. It would appear that a fight took place, unsurprising, since neighbours have reported hearing raised voices in the Dursley residence since the summer holidays began. Mr Potter left the house and adjoined to a nearby clearing in Parish Wood, two and a half miles from his childhood home. Runaway, or abandoned child?

According to witnesses, it seems that in that clearing, Mr Potter somehow travelled back in time by one thousand years. Forty minutes later, none other than Lord Salazar Slytherin, Founder of Hogwarts, ancestor of You-Know-Who, and renowned Dark Wizard, appears with a companion in tow. Coincidence? Perhaps. But the Prophet has access to exclusive sources, which have revealed that Lord Slytherin and Harry Potter have precisely the same magical signature.

Naturally, our dedicated readers are free to form their own opinions, but to this Prophet reporter, the facts seem clear. Harry Potter, the Boy-Who-Lived, is Salazar Slytherin.

Turn to page 2 for a full expose

Page 4 Interview with an anonymous witness

Page 5 Columnists' opinion and letters

Both Snape and Sprout were staring at him now. Salazar glanced at them from the corner of his eye, and turned to the second page of the newspaper to reveal a brief, yet eerily accurate description.

He was aching with such fury and outrage that he suddenly realised he hadn't even noticed Godric entering. The other Founder was seated beside him, also looking at the paper, the food for once entirely forgotten. Flitwick, Dumbledore and McGonagall had also sat down. The dinner cooled and congealed as the gathering each perused their own copy of the article.

Godric's arm around him was a welcome warmth, and Salazar leaned into it, wondering numbly if the ice would melt if he touched the firebird. He reached for his goblin, noted blankly that it was empty, and poured more juice out. All the while, his mind was rattling. Who had told them? How had they found out? What sources had they tapped, tricked, exploited?

What would Voldemort do?

Drawing in a sharp breath, Dumbledore muttered the words for four or five remarkably strong wards. Only when they had slid into place did he begin to speak in a low, resonant voice that belied his years. "Ladies, gentlemen, I am sure that I do not need to stress the need for caution and good judgment."

McGonagall raised her eyebrows with an expression of polite disbelief. "Albus, surely this is not true?"

"Oh, it is quite true, Minerva," the elderly Headmaster said wearily. "As I am certain that Salazar and Godric here can attest."

Salazar's mouth thinned. Did the man have no sense of prudence, to fling out the truth before any consultation or planning? He strangled the desire to glance at Snape before it could arise. Ever the Slytherin, ironic as that was at this time. Drowning morality and faithfulness under desire; desire for independence, for freedom, for fulfilment of the ego, for lust, for so many different hungers, Adam feeling the crunch of the rich red apple between his teeth.

Respect and trust are two entirely different apples.

Salazar wondered which one he should take.

He felt the eyes of the four house heads upon him and Godric, and sensed the familiar sickness surge through him. Was that abhorrence in Snape's gaze? Ah, no. Self-loathing.

"Perhaps I should not have trusted Mundungus again," Dumbledore said finally.

Salazar felt weary and full of impotent pain. "You should set him aside," he said in a voice devoid and numb. "He is manipulative, treacherous and uncaring, and you place him beside your heart."

Snape's face was furious and agonised. "Oh, and you on your pedestal. You should not speak of matters that you do not hold the key to, Potter." There was despair in his eyes, the feel of a man whose final, hallowed beliefs have been wrenched from his hands. "Don't be so arrogant as to presume another's fate."

Suddenly almost too tired to speak, Salazar said softly, "Not even when their fate is threaded to mine?"

"If he informed the Prophet," McGonagall said abruptly. "We have no hard evidence, Mr Potter."

"Salazar, if you please," he replied in languid tones.

Godric's voice was sudden, rough and startling from beside him. "Then we must turn to finding the perpetrator. Treachery is like a disease, one that will slowly devour us if we try to banish its existence with thoughtless and trusting words. Who could have done such an act?"

"An excellent question," McGonagall responded absently. "We sealed that clearing off with our most potent wards. It must have been betrayal. Albus, who was on duty?"

Dumbledore half-closed his eyes. "Mm. Mundungus and young Amy Harcourt, I believe, although I shall have to ask Arthur for confirmation. Either one could have been the culprit."

"It's simple, then", Snape drawled. "This would hardly be the first time that Fletcher has been accused of less than flawless conduct. Expel the man and erase his memory."

"Condemnation without proof," Salazar said calmly. "And besides that, Mundungus seems just slightly too obvious. He is a fool, but a deceitful one, and he knows what his hide is worth. Also, I doubt that the Prophet would take even his word so boldly."

Beside him, Godric smiled faintly, but said nothing. Salazar glanced at him, irritated and nauseous inside. The guilt was sickly and dry in his throat. He had wrenched his lover from another time period and pushed him into a tangled world of half-forgotten paths, broken threads and lost dreams. He didn't have the strength for another time spell, but that did not mean that he had to try and pursue his fallen past.

He would not knock back firewhiskey on graduation night with Ron at his side. He would not become an auror or a Quidditch player. He would not marry a woman and settle down with a mortgage, three children and a dog.

Salazar reached a sudden, cold realisation, thick and bitter as he swallowed it. He did not truly want to be here.

Hogwarts was truly his home, but it was a place where he sat beside a low-banked fire and quibbled over the finer points of Greek rhetoric with the other Founders or squabbled about the wards whilst they played dice and slowly drifted into slumber. A place where he spoke lightly with Amos about the relative merits of not slipping into Helga's wardrobe, and wrote in the margins of Rowena's books. A place where he lay in bed with Godric, the world and all within it on the other side of the shutters.

Finally, he flashed a thin, bitter smile at Dumbledore and said in a low voice, "If you will excuse us..."

Before the Headmaster could respond, he tapped Godric lightly on the arm and rose to leave. When he was stood at the entrance, one of the heavy doors pushed open, he turned and said calmly, "Oh, and Professor? I've changed my mind. You will need to start interviewing for History of Magic."

Godric did not speak until they had reached their quarters, where he said with that ever-irritating faint smile, "That was unexpected."

"Mm." Salazar was not particularly in the mood for discussion. He cast a brief glance at his lover, who appeared to understand, and, with two sharp gestures, ignited the small bundle of logs in the grate and flicked the contents of his desktop to the side table. Amos, who had been sleeping quietly on the couch, glanced up as the Founder sat down beside him and shuffled closer.

Forty minutes later, after scribbling a sharp, venom-flecked critique of one of the historical articles at his elbow, he felt somewhat more content in himself. He was like Snape when matters touched upon his chosen subject, he supposed: he wished to simply delve into a few choice texts by the fire, quill and red ink pot to hand, and seven hells take anything that tried to wrench that away, whether it be lessons to teach, meetings to attend or meals cooling in the Hall. However, unlike his old Potions professor, he steadfastly clenched onto what he held to be his professional pride, reserving his poison for foolish, ignorant historians who couldn't even have the decency to accurately research Morgana's birthdates.

A light touch on his shoulder, and Godric was abruptly leaning over with an amused expression. "Dinner awaits, oh guardian of the sacred birthdates."

Salazar frowned, decided it wasn't quite forceful enough, and poked his tongue out as well as he reluctantly set aside quill and parchment and rose to join the other Founder at the table. Dinner, it transpired, was casserole. Godric looked distinctly unenchanted, especially as he glowered at what was to him the largely mysterious fork, and pushed it aside in favour of a spoon. Rolling his eyes, Salazar took a sip of the watered wine and began to eat, Amos curling in his lap and occasionally arching up in hopes of a chunk of chicken.

'Stop that', Salazar hissed absently, now almost calm enough to read the Prophet article with a bare modicum of restraint, although he had since reclaimed quill and pot, and was ferociously scribbling spelling corrections and venomously critical comments in the margins in spiky slashes of red ink.

Had Amos been able to pout, he would have done. 'Please?'

'Amos, you have already eaten, so cease bothering me and find something else to occupy you.'

A sulking snake in his lap, an unresolved traitor and a schism with the staff. What a wonderful evening.

Godric said, "Dare I now ask just what prompted your decision earlier?"

Curling his lip, Salazar replied, "This Hogwarts...I am not so certain that it is my home any more... Home, home is somewhere with you, me, Rowena and Helga by the fire, not sitting in a cold, empty hall squabbling with people I barely knew seventeen years ago, and recognise even less now."

"This castle feels so blank now", the other Founder said musingly. "Although I suppose that it is different without students here, but nevertheless. And I was also surprised that you declined the post."

Salazar snorted. "Dumbledore must have several thousand application forms resting on his desk right now, all crammed with supplications and pleas. I remember all too clearly what a misery teaching was, and I know that I won't be leaving an empty position in September if I turn it down. It's not fair to the other candidates if I simply gain the place because of who I am and who I was rather than on my own merits alone." He smiled bleakly. "I haven't taught in a long time."

Soft silence for a long moment. They had not truly spoken of the years that lay between them. Two years of coldness and desolation did not weigh lightly in Salazar's mind. It was Godric who finally cut through the quiet.

"I felt full of sickness and despair when I saw you with that woman, yet I couldn't really snatch away your happiness. So I held my tongue. I waited. I told myself that you would tire of her, that you were not attracted to her sex, that you would finally hold your books above her. When she turned upon you...I had never believed that a woman could spill so much blood."

Salazar had believed it from the moment that he had seen Bellatrix Lestrange, had known it the moment he had lain beside his lover and traitor. She had almost been taller than him, he recalled, her hair a pale chestnut. Those eyes...an unremarkable river mud brown, fading, fading, to a single streak of dragon amber. Her nails had been coarse and jagged as she had pressed them against his neck and squeezed, the knife slipping through his ribs beneath the miasma of pain. He still bore the imprints of her nails against the ridge of his spine, even long after the stab wound had healed with barely a trace.

Godric continued, slowly. "Did you love her, Sal?"

"I don't know," Salazar replied, just as slowly.

There was something almost horrified in the other Founder's tones, as though he could not truly believe the depths to which he was depraving and hurting himself. "Did you love Eada, or Selwyn, or Aedre?"

"Godric!" Salazar stood abruptly, Amos only just stirring in time to avoid a sharp slap against the floor. "What must I say? That I have never loved any but you?"

He turned to the fire, arms folded against his body. His voice was soft and pained. "I've known you for seventeen years. Do you genuinely believe that a handful of six-month lovers can cast you from my hearth? The others were for friendship, for lust, for loneliness. You were the first person who I slept with for love, and not even she could have truly taken your place."

Salazar laughed quietly. "She was always envious of you. Said that she hated how I would walk away from her just to talk about mundane things with you, classes, gossip, the weather. I suppose she was right. She was attractive, intelligent, desirable, kind, yet she could never quite fill that cold space that you had left, and didn't she know it. I sometimes wonder if perhaps that was what finally drove her to betray me."

Silence. Godric took him into his arms, and they both smiled faintly.