Like Pale Fire

Chapter Three: Rain

As Salazar sat on the rooftops of Hogwarts, he felt the rain shiver from the tips of his loose hair and drip down to the ends of his bare toes. He could not place this feeling, as though he were trying to snatch at a thread before him, and it was drifting so lazily and slowly, but his hand would not move swiftly enough.

The same feeling had shuddered through him on the morning that she had died.

The sensation that everything was softly, subtly wrong, a breath in the air, almost an edge to the sunlight.

He was glad that it was raining.

The students would return today. The abruptness of the thought startled him, as though he had suddenly been snatched up and turned around to face a new window, through which he could gaze into his own thoughts. It seemed that even his mind was not clear today, and he had clear away the smudge of the rain and the feelings of wrongness before he could think with any measure of clarity.

Life with Ron and Hermione had not been pleasant lately. Too many years. For them, a month of lazy, languid summer idleness, dust and hot streets. For him, seventeen years in a rabbit hole, tumbling over and over, wondering if perhaps he would fall perpetually. He was an adult now, one who barely recalled Quidditch, and saw homework as something to be corrected and given a neat, jagged red grade at the bottom.

It just wasn't quite the same, and Salazar realised with a flicker of irritated melancholy that he was almost lonely.

How absurdly self-absorbed.

Finally, with a flick of his damp hair and a sigh, he returned to the castle, to drip onto scrubbed stone floors and glower ill naturedly at the portraits. One thousand years ago, there had only been a few bare tapestries and the occasional fresco. He had read somewhere that a headmaster in the nineteenth century had considered the latter to be faded and rather out of keeping with the castle's otherwise ornate appearance. Salazar wondered what had happened to them.

Mm. He had definitely not missed the portraits. Nosy, idle egotists, all feverishly spreading gossip, and staring whenever he passed. Salazar fixed a particularly sharp, cool glare on the nearest one, and it simply sneered back. He raised an eyebrow and continued walking until he saw a figure at the end of the hallway. A middle-aged woman, hair like threaded gold, and combed back into a plait, dressed in soft forest green robes. As the Founder approached, he realised that her clothing was the same shade as her eyes.

She looked up quickly as he neared and smiled. "Hello. Could you possibly direct me to the History of Magic classroom?"

Salazar blinked at her, still somewhat lost in his own tangled world. "You're on the wrong floor. It's on the first one."

The woman also blinked in surprise, and murmured a curse under her breath. "Ah. No wonder I couldn't find it. It's been so long since I was a student...I don't suppose you could show me where it is?"

Cold and weary, the Founder nevertheless nodded, to his own bemusement, and led her to the nearest staircase. The silence was cool and awkward as they walked, but Salazar was accustomed to such uncomfortable moments, and it did not seem to take long to reach the classroom. He paused at the door, and the woman smiled at him again.

"Thank you. Oh! I should have introduced myself. I'm Marnie Caswell, the new History of Magic professor." She looked at him expectantly.

"Salazar Slytherin," the Founder said quietly, and ghosted away.

(Lb)

Godric didn't look up as Salazar entered their quarters and sat down beside him, finally casting a swift drying spell on himself and pressing his chilled feet against his lover's leg.

"Morning."

Godric folded his newspaper, and smiled at him, amused. "Morning. Was it cold on the rooftop?"

Disappointed that the other Founder hadn't flinched away at the feel of his feet, Salazar said mildly, "Oh, somewhat."

"I see." Godric leaned back, resting his arms across the back of the couch. One strayed to Salazar's shoulders. "Dumbledore was here earlier. Wanted to know when we would be leaving."

Salazar's mouth quirked into a half-smile. "And what did you say?"

"That I would be discussing it with you."

"Do you want to stay here?"

Godric tipped his head back to gaze up at the ceiling. "Yes," he said after a moment. "I believe so. Hogwarts is my home, even if it seems rather...unfamiliar at present. I still remember laying the first stone. I don't think I want to just turn my back simply because it's a little different."

"Good." Salazar leaned into him and smiled softly. "Then we'll stay."

A brief spasm of worry passed across Godric's face. "Dumble- the Headmaster seemed to want us to leave soon. Said that we could prove to be a disruptive influence."

Salazar wrinkled his nose, and finally shrugged. "Hmph. I don't know about you, but I'm planning to simply sit here and write my history books. I fail to understand how such an activity could be seen as 'disruptive'." He, too, looked anxious for a moment. "Godric, what are you planning to do whilst you are here?"

The other Founder's expression was wry. "You seem worried. I can't imagine why." He laughed at his lover's frown, and relented. "What do I normally do, Sal? Practise my swordsmanship, talk with my friends-"

"-Wave shiny objects at dragons and challenge them to tag games; try to play with loaded dice with seers; drink far too much and then crawl into bed at ungodly hours rambling about tavern maids-"

"Salazar!" Godric glowered at him, and reached for the goblet of wine that rested upon the side table. When he had taken a long sip, he glanced back at his lover irritably and said, "Never mind that. When are the students returning?"

"Today," Salazar said softly. Hogwarts had been almost idyllic. Silent, empty, peaceful, a place where he could sit in the library for hours, entirely undisturbed, and pen venomous articles to certain reputable historians and send them before the day was out. He did not cherish the prospect of nosy, bickering objectionable children scrambling all over the furniture.

Godric groaned theatrically. "Today! Can't they send the buggers away for at least another week? I was rather enjoying the reprieve from whining voices and stroppy eleven-year olds, not to mention from the teachers."

The other Founder smiled grimly and said, "I agree entirely with you there, but I'm afraid that they will be arriving at seven o'clock tonight. I propose that we dine here."

"Motion seconded and carried," Godric replied, rubbing his eyes and peering hopefully into his wine goblet. "I haven't the temperament for sitting in that hall being staring at by brats."

It was odd, Salazar mused, but when he had been Harry Potter, he had always imagined Godric Gryffindor to be rather more virtuous. A strong, brave, noble figure, who never descended to public drunkenness, violent romps between the sheets and loud screaming matches with his peers. His lover was not a mild-natured, morally upright man, although Salazar would have been somewhat disappointed if that was the case. Some of the other staff members a thousand years ago had been perfectly honourable, ethical and just, and they had also been perfectly dull and particularly narrow-minded. He had no doubt that they were behind his current reputation, passed down through stern, sweeping documents.

Bastards.

He had made his decision. Salazar was no longer a lonely, simple boy, craning for the approval and respect of his peers. He was content in his life as it stood, being possessed of the philosophy that one should not struggle against the inevitable, and well settled into the habits of seventeen years.

That evening, at seven o'clock precisely, he looked up from his letters, cast a silencing spell to banish the chatter of the students far below, and rose to sit beside Godric at the table. The atmosphere was serene, warm and blissfully quiet.

(Lb)

Salazar was not entirely surprised when, after having eaten his dinner and spent some minutes talking lightly with his lover, an owl arrived at his window with a letter bearing the personal seal of the Minister of Magic.

Lord Gryffindor and Lord Slytherin,

I wish to offer you my sincerest salutations. I hope that this letter finds you both in excellent health, and pray that you will not take offence if I press straight to the heart of my message. In summary, I first desire to present Lord Slytherin with my heartfelt apologies for the tone of our earlier relations, and I remain optimistic that we can between us reach an agreement that will be of mutual benefit to us.

Lord Gryffindor, I have not yet had the fortune to make your acquaintance, but I hope that it will not be too long before I have the privilege of meeting you. I have heard many good tales of you, and look forward to your response.

My Lordships, I shall be blunt. The Wizarding World is in turmoil. I feel that I can rescue it, but not without help, and I feel that you could potentially offer me that aid. I would be most indebted to the both of you if you could assist me in any way possible.

Yours sincerely,

Cornelius Fudge

Minister of Magic

Salazar wondered how long it had taken the Ministry's army of secretaries and press officers to compose the letter.

"This 'Fudge'," Godric said after a moment, face grim. "What sort of man is he?"

"A desperate one," Salazar said in a hard voice. "A good politician, always adroit in directing the crowds, but he handles the genuine role of his station poorly. He is inept, short-sighted, and skirts the edges of foolishness."

The other Founder grinned, amused. "Always so tart, aren't you, darling? Though I believe that that gives me a fairly thorough grasp of the man. I assume that we are ignoring him?"

Salazar snorted inelegantly. "Don't be ridiculous, Godric. We court his support. Fudge may be a fool, but in this world, his power is great. Such men should not be disdained. No, we honey our words and we see how he might be of use to us."

"Ever the serpent," Godric replied softly, eyes half-closed, still amused. "Yes. We shall take your path for now."

Anyone who ever dreamt that Gryffindor was a noble, fair-minded man with a strong sense of moral scruples would not survive with their fragile delusions intact if they heard this conversation, Salazar thought. Eleventh century England was not an environment that fostered soft fantasies or deep ethical questions. Despite his kindness and sense of principles, Godric was ever the lion. A predator and an opportunist.

As his lover gazed at him, eyes dark in the evening gloom, Salazar felt something within him stir. It was not his heart.

(Lb)

The hammering on the door began at five o'clock in the morning. Salazar muttered a curse under his breath, glowered at the still-slumbering Godric beside him, and burrowed deeper under the bedcovers. The noise continued, unabated. He reached for his wand, found only a quill and a coin on the table, and decided to simply wait until the unanticipated visitor disappeared.

Fifteen minutes later, he finally pushed back the blankets and rose, trailing his fingers through his tangled hair and pulling on a robe. His wand found- under the skirting board, of all places- Salazar yawned and walked into the other room to answer the door. Neville Longbottom stood outside.

Had the boy always been so small and nervous?

Salazar raised an eyebrow. "Good morning, Neville. May I enquire as to the occasion?"

Neville flushed and stared hard at the flagstones. "Um, well, I, uh-"

Sighing, the Founder cut across the stammers with a weary, "You may as well come in and sit down."

With a gesture, Salazar summoned a tea set from the kitchens and sat down on the couch, motioning for the boy to do the same. He busied himself in pouring out tea and adding milk and sugar whilst he waited for Neville to gather his thoughts. It only took a few moments.

"Um, I was reading in the Prophet about- about- and the others were all talking about- it, but Ron won't tell me anything and I was-" Neville blushed even more deeply and looked at his hands, folded tightly in his lap so that he didn't fidget.

"Let's start with the basics," Salazar said calmly. "Tea?" He handed the boy a cup without pausing for an answer. "Yes, I was Harry Potter, and I am now Salazar Slytherin. Why wouldn't Ron tell you anything?"

Slightly startled at the abrupt manner in which his unspoken question had been fielded, Neville looked up and met the Founder's eyes without flinching. His voice was soft but certain. "He said that it was none of my business, and that you'd turn me away without even saying anything. But I'm not just an idiot. I went to the Department of Mysteries with you. I saw Voldemort and Bellatrix Lestrange."

"So you did," Salazar replied gently. "And you have just as much a right to know as Ron and Hermione. So do Ginny and Luna. Nevertheless, Neville, you have to understand that I'm not really Harry Potter any more, and I haven't been for a long time." He took a sip of his tea and added, "I would warn you away, but after the confrontation with Voldemort, I don't think that that would really have any effect."

Neville nodded sharply, face determined. "I understand. And I know that things really aren't going to be the same, and that you probably don't really want to hang out with a kid, but...are we still friends? I mean," he said hurriedly, "not in the sense that we do homework together and talk about girls, but-"

"I know what you are trying to say," Salazar said with a smile. It was peculiar, but he was beginning to see his old friend as more a nephew or young protégée. He had guided and taught this young boy in the past, and saw Neville's deep and unwavering potential. "The answer is yes. Now, may I ask just why you were knocking on my door at five o'clock in the morning?"

The student looked deeply humiliated, and said in a quiet voice, "I was scared that Ron would find out what I was doing and try to stop me again. It hurt when he said that I was just- me, just Neville Longbottom. As if I'm just stupid and cowardly, and not good enough to be anyone's friend."

Lips thinning, Salazar said distantly, "You can be assured that I will speaking with him about that." He smiled down at Neville. "You are far more than that. Don't doubt that. Now I think that you had better be heading back to your dormitory. Can you ask Luna and Ginny to come and see me some time soon?"

Neville nodded quickly. "Yes. Thank you, Ha- Salazar."

Godric was awake when he walked back into their bedchamber five minutes after the boy had departed. Salazar glowered at him as he pulled off the robe and sat down.

"Bastard."

"Hn. You're just jealous because I didn't have to get up to answer the door."

Salazar judged that to be unworthy of a response, and lay down. Amos and the Kneazel kitten curled up at his feet as he drifted into slumber, his lover already snoring.

(Lb)

Salazar was anticipating a quiet, peaceful morning with his books when a visitor at the door snapped the silence for the second time. Thankful that he had at least had time to wash, dress and break his fast this time, he sighed and glanced at Godric, who simply smirked up at him from the dagger that he was cleaning.

"Let's pretend we're not in."

"Prat." Salazar kissed him anyway and rose to answer the door.

Dumbledore stood in the entrance, beaming with irrepressible cheer. "Salazar! And Godric too. Excellent, excellent. May I come in?"

The Founders both tried to disguise their irritation with grace. Salazar invited the elderly Headmaster to the couch and offered him tea.

"No, thank you, my boy. Too much tea upsets my digestion, you know. Now! To business. As I am certain that you both fully understand, Hogwarts is a place of learning. A centre of academic excellence. Sadly, the students, being rather young and excitable, are easily distracted from their studies, and I fear that your presence here could disrupt them."

"Neither Godric nor I intend on interfering in the running of the school," Salazar interrupted smoothly in the slight pause. "Nor, indeed, to make our presence felt any more than is necessary."

"Nevertheless," the Headmaster wheedled softly. "I do fear that the children will chatter, as they are wont to do. It is not good for their education for them to be concerned with other matters."

"They will have to grow up sometime," Godric said shortly. "Real life continues, with distractions or otherwise, and the sooner that they learn that, the more it will benefit them. Besides, do you not feel that this Dark Lord of yours is a greater 'disruption'?"

"But-" Dumbledore sighed, and lapsed into silence.

As the Muggles said, that was that. The days passed peacefully. Salazar penned his articles to the historical journals currently circulating, contributed to one or two papers, and busied himself in raising more snakes. Godric was content to roam the boundaries of the Forbidden Forest, demonstrating his swordsmanship on various 'nasties', or exploring this modern world that he had landed in.

Four days later, Salazar finally bullied his lover into helping him write a response to Fudge's letter. It was brief, courteous and sliced directly to the point.

Dear Minister Fudge,

You missive was gratefully received. Thank you for your concern. We are both in good health, and hope that you are also in such a fortunate state. Lord Slytherin in particular wishes to offer his wishes for your continuing happiness and vigour.

Our thanks for your proposal. After much careful consideration, we have decided to accept, and would like to arrange a meeting. May we ask what date would be convenient?

Yours sincerely,

Lord Salazar Slytherin

Lord Godric Gryffindor

Founders of Hogwarts

Barely seven hours after they had sent a school owl away with the letter, a Ministry eagle arrived bearing an invitation for a private vis á vis with the Minister at two o'clock the following day. Salazar smiled and wrote a quick response, accepting the message and thanking Fudge for his swift response.

Honeyed words can sweeten steel.

(Lb)

Diagon Alley was hot, dusty and crowded, summer still laying thick and heavy as honey across southern England. The clouds were faded in the pale blue far above, the tiled, swooping rooftops stretching up towards the bright sun. The smudges of dark trees were almost visible against the chimneys.

Salazar was astonished at the depth of the crowds, even after all of the children had departed for school, and the adults returned to work. Harried shop assistants, businessmen and women in snappy robes, mothers with young, squawking children, pensioners eating ice creams in the languid heat. He swerved to avoid a delivery boy bowed under stacks of cardboard boxes, glanced behind him to make sure that Godric was still on his heels, and stepped into Gringotts'.

Inside, despite the bustling people hurrying back and forth, the bank still gave the impression of deep majesty, silence and stillness. Almost a mausoleum, Salazar mused, and headed for the nearest counter, grateful for the concealing charms that disguised his identity. The goblin seated there gave him a long, slow, bored look, took his key, and grunted ill-temperedly, calling for another to take the two Founders down to the vaults.

Salazar did not recognise the goblin that steered their little cart, and did not particularly care. Years ago, he had been far more concerned with such matters, but by now, he had learned that, like so many humans, goblins weren't terribly interested in the affairs of others, and rebuffed any attempts at repartee.

The vault was dank and dark, untouched for a thousand years. Salazar had placed most of his more valuable possessions in there, and was thankful for such a measure now. Potent preservation charms had kept everything pristine, other than the inexplicable stench of must. Whilst the goblin examined a clipboard and its fingernails in the cart, the two Founders began to search.

"Are you certain it's here?" Godric frowned worriedly at Salazar, and discarded a dented, lewd statue of Dionysus, an artefact abandoned by some long-dead Roman soldier.

"Quite sure," the other man said impatiently, sifting through a heap of silver coins of varying denominations.

"Oh."

Salazar brushed dust from an old scroll, looked at it contemplatively, and set it back. He had definitely placed it here, he just wasn't quite sure where-

"Ah!" Godric rummaged through a battered chest and yanked out a small sandalwood box with the victorious expression of a returning Caesar, handing it to his lover with a flourish.

"Wonderful," Salazar said dryly, and opened it carefully. Inside lay three small bags, all woven from dove grey linen and fastened with charcoal coloured drawstrings. He opened each one carefully, examined the contents, and closed them all again one by one. Finally, he shut the box, enchanted it to the size of a doll's dresser, and slipped it into his pocket.

Diagon Alley was unpleasantly dusty and crowded after the solemn silence of the vaults. Salazar wrinkled his nose in irritation as he headed towards a small, dilapidated shop on the outskirts of Knockturn Alley. A ragged werewolf grinned toothily at him, and he raised an elegant eyebrow in response. Hn. And this place merited such a ferocious reputation? A sad, faded cluster of run down buildings, populated by dank-eyed, leering creatures in torn clothing? Salazar would sooner label it contemptible than dark.

The shop was shadowed inside, and the Founder wondered if it was a pitiful attempt to mask the scratched paint, the tape peeled over cracked windows, and the stained, clumped carpet. He glanced at Godric beside him, who bore a desolate expression, and rolled his eyes as he waited for the proprietor to limp in from the dimly lit backroom, a grubby wizard with a nicotine-yellowed beard and patched robe.

"What?"

Salazar ignored the ungracious bark and drawled, "I believe that I left an order with you three weeks ago...?"

"Oh." The wizard grimaced and opened the soup-splashed ledger on the yellow Formica tabletop. So poor that he had to scrabble around cheap Muggle car boot sales, evidently. "Hn. Name?"

"Mordu," the Founder replied lazily.

"Hn," the proprietor repeated again, and squinted at Salazar through rheumy eyes. "I see." He pulled a rolled up cigarette out from behind his ear and shuffled into the backroom. After several minutes of clanking, tapping and cursing, he eventually returned with a cardboard box, fastened loosely with peeling, stained spellotape, and opened it up to pull out a cloth-wrapped oblong.

Salazar took the package gracefully before the shop owner could object and peered at it, edging aside the corner of the cheap cotton. "Satisfactory." He placed it in his pocket, set the payment down on the ash-strewn counter, and departed, Godric trailing him like a rather bored puppy.

It wasn't until they had returned to Diagon Alley that Godric finally said, "So what's in the bundle?"

Flicking him an irritated look, Salazar said sharply, "You know precisely what is in there. Think!"

The other Founder frowned, opened his mouth, and abruptly closed it again. "Oh. Oh, I see. I think."

"Fool. Hurry, it's almost two o'clock."

When Godric wouldn't move swiftly enough, Salazar grasped his hand and yanked him along towards the small residential district in Diagon Alley. The houses here were beautiful, built from a pale honey-coloured stone, and decorated with twisting magical ivy. Through the diamond paned windows, they could just see the sweeping lines of gossamer curtains. Sweet scented grass and herbs nudged against tiny, delicate white and gold flowers in the wide gardens facing the cobbled street.

Salazar continued walking, mentally reciting the neatly penned directions that had been sent to them. Down the first street, across the pretty little stone bridge that spanned the cold, clear brook, through the lane, and up to the third house on the right. He checked the number, squeezed Godric's hand once last time, and released it to knock softly on the door. A dark-haired maid in an embroidered robe greeted them politely, and they were led through the vast, airy hallway, with its thick cream coloured carpet, and up the sweeping staircase into the Minister's private London office.

Silently discarding the illusions, Salazar stood in the doorway and waited whilst the man in the high-backed chair stared out at the street far below. A lime green bowler rested neatly on the nearest stack of papers. So. It was the old dance, was it?

Keep them waiting. Keep them leaping. Pause just long enough to let them understand that you hold the aces. You may hold none, but the importance of the bluff cannot be denied. Weigh out the balance of power before they can open their mouths. He had heard that Fudge would not be Minister for much longer. Desperate men sometimes played their hands with consummate skill, as they ran on the edge of the knife blade.

Fudge spun round in his chair, and smiled amiably at them. "My Lords! How pleasant to see you? Please, please, sit down."

Demonstrate even the tiniest measures of power that you hold.

Salazar took one of the carved oaken chairs, Godric mimicking him. Smiles just on the right side of hawkish. Robes adjusted to fall elegantly. Wands a bare gleam, almost hidden.

The customary greetings and courtesies were presented. Fudge seemed peculiarly distant, occasionally glancing at the papers under his folded hands or the framed photographs that smiled on his desk. Someone had organised that desk, Salazar thought. Shuffled the documents into neat, squared-off piles, arranged the quills by length and the inkpots by colour. The care taken jarred with the Minister's apparent air of slightly absent preoccupation.

Fudge laced his fingers together and leaned back in his chair, expression slightly pensive, and grasped the initiative. "Lord Slytherin, I am aware that we do not have the most, uh- amiable of relationships, but I do wish to change that."

Salazar had composed his response to that statement two days ago. "I share similar hopes, Minister."

Hope. An insubstantial word, an abstract noun, one of dreams and fragile imaginings. One that entirely lacked committal.

It was at that moment that Godric gently steered the conversation away from that subject. "I have yet to truly make your acquaintance, Minister, and I am pleased to finally meet you at last."

Fudge grasped a smile from somewhere. "Ah, yes, it is a privilege of the highest order, Lord Gryffindor."

As the Minister was nodding nervously at Godric and murmuring his assurances, Salazar tipped his hand slightly, feeling his wand drop against his leg. A slow, sinuous motion and a soft word, and a fragile compulsion was laid upon Fudge, as light and pale as a butterfly's wings in the sunlight.

Speak truthfully. Speak frankly. Speak of what you desire.

The subject shift was abrupt and startling. The Minister straightened and adjusted a stack of papers with the tip of his finger as he said jovially, "How about I cut to the chase, gentlemen? As you will undoubtedly know-" a nod to Salazar- "elections are approaching, and I am finding myself in a rather a spot of peril. You see, this Scrimgeour has expressed rather a keen interest in my position, and I'm finding it somewhat difficult to keep back the tide."

Far too swift and honest, like a poor actor squinting at half-remembered lines and exclaiming them as soon as they entered his head. Fudge had detected the compulsion, and responded in kind. Clenching his jaw slightly, Salazar waited. They had anticipated this.

Godric leaned back in the hand-carved chair and cast the Minister a wide, disarming grin. Yes. Gryffindor. Bold, honest, foolish. Blind to intrigues, deaf to politics, and mute in the amphitheatre of government. "Well, of course we'd be happy to help, Minister!"

On another man's lips, it would have sounded trite and hollow. On Godric's, it seemed genuine, warm and charismatic.

Salazar's fingers twitched. A tiny silvery snake slipped from a pale china vase painted with a delicate tracery of hummingbirds and dropped soundlessly into the deep, thick carpet behind Fudge's seat. The Minister did not react as a sleek tongue ghosted across the back of his ankle, once, twice, numbing the flesh before four perfectly pointed teeth sank in around the heel. Mission completed, the snake nodded to itself and slithered under the skirting board.

Fudge's eyes were dark and distant as he ran a finger around the rim of his bowler hat and hummed a soft song under his breath. Seemingly just as openhearted as before, Godric continued speaking, syllables gliding together. People rarely understand that the components of a spell are not rigidly set, especially not the incantation. It is emphasis and pitch that is vital. Order matters little if one knows the true nature of magic.

One syllable from this verb. One syllable from that noun. Another. Another. Another. There was a brief spasm of bemused horror in Fudge's eyes before they finally paled and glazed over. So he had detected the snake, but not the spell. Damnable fool.

Salazar drew his wand out and began to cast swiftly. Enchantments of silence, forgetfulness, pliancy, honesty, blindness. Charms to watch, listen, hide.

Three minutes later, Fudge blinked, shook his head sharply, and smiled at them again. "Ah! So if you can just possibly assist me with the one matter...? Excellent. My gratitude is simply without bounds, gentlemen! With-out bounds!"

They took their leave soon after that. The maid in the embroidered robe escorted them to the door, and they walked slowly back to Diagon Alley, both men renewing their illusions and silently musing over the meeting. Salazar's emotions were tangled. Relief that they had escaped with their hides intact and their plans laid. Quiet fury that he had underestimated Fudge. Pride that his silvery snake had accomplished its mission without a shudder. Wariness mingled with satisfaction.

Still pondering over the exchange of words, Salazar allowed Godric to lead him into Flourish and Blotts'. He needed some more books anyway. He doubted that Madame Pince would overlook Anglo-Saxon scribblings in her library volumes, and besides, the Hogwarts' selection was rather limited, largely intended for eleven-year olds struggling with their Transfiguration homework, not dark wizards with an interest in herpetology.

He was glancing through the section on snakes when Godric approached him, brandishing a copy of The Hogwarts Four: A Historical Account of the Founders. Salazar raised his eyebrows.

"I would be highly surprised if you did not already know who Godric Gryffindor is. Put it back. You have no need for such a book."

Godric's eyes were pale and cool as he shook his head. "No. You think about it this time. Don't I have a right to know just what they have written about- the Founders? You forget that this is not my homeland. I don't understand what is in their faces when they speak of- Gryffindor."

The shop was still loud and busy, and both Founders frequently, subtly glanced around for listeners.

Salazar sighed and said softly, "Do you truly want to know? Do you honestly, genuinely wish to read what the likes of Wybert and du Mornay have written?"

The other man was neither foolish nor lacking in courage. He nodded, just once, and turned away, expression blank. Salazar's own face was melancholy. He had read the history books. With another sigh, he took a volume on snakes from the shelves, blindly, and stared at the pages, trying not to react as he caught a glint of golden hair near Godric. Marnie Caswell.

Keeping his gaze upon the printed paragraphs, he listened.

"What a surprise! Oh, I mean, hello. I'm Marnie. Marnie Caswell. Sal- may have mentioned me. I'm the new professor for History of Magic."

"-No. He didn't, actually. A pleasure to meet you."

"Oh, the pleasure is all mine. Hm. Doing your history homework, I see."

"Yes. Call it- curiosity."

"Has S- has he not already told you all that you need to know?"

"Not quite."

"Oh. Well, how about a drink? On me, of course. Let me do the rest of the explaining."

In the darkness, he could hear the drums.

Salazar watched through the slowly emptying shelves as Godric paid for his book, glanced around, and left at Caswell's side. Oh. He bought his own volume in a haze and apparated back to Hogsmeade as soon as he stepped outside the shop. Well, he would not intrude. Had half-expected it really.

Amos slipped out of the trees in front of him as he walked up the path to Hogwarts. Neither of them spoke, although Salazar paused long enough to let the snake curl up around his shoulders. Lessons were still taking place. He ghosted through the empty hallways and into his cold quarters, all the while desiring nothing more than to run back down that steep road, apparate into Diagon Alley, and wrench out Marnie Caswell's tongue.

(Lb)

Later, he realised that he had been a fool.

Godric returned, three hours later and in a poisonous mood. Salazar wrote another note in the margin of his new book, glanced at his small collection of snakes, and said nothing. The other Founder stared at him for a long moment, then stepped into the bathroom, closing the door behind him. A moment later, he heard water sloshing through the pipes.

Humming under his breath, Salazar stroked the nearest snake. He had known his lover for long enough to understand that the anger was not directed at him, and so he waited calmly. Twenty minutes later, Godric emerged, hair damp and tangled, in the same robe. He sprawled across the couch and watched Salazar coaxing a coral snake in silence.

"Salazar."

"Godric."

They gazed at one another, neither quite prepared to snap the awkwardness between them. Finally, Godric said in a low voice, "I suppose you heard what that- that woman said to me?"

Salazar simply nodded and waited patiently.

"I looked around, but you had vanished, so I left with her. Well. That was my first error. Hn. I suppose she wasn't that bad, just a little over-eager. And too willing to believe what she was told. A poor historian."

Godric sighed restlessly and rose to open the window. He rested his fingers on the sill and stared out across the dark hills, as though he could see across the Scottish border down to a coffee shop in Diagon Alley.

"Gave me a 'coffee'. Dreadful. Began to talk about Helga and Rowena, innocuous. Not entirely accurate, but close enough. It was almost pleasant until she started on the subject of us." His knuckles whitened. "She called you a monster, Sal," Godric said softly. "A frightening, pale-eyed, deceitful monster. Said that you would-"

"I'm not a nice person," Salazar interrupted gently. "You know that, Godric. A thousand years of history did not tend me kindly."

Godric turned quickly. His eyes were hard. "Then it should have done." He crossed the room and opened The Hogwarts Four. "Would they have dared to call Merlin a murderous, animalistic bastard? Or Gwydion? You helped to found a school that has now formed the centre of their entire magical culture for a millennium, and they treat you like a filthy demon."

"The basilisk," Salazar breathed, barely daring to meet that gaze. Amos curled around his wrist, and he gripped the snake's tail tightly.

Snorting in contempt, Godric said tightly, "You're a merciless, vindictive bastard at times, Sal, but you scarred yourself nineteen times for our students. Eleven of which were for the Muggleborns. And, yes, it was horrific to leave a basilisk down there, and I am not certain if I can forgive you for that, yet I have no doubt that if the course of history held no significance and you were able to travel back to our time, you would return and take it away."

Salazar wasn't so sure about that, but he didn't voice his thoughts. They both heard the unspoken words. Godric simply shook his head and closed the book.

That night, Salazar stood on the rooftops in the rain and stared across the horizon. Godric sat beside him.