Greatest of the Hogwarts Four

Chapter 3: A Thousand Springs

***

Gabriel groaned softly as he came to himself. His changing body contorted and rippled grotesquely beneath him, and he flopped onto his back and gritted his teeth. 'It never gets any easier,' he mused. All he could remember during the time period when he was a beast were the vague, violent impulses; he wanted to kill and bite and feel the joy of soft flesh parting under his claws.

It's a beautiful gift, you know, Rubicant remarked animatedly to him. So few are blessed like you and your brothers.

"Piss off, demon," Gabriel said aloud in a guttural voice that meant his vocal cords had not completely shortened yet. "You've had your fun."

No, I haven't. Not until you give me more humans to bite. My five thousand children need souls to feed on too, you know.

"Well, I'm sorry to hear that times are rough in Hell," Gabriel shot back sarcastically. He winced, and massaged his throat. It was almost over. He could feel the odd prickly feeling of fur receding inward.

'Till the next full moon, then. And by the way, you're lying in your own shit. I thought you might like to know that. The demon laughed maliciously and left Gabriel's mind. Of course, 'left' was a loose definition; he lost the power to control and speak to Gabriel once the moon had set. However, his prescence still hovered on the edge of Gabriel's consciousness. That revolting, foul prescence. In times of great anger, Gabriel had often felt the spirit of Rubicant urging him to greater heights of cruelty and bestiality. His sick sense of humor often manifested itself during the changing. The things Rubicant had shown him- Gabriel shook his head, mussing his white hair down into his eyes as if to block the images from his mind. Then, his dark thoughts were dispelled by the sudden grating scrape of the dungeon door being opened.

"Good God, man, it stinks in here!" said Michael. His fire-red hair was illuminated by the flickering of the torch he carried. "What did that little bastard do this time?"

Gabriel winced and felt the raw insides of his cheeks with a crooked finger. "Chewing on me, of course," he said, gingerly feeling the scrapes and bite marks on his arms and legs. He had long since gotten used to small, self-inflicted wounds. "But he decided to be especially disgusting tonight." He indicated the befouled walls and floor with a sweep of the hand.

His brother surveyed the filthy room and wrinkled his nose. "I'm not cleaning it up."

"Why'd you get out so soon?" Gabriel asked suddenly. Usually, as a safety precaution, the four brothers were not let out of the dungeon until a day after the full moon had set. It was only the first morning.

"Orders from on high. We're being shipped out again. Top-secret stuff. Be at the docks in half an hour." He glanced at the stone walls, which were dripping with mold, and the floor, which was strewn with wolf dung. "But," Michael said, wrinkling his nose again, "change your clothes first."

***

There was a hot feeling and a cold feeling, and then another hot feeling.

"Ignis Congelo," whispered a soft voice. It was the nicest sound in the world; a comforting, resuscitating thing. Although he didn't understand the words, the tone of the voice filled him with a wonderfully comforting and light emotion that he wondered if it was love.

He didn't remember much: being hungry all the time, skulking through alleys and digging through refuse for food. On good days he would beg for money at the tavern, and the men tossed him a few greasy coins if he sang off-color songs. Then there was the time the drunk man came at him, enraged over something, and hit him hard in the face. He didn't know what happened after he blacked out, but from what the parson had screamed at him in front of the crowd, he had set him on fire. A demon, a witch's child, he had been called. Then there was the stumbling journey away from his home; monsters with green fired eyes, and someone holding him; then, a soaring, exhilarating sensation of flight. The memories seemed to flash by, and he struggled through something like water.

"The fever. The fever's almost broken."

"Ignis Congelo!" More insistent this time. He broke the surface, and felt the touch of a slim, cool hand on his cheek. He opened one eye, and saw the face of a beautiful woman over him.

"Mama?" he whispered, almost without knowing what he was saying. He hadn't known a mother before...maybe she had come to rescue him! She had saved him from the drunk man, the priest, and the monsters! "Mama!" he cried.

"Shh. Mustn't make too much noise. Here," she said, and gave him a cup filled with milk. He tried to raise himself up to sit, but couldn't. The woman turned around and muttered something he couldn't hear. When she turned around again, she was holding a bottle. The milk in it was buttery and sweet, and he drank eagerly. Soon, she took it away. He was disappointed, for he was suddenly ravenous.

"You shouldn't eat too much too soon," the beautiful woman whispered. "You'll get sick again. Go to sleep."

Yes. He went to sleep, feeling better than he had ever felt in his life, and hoping that it all wasn't a dream.

Rowena turned from the boy to frown at the ghost hovering beside her. "Amelie...please go find a man named Gabriel for me. He has white hair and he's probably somewhere around the dungeons. Tell him to come here. It is very urgent."

After the ghost left, Rowena put her hand on the boy's forehead. She frowned, the feelings of immediate fear for his health receding as she saw how the fever faded. Twirling Salazar's wand idly in her right hand, Rowena reflected on how much easier it was to cast spells with a wand. Her mouth settled into a grimace of determination. 'The boy must have a purpose, if he stirred my consciousness so heavily.'

Salazar had no idea. While he and Gabriel had been out chasing demon lion skeletons, she had been drowning in wave after wave of near-hysterical horror, hung in suspense on whether or not the boy would live. Rowena squashed that thought. She was trying to avoid thinking about Salazar. As long as she didn't dwell on the fact that he was dead, it wouldn't pain her.

''Is he one of us? The Four?' Ravenclaw thought to herself.

Well, he is and he isn't, answered her Inner Eye. He isn't quite one thing or another. But for now, your task is to raise the boy. The Prophecy has been delivered. The boy is safe. The Other Three will take care of the rest. Your major role has officially ended.

"The hell it has," she said aloud.

***

"If you are hungry...he can help you. If you are poor...he can help you. If you are abused...he can help you!You, who are oppressed by the sorcerers of Gaul, the magicians of the Saxons, and the armies of the Muggle king, take comfort! Our savior has been sent to us! He is the great Lion of Asturias, sent to save men from oppression!"

He looked every inch the legend he was told to be. All throughout Gaul, in all the warring factions of what had once been a mighty, united nation, the peasants, both Muggle and magical, were rallying to the standard of Godric Gryffindor.

He came from a line of noble Gallian wizards. At the age of fifteen, he had left the sanctity of his castle walls and rode out into the surrounding countryside. Once he had seen the harsh cruelty under which serfs were forced to live, Godric had been galvanized into action. He left his family estates and became a wandering knight-errant, rescuing the poor and defeating evil barons.

On his first week, he had saved an entire town of peasants from a man-eating dragon, then summarily dispatched of the Lord who had forced them to pledge crops before they had grown, keeping them in perpetual starvation. In another round of valor, he rescued a princess from a warlock who had been keeping her in his enchanted tower as ransom.

His name was spreading beyond Gaul, to the sunny valleys of the Ommiad Emirates, even as far as the Byzantine Empire. It was said, in hushed whispers, that his family land in Asturias had been transformed into a haven for the downtrodden. Everyone worked in total harmony, together, and shared all the food. No one was without a warm place to sleep, and there were no tithes or taxes. And best of all was no Lord, Baron, or Count to deliver decrees or order you around, or throw you off the land- because everyone owned their own farms.

Many of the people, practical folk as they were, shook the tales off as fairy tales like all the rest, and got back to plowing and reaping. But many, especially the young and the fierce, slipped away from their rude villages and began migrating, a slow and steady tide toward the West.

***

"What's this, Yeuric? Time and again, I have to tell you, I have no need for your ancient Prophecies and vague visions of the future. I am concerned with this year, these lands, my people, the here and now."

"You didn't mind," said Yeuric irritatedly, "when I told you the prime days for planting wheat last spring. Who else would have seen that sudden, anomalaic blizzard, eh Godric? If you trust me on such things as predicting the weather, please at least deign to listen to me on the matter of the Prophecy." Although Godric had always disdained the notion of Prophecies, his trust in Yeuric made him grudgingly listen to the Seer.

The Seer, Yeuric, was a very tall, yet quite slight-looking man. He had elegant brown hair that waved slightly on its journey down to his shoulders. He wore no beard, but had a finely pointed chin and an equally pointed, aristocratic nose. His eyes were very large and watery, and his skin was somewhat pale from being indoors too much. His limbs were very long and lanky, with long, thin hands and feet. Yeuric often cracked his knuckles nervously as he talked. A small touch of vanity was exhibited in the over-elaborateness of his cloak, the various oils in his hair, and the creams on his skin. He would have been a more handsome man if he hadn't spent so much time on his appearance.

About quite the opposite, Godric Gryffindor was a man whose appearance was the very epitome of strength. Years of training at the sword and lance had made him heavily muscled, although one too many lances broken on his helmet had left a slight ringing in his ears. He had a bellowing voice, which was useful when issuing challenges from across vast moorland plains at opposing armies. Godric often spent no time fixing up for functions of state, entering his court still in his mail shirt, reeking of sweat and horses. Yet there was still a roguish handsomeness in his wild, strawberry-blonde hair and deep green eyes. In contrast to his Seer, Godric would have been a more handsome man if he had spent a little more time on his appearance.

At least today, Yeuric reflected, he had remembered to change into a clean doublet. That much was progress. The court was virtually deserted, which was just what he had requested. Normally, it would have been full of commoners gossiping and drinking wine after their supper, with what seemed like millions of children scrambling underfoot. Thankfully, everyone had obeyed Godric's request to return to their homes after the evening meal. The long, high-ceilinged hall was stoically quiet, with sunlight streaming golden through the stained-glass windows and illuminating the red banners.

"My liege, I have long awaited for a Prophecy to be delivered concerning the Four Magi. Their appearance in history is not predictable by any pattern, and there has only been one other instance of the Magi appearing before- and it was at the dawn of wizardkind, and there were no detailed records of the occurrence. Their arrival can only be known through a Prophecy, and I've only just succeeded in-"

"What exactly," rumbled Godric, "is the significance of these Four?"

Yeuric was slightly irked at the interruption, but bowed to the question anyways. "Yes...well, my liege, I'm not quite sure. You see, as I said, no records have survived from their first arrival. Possibly..." he hesitated, awkwardly cracking his knuckles, then abandoned that train of thought. "Well, the most important thing is to first find the Four Magi, then get around to figuring out what their purpose is."

The Seer smiled broadly. "Godric, a few days ago, I perceived a major shift in the collective clairvoyant vibrations. Pinpointing the location took a great deal of calculation and concentration, but I managed to trace the epicenter of the disturbance to here." He flicked his long willow wand and a scroll appeared, with a map on it. Yeuric flicked the wand again and a small red light blinked on the map.

"Britannia?" Godric asked skeptically.

"I know our relations with their Council aren't the most loving, Godric, but this transcends petty politics! The point is, there are only a handful of True Seers in existence, and the Prophecy was delivered to one residing in Britannia."

"I've heard of the great Almanzoor Moselle who heads the Council of wizards," said Godric thoughtfully. "Perhaps he is the one who received this Prophecy?"

Yeuric shook his head. "No, sir. I was able to...sense...the other Seer's prescence. She, however, wasn't able to find me. Something happened, sir, that was preoccupying her time. Something quite grave. I believe she's in danger, sir, and I'd like to bring this other Seer to Asturia so we could collaborate. I, for one, am deeply interested in the reading the Prophecy in its entirety."

Gryffindor, however, was still stuck a few moments back in the conversation. "She?" snorted Godric in disbelief. "You'd entrust the future of the wizarding world to a woman? And what in Merlin's name does this have to do with me? Some shadowy fortunetelling about four wizards who we must find, never mind we have no idea why the hell we've got to find them! You do what you like often enough without my consent. I can't see why you need to ask me before you go bringing some British witch here."

"Aah...it does concern you a great deal, my liege, because I am quite sure that you are one of the Four..." Yeuric smiled slyly.

Godric raised an eyebrow. "Hardly, Yeuric. I doubt I have any dormant powers within me. I cannot even work a wand. My only power comes through this," he said, patting the sword at his belt the same way some people pet a fluffy kitten.

Yeuric shrugged. "Believe me or not, sir, but I wish you'd trust me on this. I'm not asking for much."

The great man paused for a second, rubbing his temple with one gloved finger. "All right," he said finally. "If you deem it best, I'll let you spirit this witch back here. Just...make sure the weather's right for harvesting this week."

"I should warn you, Godric, that there is a danger."

"I knew it sounded too easy," Gryffindor groaned.

"Although she has not sensed me yet, the Other Seer has felt the presence of a Third Seer, who is of far greater power than both of us. He is...difficult to trace, this Third Seer." Yeuric hesitated. "His mind is slightly unstable. It seems at times, as if he is more of a monster than a man. I am not quite sure what to make of him. But I do know he is on the trail of one of the Four, and we cannot let him get to this Magus first. It would be disastrous. This is an evil mind, Godric, that we are dealing with. Before I retrieve the Seer, please grant me leave to go fetch the Fourth Magus."

"Can you find this wizard?" Gryffindor asked, pressing his fingers together and looking at Yeuric intently over the tips of them. 'For all the stories about his boorishness and stupidity, he really is a sharp man,' Yeuric reflected.

"Yes, now that the Prophecy has been delivered, I was able to locate all Four Magi. Two are in Britannia...you are the third, and the fourth has been steadily moving across Gaul towards the Ommiads." Here he hesitated, wondering how much was necessary to tell Godric without upsetting him. "I've had a premonition sir...I have a most ominous feeling that if I do not reach this Magus in time, either the Third Seer will capture them, or worse..."

"Worse?"

"This Fourth Magus has a tormented soul, Godric. He has an angry and despairing heart, and such a character often leads wizards of this quality to do rash things. I think this Magus may end up dead, by his own hand, if I do not contact him."

Godric straightened up and stood. "I suppose time is of the essence, if you say that both the Seer and the Magus are in danger." He rubbed his temple again. "Very well. Since you are the only one who can track the Magus, I will myself go to Britannia and invite the witch to our hospitality. There is a ship due at our port in two days, from Sussex. I will personally take that ship back to the seat of their Council and plead our case." He turned sternly to Yeuric. "You had best leave soon."

Yeuric saluted in relief.

***

"If this is the seat of the Ancient and Most Noble House of Malfoy, I'm beginning to reconsider my options," Slytherin said sarcastically. A very dour-looking straw hut squatted in the middle of a mud flat, surrounded only by bare, leafless trees. The only thing that looked at all respectable was a large boulder stuck fast in the mud. On the boulder were roughly hewn words: The House of Malfoy. Trespassers will be Disembowled. "Then again, the absolute cheeriness of the place is beginning to win me over."

Artemis Malfoy was still blindingly cheerful as ever. "Oh, old boy, you shouldn't judge a broomstick by its straws, y'know. Appearances can be quite deceiving, as I intend to demonstrate." Taking his wand out of the elaborate leather case, Malfoy tapped the boulder twice. "Dissendium!" he said imperiously.

Slytherin had been expecting the boulder to crack dramatically in two, exposing a secret passageway. At least, that was his experience with the spell which Malfoy was trying (and failing) to perform.

Nothing happened.

"Dissendium!" Malfoy insisted, this time whacking the boulder with the wand.

"Oh, honestly," Slytherin snarled, and shoved the incompetent one out of his way. "Dissendium," he hissed at the boulder in annoyance, at the same time reaching into his pocket and brushing his fingers against the wooden beads of his rosary.

The rock did not split in two, but shuddered. It quivered like jelly, then shifted its lumpy boulder shape into that of a sphinx, but retained the grainy texture of the stone. The living statue glanced at them in passing, and spoke in a bored tone.

"State your names."

"Artemis Malfoy, heir to the Seat of Power. And Salazar Slytherin....sometime member of the Council of Wizards."

"Password?" The sphinx asked, baring its stone teeth as if it would have liked an excuse to attack.

"Coeur de lion." Malfoy drew himself up in what Slytherin assumed was an attempt to impress him, but his full stature was still at least four inches below Salazar's lanky frame. The sphinx gave them a frustrated look, growled softly, backed up a few paces, and bowed, the stone tendrils of her hair falling forward. A series of smooth stone steps were visible down into the rock.

After they descended, Slytherin had been expecting an arduous journey through miles of underground tunnels, and was moderately surprised when the staircase leveled out into flat ground for about twenty feet, then sloped up again.

"The tunnel just gets you under the wards," Artemis said by way of explanation. "If you tried to enter through the hut, you'd fall into a pit of vipers."

"Your family seems to appeal to me more and more."

"Oh, you haven't even met my wife yet," Malfoy said, eternally upbeat.

***

The lands held by the Malfoy family consisted of a foaming river that spewed from a tangled forest and cut across a valley in between two large hills that looked as if they were about to grow up into full-fledged mountains. There was a road leading up to the castle that looked unnaturally smooth and gleaming. It twisted around on itself until it reached the river, at which it was overtaken by a similarly shining bridge that looked a bit too thin to support itself, if it was built under traditional architectural conditions.

Castle Malfoy was even bigger than the Council's own castle, and Salazar was grudgingly impressed. The spires jutted up sharply, gray and imposing. It didn't have the crumbling, ancient air of the brownstone castle he was used to- this one seemed to be made of something more timeless. Although it did not shimmer like the road and the bridge, it most certainly had to be made of that same unfading stone.

As they reached the road, Salazar knelt to feel the stone. It was cold- like marble, and yet not like marble. No marble he had ever seen was that pure color. The road was without any sort of veining or imperfection. Had it been white, it would have been blinding. But this was a more silvery color, and the bridge had a golden sheen to it.

The bridge was thin and airy as it had appeared from afar, but did not sway in the wind. Salazar touched his rosary, and felt the immense amount of magic humming in the air. It must have taken at least a hundred spells to keep this bridge from collapsing. He was mildly irritated by all this vanity, this expending of magic for useless aesthetics.

"Don't see why we have to walk all the way up. Apparating's faster," Artemis said, taking out his wand again and twirling it in his fingers. It discharged, and turned a nearby mulberry bush into an oversized teacup. "Oops."

"No," Salazar said simply, wresting the wand none-too-gently out of Malfoy's hand. "I'll do it." A sharp crack, and the three (Slytherin, Malfoy, and the horse) appeared in a grassy pasture that was on the grounds west of the castle.

The only other person present in the pasture was a little girl, who was quite obviously Artemis's sister, although she did not have his hair color. Her hair was jet black, twisted into a thick braid. However, like Artemis, she seemed to have that same slight frame and sharp green eyes. She looked about six years old, and was presently in the company of a unicorn, which had its head in her tiny lap. The unicorn wore a glazed look as the little girl plucked at a string instrument and sang.

"Err....Portia? Is Dad about?" Artemis called. His horse, long having since lost interest, ambled off to a corner of the pasture to find something to eat.

"You're in so much trouble," the girl sang, without changing her rhythm

"Thanks, dear sister. That's ever so much help."

"You're in so much trouble," Portia Malfoy sang out again. "Daddy's going to feed you to the Giant Man-eating Horklump!"

"Well, that's my little sister," Artemis said loudly. "A right sweet little dollop of cream, isn't she? Well, compared to my wife..." He kept twisting his hands around in front of him and darting his eyes from side to side, as if he expected his spouse to Apparate behind them, accompanied by flames and a chorus of the damned.

Salazar was momentarily taken aback that Artemis, who was at least three years his junior, was already married. Then again, he reflected, the old families did have a history of marrying off their children young.

"Daddy said that if you broke another wand, he's going to dress you in a pillowcase and make you work with the house elves." Portia abruptly stopped strumming the lyre, and looked at them both severely. "She's even madder," the younger Malfoy intoned darkly.

Portia strode toward them, the snobbish tilt of her head and gait marking her as a not-quite-grown princess. The unicorn followed warily behind, snorting angrily as it looked at Artemis. However, upon seeing Salazar, its deep black eyes widened.

The animal began to walk forward, head down so that the point of the horn was level with Slytherin's heart. He kept perfectly still, knowing that the best thing to do was not to frighten a unicorn, or else you would probably be gored. Then again, the fact that he was a man would also mean he would probably be gored. He was half stiffened from wonder anyways. Even if it was about to kill you, you couldn't help but appreciate the beauty of a unicorn. Dazedly, Salazar tried to remember what he had learned during his tutoring sessions under Moselle. Unicorn blood...unicorn horn...his own wand, he thought wildly, had a strand of unicorn mane in the core. The pale sun glinted off of the glossy pelt and polished horn.

Surprisingly, the unicorn did not pierce his heart, but instead began licking his hand. Snuffling somewhat, it then began an industrious search of his pockets.

"Oh!" Portia's eyes were wide. "You must be a virgin!" She said the last part very loudly.

There was silence for a few moments, then Artemis cleared his throat in what could be none other than embarrassment.

Salazar, however, did not notice the awkwardness of the scene. He was too occupied with looking into the unicorn's eyes. A shudder of awe passed through him. Those eyes were black and depthless, reflecting the immense lifespan of the unicorn. There, in its being lay the wisdom of the immortal and the divine. Those eyes must have seen a thousand springs.

An emotion of longing swept through him as the unicorn began to whicker at him. For a brief moment, Salazar was filled with a furious passion that he did not know the source of. Perhaps the unicorn was so incredibly pure that it represented the sum of everything he had- and still- aspired to be.

'To be untainted...by sin, or Death,' he thought wistfully.

Almost unconsciously, he hiked his sleeve up to the elbow and presented his forearm to the animal.

"I have an old wound," Slytherin said in a strange voice that was unfamiliar to him. On the pale underside of his wrist, where the veins shone through, was a very deep scar. It was comprised of two puncture wounds, each of which had turned dark purple, almost black. "If you could..." He trailed off, closing his eyes, remembering.

"Salazar! You are calling demons on your own family! How dare you perform such...such sorcery! Have you completely sold your soul to the Devil?"

His father, mad with rage.

"I swear, Father, I don't know it got into Mother's bedroom!"

A black-haired child, writhing in pain and clutching his wrist. Blood leaking through the fingers. A thick black snake lay in two halves on the floor.

"OUT! Out of my house! And plague us no more!"

His mother, all dark-curled hair and golden necklaces, and the smell of incense and curry. She had servants to do the cooking, but still smelled like curry. And as she clutched at him, crying, dragged back into the house by his older brothers, a phrase stood out from the rest of her unintelligible screaming, as her face twisted with something like guilt:

"Forgive me, Salazar!"

An electric shock jolted Salazar from his memories. He looked down and saw the unicorn's horn resting on his forearm. Fascinated, he watched as the scar drew into itself, then disappeared completely. The unicorn then stepped away from him and cantered back to Portia's side.

"I must say, that display only adds to the general degree of respect that I hold you in, Young Master Slytherin," interjected a voice from behind Salazar.

Slytherin turned and instantly bowed respectfully. "Lord Malfoy," he said swiftly, speaking to the ground, "I hope I am not encroaching too much on your good will."

The elder Malfoy was most amused. "Straighten up, lad, and let me look at you." Salazar did so-slowly. He, in turn, sized up the old man. Like his children, Lord Malfoy was a thin man, but his square jaw seemed to challenge any thoughts Salazar had that he was in any way weak. Suddenly striding forward, he caught Salazar's arm and twisted it slightly, staring at it where the unicorn had laid its horn. Slytherin gave a barely perceptible wince.

"Well," Lord Malfoy said finally, dropping Salazar's arm, then looking up at him very intently. "Well," he said again, a bit softer this time. His voice was sibilant, and Salazar was left feeling a bit dazzled after he'd heard it. "I'd love to ask you how you managed to make Almanzoor Moselle so angry in such a short amount of time, but perhaps later. We're about to be interrupted."

Salazar was about to ask why, but then Artemis Malfoy blanched and pointed over his father's shoulder. A small woman was storming down the path, looking decidedly put out, to say the least.

"YOU INSUFFERABLE, INCORRIGIBLE, IRRESPONSIBLE IDIOT!"

She was of medium height, with snapping blue eyes and long, pale-blonde hair, almost white in color. Her face had high cheekbones, and she would have been dazzlingly beautiful if she had not been completely incensed. "DO...YOU...HAVE...ANY...IDEA...HOW...WORRIED...I'VE...BEEN?" she shrieked, punctuating each word with a jet of sparks from the smoking wand she was carrying. Artemis jumped from side to side, like a boxer trying to avoid an especially dominating right hook, all the while trying to placate the woman.

"YOU COULD HAVE BEEN KILLED, YOU COULD HAVE BEEN CAPTURED, YOU COULD HAVE BEEN SEEN...."

Her nostrils were flaring wide, and Salazar was put in mind of a bull about to charge by the way she was tensing up her shoulders and grinding her heels into the dust. Still, there was something familiar about her face...

"Rosalind? Rosalind Ravenclaw?" Salazar gasped.

Artemis's wife jerked her head to look at him in surprise. "Oh, Merlin! Salazar!" Immediately, as if a switch had been flipped, the girl appeared at his side as instantly as if she had Apparated. Rosalind began hugging and kissing him without pause.

"Hey, you know," Artemis said, sounding mildly offended, "that's my wife you're manhandling. I would be more wary, but seeing as you're still a virgin, Salazar, I'll let this slide." Slytherin pretended that he didn't hear him.

Rosalind stopped her attacking of Slytherin long enough to glare at her husband. "He happened to spend a goodly amount of time at the family castle after we spirited him away from the abbey. Salazar's like another brother to me. Even though I was only about four years old at the time. Is my sister here with you?" She craned her neck around, as if he was hiding Rowena behind his back.

"No...she's still with the Council."

"Why didn't you bring her?" Rosalind said darkly. "You haven't done anything stupid to offend her, have you?"

"I'm glad to hear your estimation of my intelligence, if you think I would be foolish enough to contend with any female from the line of Ravenclaw. Far from it, rather," Slytherin said grimly. "I've got to find a way to get in touch with her- something that's secure, Rosalind. I know there are ways...an old family like yours surely has some kind of spell for that." He held both her hands in his. "It's very urgent. I think her life might be in danger."

Rosalind blushed, but Slytherin didn't notice this. "I-I'll see what I can do," she said softly. "I think there might be a way."

"Ahem," Lord Malfoy said. He looked poignantly at them all. Hooking his thumbs in his ornately embroidered belt, he looked around at the pasture. "I'm sure whatever business you have with my daughter-in-law can be concluded inside, perhaps?" He cast a disparaging glance at his youngest daughter, who was patting the unicorn on the head. "Let him go, Portia...and ask your mother to draw you a bath," he said, wrinkling his nose. "You reek of unicorn manure."

Highly scandalized, the little girl flounced across the drawbridge and into the castle proper.

Salazar followed Artemis and Rosalind under the portcullis and into the courtyard. He couldn't quite shake the feeling that Lord Malfoy was staring at him intently the whole time.

***

Alone in his study, Almanzoor Moselle was reading at his desk. It was a beautiful desk; Moselle had paid the Muggle artisan who had built it four pounds of gold- then Obliviated his memory and taken his money back. Being an accomplished wizard had its perks, like getting his furniture for free. One elbow propped up on the smooth wood surface, he gazed intently at the pages. There was something that had been bothering him for some time now.

Grunting in disgust, he slammed the book closed. He waved his wand negligently and it sailed back up to the top shelf of one of his towering bookshelves. Another wave, and an equally huge book flew downward to land gently on his desk. He flipped it open.

There had to be an explanation...he had never heard of such a thing happening before. But the fact remained, that Rowena Ravenclaw was still alive. It boggled him.

Prophecies came so few and far between that most magical folk did not recall the details of the procedure. But Moselle had a well-stocked library, and had done his research. He had planned for this Prophecy, prepared for it.

He had acquired a child of unusual talent a few years earlier. Almanzoor had carefully nurtured Rowena's ability, while at the same time using his own Inner Eye to recognize the signs of a Prophetess lay dormant within her. While useful to a minor extent, a Seer was not essential to run the Council. It was like having a very lucky gambler telling you which hand to play.

The Prophecy was everything. It had become almost an obsession for the Patriarch.

When she had told them, Almanzoor had rejoiced in his heart. All those years were beginning to bear fruit. He told her of the procedure, advised her on her dress and decorum- and asked her to choose an escort.

The escort's principle function was to bring back the Prophecy after it was delivered. But the other duty, although it was less publicized, was to burn the corpse of the Seer who made it. This was because, until Rowena Ravenclaw, every Seer who had ever been a Prophet or Prophetess had died, instantly, the moment after the final word had been spoken. It was for this reason that the ancient wizards had called the Prophecy the anima, or Breath of Life. It had been believed by primitive wizards that the magical power required to tap into the mind of the Being that delivered the Prophecy also required the last breath of the Seer to muster the ability to speak the words. This was why, previous to the grand moment, the Seer lost control over all limbs and senses. It was merely the prelude to rigor mortis.

But the fact remained: Rowena had not died. Almanzoor had been immensely surprised when Salazar had delivered her back to the castle; shaken, still blind, but most definitely alive.

Moselle curled his lip in distaste. Rowena was beginning to become a problem. He half-wondered if it would be better just to kill her. He had been momentarily shocked; he had suddenly wondered if she was an immensely powerful Seer, beyond all those previous to her. For a short time, he had thought her invaluable. Better to keep her caged up, kill Slytherin instead.

Now he realized his mistake. She would have to die. It was too risky to let such a dangerous girl live. She could escape; Slytherin had escaped, even though he had been supervised by two especially ruthless wizards Moselle had hand-picked. The would-be executioners had delivered their version of events, stretched out on the rack down in the dungeons. He had definitely underestimated Slytherin. This was distressing. As far as the men had told him, Slytherin apparently had performed wandless magic. This was even more distressing.

'Well,' he thought, snapping the book closed, 'no use crying over spilled dragon's blood. I'll have to take care of Ravenclaw myself.'

***

"Your majesty, the field reports are just coming in. If I may be so bold as to guess, I believe we have achieved complete and total victory." The lieutenant spoke in a crisp, salutatory voice. A raucous cheering could be heard in the background, emanating from the field of battle, which confirmed the lieutenant's assessment more than anything else.

"And the baron?" the king asked as he unstrapped his armor.

"Grovelling and snivelling at Rochambeau's feet, your majesty. Rochambeau sends this message: 'All is secure. Feast at the baron's castle tonight? His Former Lordship has several lovely daughters.'" The lieutenant did not make any sign, but a slight inflection of his voice seemed to take on Rochambeau's suggestive tone. The king was amused at the lieutenant's mockery of the famously lecherous general.

"Tell Rochambeau to do whatever the hell he wants. I'm going to bathe and go to sleep for about a month."

"Conquering does exhaust one's energy after awhile."

Charlemagne grinned. He wondered if his lieutenant knew how funny he was. "You could do with some rest yourself, soldier," the king said.

"I think I might indulge in some of the spoils of war myself," came the reply, a bit embarrassed.

"Indulge away. And tell my guards that no one will disturb me." He flung the last bit of armor away, revealing a sweat-stained tunic underneath. The king wrinkled his nose. 'My kingdom for a bath,' he thought good-humoredly. Even though he was undisputed ruler of most of Gaul, he had to be content with a wooden basin for his bathtub on campaigns.

"At this rate, we'll make Barcelona by winter," the lieutenant called over his shoulder, then scurried away in embarrassment. It was highly improper for a junior officer to make such a bold remark to the chief of armies. Charlemagne let it pass. He turned to finish disrobing, but was halted by a sudden commotion outside.

It sounded as if a scuffle had broken out between his guards and someone else. Charlemagne could discern an angry stream of high-pitched cursing pouring out in a foreign language unknown to him. He laced up his tunic and strode regally out of his tent, hand on his swordhilt.

"Attention! The king approaches!" bellowed one of the guards, snapping to attention in his resplendent red-and-gold uniform.

The guards instantly stood straight and stock-still, except for the three who were trying to restrain a fourth figure, the one who had been cursing. The prisoner continued to scream a number of loud things that the king was sure would have been very offensive, had he understood them.

"Sire, this peasant approached your tent. When we tried to stop her, she drew out this-" the guard produced a sword, one of the crude, ugly things made in the north- "and attacked us. We would have already dispatched her, but-" the guard trailed off lamely.

"No. Don't kill her yet." Charlemagne took the peasant's sword from the uniformed man and examined it. His first impression had been correct. It was a heavy, ugly thing, and dull as well. There were edges of rust on the hilt, and the empty sockets that gaped along the handle were missing their jewels. Yet, somehow, this had once been a thing of beauty, before it had been neglected over the years. All down the length of the blade were runes that reminded Charlemagne of something he quite couldn't place. He had seen them before. On the hilt was a design of some kind of animal that wasn't clear enough. It looked something like a cat, or perhaps a dog, loping along.

His own sword was light and had a beautiful gleam to it. He loved to hear the soft sound of it whistling as the blade parted the air. But this peasant sword had a heaviness to it, a heaviness of years and power- and, had he been superstitious like his men, he would have said magic as well.

Drawing his own blade, Charlemagne gestured lightly for the guards to bring the girl up into a standing position. Now, seeing her clearly, it was evident that she was young. Quite young. Bringing the point of his sword to her throat, he forced her head back, and saw a pair of markings made just below each ear. Tribal tattoos.

"A Saxon," he said scornfully. "You're awfully far from home. Shouldn't you be squatting in a mud hut somewhere? Although I wouldn't put it past your kind to abandon their children to be raised by wolves- God knows you'd be cleaner."

The girl couldn't understand him, he knew, but the mocking tone in his voice registered with her. Her eyes flashed, and she gave a fresh wrench against the crushing grip of the men holding her, and finally spat out something Gallic that they could understand.

"Bastards! You murdered my family!"

"Bad language for such a child," the king murmured, and moved in a slow semi-circle around her, his swordtip never leaving her neck. Her skin was very white, characteristic of her Saxon heritage. Her eyes, though- they were an extremely pale shade of blue, and feathered with gray. She scowled at him from under a mop of bushy black hair, hacked to the length of a boy's. Thirteen? Fourteen? He couldn't quite tell.

"I really should kill you," Charlemagne said thoughtfully, pressing the point of his sword a little bit more into her neck. "But..."

However, whatever train of thought the king was pursuing would never be revealed, because at that point a dragon dropped down on them.

***

Grindelwald watched the girl cowering in the grass. Oh, his dragon mind wanted very much to eat her. It would be so easy. She wouldn't be able to run very fast, and her flesh would be soft and easily torn. And he was very hungry for fresh meat. But he couldn't. This girl he had to keep alive.

He blew smoke from his nostrils impressively, which caused the girl to shrink back even further, hunching down on the ground like a rabbit. Grindelwald flexed his front talons and was pleased by the feeling of the smooth muscle and bone sliding together. Before, when he had been less experienced, every part of his body had seemed to malfunction. The anatomy was all wrong. But now, he had mastered this shape.

Rearing up onto his hind legs, Grindelwald flared his wings and opened the maw of the dragon wide. Tilting his head back, he spat flame fifty feet into the air.

Then, he willed the change. It was much more controlled now; before, it had been sloppy and ugly. Now it was beautiful. His wings curled gently into his back; the claws merged, then split again into fingers. The roughness and power of the dragon made the wizard appreciate the nimble and dexterous qualities of his human form.

As a man, Grindelwald was tall and broad-shouldered. He had peculiar yellow eyes that reminded an observer of a cat's. Around his head was the flare of his brown hair, which, despite his otherwise youthful appearance, had streaks of gray in it. He tilted his head slightly and looked at the girl, smiling halfway. There was no trace of embarrassment or self-consciousness about him, even though he was stark naked. He opened his mouth to speak to the girl, but she blurted out:

"Are you a god?"

For a brief moment, Grindelwald's eyes widened in surprise. Then, he smiled benevolently down on her. He knelt down and reached out a hand to help her up. His eyes were twinkling with kindness and amusement. With his mind, he reached out to her thoughts and found her weaknesses.

"Why, yes, Helga. Yes I am."