Author's Note: Thank you for reading my fanfiction, and I really hope you've enjoyed it. This is the last chapter of Founding Hogwarts – but fear not, you still have reason to live on; for there is a sequel! You can access "Losing Hogwarts" very easily through my profile page.

I promise I'm not flogging a dead horse.

…Promise!

Chapter 28: The Virtuoso Duo Strike Back

For the first time in a very long while, Rowena found herself breakfasting in the Great Hall. For the first time ever, she found herself breakfasting at the newly assembled Teacher's Table.

She liked the idea of a Teacher's Table, in theory; the alliteration gave it a nice bounce. The title commanded authority. It suggested grandeur, respect – maybe even drapes. (No, not the drapes – never again the drapes). What it probably didn't suggest was Sausage of War, which was what it had, in fact, spawned.

It was a game of skill and dexterity; its creation was less of an accident and more of an act of God. It began with a gap in the table, continued with the placement of said sausage in the gap, and ended with bread rolls, potatoes, cocktail sticks and cutlery being thrown at the Mighty Meat until it was dislodged. Five points if you can make it tilt, ten if you can make it snap and fifteen if you can dislodge it completely.

For now, the game remained a secret shared by Rowena, Helga, Anatole, Salazar, the gamekeeper and the unfortunate transfiguration teacher who became caught in the cross-fire and speared with a fork. Godric, a few seats down the table, had observed the activities with interest for a moment or so, but, for various reasons, decided not to join in. Besides, it was very difficult trying to pass Sausage of War off as an innocuous academic discussion when professors were clambering all over the Teacher's Table to try their luck at uprooting a sausage.

Rowena was keen to extend the game for as long as possible, and for several reasons: mainly because, for the first time in a long while, she could honestly claim to be having a great time. Secondly, she strongly suspected the morning's fun and games would be an exclusive one-off, borne of anxiety for what the night would hold: for that night marked the appearance of the full moon, and for much of the staff this meant guarding Anatole from a werewolf of whose identity they were unaware. Finally, she had the satisfaction of frolicking with Salazar before Heather's very eyes, and she was completely unable to do anything about it.

Of course, she'd positioned herself as close to the Teacher's Table as possible, and sat pouting, giggling and flicking her hair seductively, grinning and waving at Salazar whenever he looked up. But Rowena was elated to note that he rarely returned her smiles, or even looked at her in the first place. Clearly, they were still on ill terms.

And speaking of ill…

'Medicine,' said Salazar, tongue protruding from the corner of his mouth in concentration, 'drink up.' He threw a bread roll; it skimmed across the table and hit a first year, who collapsed in shock.

'Eugh,' said Rowena, shaking the jar that lay sealed in front of her. It was watery and black, with gooey lumps that clung to the side and dribbled unattractively.

'It's good for you,' Salazar assured her.

'He's right,' said Anatole, who appeared to be revelling in the fact that he was in such close proximity to Salazar and not yet insulted.

'Brown nose,' Salazar muttered.

'It tilted!' said Helga.

'No, it didn't,' Salazar drawled.

She narrowed her eyes and muttered, 'I'll make the bastard tilt, just watch—'

Rowena peeled the lid from the medicine jar, immediately releasing an acrid scent. With a wrinkled nose and steely determination, she clamped her lips around the brim and downed the lot, lumps and all.

'Eugh,' she said, with a shudder, 'there! Downed it in one.'

'Oh yeah,' said Salazar, absently, 'you're not supposed to take it all at once.'

'What?!'

'Tilt! Tilt, damn you!'

Salazar smirked. 'Only joking. It won't do you any harm.'

'Well, it tastes disgusting.'

'Of course it does; it's good for you.'

'Helga,' said Anatole, diplomatically, 'I think you might be—'

'Utter bastard! Why won't you tilt?!'

Philosophically, Salazar whispered to Rowena, 'A Hufflepuff defeated by a sausage. What does this tell you about evolution?'

'It's broken! It's broken! This damn game's broken!'

---

Alas, if only the rest of the day could be so pleasant.

Mid-morning was signalled by a cookery lesson, held for the benefit of a group of restless pubescent boys more interested in modelling phallic symbols out of dough than the intricacies of puff pastry.

'They'd have loved Sausage of War,' Helga mused, catching sight of a particularly artistic boy on the second row.

Rowena, intrigued by the strange shape a bespectacled boy was sculpting nearby, said, 'I just can't be bothered today, Helly. Can't be bothered at all.'

'I know how you feel.' She joined Rowena and turned her head in an attempt to make sense of the bespectacled boy's artwork. 'What's that, a bottom?'

'I have no idea, but it's making me feel slightly ill.'

'Hm.' She wrote a discreet zero by the boy's name on the register. 'How long do you think we'll be out tonight?'

'Dunno. As long as it takes.'

'What time are we meeting?' She peered again at the dough. 'Do you think they're testes?'

'Eleven-thirty; spell beginning at midnight. If that's what they look like, he needs to see a doctor.'

'Eugh. Can't make heads nor tails out of it—'

'—No pun intended—'

'—myself.' Helga sighed, and nervously wrapped a curl of hair around her index finger. 'I hope it isn't Godric.'

'Course you do. We all do.'

'I don't think I'd like to beat him to death with a sharpened stick.'

Rowena nodded in sympathetic agreement. 'I can think of better ways to spend an evening myself.'

'But if it isn't Godric, then who is it?'

'Well, if Anatole does this spell tonight it might help us find out.'

'Yeah.' She sighed again. 'I'm just not sure that I want to find out. Anatole, though – he's a nice bloke.' There seemed to be more than a small hint present in the comment.

'Yes,' Rowena replied, with a roll of her eyes, 'he's lovely. Friendly, sweet and—'

'Sexy.'

'I was going to say "intelligent", but you're not wrong there either.'

'I mean,' she said, with a childish giggle, 'phwoar.'

'You're welcome to him!'

Helga giggled again, but shook her head. 'No, thanks. But, you know…' She waved her hands around in a manner that vaguely resembled a swimming fish. 'Plenty more in the sea, and all that—'

'Yes, thanks, I think I understand your tactfully hidden messages.'

'He's got a lovely beard, you've got to admit.' She gestured briefly to the sea of boys that surrounded her and said, 'Do you think we should give them their hearing back now?'

Rowena squinted again at the bespectacled boy's dough and said, 'Oh, they've got nipples!'

Helga was silent. The boys – now once again blessed with the power of hearing – stared at Rowena in stunned disbelief.

And, very quietly, Rowena said, 'Shit.'.

---

'Right, Hat! You listen to me and you listen right – oh, dear God!'

'Out!'

Rowena quickly obeyed, leaping from Hat's usual cupboard and back into the corridor. She slammed the door shut after her and wheezed a few deeply shocked breaths.

Thirty seconds or so later, she knocked timidly at the door and said, 'Are you…er, decent?'

'Aye,' Hat growled from within.

Rowena took another deep breath and tentatively opened the cupboard door, throwing light upon the scene, before closing it again after her and plunging the room into its former darkness. She cleared her throat. Much of her original gusto had evaporated.

Hat coughed. 'Ye should always knock before ye comes barging in on a man.'

Rowena nodded. 'Sorry.'

'Could've been doing anything.'

'You were!'

'Aye.' He coughed again. 'Well, when ye lives alone for so long ye don't expect wimmin' to come flinging the doors open, all unannounced. 'S impolite.'

'Sorry,' said Rowena again, meekly.

'Aye. Well don't to it again.'

Rowena nodded dumbly. Since arriving at Hogwarts, she'd seen some things she thought she'd never see – and, more to the point, never wanted to.

'Well, what did ye want?'

Rowena – still recovering – could do no more than mumble, 'I dunno…'

'Then get ye out, or at least take ye dress off!'

Rowena opted to do neither. Memory stirred. 'Heather! That's what I'm here for, Hat – Heather bloody Bettany! Well?'

Hat was briefly bewildered. 'Ach? She's not here.'

'I know that.' She was tempted, momentarily, to prod him forcefully to better her interrogation technique, but decided firmly against it. You never knew what you were prodding with Hat. 'What's she been doing here, hm? And don't even think about lying.'

'Dunno what ye's talking about,' said Hat, with badly applied innocence.

'Yes you do. You told her where I was that night – and I bet you told her a lot more than that! Hm? Hm?'

'Ach! Jus' the little things…'

She narrowed her eyes. As far as she could recall, all she and Hat ever spoke about were "little things". 'Oh yes? Like what?'

'Ach…'

'And if you don't tell me,' she added threateningly, 'I'll send you to the Owlry and let them use you as nesting material!'

'Ach! Jus'—jus' what ye says about Slythie, that's all. 'S'all she asks about.'

'Slythie?' Balls. Of course. 'What kind of things does she ask about?'

'Jus'…jus' what ye say, and how ye knows him. Jus' that sort of thing.' Evidently, Hat had adopted the Helga Hufflepuff way of breaking bad news: liberally insert the adverb "just" to minimize the gravitas of each word. Well, it didn't work when Helga tried it and it damn well didn't work when Hat did.

'And what have you told her?' she demanded.

Hat looked helpless. 'Ach, I cannae remember! She plied me with goods an' alcohol!'

'Dammit, Hat! Remind me to stick you under an encyclopaedia next time I see you.'

'Ach! Ye whore!'

'Shut up.' Rowena folded her arms in a mute display of annoyance, and somehow contrived to both seethe in anger and melt in despair. What if Heather had told someone? What if she'd told Salazar? Well…why would she? If she only had the nerve to skewer her with something, or turn back time and exclude her at the beginning of term, or magically assume her appearance and…

Oh Salazar, you horrible little man, look what you've done to me!

'Ale!'

Rowena sighed and quit her seething. She stared at Hat with an appraising eye and, full of impatient annoyance, demanded, 'Look, what are you, exactly?'

'I'm a Sorting Hat!'

'But what do you do?'

Hat was temporarily silenced. Then, rather feebly, he volunteered, 'Sort?'

'But – what does that even mean?'

Hat's eyes were made of buttons, and therefore unable to stare, blink or convey a sense of bewilderment. But if they could, they would've. 'Uh…I sort,' he said again.

'What do you sort?'

'Uh…things…'

'Such as?'

'Ale!'

'Ah. Whores too, I suppose.'

'Wimmin!'

'Obviously.' Rowena stared at him for a while, tilting her head slightly to survey his frayed brim.

Hat released a low growl in response, and barked, 'Hands off me, ye jezebel. Ye's not getting into my delicates!'

'You don't wear delicates,' Rowena explained, wearily, 'you're a hat. You have no legs, for one thing, never mind the other parts necessary for requiring a pair of pants. You can neither reproduce nor enjoy the carnal pleasures. You have no flesh to caress, no ear in which to whisper sweet nothings, no heart to skip a beat, no breath with which to heave long sighs, no lips to gently graze and no eyes to – anyway,' she added quickly, realising she may have got carried away, 'you're a bastard and we all hate you.'

'Ach!'

'Yeah.' She clumsily adjusted her position, her hand catching a streak of something grey and slimy. She didn't want to know. 'Anyway,' she said again, 'there's another reason I'm here, Hat, and I'm glad—'

'No carnal pleasures?' said Hat.

'None. As I said, I'm here to—'

'No gentle grazing?'

'—extend the hand of forgiveness—'

'No hands?'

'—and forget about your acts of treachery—'

'I got – I got no lips!'

'—for Christ's sake Hat, this is important!'

'Ach, what's the point?' Hat cried, despairingly. 'I'm only made of a potato sack!'

Rowena stared at Hat in disbelief. 'Good God!' she cried, 'What have I done now?'

Hat sniffed and turned his (for lack of a better word) face away from hers and remained silent. Rowena attempted to extend a comforting arm. In response, Hat mumbled something that sounded like "duck off", but unfortunately wasn't.

'What's wrong?'

Hat scoffed. 'Well if ye don't know, there's no point me telling ye!'

'What?' She stared after his retreating form in desperation. 'Where's the logic in that statement?!'

'Ye's so insensitive!'

'But – Hat, I'm sorry!' Hat continued to snub her. 'Look, whatever I said – I didn't mean it!'

'Ach!' said Hat, apparently very affronted, 'Whatever you said, eh? As if ye didn't know…!'

'Why do you always have to be so bloody sensitive?'

'I just want a bit of understanding!'

'Hat, are you on your period?'

'I need some "me" time right now! Ach!'

'But—'

'I'm sick of ye's attitude! Ye go out, ye don't contact me for weeks, then ye comes waltzing back and expect it to be just the same—'

'I've never waltzed in my life! Hat, please—'

'Well, ye's not sleeping with me tonight!'

At this outburst, both parties fell silent. For a considerable length of time. Their minds were locked in deep thought, both mentally considering the exclamation, working backwards from that point and wondering how in hell's name such a thing came to be said.

Very slowly, Rowena said, 'Well…I should hope not.'

Hat's eye twitched.

'Er…I'm going to pretend you didn't say that,' she continued, carefully, 'if you will.'

Hat nodded vigorously. 'Aye. Aye.' There was a further silence. Then Hat said, 'Although...if you fancy it—'

'Hat!'

'Aye, yeah, course.' He somehow contrived to cough. 'Aye. Then what is it ye wants?'

Rowena, mind adrift in unpleasant images of Hat rolling over to smoke a post-coital cigarette, honestly couldn't remember. It had been purged from her mind, and replaced with highly detailed mental picture of Hat's possible anatomical workings. She shuddered.

'Gwan!' shouted Hat – evidently able to guess her thoughts from her expression. 'Talk, lassie, or at least hitch ye skirt up!'

Rowena opted for the former. 'I just wondered how much you knew about the future, Hat.'

'Future?'

'Aye,' said Rowena. It was addictive. 'I mean, how much of a prophetical foresight do you have at your disposal?'

Hat's brim curled, which Rowena took to interpret as a shrug. 'Not much, truth be tole. 'Cept headwear, o'course – I can predict headwear fairly well.'

'What…you can predict the future of hats? That seems pointless.'

'Aye – 't'll seem less pointless when you need a Trilby, lassie! Mark my words!'

'But what about the school, Hat? Can't you tell me anything about the school?'

'Ye's the teacher!' Hat exclaimed, evidently disgusted at her lack of intuition. 'Ye's the one who runs the place! I spend the days sat on a cupboard, rubbing meself against a bucket!' Rowena found it slightly disturbing that he threw a wooden bucket an amorous look as he said so.

Trying her best to ignore this, she asked, 'So you can't tell me anything at all?'

'Trilby!'

'Damn.' She climbed to her feet, trying her best not to touch anything. It was a wise choice; unbeknown to the bucket, Hat's affections often strayed elsewhere. 'And I don't suppose you know how to cure werewolves, do you?'

'Aye!'

'You do?'

'Snip snip!'

'I'm not having him castrated!'

---

'Castrated?' Salazar repeated. His voice was incredulous to begin with, but he now had both eyebrows raised for good measure.

Rowena, bouncing on her heels slightly to keep warm, nodded. 'That's all he could suggest.'

'I wonder why I'm not more amazed.'

Rowena gave a short laugh and bounced on her heels again. It was a necessary act: time was rapidly approaching midnight, and the early nights of winter were now at their coldest. The first light sprinkling of snow and frost covered the ground, reflecting the glimmer of the moon and painting everything white. The air was thankfully still, and coloured with the glow of twenty or so wands suspended above their heads. As Rowena bounced, her own wand obediently followed.

Salazar, stood not far to her right, took a couple of steps backwards to avoid the frozen mud he was gently sinking in to. His nose – coloured pink with the cold – twitched. 'How much longer?' he asked, pulling his cloak further around his shoulders, 'I'm freezing. And I feel like an idiot.'

Anatole's wish for black cloaks had been fulfilled, and now every teacher gathered at the edge of the grounds had one swathed around them. Most of them wore there hoods up. Salazar, in an act of defiance, did not.

'It's very dashing,' lied Rowena, 'not at all Grim Reaper.'

'Wish I had a scythe,' he said, thoughtfully, 'I'm in the mood for reaping.'

'Never saw you as an agricultural man, Salazar.'

'Well I'm very good at digging up graveyards.' He'd intended it to be a joke, but the expression on Rowena's face told him he'd been unsuccessful. So he added, 'And I can do wonderful things with a carrot.'

'Eugh. Strange and wonderful?'

'Strange, wonderful…some would say wrong…'

'Eugh,' said Rowena again, and laughed at the dreamy look in Salazar's eyes. Salazar, proud of his achievement, joined in.

She couldn't explain it, but Rowena felt that the entire day – and this midnight hour, in particular – signalled some kind of shift in time. The night of the spell…everyone coming together, and all secrets out in the open…

Well, almost all secrets…

Yes: something had come, in some strange way, full circle. She, Helga, Salazar and Godric – all apart, yet all as one. Still resisting the inevitable bonds that held them together. Friends but enemies, children but adults. Back at school, but in control.

Salazar gave her a sideways look. 'You alright, Ravenclaw?'

Rowena snapped out of it, and smiled. 'I'm feeling strangely philosophical, Slytherin.'

'Oh yes? Anything in particular?'

'Nah.' The two of them watched, with mild interest, the events unfolding nearby: A rough circle of teachers had, without instruction, gathered around the central figures of Anatole and his two friends. A haze of liquid heat seemed to engulf them as they plodded backwards and forwards through the snow, carrying armfuls of ingredients and spell books in preparation for the enchantment in question.

'Wonder how Godders is doing?' asked Salazar, as a cloud passed over the moon.

'Wonder where he's doing it?' Rowena added.

'I saw him in the dungeons earlier. About six o'clock.'

'Oh. Damnation,' she mumbled, 'I still can't believe he's a You-Know-What.'

'Homosexual?'

'Werewolf.'

'Oh yes.' Salazar sniffed. 'Can't be helped.'

'I mean, how did it happen?'

Salazar, seemingly too engrossed in Anatole's activities, didn't reply.

'We're going to have to keep it a secret, aren't we?' Rowena pressed on.

'Hm? Oh, yeah. Definitely.'

'Salazar?'

'Hm?'

'How do you think history will paint you?'

'What?' He turned to look at her, and it struck Rowena how skeletal the cold weather made him appear. He could very easily pass for Death himself if he pulled his hood up.

'I mean,' she said, trying very hard to remove this image from her mind, 'in a thousand years, when you're dead and et cetera. What do you think people will say about you?'

He shrugged and looked away again. 'Dunno. Never really thought about it, to be honest. Have you?'

'Yes,' said Rowena, honestly, 'and it terrifies me.'

'What do you want them to say?'

'I've never really thought about it,' she said, lying through her teeth. 'Perhaps something like…An intrepid heroine, as rich in wisdom as in virtue, fearlessly facing every task and hurdle life throws at her, oh, life may kick her in the pansy sometimes but by God, she always manages to pull through.'

Salazar raised an amused eyebrow and said, 'Pansy?'

'Shut up. So, er, what would you like them to say about you?'

Still grinning smugly, he said, 'The same, I suppose. But without the pansy.'

Rowena mumbled embarrassedly. She wished she'd never mentioned the pansy.

She said, 'I could tell them you have a pansy.'

'Ah yes,' he said, sagely, 'but that, my dear Ravenclaw, would imply you had in fact seen it. And there goes your virtue.'

'Dammit.'

'Though a finer way to be rid of your virtue I can't imagine.'

Saving her the pain of blushing (damn blushing!), Helga appeared at her elbow, engulfed in at least three of Anatole's capes. ''Lo,' she said by way of greeting, teeth chattering with the cold.

'Warm enough, Hifflepiffle?' Salazar asked, sceptically surveying her superfluous amount of clothing.

Helga threw him a scathing look and said, 'While your lizard-like covering of amphibiotic scales no doubt keeps your slimy, blue blood pumping around nicely, the rest of us aren't quite so blessed by nature when it comes to keeping warm.'

Salazar adopted a look of mock-confusion and asked, 'What about your thick layer of woolly yellow fur that traps warm air in the winter, thereby warming your body as you hibernate in a ditch?'

'Go and suck the blood of the innocent.'

'Hump a badger.'

'Grow an arse.'

Rowena choked.

Salazar gave her another sideways glance and said, 'Care to join in?'

She shrugged. 'Slither away and eat your young?' she offered.

'Add a bit of liver to your alcohol.'

'Add a bit of face to your nose.'

'Good one,' said Helga.

'Burn another pie!' said Rowena, drunk on power.

'I don't burn pies,' said Helga, 'that's, um, you. Six times now.'

'Oh.' She embraced her friend and said, 'You know I could never insult you, Helly.'

'I could,' said Salazar, observing the hug. 'What happens now? Do you take your clothes off, or…?'

They quickly broke apart. 'Disgusting,' mumbled Helga.

Salazar grinned at the praise.

'Did you want something, Helga?' asked Rowena. To Salazar, she said, 'No innuendoes, please.'

While Salazar looked crestfallen, Helga shrugged and said, 'Just a bit bored, really. Er, is anybody guarding Godric?'

'Wouldn't do much good, would it?' Salazar interrupted, 'Unless they were particularly adept at fighting off six and a half feet of fangs and nostril.' Off the girls' confused glances he added, 'Very large nostrils, that man.'

'The doors have been charmed shut,' said Rowena, 'that's the best we can do. No point going down to join him.'

'Wasn't going to,' Helga mumbled guiltily.

'Course not. And even if he does escape – which is a million-to-one chance – everyone here has a wand and knows how to use it.'

'Oh. Alright, Ro. I'll, er…' She threw the silhouetted form of Salazar a quick, discreet glance and mumbled, 'I'll see you, then.' She shuffled away.

A short while later, Salazar said, 'Million-to-one chance, yeah?'

'Yes,' said Rowena, definitely.

'So you charmed the doors shut after him, did you?'

She threw him a withering look and said, 'No. You did.'

He raised his eyebrows.

'You did.'

He shook his head.

'Didn't you?'

---

Godric – that is, the majority of Godric, presently covered in hair and slavering – stared at the heavy, bolted wooden door. Between howls and barks he whined and whimpered, because the minority of Godric – the human part, deep inside his head – wouldn't let him break the thing down and tear out a jugular.

Majority Godric hurled himself sideways into the wall and scored scratches down the brickwork, before running madly across the room and doing the same elsewhere. At the back of his mind, Minority Godric sang:

'And I did walk through moor and glen,

I searched the lifelong day!

I found my love by wolf's dark den,

Bright and merry and gay!

In roses she did swathe herself,

In bluebells she did lay!

'Til the Black Badger killed her self,

She skipped along the way!'

And as Minority Godric progressed to the next verse, the mind and heart and soul he tried so desperately to distract with the happy little ditty began to wander. He thought of Helga, swathed in roses. Rowena was in the wolf's dark den.

'Til Salazar Slytherin killed her self—

Minority Godric was angry.

---

'Oh gods,' Rowena squeaked, 'oh gods, oh gods, oh gods. Oh gods. Oh, gods—'

'But at least you're not panicking,' said Salazar, dryly.

'Oh, gods!'

'What are they going to do about it?'

Rowena waved her arms around frantically to compensate for a lack of words.

'The locomotion?' said Salazar.

'Thunderbolt!' she cried, to the confusion of those unfortunate enough to be within earshot. 'Big, shiny thunderbolt; make him go bang! And,' she added, calming down slightly, 'that was nothing like the locomotion, that's more like—'

'For the love of sanity, Ravenclaw, stop your dancing!'

Rowena obediently lowered her hands and, after a pause, muttered, 'Oh gods, oh gods, oh gods, oh gods…'

'Ah. Back to those, are we?'

'What are we going to do?'

'Well dancing sure as hell doesn't figure into the curriculum!'

'Stop being sarcastic!'

'Stop dancing!'

'I can't help it!'

Salazar held her firmly by the shoulders. Rowena shimmied to an eventual halt and fell under Salazar's scrutiny. As far as she could tell, he was checking for the early signs of insanity.

'Right then, Tweedle-Dee,' he said, once she'd finally calmed down, 'the important thing is that we've got the panicking out of the way. Well taken care of, by the way.'

'Ah…don't mention it.'

'Right about now, we could probably do with an ample serving of self-delusion and denial, sprinkled liberally with rhetorical questions and a complete absence of logic.'

Rowena rose to the occasion: 'He probably won't escape. I mean, he's been in this situation before, hasn't he? Many times he's been locked away in the dungeons without any charms or curses preventing him from doing a runner, and he's never escaped before, has he?'

Salazar nodded. 'Very good. Now add a tablespoon of doubt.'

'Then again,' she said, bleakly, 'what if he has? I mean, we think he's escaped before. And killed, too. That's why we're here, isn't it?'

Salazar contemplated this point. 'Another pinch of doubt, I think.'

Rowena acquiesced magnificently: 'And he's in a bad, bad mood…'

He nodded again. 'Finally, top it off with a healthy dollop of cold, hard logic – this isn't really your forte, Ravenclaw – and reach a healthy conclusion.'

'I object to that accusation,' mumbled Rowena, but weakly.

He let go of Rowena's shoulders – she hadn't noticed he was still holding them – and said, 'Now. It's dark, cold, snowy and full-moon – ideal wolf weather.'

'Ah,' she mumbled.

'And in the dungeons, completely unguarded, is a pissed-off werewolf with a grudge.'

'Ah.'

'Werewolves love to feel the great outdoors, which is where we, unfortunately, find ourselves. On the plus side, they generally prefer not to attack large groups, such as the one we're currently a part of, for fear of being outnumbered.'

'Ah?'

'Unfortunately, many will risk it.'

'Ah.'

'We now find ourselves faced with two options,' he said, thoughtfully, 'the first – and you probably won't like this – involves not doing anything, and hoping for the best.'

Rowena winced.

'That's what I thought you'd say. The second – and I'm fairly certain I won't like this – involves going down to the dungeons and putting a charm on the door to ensure he can't escape.'

'Better,' said Rowena, enthusiastically, 'a lot better! We can stop him before he has chance to escape, cut him off at the don't shake your head like that or I'll club you start and be back here within ten minutes!'

'I have two problems with that, Ravenclaw.'

'Keep them to yourself,' she snapped, setting determinedly across the grass and snow. After approximately twelve seconds, she came to her senses and realised a) what the hell she was doing, and b) that no one was making any attempt to follow her. Lest we forget, we must always have humility. She came to an eventual halt. Her wand caught up, and bobbed obediently over her head like an antenna.

She turned around. The assembled teachers and staff were still milling around aimlessly, attempting small talk, and Anatole was beginning to brush stripes of clay across his face. A few people stared at her. Of Slytherin, there was no sign.

After a thoughtful few moments Rowena mumbled, 'Cocknobs,' and turned back to the castle.

'Quite,' said Salazar.

Rowena very nearly had a cardiac arrest, but somehow managed to avoid the fatality. 'Christ in a dinghy, Salazar! For the love of…!'

'Chill your knickers,' said Salazar, with a self-satisfied grin, 'We don't need that kind of talk.'

'But how did—?'

'As I was saying: my first problem concerns—'

'But how did you get in front of me?!'

'—the strength of your average werewolf's nasal passages. Now, it's perfectly acceptable to say that—'

'You were definitely behind me!'

'—a werewolf, during the full moon, will be more than able to recognise the scent of someone approaching them from the other side of a big, wooden door. This kind of thing—'

'And I only turned around for a few seconds!'

'—could make a wolf edgy. Potentially homicidal. Definitely angry enough to tear down a door without prompting, and I've been told I have a rather attractive jugular. So—'

'How did you get in front of me?!'

Salazar shrugged. 'I walked, of course. Secondly,' he continued, as Rowena gaped at him, 'we are here, en masse, to protect little Anatiddle and his soggy cohorts from whatever it is that's big and spiky and likes to kill people. Surely the reason we're here is on the eventuality that Godric doesescape? Correct me if I'm wrong, but locking Godders in his kennel does render our services rather redundant.'

Rowena returned to her senses once more. Her senses were like old friends; they should meet up more often. 'We're here to protect Anatidd – Anatole – from whatever it is that's attacking. We don't know that it is Godric, but I think locking him up would be a precaution well worth taking! Don't you?'

Salazar, for the moment, didn't speak. But Rowena watched his eyes very intently, and noticed the way they flashed briefly towards the forest.

'Alright,' he said, eventually, 'we might as well, I suppose.'

'That's the spirit,' said Rowena, cheerily. 'I'll tell Helga.'

'Good luck finding her,' said Salazar. Rowena followed his gaze, and saw that most of the figures now surrounding the fire had their cloaks drawn over their faces. Anatole was reading, with some apparent difficulty, a runic translation. He was hopping.

'What in hell is that?' Salazar asked, distractedly.

'Er,' said Rowena, uncertainly, 'some kind of…ceremonial hopping dance, by the looks of it. Er…possibly to invoke the spirits of the soil.'

'Right. And that's the ceremonial falling over, is it?'

'Er…'

'And now, the highly mystical trying-to-get-up-but-falling-over-your-own-cloak dance.'

'Ancient tradition,' Rowena mumbled.

'Followed, of course, by the magical chant of "ah, shit, I'm always doing that"?'

'Ah,' said Rowena, sympathetically, 'he's a bit clumsy, yes, but he's very—'

'A bit clumsy? Ravenclaw, I've known house-elves with more grace.'

'You had sex with—'

'Leave it!'

---

Malfoys had style. It came with the income.

Style, power, sex appeal and cold-heartedness were family traditions, passed down between generations like a valuable heirloom.

Oh, and snobbery.

Style, snobbery, power, sex appeal and cold-heartedness – oh, and a disregard for the unwritten laws of morality, of course—

Style, snobbery, a disregard for the unwritten laws of morality, power, sex appeal and cold-heartedness…and a fine eye for clothes, and gorgeous hair, and cheekbones so sharp you could slice lemons with them—

Basically, Xavier Malfoy was just flowing with positive attributes.

But, he thought, as he lounged across the sofa with all the selfishness of a spoilt cat, there was one thing about him that set him apart from all the Malfoys that had preceded him. And it wasn't just the steely grey eyes you could drown in, or the particularly attractive tussle of his silvery-blonde locks. Oh no. He was a man with depths.

The thing that really set him apart was a little trait he liked to call tactics. Let us imagine that, for some largely unknown reason that is most probably connected to blackmail, Xavier Malfoy was placed in control of an army division. He must chose their method of attack and lead them into battle: what does he do?

Like the many Malfoys before him, he would view the maps. He would seek experienced opinions, search for weaknesses and shout at people, just for the hell of it. But here he differed:

Malfoys of the past would find the country's biggest vulnerability. An unprotected fort? An undefended river? Yes. Their troops would attack at dawn, slaughtering all they came across, and if they didn't win the war they'd at least die in a blaze of glory. And limbs. And pointy objects.

Xavier Malfoy, on the other hand, would chose a town he didn't like the look of and kill the cows; uproot the vegetables; poison the water supply; behead the postal worker; block the roads and retreat. If the town was part of the country they were at war with, all the better.

He wasn't insane; he simply knew vulnerability when he saw it. And he wasn't afraid of personal, either. He'd much rather see the pain close-up.

His father was beginning to wonder if he'd gone too far.

The other person in the room, sprawling across another sofa in an equally cat-like way, also recognised a difference between Xavier and his ancestors. She called it "arsey-ness". If she was in a good mood, she added "vain, arrogant, self-righteous and unnecessary", but "arsey-ness" was good enough for the time being.

'That's interesting,' said Xavier, sipping a glass of something.

'Very interesting, I thought,' said Sophia Bruntt. 'I feel quite bad about scratching his face.'

'Why?'

'He's got enough to contend with, as it is. I'm not sure we even need a spy anymore.'

'Hm,' said Xavier, ignoring the latter part of her statement. 'And how did she react to this?'

'She didn't,' said Sophia, with a shrug, 'not the scratching. Though she got quite upset when I told her about the marriage.'

'How upset, do you think?'

'A low level of despair, I'd say. And very angry, too.'

'Why?'

'No idea. Not as angry as I was, I can tell you. If I don't get pregnant soon I'm going to flog somebody.' She spared Xavier a discreet, calculating look up and down, but decided she wasn't quite so desperate just yet.

'Dear me,' said Xavier, completely unaware of Sophia's temporary insanity, 'we've either driven them together or wrenched them apart completely.'

'Win-win,' said Sophia, thoughtfully.

'Exactly. They're doomed either way.'

"Doomed", thought Sophia, was certainly the kind of word Xavier would use. Nice and melodramatic; all that was missing was an eye patch, a henchman and a fluffy white cat.

'Star-crossed lovers,' she said, as thoughtful as before, 'I quite like the sound of that. Nice and…romantic. I don't think he'd mind quite so much if he knew it would be so romantic.'

Xavier threw her a look of mild reproach. 'Romance, dear Sophia, has nothing to do with it. We're trying to wipe out an entire race, here.'

'As well as destroying the heart and mind of our treacherous former ally,' said Sophia, in the tones of someone who's heard it recited many times before, 'yes, I know. But I'd rather fancy a spot of star-crossed romance myself.'

'Well, if you didn't keep killing your husbands, dear...'

'Oh, but they get so annoying…'

---

And in a field, far, far away…

…(but not so far that they couldn't be observed by anyone resourceful enough to watch)…

'I wasn't scared,' Rowena insisted, quite convincingly.

'Of course,' said Salazar, walking just ahead of her, 'you often scream and curse for no reason.'

'You were behind me! And then you appeared in front of me! How did—?'

'I'm a vampire,' he said, swishing his cloak for dramatic emphasis, 'obviously.'

'I don't think so. I've seen the way you get through garlic.'

Salazar shrugged. 'It does give savoury meals that extra kick.'

'It stinks.'

'Well, now I'm definitely going to have to kill you.'

The castle was in clear view. Of course, it was difficult for a castle of this size to not be in clear view, but now they could make out the detail on each gargoyle, and the edges of each brick. They both subconsciously slowed their pace.

'What is it that kills vampires?' asked Rowena. 'Big sticks of wood through the heart, yes? And chopping their heads off.'

'To be fair, that'd kill pretty much anything.'

'And daylight,' she continued, ignoring him. 'And I've definitely seen you out in the daylight, so don't try any of that vampiric nonsense with me. Doesn't silver kill them?'

Salazar shrugged. 'Presumably, if you chop their heads off with it.'

'I've always wondered why garlic does it,' Rowena mumbled, vaguely aware that she was only doing so to stop herself screaming and running away from the castle ahead, 'I mean, why? It's damn expensive, garlic. If we ever come under attack by hordes of vampires, we'll have to throw onions at them and hope they can't tell the difference. What does silver kill?'

'Werewolves,' said Salazar, shortly. 'Which brings us back to the matter in hand.'

'Or…paw,' said Rowena, in a feeble attempt at punning.

He raised an eyebrow. 'Leave the jokes to me, Ravenclaw. I'm the wise-cracking anti-hero of this escapade.'

'What am I?'

'The gutsy bit of skirt.'

'Oh.'

'Do you have any silver we can club him with?' They'd reached the entrance.

'Salazar, I am not bludgeoning him to death!'

'Fine! We'll bludgeon him until he's quite ill!'

'No bludgeoning!'

Salazar heaved a sigh, and growled. 'Intrepid heroine, eh? Life's going to kick you in the damn pansy if you don't watch out.'

'You leave my pansy out of this!'

'Most people would be terrified of confronting the possibility of being ripped, limb from bloody limb, by a merciless, human-sized dog with big nostrils. Not you, Ravenclaw,' he said, his voice burning with reproach, 'you're quite happy to grab the metaphorical bull by the horns. Although I don't know if having your face ripped off would suit your skin tone at this time of year.'

Rowena paused. They were in the entrance hall. Far ahead of them – but never far enough – stretched the corridor that lead downstairs, towards the dungeons and the one they once called Godders…

'Alright,' she said, bottling her principles in favour of her limbs, 'alright, we'll fight him if we have to. But only with wands – no silver, no fire. Got that?'

Salazar looked down at the wand in his hand. 'Can't do much stabbing with a wand, Ravenclaw.'

'And we're only fighting him to stop him fighting us. And – and if you stop him permanently, I'll shove your beloved garlic where the sun doesn't shine.'

Salazar sighed, but smiled very slightly. 'Gutsy bit of skirt,' he mumbled, 'you'll be the death of me.'

And his war shall kill—

'What?' Rowena demanded, fiercely. Through some unspoken arrangement, they'd not moved from the castle entrance.

'Gutsy bit of skirt,' Salazar repeated, slightly louder for her benefit, 'you'll be the death of—'

And he shall love—

'What?!' She screamed it this time. Salazar grabbed her roughly by the shoulders and clamped a hand over her mouth, hissing for her to shush.

And his love shall kill!

—A mysterious woman, all in black—

Memories, tiny and fragmented, hit her brain like a downfall of hail. Images flashed by so quickly she could hardly recognise them, never mind make sense of them – a woman, and a dungeon, and the air was full of angry hisses and she began to scream—

Then Salazar kissed her.

---

Helga was tired. She was tired of many things, and Godric was one of them.

She hated him. She really, really hated him. Lying to her throughout their relationship, that was one thing. But when she approached him, scared and tentative, to tell him she was pregnant, the last thing she'd expected was for him to shout at her

Two days later she'd seen him again – still scared, and even more tentative – and mumbled that, actually, she was wrong, and as it turned out, she was not pregnant. And he'd stared at her for a while, his mouth opening and shutting, and said—

'Well, that's quite alright, then. I'm not teaching today, if you'd like to go for a walk.'

And then she'd hated him.

And yet the thing that she hated most of all – more than his stupid grin and constant perfectionism – was…well, hating him. She hated it!

And that was why, fifteen minutes before Anatole's spell began, she'd risked a final glance at Rowena and Slytherin, pulled the hood of her cloak over her face and walked, through the dark, back to the castle.

She knew what she was looking for. A gesture. Not a declaration, or an apology or a display of her affection, but a kindly gesture to a friend in need that said: I'm here, Godric, even if you're not.

She found it easily, and set off towards the dungeons when a familiar voice met her ears: '…good idea at the time.' It was Salazar.

The statement was followed by a silence. If she was more familiar with its context, she would have described it as a stunned silence. It was the silence of someone who has had all the words shocked out of her head, and can't decide whether to slap, shout, feel embarrassed or melt in a puddle.

'Oh,' said the silence, weakly. It was certainly Rowena.

More silence, of the awkward variety. Slytherin said, 'Well, it stopped you shouting, didn't it?'

'Er, yes,' said Rowena, very quickly, 'yes, I – I suppose it did.' She cleared her throat. Slytherin did the same. 'Er.'

'Sorry.'

'Er. Don't…mention it. Excuse me.' Helga didn't know it, but the figure positively identified as Rowena Ravenclaw turned away from Salazar, rolled her eyes several times and mimed a long scream until she felt able to proceed.

'Better?' said Slytherin.

'Er,' said Rowena again. Words were returning, slowly. 'Yes. Fine. Excellent. Everything's good.' Rowena seemed to decide that some things, trivial as they now seemed in the shadow of That Moment, were vital to address. 'Er…you – you know the party? The – er – shin-dig?'

Apparently glad to see the conversation progressing, Salazar said, 'The shin-dig – yeah. What about it?'

'Well…did something happen?'

Slytherin paused. 'What do you mean?'

'Did I hit my head when I fell?'

Salazar half-laughed, as if to dispel his confusion. The laugh sounded strangely wooden. 'What do you mean?'

'Well – do you remember the party?'

'Yeah?'

'Well, I don't. Er. All I remember is talking to you one minute, talking to Anatole the next and then waking up on my floor.'

'You must have been drinking.'

'But I wasn't!'

'Well, you were ill.'

'I've never been that ill. What did I do? What happened to me?'

The silence returned. Helga glanced desperately at the full moon in the window, and hoped they'd move out of her way.

---

Salazar stared into her eyes. She stared at his, around his and slightly to the left of his, but was unable to meet his gaze fully. The Slytherin stare was quite disconcerting.

He knew what she was thinking. It ran along the lines of "arse, arse and buggery". If her initial reaction was anything to go by, she wouldn't be able to think straight for quite some time. Kissing does that to people.

And why on earth had he done it?...Of course he knew why. He could feign confusion inside his own head if he bloody well liked, but he knew why he'd done it. It was because he wanted to.

He'd wanted to shut her up, too, and was quite successful in doing so. He could have silenced her any number of ways, and many of them didn't even require physical contact – but, my, the girl was attractive when she was hysterical.

And when he kissed her, of course, he was digging his own grave. Lots of other graves, too. Every single hour he spent at this damn castle was another thrust of the shovel, but he couldn't leave. It could still be fixed. The graves could be re-filled. He didn't want to go.

Of course…it wasn't much of a kiss, really. More of a peck.

Hm.

What else would she be thinking, underneath all the mental blasphemy? She'd be thinking…she'd be thinking exactly what she was saying. What happened to me? Why can't I remember? And on that issue he was remaining silent.

Don't even have to admit it inside my own head, if I don't want to…

He removed his gaze, having successfully silenced her once more. He wasn't going to answer. He wasn't even going to lie. He was just going to stand there, staring down the corridor, praying for a miracle he could distract her with…

A miracle came.

'Ravenclaw,' he said quietly, speaking from the corner of his mouth, 'if you were Godric Gryffindor right now, who is the last person in the world you think you'd want to see?'

Rowena blinked. Clearly she hadn't expected such a rapid change of discussion, and Salazar couldn't help but feel a twinge of guilt for the injured look on her face.

'I don't know,' she said, 'Helga, maybe?'

'Yes,' said Salazar, 'then I'd better go and jump on her, hadn't I?'

As far as exiting lines went, it was certainly memorable.

---

Helga found the world travelling towards her very fast. She was so shocked by the sight of it that she barely noticed the pressure on her back as Salazar Slytherin, a vision in a black cape, dove into her back, pushed her to the ground and quickly turned her body in mid-air so that she landed, none too delicately, on her back. Thick curls of hair and three woollen cloaks softened her fall, but the presence of Salazar Slytherin sprawled across her abdomen very nearly winded her.

Salazar quickly crawled to his feet, while Helga stared at the ceiling in a state of shock. Words like "what the hell", "you psychotic git" and "what did you do that for" filled her head, but she found no breath to deliver them. After a while, she settled on: 'Ow!'

'Sorry about that,' said Salazar, without much conviction.

Helga managed another 'Ow!'

'Oh, you'll live.'

'Bloody…ow!'

Somewhere above her head, Rowena loomed into view. 'Helly?' she said.

'Ow!' said Helga.

Salazar said, 'Riveting conversationalist, aren't you, Hufflepuff?'

Rowena helped Helga to her feet. They were at dungeon level, and quite possibly the worst floor to be pushed into. Slime clung to her hair with a steely determination one had to admire.

'Ow,' said Helga, weakly. 'He bloody pushed me!'

Salazar shrugged.

'He pushed me!'

'Er, yes, he did,' Rowena agreed, 'a rather violent and, some would say, unnecessary act, but…commendable all the same, I'm sure.'

'Commendable?' Helga repeated, drowning in disbelief. 'He pushed me to the floor! I was only—'

'—waltzing into the jaws of death to tickle its fluffy chin?' Salazar finished.

Helga fell silent. After a while, more than a shade guiltily, she said, 'No.'

'Really?' said Salazar. He bent down and picked up the items she'd been carrying. He surveyed them sceptically. 'What are these meant to be?'

'A gesture,' she said, feebly.

'Looks like a packet of doggy biscuits and a soft toy to me.'

'Oh dear,' said Rowena, sympathetically. 'Er, I don't think he'd really…appreciate the sentiment in his current state, Helly.'

Helga looked crestfallen. 'Really?'

'Mm. Sorry.'

'Good grief,' Salazar muttered, 'what do you think he turns into once a month – a labradoodle?'

---

Godric could hear them talking. He could smell them talking. He could smell what day it was.

He could even hear their hearts beating, and the blood pumping around their bodies. He could almost taste the flesh, and feel the release that tearing through a ribcage would bring—

And I did walk through moor and glen,

I searched the lifelong day…

Sing. Sing. Don't think, just sing. And let them, make them, please, please go away…

---

Something thudded against a wooden door. Rowena's eyes shot open.

'Shit.'

Helga looked up at her. 'What is it, Ro?'

'Did you not hear that?'

'Hear what?'

Thud.

'I heard it,' said Salazar quickly, raising his wand. 'Where did it come from?'

In the dim light of their wands, the darkness of the dungeons seemed eternal. There came another thud.

'Oh gods,' said Helga. She had her wand upside down. 'Where is he?'

'You don't know?'

'No! I just thought – I thought—'

'Around the corner,' said Rowena, quietly, 'his room's around the corner.'

'Are you sure?'

There was another thud, and a howl.

'No,' she said, weakly, 'call it an educated guess.'

'We need to—'

'Oh, gods!' Helga cried, taking a step forwards, 'He's in pain!'

'He can probably smell you,' Salazar hissed, 'now get lost! We'll have to pray he doesn't – get lost, Hufflepuff!'

Helga took an obedient, terrified couple of steps back. It was all she could manage before her legs decided they'd rather be elsewhere, and she fell to her knees.

'Bloody hell,' said Salazar, as another thud sounded. 'Come on, Ravenclaw.'

They stepped forwards, into the enveloping darkness. More thuds. 'What's he doing?' Rowena whispered, hoarsely.

'Throwing himself at the door,' Salazar whispered back, 'that's all. Just…just a bit further. Then we lock it and we run. Got it?'

Rowena was too terrified to even nod, so she let the silence speak on her behalf. Any second now, there'd be the splintering of wood – a yellow-eyed beast would tear down the corridor, bounding off the walls, snapping its jaws –

'Bit further,' Salazar hissed, 'just a bit—'

They stopped. The thuds had ceased. Out of the black silence came the click of a lock, and the slow, careful creak of a door, and Rowena was sure that her stomach had absconded with her backbone.

The figure emerged from the shadows.

Salazar breathed the words, 'Christ. In a dinghy.'

It wasn't quite what Rowena was thinking, but near enough.

---

'Of course,' said Xavier, pensively, 'we'll need a Plan.'

Sophia released a very quiet groan and allowed herself another glass of wine.

He elevated his left eyebrow. 'Are you scoffing my Plan, Soph?'

'Oh, Xavier. You know how ugly I look when I scoff.'

'Don't sneer, then.'

'But I do look terribly attractive when I sneer.' She lowered the glass and admired her watery reflection within, before continuing, 'It simply occurs to me, darling boy, that you've devised no less than seven plans since I've known you, and not one of them has yet paid off.'

'That's debatable,' said Xavier archly.

'Oh, people died, sure enough, but what of satisfaction? What of achievement? What of my purse-strings, Xavier? Because your little plans have cost me a hefty sum, and I can't claim that they've given me much enjoyment.'

'You got two husbands out of them!'

'Yes, but they were no fun.'

'And I introduced you to Philip,' he added, feeling rather annoyed.

Sophia winced. 'Which one was he?'

'The third one.'

'Oh, yes,' she said darkly. 'He twitched a lot.'

Not until he married you, Xavier thought. Funny, that. 'My Plan, Sophia.'

'What about it, dear?'

'I won't require any donations, but I'll need your full compliance. And our little spy, too.'

'Fine, fine,' said Sophia, waving her hand dismissively. It seemed he was being arsey again. 'And what's this plan of yours called?'

'I shall call it: "The Destruction of…" what's it called? Hogglewoggle?'

'Hogwarts, darling.'

'"The Destruction of Hogwarts". Yes – Part Deux.'

'The way things are going, dear,' said Sophia, through a yawn, 'I don't think we'll need to do much.'

---

Godric was naked. He was dazed, bruised, bloodied and beaten, and his faraway eyes were smiling.

He stared past them both and declared, in a voice so bright and cheerful it clashed against the atmosphere like a lightening bolt: 'I stopped him!'

And then he fainted.

The world fell into silence once more; the dim green glow of their wands highlighted Godric's every muscle. Time passed, and they dared breathe out again.

Rowena said, 'Well…I've never seen anybody that naked.'

And Salazar said, 'I've never really wanted to.'

---

That was The End. Rowena thought it was definitely the end. Of…something.

He'd kissed her. Again. He'd bloody kissed her again. And she was so shocked that she couldn't even enjoy the experience.

She'd told him, very quietly, that he shouldn't go around kissing people just to shut them up. "It seemed like a good idea at the time", she told him, was not a valid excuse. She didn't say why. She hoped he'd guess. But if he did, he made no attempt to tell her as much.

A mystery, her brain said, bathing in riddle and towelling himself down with an enigma. She really hated her brain, sometimes.

Okay, so, what have we got…?

A school, a job, a reasonable income, the fulfilment of a lifetime ambition, all her arms and legs, a best friend last seen weeping into a pile of dog biscuits, a handful of missing memories, a co-founder who can't decide whether he's a werewolf or not, a slight headache, a girl we're going to have to label "love rival number one" and a pale, mysterious chap who doesn't know how to time his kisses, pretends he's a vampire and makes your heart flip so often you're desperate to punch him into the next life to stop it happening again…

And you don't know if he likes you, but you do know you care.

And he's just beaten you at Sausage of War, which is a silly game you probably should have kept within the confines of your own head.

And the show must go on, because you've no idea howyou're going to end it…

---

It wasn't The End.

Salazar knew that as soon as Godric's unconscious body hit the floor, because he imagined The End would involve his arms and legs being ripped off.

He thought, for a moment or two, that it might be the end of something. Anything. It wasn't.

He'd walked into Heather, earlier. She'd beamed her gorgeous beam, kissed his cheek and strolled away with a wave, and he'd thought: There's the girl for me! Just imagine – she's pureblood, she's beautiful, she's good company, she's entertaining, she'll always be faithful – we could run away and stay away, and none of it would have to happen…

He could be happy. Quite happy.

But he didn't want it.

He'd seen Anatiddle Amery soon after, walking into a door. Clumsy git. And the thought had crossed his mind that he could make Ravenclaw very happy, and their future would be long and cheery and bright and all that crap, with bluebirds bursting into spontaneous song and happy elves revealing a dazzling grasp of choreography.

But – because humans are very selfish animals and, in that respect, Salazar was leader of the field – he didn't want that, either.

He wasn't reformed and he wasn't enlightened, and he'd always been led to understand that such things usually occur at The End of things. So he knew, even before he lay in bed that night, patiently awaiting the arrival of Sleep, that the finish line was far, far ahead. The dream had only confirmed it.

He'd had this dream before, but never quite so clear. It had never spoken before, either. The snakes, screams, crimsons, forests, daggers and werewolves were the same – after all these years, they were almost comforting. And then there came the voice. Cray's voice.

It cut through the dream like a knife, thrusting through his ears and into his brain with such clarity that all other noises became unreal in contrast. It flooded the world, and he was drowning…

'With the weapon of his maker; of eye and tooth;

There comes he who brings to end what father shall fail;

And he will speak; and his speech will kill!

And he will war; and his war will kill!

And he will love; and his love will kill!

And all will perish whose blood is of half, and of mud.

And this path he will choose, with the blood spilt of his father…

…I've not finished with you, yet.'

He woke up hissing.