In The Ending Days

He was cunning, smooth, and able to talk himself out of any situation; he had a craving for mystery, a taste for darkness, a lust for his ideals.

He wasn't mean, exactly; but he had a preset idea about people and the working of the world; he had a black pride that sometimes suffocated the rest of his character.

He was, in short, Salazar Slytherin.

On the other hand, she, Rowena Ravenclaw, was sharp, witty, and more knowledgeable than he would know. What she lacked in personal experiences she made up for by surrounding herself with the proper people and text to learn and experience in her own mind.

She wasn't the opposite of him, but they were different, and it showed. She wasn't a figure of self-preservation, like he; the only thing she lived for was to know more about the world.

It was shortly after Hogwarts had begun that four very young witches and wizards began the education of even younger ones. At night, the four Heads of House would retreat to their respective towers – or, in Salazar's case, dungeon – and make sure the few students they had had fallen asleep before settling in, themselves. However, this particular night, two could not sleep, and those are the two around which this narration focuses.

"Interesting, how long we've kept this up." Salazar had a lofty expression as he settled into the armchair. The light from the fire flickered wildly over his face, illuminating, as well, a pair of blue eyes beside him.

"We're only nineteen," Rowena said quietly, not looking at him. She sat rigid in her chair. Salazar's office wasn't a pleasant place for any conversation, let alone in the dead of night. "I don't know if we're qualified to teach them."

"That wasn't what I was referring to," said Salazar silkily. "For once, know-all Ravenclaw is wrong. Even more interesting."

"If you were anymore interested, Slytherin, we'd be married," she snapped.

"Still full of wit, though."

"Still full of idiotic ideals, you are."

"Idiotic ideals?" Now Salazar turned on her, his straight-cropped black hair barely brushing his shoulders. Equally dark eye focused on Rowena's shadowed figure. "Funny to hear that, coming from you."

"What is that supposed to mean?"

"Always looking for the smart ones. The bookish ones, the intelligents. No wonder there's only twenty in your House."

"There's ten in yours," she reminded him, still staring at the fire. "And all wealthy, children of important people – purebloods."

"I'm selective. On more than one trait." His eyes roved over her neck, her jaw…

"Stop it," she snapped, gaze flickering over to him.

"Stop what?"

"Staring. I'm fed up with your idiotic staring. I already told you once –"

"And I still don't believe you," Salazar said, though his tone had taken on an edge. "You can't do everything alone, Rowena."

"You're in no position to help me." Rowena ran a hand along the flatness of her stomach, then pulled her knees suddenly up to her chest. The fringe of her nightgown fluttered around her ankles. "You've done me one too many favors, Slytherin."

He didn't say anything for a moment: he had an image of her, cheek pressed against a cool stone wall, smiling as a new clock struck nine –

"Helena," Rowena said.

"What?"

"Helena. That's her name. Helena."

"How do you know it won't be a boy?" He smiled wryly. "How do you know it won't be a little Sa –"

"No," she said firmly. "It will be a girl, and her name is Helena."

He didn't ask for a say in the matter. He still had that picture, except this time there was a black-haired girl behind her, with exactly the eyes of her mother.

"I'm going to leave, before it happens," Rowena murmured. "I'll come back, of course."

"I'll go with you."

"No." She made a sort of choking noise. "I don't want you to, Salazar, don't you get it?"

"It's not about what you want," he said harshly, immediately regretting it. Rowena's expression hardened again and he was forced to remember exactly how this had happened in the first place.

"Rowena," he said slowly, "I shouldn't have done this." He didn't apologize. He didn't even sound remorseful. He simply said this, and this time it was a mask, a way to avoid something else he should've, could've – but wouldn't have – said.

Then he stood, and he retreated to his dwelling, and she did the same, and the next day Salazar Slytherin was gone forever.