It was nearly four years to the day since Salazar left the school for good. It was the middle of autumn, and as the wind blew, dead leaves swirled about him before landing onto the ground at the grave under his feet.

Gone were the days of dueling with Godric, having tea with Helga—his cup containing more bread wine than tea—and discussing his business ventures with his dear friend the Baron. And, most importantly, his time with Rowena.

Most knew of their affair—their daughter Helena was plain evidence of that, though no one, other than Salazar and Rowena themselves, knew of depth of it. As far as anyone was concerned, Rowena was nothing more than someone to go to assist him in forgetting his wife whenever they fought. In truth, Salazar would escape to Rowena's chambers every night a few hours before dawn, and then retreat back to his rooms in the dungeons at morning twilight. Because of his wife, they were never allowed anything more than these stolen moments in the darkness.

Even after the death of his wife, the relationship never progressed. But, where as most women were merely playthings to him, people to welcome into his bed for a few hours and then discard like a tattered book, he considered Rowena special. She was the only one that he was perfectly happy with simply sitting and talking with. She was the only one, with the small exception of Helga, that he found worthy enough of his respect.

Yes, Rowena was different. Far different from any woman Salazar had ever met before and he loved her for this. Now he found himself standing at her grave.

Once more, he told her the summer before he left, I will always come to see you once more. Out of all of the promises he made, this was the only one that he refused to break.

He looked down at the stone eagle marking her last resting place, and watched a few large rain drops drip down its beak onto the grass. Salazar closed his eyes, hoping like a child to go back in time two years when he opened them. He kept them closed tightly, too frightened to see the eagle.

"Salazar!" The tears were falling fast and free from Rowena's eyes as she clutched the front of Salazar's robes with every ounce of strength she possessed, attempting to force him to change his mind.

Salazar, eyes turned to the ground to keep from seeing the pain in her face, easily pulled himself free of her grasp. "I need this," he told her half-heartedly, turning his back to her.

He would rather have left without saying goodbye to her. If she had not sought him out to ask why he hadn't shown up that night, he would have. The memory pierced him now.

Without weighing the consequences, Salazar whipped around, grabbed Rowena harshly by the arms and kissed her, pouring every single unsaid word from his mouth to hers. He moved his hands to her wrists, to wrap her arms around his neck, and he placed both of his hands on the side of her face, moving his fingers along her jaw line and up through her hair.

He could feel the wetness from Rowena's tears on his face, and he forced back his own. Rowena grabbed at his neck, digging her nails into his skin in a final attempt to keep him there.

Salazar broke away from her and pressed his forehead to hers, breathing heavily and shaking. Rowena's hands moved down his back to press her nails into his sides. Even though his robes, they pierced his skin.

"Once," he whispered after he brought his mouth to her ear. "I will hold to that."

And without another look at her, Salazar swiftly left the school.

He never regretted his decision to leave the school. After twenty-some years, he had achieved all he could from it and the fighting between himself and Godric grew tiresome. By the end the two of them could barely spend more than a few moments together before curses flew, and wands were merely blurs in the air in front of them.

He would have taken Rowena with him if he thought she would come, though he only ever hinted at it. He knew too well how devoted she was to the school. That was his biggest regret.

He hated himself for waiting so long to return. He knew that she was ill when he left. Perhaps it was his stubbornness that made him put it at the back of his mind? Perhaps it was self-preservation.

It wasn't until he ran into the Baron in the forests Bavaria that he fully realised how serious her illness was.

It was summer, and Salazar had decided to spend another warm evening in a pub with the company of a few much younger prostitutes when the Baron burst in, looking haggard and rushed. He spotted Salazar, his face half-covered by the hood of his cloak, sitting in the corner.

"Salazar!" the Baron shouted, running pell-mell over to his old friend. The prostitutes gave each other a knowing look and gave the men their privacy. "Have you seen Helena?"

For a moment, Salazar was too annoyed to take into the other man's words. He glared at him from underneath his hood.

Seeing that he was not heard, the Baron impatiently repeated his question.

This time Salazar took notice.

"No…" Salazar began slowly, "Wh—"

"Rowena sent me to fetch her," the Baron explained quickly, his words nearly running into each other. "She's dying. Rowena, that is, and she wants to make amends.

The words hit Salazar with the force of seven Stunning spells and the clay tankard he was holding fell to the ground with an ear-splitting crash. The entire room went black and silent.

Even then he waited a year to see her. Either the time was never right or he was far too busy to travel across Europe. Subconsciously he was terrified.

The storm grew stronger, and Salazar was soon soaked through from the rain. He cared little, at this point. His was only care was to stare down at the grave of the woman he once… still loved. And though the seasons would change and the years would continue to pass, his feelings would never change. No matter how much he told himself that time would heal all wounds, he knew that they would never heal. They would remain open, filled with his regrets and unsaid words as he would spend the moments between sleeping and waking dreaming of what could have been. That's what he called it, the what could have been times. Even before he left her he referred to them as that. His foolish, idealistic boy dreams of a different life, forced to remain as silly dreams by a wife, duties, and manly pride.

Salazar knelt down in front of the eagle, and slowly brushed his forefinger on its head, between its eyes and down to the tip of its beak. He purposely pricked his finger on the sharp edge, drawing blood, and then brought his finger to the earth.

"I said once," he whispered to the eagle, "and now I say forever."

Salazar remained at her grave until morning twilight, and then he departed one final time, never to set foot on British soil again.