PROLOGUE

"You're far too young for a death wish, boy."

He'd been spotted.

Godric spun fast on his heel, hand reaching for the sword at his hip, despite his ignorance of the blade–it was little more than a trinket after all. He took comfort in the gesture nonetheless.

It wasn't long before Godric found his intruder resting languidly against an oak tree, an unreadable expression plastered across his face. The quirk of his lips hinted at dull amusement, but his eyes said otherwise.

The more he stared, the more certain he became that he'd seen this man somewhere before, even if a name and place escaped him. There was something familiar about the way he held himself, the rigid hold of his back, the tension in his shoulders...

His father. Not the man himself, but one of the many "acquaintances" that reared their heads every few months or so. This man he'd only seen once or twice before, quite recently, if he was remembering correctly. He was younger than the others. He still had a fair few years on Godric, granted, but he was worlds away from the peppered and worn aesthetic of Lord Gryffindor's usual companions.

Godric lowered his sword tentatively, content he wasn't to be ousted for the wizard he was by an ill-timed muggle. He hadn't meant to reach for his wand, or attend the burning at all, but both good intentions had been overridden by impulse. His curiosity drew him closer to the pyre, venturing away from the outskirts of the village and further into its core. His compassion, however, was the virtue that sought out the wand. What he'd intended do after that point, he didn't know, his plan hadn't progressed that far.

He wanted to save her. Do something, anything that might leave her with a viable escape route. She wasn't a witch, she didn't deserve the fate life was intent to give her.

The man moved from the tree, striding towards him, expression still as stoic as it was before. "Her life has already been marked, I fear, set aside for the pyre." His voice was low, gravelly even, from vocal exhaustion or genetic disposition, Godric couldn't determine. "She'll be dead before you have chance to blink, boy, whether you like it or not. Best avoid the conflict altogether."

Godric kept his eyes glued on the scene in front of him. He wanted nothing more than to look away, to pull his gaze from the onslaught of flames and the morbid symphony of screams, but he couldn't. Just as he was helpless to prevent her tragedy, he was helpless to look away.

"She couldn't be helped, Godric," he managed to tear his eyes away from the woman at the sound of his name. "You'll have your chance at martyrdom soon enough, in battles far greater than this."

He nodded meekly, still unconvinced.

"Come," the man placed a firm hand at his shoulder, "your father calls the feast—best not keep him waiting."

The stone dug sharply into her back—but she wasn't conscious enough to care. Her body protested, begging for a chance to shy away from the jutting edges of rock, but Rowena made no attempt to move. She'd been rooted in place since sunrise, half-heartedly watching the lake's waves as they lapped away at the soils beneath her feet.

There was something about the water, the way it flowed, carelessly and without pretence... she envied it. Her bouts of jealousy were brief, granted, swiftly turned away for being silly and fool-hearted. Water wasn't something to be envied, surely, and yet, she desired its sense of ease nonetheless, wished for the tides to carry her away as easily as leaves in the wind.

Rowena sighed, letting her head fall back, eyes closing slowly. She'd stay there forever if she could, tucked up against the cool rocks with only the birds and the fish for company. Her dream wasn't to be. She had a life, a family, a child. Selfish as Rowena might have been, even she wasn't cruel enough for that.

Shivering, she pulled her cloak tighter. Winter was well and truly on its way; it wouldn't be long now before her visits to the loch would be too cold to bear, much to her dismay. No longer could she hide from her responsibilities, only making an appearance in the evening for supper before retiring to bed. She'd be cooped up in the house once again, time split between caring for her babe, and placating her mother.

Helena had come as an unwelcome surprise, to Rowena and her father both. One night of anger-spurred impulsiveness had left her swollen with child, and a hastily arranged marriage to boot.

Domnall was nice enough, simple, but he had a kind heart. They'd met infrequently over the years, on the rare occasions Rowena ventured down to the village. She'd been arguing with her father that night, over what... she could scarcely remember. He forced her hand—set alight the fire inside and shoved her into Domnall's arms. That night was a mistake. She'd been rash, devoid of logic and rational thought entirely.

Rowena sought release, a way to be rid of the rage bubbling beneath the surface; Domnall had provided a willing solution. The deed was done before she even had a chance to think things through. It wasn't a pleasant experience by any means. Neither of them knew what they were doing—her hands were awkward and misplaced, his brutish and unyielding. The night was mediocre at best, certainly not something that provoked a desire for a repeat performance.

When signs of the babe began to show, however, Rowena's father wasn't content to let her name be synonymous with 'wanton harlot', and so the union was forged. The pair were to be wed in the spring, no questions asked.

She fought, at first, unwilling to lose her freedom to someone so undeserving of her attention.

Domnall had magic, as did most of those who dwelled in the village below, but like many of the others, he shied away from his magic, preferring to ignore its existence entirely. He'd shun her love of spells and enchantments, she knew it. Rowena would relent to his wishes, eventually, taking on the ever dutiful role of wife, but she'd hate him for it. Her temperament was not made for the gilded cage, but for the open skies. She'd lose herself to him, become the woman she was expected to be, not the woman she truly was.

That never happened.

Domnall fell ill, an aggressive affliction that left him on Death's door for weeks. He didn't come through.

She'd never been more relieved.

Then the brunt of her pregnancy arrived. Helena hadn't even been born yet, and Rowena already disliked her. Quite simply, she wasn't a woman made for motherhood.

Helena's birth had changed her mind, somewhat. No longer did she scoff and roll her eyes when the child was mentioned, Helena was growing on her, gradually, one day at a time. Rowena didn't avoid her daughter the way she once did, relying on the wet nurse to care for the child. She'd come around to the idea of being a mother, in time.

"M'lady?"

Rowena jumped at the sound of the servant's voice, clutching at the ties of her cloak as tightly as she was able.

She took a deep breath, trying to slow the rapid beating of her heart.

"Your mother's asking for you, m'lady," the girl said hesitantly. "She's been havin' those nightmares again—bad ones, by the sounds of it."

Satisfied that her heart wasn't going to force its way out her chest anymore, Rowena stood, brushing off the dirt that clung to the back of her clothes.

She nodded at the servant, glancing back at the lake for a brief moment before following her back to the house.

"You look troubled."

Salazar; that was his name.

He'd managed to procure little more than a grunt out of him on their journey back to the house, having to rely on his mother to discover his identity. He was Slytherin's boy—Godric wasn't surprised. The similarities should've been clear from the start.

Having drained the contents of his goblet, Godric languidly eyed the rim, fingers tightly wound around its neck. "What you said before..."

Salazar rolled his eyes, a gesture that scarcely escaped Godric's notice. "She's dead, think no more of her."

His jaw clenched, stomach still as tightly wound in knots as it had been in town. As hard as he tried, Godric couldn't banish her face from memory. Her screams were just as vivid and as blood-curdling as they were hours prior. They would weaken with time, he knew, somewhere in the depths of him, but he struggled to enjoy the feast nonetheless.

"I fear I cannot," he whispered, dipping his head with his eyes shut tight.

"What good comes of these thoughts?" Salazar eased himself into the seat at Godric's left, chair creaking from the weight of him. "You're little more than a child, Godric—surely you didn't overestimate your ability so much as to paint yourself her saviour?"

Godric's hold on the goblet increased. "She didn't deserve—"

Salazar laughed.

"Life rarely grants us what we deserve, and what we desire is bestowed upon us even less."

Taking no notice of Godric's soured expression, Salazar helped himself to the eel in front of him.

He wasn't a child.

Green as he might have been, he deserved more than what Salazar was offering.

Deserved.

He groaned inwardly. Irritating as his companion might have been, he had a point. "What would you have me do?" Godric asked quietly, glancing up at Salazar from the corner of his eye.

"Regard her memory with passing sympathy, if you must, but go no further. You'll not sleep easy for a fortnight if you do," he took a sip from his own goblet, "at the very least."

Salazar rose from his chair, nodding curtly. "M'lord."

With each step towards her mother, Rowena's stomach lurched. How bad would she be today? She didn't have the strength, or courage, to pull Deirdre from her nightmares that day.

For as long as she could remember, her mother was plagued by dreams—some, others could only wish for, the rest horrors you wouldn't even begin to wish on the greatest of enemies. Rowena didn't fall asleep to soothing lullabies, nor wake to bird song; she had only the sounds of screaming to content herself with.

"Rowena?"

She froze, breathing heavily. If her conscience would have allowed her to run, she would have.

"I'm here, Mother," she took a tentative step toward the doorway, hand wavering next to the frame before settling upon it. Rowena didn't dare venture further. The less time she spent in that room the better.

Her entire life was haunted by whispers, rumours no one thought she could hear. Isn't she the very image of her mother? The same temperament, the same fate. Eventually, she just... stopped listening, but their words still lingered in the back of her mind. Her life was destined for madness, and the descent had already begun. Its course would be slow, moving at a snail's pace for the moment, but it wouldn't be long before her nights were plagued as incessantly as her mother's.

"The screaming, Rowena," Deirdre extended a hand, eyes locked on what lay outside the window. "They wouldn't stop... couldn't stop. They begged for their children, their wives, their mothers. They cried for mercy..." Rowena moved from the doorframe, gently lowering herself down on the bed, taking her mother's hand between her own. "They were granted none."

Inhaling sharply, Rowena edged further up the bed, wrapping her spare arm around her Deirdre's shoulders. "Shh, they're not here anymore, I promise."

They stayed that way, Deirdre's head tucked into the crook of Rowena's neck as sleep escaped her, until the sky burned red and the clouds had all but faded away.

She never acknowledged her mother's murmurs of discomfort, choosing only to dream dreams of her own, stirring only at the sound of newly arriving horses.

Her father was back. Him and any number of his wizarding friends from beyond Hadrian's Wall. Put lightly, she wasn't looking forward to the numerous introductions ahead of her.

She winced, gently moving her mother to one side as she tried to leave without waking her. For the most part, Deirdre seemed to be sleeping soundly, a state Rowena was very keen on keeping her in.

Managing to slip out from beneath her mother, Rowena padded towards the window, breathing a sigh of relief when the number of soon-to-be acquaintances were far fewer than she'd been expecting.

There were eight of them in total, excluding her father and any distinguishable servants. Each face blended as easily together as the next. All except for one—a woman. She stood apart from the rest, far more interested in her horse than Ravenclaw's grandiose tales. If not for her copper hair, she might have thought her a separate entity from the group entirely.

Rowena did nothing but stare, helplessly rooted to the spot. If it hadn't been for the redhead glancing up in her direction, she would have stared a while longer.