The hand-carved sign outside the Splurge and Spigott creaked ominously under the onslaught of the wild North wind, and the dirt-dark windows gave little sign of the dubious comforts to be had within.
The rough track that passed before it was empty, only wheel ruts in the middle of the dust gave any sign that people actually used this road. A few houses had burst from the ground, their upper floors leaning forward, as if paying homage to the fact they stood at all. Alnwick was a small, yet flourishing, skirmish of a town, settled on the river Aln. Traders crossed the river here, and it was steadily growing in importance as a trade route between England and the settlement in Edinburgh.
Only one lone figure could be seen tramping up the quiet street, his robes pulled tight against the same wind that played with the inn sign. He glanced up the track, his eyes naturally drawn to the gritty lane that led towards his latest project. It had been surprisingly easy to persuade Gilbert de Tesson that he was the man for the job. A little potion slipped into his mead had produced the desired contract, and Salazar was once more in gainful employment. It amused him, this work for Muggles, work that would ultimately fail and collapse and cause them grief.
Salazar was an old man now, his past glories fading into insignificance. He had lost so much, and gained so little, and yet he was unbowed and unrepentant.
This bone-biting wind was unlike anything he had experienced in the county of his youth, the beautiful and benevolent fens that harried the bustling settlement on the river Cam. There, meadows were sweet with wheat and barley, and the only wind that blew was a gentle caress from the weakening North Sea. Up in this forsaken place, the North Sea was wilder, ready with its whip to blister the unwary traveller.
He finally made it to the door of the inn, and pushed it open firmly. These Muggles knew so little, and yet, he found himself drawn to them now, like a dizzy moth to a painful flame. Perhaps it was his child, his squib of a child, that had finally made him feel some connection with these magic-deprived creatures. So much had been expected of his son. A child with such a pedigree should have been the prize of the litter, not the runt.
Just thinking about Ruairi caused him regret. Ruairi, who was the image of his mother, in all but one way. He lacked the magic.
The oaf behind the bar of the inn was slow to cease his conversation with the young warrior who stood – although only barely after the amount of ale he must have imbibed – in the corner closest to the turf fire.
"And what'll it be?" he asked finally, surveying Salazar with a cold eye. Strangers were a common enough sight now, but here was a stranger with shadows about him. The innkeeper was wary.
"A jug of mead," Salazar said gruffly. He cast a few coins onto the bar and took the earthenware vessel that was offered to him. Word would get out soon enough that he was here to construct a castle. Perhaps then the local gossips would wish to speak to him, prise information out of him, plant seeds of dissention against the Norman lord in his mind. Fools.
He took a seat by the door, natural caution making him want an easy escape. A castle. It had been a long time since he had constructed a castle. The mead slipped down easily, not quite warming his core. His most famous castle still stood, more spectacular than any Muggle construction, and with more secrets. Hogwarts. Its fine turrets stood proud in his mind, catching the sharp sun of the Highlands. It had been his triumph, and his disaster. The one person he had ever loved remained there, while he had left under the shadow of the other three founders' disapproval. He narrowed his eyes, concentrating on memory.
Memories confused the mind, befuddled the senses.
In Salazar's head, the day he had first encountered Rowena Ravenclaw had been bright, a heady sun breathing warmth into everything. But in reality, their first meeting had been very different…