Hey everybody! After reviewing and reading so many stories, I felt like it was finally my time for a little story. Remember, I really appreciate reviews and constructive criticism, even just a "it was nice" makes me feel good.

Hope you enjoy it!

Edit: Done a bunch of spelling corrections and fixed some things that wouldn't agree with the latest chapter; coming soon, by the way.

Disclaimer: All Harry Potter characters and settings belong to J.K Rowling. I own Mr. Clark only.

I

Dear Diary

You know you've spent too much time somewhere when you start to memorize the most mundane of things about it. James Sirus Potter could now recite the grain patterns on the Headmistresses desk. On his tenth visit (would have been more, but the new caretaker didn't know the secret tunnels as well as the last one) James began to believe that he'd taken this a step too far.

He imagined that Professor McGonagall believed that as well, judging by her frown. Headmistress Minerva McGonagall was famous for her death-glares, and she was aiming one directly at him in that moment. If she had a good reason or not to do so was debatable, but the teen could see her side of the argument. At 14, he was slowly starting to tag-team with his older cousin, Fred Weasley, in antics that would have made their late uncle proud. Normally, James preferred to simply direct Fred, but that changed when James agreed to put a few harmless charms in the dungeon hall at the beginning of their fourth year. James had said it was to be a one-time deal, but Fred always had some new idea.

Not that he didn't come up with a few ideas of his own…Fred didn't have to agree to them.

James tore his eyes of the desk and back to his cross Headmistress. Her sharp green eyes had not suffered with age, and still bore into his through her spectacles. She was still a long woman with emerald green robes and a face that somehow looked more intimidating with the addition of the wrinkles around the mouth and eyes. The only other sign of her age was her hair, the jet-black locks now streaked with silver still bound up in the professional bun at the top of her head. She had been tapping her nails on the desk in his silence, and James figured he couldn't stall this much longer. While he couldn't meet her direct stare, he managed to turn his gaze to the top of her head.

"Well Mr. Potter?" McGonagall said.

"Well what, Professor?" James asked.

McGonagall looked surprised. "No round-about excuse this time? That's an improvement."

"Well I'm kind of tired Professor. How am I supposed to think of one?"

Her frown deepened. James felt his stomach lurch when she reached into one of many drawers on the large, mahogany desk and retrieved a stack of yellow parchment papers. She slapped them in front of James and clasped her hands on her desk. She stared at him in silence, expecting him to take in the objects in front of him, and the huge threat they represented. James played dumb, staring between the stack of parchment and McGonagall with a blank expression, as if this was all so new. McGonagall visibly twitched, and leaned forward on her desk.

"These are yours, Mr. Potter." McGonagall said, "Records of the incidents instigated, implemented, and traced back to you. This makes ten all together. I could have you expelled for this Mr. Potter. Does that mean anything to you?"

James felt the first spike of panic rise from his toes to his shaggy black hair. If Mother or Father found about any more of these incidents, if they saw his sorry face on the Hogwarts Express this early, there would be murder most foul at King's Cross Station. He turned his panicked gaze back to his professor, his soft green eyes pleading for some kind of Middle Ground. McGonagall faltered a moment, her face losing a bit of its edge. James felt the first few chimes of hope. Maybe she wouldn't condemn him to death-by-parental-figures after all.

"Mr. Potter," she said slowly, "None of this is customary for you. If something's bothering you, or you're in any sort of trouble, I can only help if you tell me what it is…"

And just like that it was gone.

James rolled his eyes. "I cause problems, Professor. I don't live with them."

"What then, Mr. Potter?" McGonagall sighed. "What gave you the foolish idea to use unsupervised magic in that classroom?"

James smiled ruefully. "Kicks?"

"Doubtful," McGonagall said, "the five-alarm charm is a complicated jinx; hardly a spell done in the spur of the moment."

"I thought Professor Binns needed a wake-up call," James said with a laugh, "and so did the rest of the class!"

"Yes, about the students," McGonagall said sternly, "your little prank disrupted their learning, and denied them their whole class period."

James sighed in irritation, his own brows knitting together.

"Professor, it's Slytherin!" James said, "They hate Gryffindor, and I was just returning the favor. It's not like they were paying attention anyway; no one does in that class! And how was I supposed to know Ravenclaw was in there too?"

"By your schedule?"

James bit his lip, and sank back into his chair. "Aw, who reads those anyway."

"That attitude will earn you trouble, Mr. Potter." McGonagall said with firm authority, "Your stunt will cost you fifty points from Gryffindor house."

"Fifty?!" James jerked upright in alarm. "Fifty?!"

"And detention in the trophy room for the week." McGonagall said sharply, "Thank your stars that I don't send you home."

Her door was opened with a slam, and the new Hogwarts caretaker entered the office. He was at least 25, and so tall that he had to stoop under McGonagall's doorway just to get inside. His boxed chin was covered in tufts of thick black stubble matching the short black hair on his head, but the most curious feature was the large scar going across his left eye. This mark spawned several rumors among the younger students; most of them involved a short tempered Hippogriff. James favored the one involving a kidnapped Hippogriff egg because it made Mr. Clark seem more daring than grumpy.

"Minister of Magic's just arrived Ma'am." Clark's voice was gruff, and the tone gave the very direct impression that nonsense would not be tolerated.

"More security checks no doubt," McGonagall said, putting the parchment back in her desk, "There is only so many times I can assure the Minister that we are not housing another dark wizard."

She rose to her feet with more speed and grace than James would accredit to a woman her age. Green robes whirling about her, she strode purposefully to the door. She stopped dead in her tracks when she reached the door-frame, and pivoted back around to face the Gryffindor Student with one final warning glare.

"Nothing touched, disturbed, charmed, jinxed, I don't even want to see it cleaner Mr. Potter. Are we clear?"

"Yes Professor."

McGonagall turned back around. Her door closed behind her, and James heard the grinding stone of the eagle twirling the Headmistress and Clark back up to the third floor. He waited three seconds before slumping in the wooden chair with a sigh of frustration.

Either McGonagall really was going blind, or his actions were not as blatantly obvious as he thought. Of course he had known the Slytherins were having a dual class with Ravenclaw; Fred had checked the roster himself. He had been counting on the presence of the Ravenclaw students the entire time he had cast the charms. But what he hadn't been counting on was costing his entire house fifty points with the house cup drawing so close. Albus, Lilly and Rose were going to be so ticked…

"That's so unfair! They had it coming," he said to no one. "Why does Slytherin house even exist? Every dark witch and wizard they drone about came from that house, and got a standing ovation on arrival! Can't we just shuck them all and be done with it?!"

Of course, his angry inquiry was only answered with the continual drone of several snoring headmasters. While James had not expected a response, the lack of one still left him feeling ignored. He let out another ragged sigh and ran an exasperated hand through his jet black hair. Thinking about the Slytherins just made his head hurt, and he ached for some form of distraction. Lazily glancing about, he settled back into the creaking wooden chair and halted his gaze on the newest additions to the gallery: Professor Severus Snape, and Professor Albus Dumbledore.

Snape's portrait was a bit more recent, added on several requests (father had been one of them) after the potions master's true intentions had been made public information thanks to the Daily Prophet. Snape's oil-preserved features were just as intimidating as they were in life, and looked extremely annoyed. His intense eyes narrowed at the youth precariously, and James began to wonder if the painting felt the same attachment to Slytherin as the real professor.

'Dumbledore', however, was smiling softly under his spectacles.

"Youth's burning flame."He chuckled."How nostalgic it is."

James grunted sourly.

Dumbledore's face remained clam, but took on a sympathetic color. "Your mind must feel quite strained. Supporting a secret alone is quite laborious."

James whirled around to face the fallen Headmaster. "So now you're spying on me, great."

"Not much else to do I'm afraid." The old Headmaster chuckled, "Though your question is a perfect thought-exercise. Alas, it's answer cannot be expressed with one tongue."

"Then sprout five; Uncle George made a whole hobby out of that."

'Dumbledore' took his eyes off the boy and slowly turned back to his old desk, putting a hand to his long silver beard in thought.

"Your record sounds intimidating," he noted, "and that pile of reports could be quite cumbersome to explain away."

Thanks for reminding me, James thought bitterly, slumping back down his chair pouting. While it was entirely possible to make that parchment stack vanish into the either, McGonagall would find him like a mischief-seeking-missile (she always did). The idea of Mother catching him jinxing the classroom, and covering up the rest of his shenanigans made him visibly flinch. Mummy Ginerva had no patience for liars, and James had no intention to see if the rumors about her skill with the Bat-Boogey Jinx were true.

"So?" James said. "What can I do about it?"

Dumbledore shook his head. "Nothing I'm afraid. However, It may be wise for you to open that drawer all the same."

"What?" James quirked a brow. "That's breaking and entering!"

"True, "the portrait said, "but it's also true that the answer to your question got lost in that drawer; I placed it there myself."

James grunted in response. He gazed back at the desk, spotting the tips of the referral slips sticking out of the drawer. The coarse yellow parchment stood in deep contrast to the deep brown of the desk, making the incriminating papers as hard to ignore as a flashing neon arrow. James knew better than to poke his head in private property (not so much private conversations), but it seemed like fate was pushing him way too close to the forbidden zone. But he had already gotten in enough trouble, and used all of his willpower to stay in his seat. He should simply forget that the papers even existed, and instead work on what he was going to tell his father in a few hours.

"Go on then, what's stopping you?"

The smooth voice came from behind the Headmistress' desk. Just left of the shelves, four portraits were hidden behind the semi-see-through red curtain; two male, two female. The voice that spoke up was one of the males, on James' far left. It sounded secretive to the teen, but also very challenging. The shadow of the speaker resembled a monkey, head very round, and ears very large. He crossed his arms behind the sheer red fabric, and stroked a long beard with thin fingers.

"You asked the question," the voice said, "either dig up the answer yourself, or drop it all together. You seem to have a disregard for the rules anyway, why let them stop you now?"

"…oh to hell with it." James sprung up from his chair and rounded the left corner of the desk.

Without really thinking, he reached down and wrenched open the drawer. His torso was hit with an explosion of green gas that smelled of rotten eggs, and his hands had been dyed bright red. The teen swore, but quickly forgot that he was marked for burglary when he saw the yellow parchment through the noxious gas. James dug out the parchment slips and quickly scanned a few lines. His name was printed in dark green ink, and the contents of each slip left him feeling weaker and sicker. Each page spoke of the jinxs, curses, and overall brawls he'd been a part of for all twenty of his misadventures. But, beyond the fact that the Headmistress was more all-knowing than James initially believed, there seemed to be nothing in the documents that even remotely answered his question regarding the Slytherins.

"You got my fingers colored guilty for this?!" he shouted in frustration, slamming the pile down on the desk and slumping back in the chair. "Are you gonna help me, or is this some stupid trick to make me feel guilty?"

"Tricks are for children." The hulking male portrait said, loudly, on the far right. "What Gryffindor gives up on the first try?"

"Think hard," a stiff female in the middle spoke next, "a riddle is but a puzzle of language, with the key laying in context."

"You can do this. "The last voice, the round female, sounded soothing. "It's not as if you're stealing anything, so there's no need to rush."

But I hate riddles, James moaned in his head. He opted not to agonize over the word puzzle, and checked the drawer for other items instead. He yanked the wooden drawer open wider, and in the process felt something wedged between the drawer and the top of the desk drop down. James cautiously reached into the drawer, wary of another curse, and let his fingers brush against a lleather bound book before he retrieved it from the depths. The book was dyed black, with the Hogwarts emblem etched onto the front. He set the text down and used the tip of a quill to open the cover. Satisfied when nothing else shot at him, he dropped the quill and began to flip carefully through a few of the thin pages. Almost each had a date on the top, which had written text done in a very old script. The spelling was almost indistinguishable, and James had to squint to make out the simplest phrase. He flipped back to the beginning, and attempted to read the date.

"989 A.D," he said, his brow creasing seriously, "Definitely not McGonagall's diary. But then…"

He scanned a few lines on the page. On each page, judging by the dark color of the fresh ink, four names had been recently underlined. The teen read each, and felt his eyes widen with each line. When he got to the last one, he couldn't help but whisper aloud. Was it shock? Awe? More like sheer disbelief.

"Godric…Gryffindor?"

981 AD. Ravenclaw Manor.

Each was due to arrive at noon. So, naturally, each arrived late.

Punctuality came second to making an entrance. Nobles valued image as much as precious metals, and sought to make as grandiose an entrance as possible. The time it took to make such an appearance always forced a late arrival, much to the chagrin of the host. Rowena would argue that one's image would be bolstered by arriving on the promised time, but she also suspected she would have been one of the late-arrivals if the meeting had not been in her home. This was why she was the first to arrive in the Great Hall on what would promise to be a historic day.

Descending the stairs from the solar, Rowena reflected how small her 'Great' Hall truly was. It was narrower than the ones her peers had built, with floor length windows set up along oak walls, just below the arching oak ceiling charmed to reflect the fluffy white clouds the dotted today's summer sky. The thresh on the smooth slate floors brushed aside from her dark green dress. Despite the lack of winter chill, Rowena had told her servants that the thresh should not be removed; it was no longer her own life she risked if she fell.

She carefully sat herself down at the head of a long, hawthorn table. The arching window nearby gave her a comfortable view of the front yard, and of a green and silver carriage pulling up to the front steps. Like a monk of some dark church, Salazar Slytherin stepped out in his usual black robes, lined with silver, and a balding head of hair. Two grey and calculating eyes swept over the manor with surprised admiration, a long boney finger counting the outside embellishments. Rowena suppressed a snort. Symbols of wealth impressed her colleague too much for her liking. She was relieved when the thin wizard, lowered his wrist, and seemed to float up the stairs and into the manor.

Soon after, in a sweep of warm colors, yellow lace, and earthy wooden spokes, the second carriage arrived. The door swung open, and out stepped Helga Hufflepuff, the woman with the toothiest smile, the reddest curly hair, and the biggest dimples on sun-tanned cheeks. The plump and cheery Helga adjusted her honey-colored dress, and turned around to talk to her driver. The poor man looked a bit under the weather, and she seemed to be encouraging him to go on. He left graciously, and Helga proceeded into the manor with a hurried look on her face, and a fevered pace to her feet.

Salazar was ushered into the Great Hall by one of the chamber maids. While keeping his traditional placid stare, he politely bowed to the lady of the house.

"Lady Ravenclaw," Salazar said in a voice as smooth as snakeskin. He was always the formal one, only ever making one exception in his lifetime.

"Greetings to you too, Lord Slytherin." While preferring the direct approach, Rowena humored the elder wizard. "You've turned out to be the most punctual of our guests. That speaks in your favor."

He nodded, and sat down two chairs away.
"However," Rowena said, "late is still late."

"I am here, am I not?" Salazar held up his hands defensively, "and I fail to see the others as of yet. I was under the impression that being tardy was only harmful in groups. Where is the group, I wonder?"

"Coming!" Helga rushed in before Rowena could respond to the rude remark. "So sorry to hold anyone up, driver got a bit ill on the way here. Took all the poor man's strength not to wretch on the way here!"

Any ire Rowena had melted. "Helga!" she said.

Her dark blue eyes grew wide with joy as her childhood friend approached the table. Rowena rose from her chair to properly greet her, only to have Helga rush over and subdue her with a hug to force her back into her seat.

"Don't you trouble your ankles over me, dearie," Helga teased, sitting beside Rowena, "would never forgive myself if I made your condition more trouble than need be."

"But tis' so good to see you, Helga!" Rowena said, giving her another squeeze.

"Ah, I know dear," Helga said, careful to hold back on her famous bear-hug, and finally resting her palms on Rowena's stern shoulders, "How have you been feeling? How goes the babe?"

"Active," Rowena said with a smile, putting a hand on her swollen midriff. "Half the day I swear a cricket has made a home of my stomach, ever since the third month precisely."

Salazar coughed loudly. "Tis' wonderful, I'm sure, but we do have more pressing matters to discuss. Surely personal news can wait…"

"Personal news is all I have while we are merely three," Rowena said, without missing a beat. "Business cannot, and will not, be discussed without Godric."

Salazar visibly wilted.

"Then you have quite a wait ahead of you my lady." He sighed. "Godric's sense of timing…changes."

Rowena frowned, sitting back in her chair. "He's gathering rice for a big entrance, perhaps? He consumes attention like a prized pig."

Rowena sighed and turned back to her window just as a gold and maroon carriage pulled away from the manor. Startled, she swung her head back to the Hall doors just as they were pushed open by two bulky hands. True to his sense of dramatics, the world's finest Duelist arrived at that very moment.

"Greetings fellow Lord and Ladies!" Said a proud voice.

Godric Gryffindor was an ostentatious man, who practically invented the art of making an entrance. Dressed in fine (imported) red fabrics & furs, he was near impossible to ignore from his dark, large leather boots, scarlet surcoat lined with glistening gold, and finely pressed red cape emblazoned (again, lined in gold) with the family crest embroidered on the outer side. His face was flushed just at the cheeks, obscured by a thick curly red beard that perfectly matched the thick, wavy red hair on top of his head. His playful green eyes met each and every startled glance of his friends with beaming pride. If Rowena had to declare who had made the most obnoxiously big entrance, she'd probably pick the Englishmen in front of her.

"You're late," Salazar broke the silence first, smiling wryly.

"And I doubt you fared much better, old friend," Godric Gryffindor said, striding over to the one lone chair directly opposite of Rowena with a flurry of his cape, "and I bet your so crass because you spent your allotted manners on our lady friends."

"Even so," Rowena recovered and spoke again, austere features leering first at the Cornish duelist, than sweeping to the other two guests, "you are the one who forced us all to bide our time. In fact, all of you kept your host waiting. I could wax some very choice words on the punctuality of all of you."

Salazar held up a hand, "But I am sure you wish to wax on the more pressing matters? Perhaps I should bring up the boy that was tarred and feathered yesterday for the 'heinous' crime of changing his mother's hair color?"

"Now, now, no need to be crass," Helga said, "we all agreed we'd calmly discuss this."

Rowena sighed in surrender, but kept her voice stern, "Very well. Though dramatics are hardly necessary, Salazar."

He shook his head. "They are quite necessary, Lady Ravenclaw, as they past few days have more than proven. In my domain alone I have been privy to persecution that has only existed in my nightmares."

"To children," Helga added, putting a hand to her chest. "Mercy, even I haven't been through such brutal beatings as a child."

"It's like a war out there," Godric added, "or at least our non-magical brothers would claim it to be such. I think we're completely justified to make it just that, unless we want our future generation to be our last."

Rowena felt her breath catch, and her hand fly to her belly.

"My thoughts exactly," Salazar said while putting a bony finger under his chin. "This is a battle without a doubt, but I'm afraid attacking outright would be foolish, and harmful to our social standings."

"So we protect our nobility while another girl is drowned in the lake?" Godric said.

Salazar turned and stared down his childhood friend.

"No, I'm not." He insisted, "I'm saying that we cannot simply rush out in broad daylight, wands blazing. It would be the death of us!"

Godric sprang to his feet, bracing himself on the table ."I will not simply stand aside while people suffer in my sight! If you don't have a better solution, than stay out of my way!"

"You'll help no one by acting like a fool!" Rowena shouted, "Like it or not, Salazar stands in the right. If we simply rush straight into a war it won't be just our lives at risk. Your relatives, your friends, and your very servants will suffer simply for being associated with you."

"I feel your pain Godric," Helga said, "It breaks my heart to see these poor little ones suffer so needlessly, but it's also important to protect our own circles. We have to be strategic."

Godric looked beyond frustrated, and Rowena didn't blame him. Of the four of them, Godric was the hero, or the one who wanted to be a hero. He always spoke of his accomplishments like a story-teller weaving a fairytale, and showed great pride in aiding the peasants of his domain in the most laborious tasks. But now his domain was filled with innocents being tortured and hunted, and he couldn't so much as raise a finger for them without risking his friends and loved ones. Rowena was sure that the past few weeks were a living Hell for the Cornish duelist, and she was also sure Salazar knew as well. The older wizard had called the meeting between the four of them after a visit to Gryffindor Manor, and wouldn't take no for an answer.

"Guess I filled my quota for being stupid today," Godric said. "Forgive me old friend. I simply hate feeling so helpless. I'm on edge to do something."

Salazar nodded.

"We can do something. "He said proudly. "Something I think should have been done ages ago. Why don't we simply separate our kin from their oppressors?"

"You're not even going to attempt a harmonious relationship?" Helga said.

Salazar's brows lowered themselves on his thin face. "These filthy muggles have been exceptionally clear in their dislike of our people. Why should we socialize amongst those who wish us death?"

Rowena inwardly chuckled, because we do so all the time in our own circles.

"Do not be so quick to place all the blame on our non-magical neighbors," Helga said. "The reactions are out of fear for their lives. Most of these acts are, indeed, harmless accidents, but what can you expect from a culture so terrified of the unknown?"

Salazar was still frowning.

"It is a completely natural reaction," Helga insisted.

"It is a lack of vision." Salazar countered.

"But it is not only fear," Helga said, hands on her hips. "Be fair, Salazar, the inexperience of the younger witches and wizards is dangerous."

Salazar winced, but regained his composer after a pause.

"Regardless of causes," he said. "We've established that this problem, if remained unchecked, would be a disaster. The next logical question is this: what should be done?"

"Teach them to fight?" Godric said. "If we can't intercede, maybe they can. A few days or so and I can have the little tykes up and swinging."

Salazar quirked a brow. "Are you willing to do so in secret?"

"No…"

"Then we're back to square one." Salazar said, "What will those miscreants think if we're treating their least favorite people how to fight?"

"Not exactly." Rowena said, a sly grin on her face, "I believe we have our solution between the two of you."

An eyebrow rose from the three remaining witch and wizards. Rowena continued, each word coming off slow and purposeful.

"Again I agree with Salazar." She said, "It obvious that coexistence in the current state is impossible. However, I believe Godric's thoughts are not completely in the wrong. These children need to be taught something."

"What exactly?" Helga said.

"It's a simple cause and effect problem!" Rowena beamed, feeling her chest swell with pride. "To remove the effect, you remove the cause. The problem is a lack of control from the young ones, and the effect is mass spread panic and violence."

"Remove the ignorance…" Helga started.

"Stop the violence," Salazar finished.

Rowena nodded enthusiastically. "And how does one remove ignorance?"

"Education," Salazar said.

Godric suddenly smacked his hand on the table. Rowena jumped, and was momentarily reminded of the Clydesdales Helga kept back in wales.

"Teach them to use their magic!" Godric said enthusiastically. "Ravenclaw, you are truly the brightest witch of your age."

Rowena was beside herself with delight, very surprised that it was Godric of all people who figured it out. Not that he was foolish, but she'd never caught him nose deep in a book either. But Rowena did guess that a battle hero would need to have a gift for strategy, and thus allot him some useful deduction skills.

"Correct." She said, "These children are simply suffering from a lack of education on their abilities. Teach them how to properly control themselves, and I can guarantee the attacks will decrease."

"You're not suggesting we teach them are you?" Salazar said dryly. "Can't we simply hire a tutor for them? My parents sent me to several in my studies."

"Your mother also sat on quite a dowry," Godric blurted out, "and even I can see the expenses in hiring teachers for such a large group."

Salazar flinched. Family wealth apparently didn't count as a secret.

"But you're still right," Godric said, "I'm a duelist, not a formal educator."

"I think you can," Helga said confidently. "Who really can be trained to educate children in magic than the most accomplished witches and wizards? "

"That's true…" Godric said absently mulling over the idea in his head. "This could be done if we all pitched in."

"Where?" Salazar asked. "Teachers need a school. And bringing them into our personal homes would attract too much attention."

"I have a thought," Rowena said with a grin, tapping her diadem with one finger. "Before my husband died, he left me a decaying castle nestled in the Highlands. It needs some fixing, but it's perfectly capable of housing large bodies of students."

Salazar put a hand to his locket.

"All those mountain ranges might be able to hide a large building," he said with a gleam in his eyes. "And no one civilized ventures too close to it. This could work."

"Rowena," Helga said, putting her hand on Rowena's tapping hand. "It's your land and your property. Why don't you help restore the castle?"

"I can provide the funds." Rowena said slowly, "but it's going to need some renovations…"

"That's what I mean." Helga pushed, squeezing her friend's hand. "You should design those changes. It's only fair since it's your castle."

Rowena gasped softly. The intimidating idea swam in her head, poking and prodding at all the holes in her confidence. Rowena's experience in architecture and design was small, as her husband kept her out of the planning room when he redesigned the castle. While she had managed to swipe his floor plans for perusal, could she really bring the mass of broken brick back to life on her own?

"I'm not sure." Godric said, voicing her insecurities aloud.

Her thoughts interrupted, Rowena turned her stern gaze to Godric. "I beg your pardon?"

"I'm not sure," Godric repeated, hands clasped together on the table, "You are with child Ravenclaw, your thoughts are probably ocupyed as it is. How can you design a whole floor plan?"

Rowena no longer felt insecure. She felt mad.

"Are you daring to call me incapable?" She said.

"You're not incapable, with child." Godric stressed, "Good God, Rowena, you have a human life to bring into the world and to take care of, how much more room do you have for outside work?"

Something old and twisted grew hard in Rowena's chest. Hate, and hurt from ages ago bubbled back to her mind like a tar pit. She narrowed her dark blue eyes dangerously at the Cornish Duelist and clenched her fists, rising to her feet and meeting his incredulous stare.

Her statement, while low and even, was cacophonous in the silence their exchange had garnered from their peers.

"Challenge accepted, Godric Gryffindor." She said pensively, "This castle will be awe-inspiring when I'm done, and will stand the test of time itself."

Another silence followed as Godric and Rowena were locked in a steely glare. The witch and wizard stood on two extreme ends across the expanse of the wooden table, locked in social warfare of old prejudice, and sheer rebellious pride. Rowena's dark blue eyes refused to budge, and she only moved to pull a strand of deep black hair out of her face. Godric refused to move either, and only narrowed his eyes at the woman in a clear state of confusion.

From the corner of her eyes, she could see that Salazar was watching her with keen interest, before he suddenly stood up, breaking the intense silence.

"She won't be actually building the school, Godric, and if you truly do protest I know an architect that can split the ordeal with her; and he'll come cheap."

Rowena frowned. Still, it seemed to settle Godric's ire. He sighed and sat back down with a nod. So she nodded too, not above sharing credit.

"So," Helga said happily, "we'll have a design, we have a place to build, and we have people willing to teach. Now we need funds."

"That's simple enough," Salazar said, "if we pool our wealth, we'll have more than enough to fund this endeavor."

Helga grinned, looking at her friend with excited blue eyes. Rowena beamed back, while hiding a large dose of fear. She had just roped herself into redesigning a crumbling building in the highlands just because the most boisterous of the four of them dared her to. She was going to be impossibly busy for quite some time.

Rowena sat back down in her chair. "You all are free to stay the night, but we must work as soon as possible. We have little time, and more to do than any wizard has in so long…"