Author's Note: (Previously titled "The Founding") This is a story about the Hogwarts Four: Godric Gryffindor, Helga Hufflepuff, Rowena Ravenclaw, and Salazar Slytherin. It is a story of how they met, of their friendship, their great achievements with the school, and what eventually tore them apart. I have done and will continue to do my very best to keep this as accurate to J. K. Rowling's canon and to history as possible, though of course my own touch is added to hopefully make this a fun and interesting story for you, dear readers! The first chapter is somewhat mellow, but I hope you will continue reading and see where the story goes!

This is rated R for violence, language, sexual content, and dark themes. I expect to run the gambit.

Original story and characters are (c) to me, but everything Harry Potter-related of course belongs to the brilliant JKR.

AND IN THEIR TRIUMPH DIE

chapter one
BURNING

Britain, 1009 AD.

It was a grey day. An even layer of grey clouds masked the sky, promising rain all day and yet failing to deliver on those threats. The ground was plenty wet already. The village was a mire of mud and muck. Squelching noises followed the stout draft horses as they walked, pulling their large hooves out of the mud and dragging their carts behind them. Peasants scuffled about, drawing their dirty cloaks snugly around their shoulders to fight away the gloom of the day.

But there was an energy about the village on this day that wasn't present every day. Peasants and tradesmen and nobles alike were all walking in the same direction, gathering in the town square. Salazar followed the trickle of people on his grey palfrey. He was finely dressed under his ermine-lined travelling cloak, sporting a leather jerkin, decoratively embossed, over emerald velvet. His horse was taller and sleeker than the shaggy ponies of the village. What's more, he was not a native of this village, a fact that earned him one or two curious looks from the locals.

Salazar and his palfrey walked slowly down a little road, lined with shabby little houses and shops. The air smelled of wet earth, horses, and nightsoil. He rounded a corner and found himself in the town square, where the village's inhabitants were gathering. At the center of the square was a post surrounded by logs and scrap wood….waiting for a victim. The crowd was quiet, curious, eager. If they spoke, they spoke in hushed whispers to one another, discussing rumors, expectations, accusations….

Salazar halted his mount at the edge of the crowd. There were other nobles present, easily identifiable by their wardrobe and cleanliness. Salazar waited with the rest, silent. The wait wasn't long. Soon there came a wooden cart with a single prisoner riding in the back: a woman—a girl—in a simple shift. She appeared to Salazar to be perhaps seventeen. She might have been mildly pretty at some point, but now she was dirty, her dark hair was straggly, and her face was tearstained. When her captors pulled her from the cart, she looked terrified. But she was a small girl, and they were men, and she could not fight them. They dragged the girl through the crowd, which parted to let them pass, but suddenly became noisy. They shouted at the girl…many things—curses, prayers—but one word was more audible than others.

Witch.

Salazar's grey eyes followed the girl as she was dragged to the pyre. They shoved her back against the post and tied her hands behind it. She was trembling, tears gleaming on her face. The shouts of the crowd assaulted her as surely as the fire would, and her wide eyes darted back and forth across the angry mob.

"Witch! Burn her! Repent!" they cried. The girl accused of witchery cried and begged for her life, but Salazar couldn't hear her words over the shouts of the villagers.

The fire came. A burly man approached the pyre with a flaming torch. His gait was confident and determined, deaf to the girl's pleas. Even the flame looked muted in the dim gloom of this village, dancing with a pale, sickly yellow hue. The girl began sobbing in earnest now, pitiful and helpless on the pyre. Salazar's gaze raked the mob, but saw no other crying faces. It appeared the girl had no family, no friends here…perhaps they could not bear to witness this execution. Or perhaps they had abandoned her upon learning that she was a witch. An "abomination."

A sudden disturbance in the crowd brought his gaze back to the pyre. The burly man was holding an extinguished torch. Salazar's brow tightened. A flint was brought, and in a moment the torch was blazing again. But as he lowered it towards the waiting wood once more, the flames blew out with a woosh.

Salazar sat back in his saddle. So. She was a witch.

The girl watched with wide eyes, daring to hope. The crowd began to murmur anxiously. Surely this was sorcery! Their admonitions grew even louder and more aggressive, cursing her, promising her a swift journey to hell. Some screamed and backed away, fearful of being cursed by the witch.

The torch was lit again, and snuffed out once more. Salazar was sure this was not a conscious bit of magic. The witch was making this happen out of sheer panic. Once more, the torch was lit and extinguished. The crowd was growing more and more insistent, eager to see this evil-doer made to pay for her sins.

At last, more torches were brought to do the job correctly. Whatever talents or capabilities this young witch may or may not have, her power did not save her from multiple attackers. The kindling caught fire, and spread quickly over the oiled wood. Within moments, the fire crept up to the girl's dirty bare feet. She drew back against the post as tightly as she could, but soon the flames were licking up her feet, her ankles, her knees.

And she was screaming. It was a horrible sound, full of agony….the kind of pain that Salazar couldn't begin to imagine. He watched in silence. The musty smell of mud was joined with the odor of smoke and burning flesh. Salazar clenched his jaw. It could easily be him burning at the stake…the difference being that he would have destroyed the entire town square before they burned him.

Then, as the flames reached the girl's knees, eating away at her, she quieted. Her wide, dark eyes were skyward, and she seemed to calm…. At first Salazar thought she had simply gone into shock, but something in her eyes told him that she was conscious and aware. Brow furrowed, Salazar scanned the jeering crowd.

It took a moment, but then he found the answer. One man in the midst of the mob was not yelling and cursing and cheering. He had a square jaw and soft features, and a strong brow. He had dark auburn hair with wavy curls, and was reasonably handsome, close to Salazar's own age. He came from some money; that was obvious by what little of his clothing Salazar could see through the crowd. The shoulders of his black cloak were covered in a fine white and grey fur, thick and warm against his neck. He stood with his eyes locked on the burning girl, his lips moving subtly, steadily. Salazar recognized a spell in progress when he saw one. This wizard was concentrating hard to spare the girl the agony of the fire.

Salazar watched as the fire consumed the pyre and the poor soul trapped with it. Soon orange flames were blazing, and all evidence of a human victim was gone. Since the stranger's spell had begun, the girl had been quiet...even peaceful. The spell had been a great mercy, and Salazar wondered who the stranger was. Was he kin to the witch? Was he a friend? A lover? Or just a kind-hearted wanderer? He clearly had command of his powers. The witch had extinguished the torches by accident, but the stranger had controlled a strong spell without wand work. Salazar's own wand was tucked into his high boot, away from Muggle eyes.

The crowd began to dissipate once the girl was dead. Salazar watched them in disgust. They thought they had burned an abomination, but the real abomination was walking free to return to their shops, their manses, their dirty little hovels. The dead girl at the stake had been given a gift, and the Muggles, unable to share in it, had taken her life. It was a scenario that was all too common. It seemed every half a century or so, persecution of witches and wizards went into fashion, and then went out of fashion again….

The wizard who had cast the spell was one of the last to leave. When he finally turned to be on his way, he noticed Salazar watching him and caught his eye. For the briefest of moments, their gazes were locked. Salazar was able to grasp just a fraction of information when the eye contact was made, but the wizard quickly turned and left the square in a hurry. All Salazar had time to discern was that the wizard was wary of being caught at his craft.

But as the wizard turned, Salazar glimpsed something else: a flash of silver and scarlet at his hip. The wizard's gloved hand was resting on the hilt of a gleaming sword, one that Salazar recognized by rumor.

Well, at least this day was going to prove much more fortunate for Salazar than for the witch girl.

Salazar pressed his thighs to his horse's flanks, nudging it into motion again. The grey palfrey moved forward so that Salazar could watch the other wizard walk away down the street, away from the square. When he turned out of sight, Salazar moved forward and followed.

He came to a small, grubby inn and dismounted, handing the reins over to a stableboy. Salazar flicked a coin into the boy's palm and went inside. It was small and cramped, lit by torches in sconces all along the walls. Wooden tables and benches were crowded together. The stale smell of dirt and beer and some sort of stew reached his nose. But he wasn't here for beer. His clear eyes scanned the room, which presently hosted about eight Muggle men. And one wizard.

He was seated near the back, alone, cradling a stein of beer between his hands. He appeared to be making an effort not to be seen, but Salazar walked right over to him. When his shadow fell upon the table, dancing in the torchlight, the stranger looked up. Up close, Salazar now saw that he had dark blue eyes, almost grey, like his own. He wore dark clothing, dark leathers and rich reds. The fur at the neck of his cloak made his shoulders look very broad. He had a hard brow, and didn't look intimidated in the least, only curious.

"Is there something I can do for you, friend?" he asked.

Salazar studied the wizard. "Did you know the girl? Or just pity her?" he asked.

The wizard with the auburn hair was silent for a moment, considering his answer carefully. "I pity anyone forced to die so horribly."

"If you had been noticed, they would have tied you to the stake next to her."

Another beat of silence. Then the wizard gestured to the chair across from him. Salazar took the offered seat as the wizard waved for another beer. "Are you here to expose me?" he asked.

"That would hardly be in my own interest."

"Good. I wouldn't want to regret buying that beer."

The innkeeper arrived and set a pewter mug in front of Salazar, then returned to his post in silence. Salazar tried the beer. It was watery and stale.

The other wizard spoke again. "What's your name?"

"Salazar Slytherin. And unless I am mistaken, you are Lord Godric Gryffindor."

The wizard smiled and offered his hand, and Salazar shook it. "I am. I recognize your name as well. The Slytherins are an old family, am I right?"

"We are," was all Salazar said, and he took another swig of the piss-poor beer.

"What brings you all the way out here?" asked Godric.

"I could as you the same thing," said Salazar, letting his grey eyes meet Godric's once more. "I confess…that I was looking for you."

"For me?"

"I wanted to meet the duelist everyone's been talking about." Salazar offered a congenial grin, and Godric shifted his gaze down…bashful, maybe?

"Ah…even the Slytherins have heard of me, have they?" he asked with a smile.

Salazar pushed his stein of beer to the side, folding his arms on the table and leaning forward a little and lowering his voice. "It's a rare wizard that's as learned as you and I. I thought it worthwhile to meet someone as…accomplished." He paused. He'd been looking fort his man for some time now…He'd devoted a great deal of time to studying the old families, but it was difficult. So little was written down, so little knowledge passed between wizards. "In the past few months I've encountered nothing but amateur witches and wizards…they don't even know how to control their abilities. Like the girl at the pyre."

Godric nodded thoughtfully and finished off his drink. "I admit it's good to talk to another wizard. I've been on the road for the past month and I've noticed the same."

"Was this place your destination?"

"Oh no, I was just passing through…." Godric hesitated, and then leaned forward in his seat as well. "Have you heard of the Galt Brothers?"

Salazar narrowed his eyes in thought. Yes, he knew the name…it was passing through the magical community in wary whispers….users of Dark Magic. He held Godric's gaze steadily. "You're going after them?"

Godric nodded his auburn head. "They've been terrorizing villages here in the west. I've just heard a rumor that they were in Wales. There's a witch there by the name of Hufflepuff, who works in a village of wizards and Muggles. I've heard they've had trouble with the Galts."

So Godric was looking for a fight. He lived up to his reputation. Salazar found himself intensely curious to see the Lord Gryffindor at work, and he also found himself curious about the Galts. It'd been quite a few decades since the last prominent Dark Wizard…the Dark Arts seemed to be becoming more and more pronounced, separating from the old magic ways…. "So you mean to take them on yourself?" asked Salazar. As they spoke, he glanced around to make sure they weren't being overheard.

Godric shrugged. "They've been attacking innocent bystanders…someone should do something, shouldn't they?"

Salazar sat back, looking at the men seated around them. Some were starting to give them furtive glances. Not doubt they stood out because of their apparel, which was much finder than the shabby tunics worn by the villagers. And when he caught their gaze, he knew they were suspicious…he knew where their train of thought was going.

"May I suggest we continue this conversation elsewhere? I believe we've worn out our welcome," he said with an easy smile. Godric looked around them as well, and seemed to sense the discomfort. He nodded and placed some coins on the wooden table, standing up. The grubby men in the inn watched them as they slipped outside, walking towards the stables. They told the stableboys which horses to retrieve, and the lads went scurrying.

Godric turned his gaze to Salazar, studying him with his dark blue eyes. "Why don't you come to Wales with me? You said yourself, there are so few learned wizards out there…at least come with me to meet this Helga Hufflepuff. I've heard she's quite talented."

"It'd be my pleasure," said Salazar eagerly. They could learn much from each other, and he was curious about this Welsh witch. Godric grinned, taking the reins of his sorrel red horse as it was brought to him.

"Excellent. It'll be a nice change from travelling alone."

Salazar's grey horse was brought to him by a freckly-faced boy. Salazar mounted his palfrey, and Godric did the same before setting out at a swift trot. Salazar followed, and they made their way through the small, muddy streets. As they passed the town square, Salazar gave one last look to the smoldering ruins of the pyre, thinking if only the witch had been taught to use her gifts…if only she had learned, she could have saved herself.

They put the gloomy village to their backs and soon their horses' hooves found grass again. They crested a hill and before them was a rolling expanse of green countryside, dotted with limestone.

"I know a river close to the boarder we can Apparate to," said Godric, dismounting from his saddle now that they were out of view of the town behind them. Salazar did the same, gripping his horse's reins.

"I no know place closer," said Salazar, content to follow Godric's lead. Godric gripped his own horse's reins and held out a hand. Salazar gripped his wrist, holding tight.

"Ready?"

Salazar nodded.

Godric Gryffindor and Salazar Slytherin Disapparated, vanishing from the hill, horses and all.