The adolescent boy dared not to look back. Dared not to look back at the Muggle mob that chased him with their sticks, stones and other threatening things. Dared not to look back at the village that condemned him as a master of dark magic, a trickster, a wizard. He tripped on an overly large tree root with his scruffy riding boots, and was launched into the air, only to land on his back. It knocked the wind out of him. He attempted a quick deterrent, summoning water from his hand to drench the mob. But it was a futile attempt, as he had not the energy to produce enough to fully discourage the mob. And the pain, ahh … the pain. The boy nearly blacked out with the effort. He was already hurt, and the toll that the magic took on his body nearly ended him. The mob was not discouraged in the slightest as they cried and called with every step that they drew closer to the lanky dark-haired teenager.
But suddenly beside him appeared a blonde-haired boy. The boy, no, the teenager took from his breeches a wooden stick. The dark-haired youth looked on in disbelief. Was his intention really going to be beating the mob off with a shiny, dark brown stick? The boy was slightly built, so he wouldn't be much help anyway. Contrary to his train of thought, the blonde boy muttered a word under his breath and suddenly the little village was bombarded by a vicious storm that snuffed out torches and whipped at the people, snarling and screeching. It seemed to have a life of its own. The mob was disoriented, and after a slight pause, they ran for safety, crying "Witchcraft! Wizardry!" as they did. Yet how could the boy have been able to conjure the storm without being sent into spasms of agony? The dark-haired boy thought while being drenched by what seemed like buckets of water. The blonde-haired one blinked, and as though he had forgotten the boy existed before this, he put his stick in a pocket and extended his pale hand. The boy on the ground took it, and a pair of darkest black eyes met a pair of sky-blue ones. The black-eyed boy stood self-consciously. He tilted his head, and simply asked, "Who are you?"
The boy answered, sopping wet but with a good-natured grin that seemed to be permanently engraved on his face, "Godric. Godric Gryffindor."
In return, the dark boy with fair skin offered his reply.
"Salazar. Salazar Slytherin."