Author's Note:
The sheer volume of people who claim that the Founders spoke anything resembling Modern English or even Middle English amuses me. The attempt here is to create Founders of reasonable historical accuracy, and as such there will be no dialogue as yet, as I do not care to translate everything into the Old Scandinavian or Latin or various flavors of Gaelic in which things would be spoken. Historical fidelity is attempted with some care, but certain things will certainly slip through the cracks-inevitable considering the language postdates the story. Ah well. This is during the first reign of Aethelred Redeless in Wessex, or as he is now known Aethelred the Unready or Aethelred II.
I have never spoken to Godric Gryffindor.
We sit at the same table and eat from the same dishes, teach the same students and live in the same fortress, but we are nothing alike. He, a half-Scot amalgamation of native barbarians, speaks only their odd and backwards language, while I am a student of Latin and fluent in most of its derivative tongues from a young age. Not that we would have reason to speak even if we could comprehend each other. I understand him well enough as it is, and he does not need to understand me to despise me.
Often I wonder why I am here, in a little enclave of temporary stability between the Scots and the Danes, here at Hogwarts. I am far from my native land, far from people whom I might hope to mingle with freely. Old and set in my ways, I cannot even speak the local pidgin of the Angles and Saxons and Jutes and gods know what else well enough to pass as either, or even as a Dane.
Why do I stay here? I have a wife and son, but they would do well enough without me. I am not particularly attached to them other than the fact that they are of my blood. I am not raising a companion. I am raising a successor.
I glance over to the long wooden table, seeing my son at the head. He has finished his apprenticeship here, and now he learns from me what he must to keep the rabble in line. I am proud of him- he is a worthy heir. My blood runs strong in him. And it is said that his mother's line bore Merlin himself.
A thin smile graces my features as I look over the others at my table in this low hall. Stone, of course, though that shocked the others. I will not live in a firetrap, especially amongst Muggles. I have seen the Mohammedan fortifications in my native Iberia-there is none who know how to fight muggles better than the muggles themselves and it would be foolish to ignore the lessons to be learned. And we will be attacked by Muggles…the local cultists celebrated the thousandth year from their godling's birth by besieging us a few years ago. Mad, all of them. My students are not the disorganized natives that carouse across the aisle, but rather as many from the Latin tradition as I could find, peppered with Danes and precious few non-Bretons.
Helga is translating for me now, as a messenger has arrived in haste. Dane, and Muggle. I try not to scowl at him, as he belongs to Helga just as I do in my own way. Some confusion- the king of Wessex has ordered the slaughter of all Danes in his kingdom. Typical barbarism. I return to my meal, idly glancing up as a pair of my protégés jump back from the table, wands out. A minor challenge, nothing worth watching. Looking at Helga, I see the faintest of lines upon her brow even as she smiles brightly at her own students.
It often boggles me how the extraordinary witch that is Helga Haroldsdóttir can see any worth in her Hufflepuffs. They are not as bright as Rowena's students are, nor as cunning as mine, but to their credit they are not as foolish and hotheaded as Godric's. They are rather despicably ordinary, and happy in their place and their simplicity. Helga will never be backstabbed by her students, but the price of their unswerving loyalty is whatever higher mental capacity they possessed. There is no challenge in teaching Hufflepuffs, no discussion, no backtalk. Their slavish devotion is like Muggles with their gods, caliphs and kings.
That, of course, may be the idea. Helga Haroldsdóttir is, after all, Mud-born. I respect her more for it, for tearing herself away from her Muggle prejudices, embracing witchcraft and surpassing in her quiet way the greatest of us. She can take my wand in a fair-fought duel – though we have never dueled in public. She is unwilling to fight for the head of the table, unlike I – but her advice is better heeded than not, and she can get her way without posturing, without antagonizing the others, without them even realizing that it is her will being done and not theirs. She has power over me as my translator, conveying my meaning to the other two, and their meaning to me. She can put words in my mouth, and I suspect she has on occasion. She is my ears as well
We use each other, mind- I am not solely a pawn of her wiles. She cannot interpose herself between me and my serpents, and all of Slytherin now knows enough Latin to understand me without need for clarification.
I have power over her as well, as I maintain her cover. Godric and Rowena suspect nothing of the more intricate threads of our relationship. They know nothing of the dynamics of power, content in mooning at each other when they think the students are not watching. They know nothing more of Helga than the sweet, innocent Mudblood. As always, I see further than them, always.
Helga leaves with her Muggle husband, a tolerant sort who runs his household independent of hers, only wishing to ally himself with her family. They have a daughter, a fair lass of fourteen now, and undeniably without any magic to speak of. Helga cherishes her still, but at that age it would be more prudent to marry her off to some muggle seeking a marriage- alliance and let her be. It is not good to be attached between the worlds, as it only leads in the end to destruction, and betrayal. I know this from bloodprice, from painful memory
Another duel- my son, Iulus the Sly, is being challenged by an alliance of several Danes. He fights them off, of course, and maintains his seat. I have taught him well.
Something in the air. I leave without bothering to excuse myself, heading down through the diggings of Hogwarts, the underground chambers molded with magic from the solid rock (mostly my magic, I dare say). My steps take me inexorably to the badger cete…and I smell blood.
It is not a pretty sight. I freeze upon seeing them crumpled piteously to the floor. They are long gone now. I gently turn them over, to have my worst fears confirmed.
Helga Haroldsdóttir is dead. Not a wizard's duel-bludgeoned to death from behind like a Muggle. Her wand is still in her hand, but it does her no good now. Her husband is likewise arrayed. Ambush in her own halls…
My mind races, trying to link the pieces together. The messenger at dinner…the King's orders… Bretons. Mudbloods. I whirl, wand out, as I sense movement in the corridor. One of the –enemy- stands behind me, hand over his mouth, unsuccessfully feigning surprise. I know he is guilty; it is a weakness of his Muggle blood. Seeing the look on my face, he sputters hurried denials in his own tongue. I do not catch more than a few garbled words. I am beyond caring. He dies, too quick by far, but his screams wake Godric and Rowena from their mutual stupor.
We face over wands, over the dead bodies of two mudbloods and a Muggle. Godric looks down, and then looks at me, eyes narrowing. I want to scream at him, tell him to beware…but I retreat, leaving them behind. They do not pursue, confused now, but they will.
I rouse Sæuðr Helgadóttir from her slumber; tell her plainly her parents are dead and that she should follow me. She obeys, probably frightened out of her wits. I take her down to my own sanctum, trying to think things through. Everything is happening too fast. At least Godric cannot reach me down here. I cannot stay here. I will not hold an unfriendly Hogwarts by myself, will not stay where her blood stains the stones. Instructing the serpent, my dear Ouroboros, to keep my faith and avenge Helga, I wait for the dawn.
My work will be continued, I know it; know it more when Iulus joins me, eyes dark with confusion. He is not a Parselmouth, cannot speak to the Serpent, cannot be my heir in truth- but he is in blood. We speak as if it is our last meeting, which it will be. I leave Slytherin in his hands, and Sæuðr as well. Muggle murderers will not extinguish Helga's blood so basely. In time, through generations upon generations, perhaps she will bear a witch worthy to succeed my Helga.
Godric thirsts for my own blood now, I am told. I cannot stay here any longer, this fortress no longer safe from the Muggles or even the less perceptive of my own kind. Nowhere is safe, in truth.
I will have to build safety for myself. And I know where I must go. After intercepting the fatal courier and informing him in broken language that Helga and her husband have been foully murdered by the barbarians, I leave in good conscience, setting out on the long road to Azkaban, sowing the seeds of war as I go.
The sheer volume of people who claim that the Founders spoke anything resembling Modern English or even Middle English amuses me. The attempt here is to create Founders of reasonable historical accuracy, and as such there will be no dialogue as yet, as I do not care to translate everything into the Old Scandinavian or Latin or various flavors of Gaelic in which things would be spoken. Historical fidelity is attempted with some care, but certain things will certainly slip through the cracks-inevitable considering the language postdates the story. Ah well. This is during the first reign of Aethelred Redeless in Wessex, or as he is now known Aethelred the Unready or Aethelred II.
I have never spoken to Godric Gryffindor.
We sit at the same table and eat from the same dishes, teach the same students and live in the same fortress, but we are nothing alike. He, a half-Scot amalgamation of native barbarians, speaks only their odd and backwards language, while I am a student of Latin and fluent in most of its derivative tongues from a young age. Not that we would have reason to speak even if we could comprehend each other. I understand him well enough as it is, and he does not need to understand me to despise me.
Often I wonder why I am here, in a little enclave of temporary stability between the Scots and the Danes, here at Hogwarts. I am far from my native land, far from people whom I might hope to mingle with freely. Old and set in my ways, I cannot even speak the local pidgin of the Angles and Saxons and Jutes and gods know what else well enough to pass as either, or even as a Dane.
Why do I stay here? I have a wife and son, but they would do well enough without me. I am not particularly attached to them other than the fact that they are of my blood. I am not raising a companion. I am raising a successor.
I glance over to the long wooden table, seeing my son at the head. He has finished his apprenticeship here, and now he learns from me what he must to keep the rabble in line. I am proud of him- he is a worthy heir. My blood runs strong in him. And it is said that his mother's line bore Merlin himself.
A thin smile graces my features as I look over the others at my table in this low hall. Stone, of course, though that shocked the others. I will not live in a firetrap, especially amongst Muggles. I have seen the Mohammedan fortifications in my native Iberia-there is none who know how to fight muggles better than the muggles themselves and it would be foolish to ignore the lessons to be learned. And we will be attacked by Muggles…the local cultists celebrated the thousandth year from their godling's birth by besieging us a few years ago. Mad, all of them. My students are not the disorganized natives that carouse across the aisle, but rather as many from the Latin tradition as I could find, peppered with Danes and precious few non-Bretons.
Helga is translating for me now, as a messenger has arrived in haste. Dane, and Muggle. I try not to scowl at him, as he belongs to Helga just as I do in my own way. Some confusion- the king of Wessex has ordered the slaughter of all Danes in his kingdom. Typical barbarism. I return to my meal, idly glancing up as a pair of my protégés jump back from the table, wands out. A minor challenge, nothing worth watching. Looking at Helga, I see the faintest of lines upon her brow even as she smiles brightly at her own students.
It often boggles me how the extraordinary witch that is Helga Haroldsdóttir can see any worth in her Hufflepuffs. They are not as bright as Rowena's students are, nor as cunning as mine, but to their credit they are not as foolish and hotheaded as Godric's. They are rather despicably ordinary, and happy in their place and their simplicity. Helga will never be backstabbed by her students, but the price of their unswerving loyalty is whatever higher mental capacity they possessed. There is no challenge in teaching Hufflepuffs, no discussion, no backtalk. Their slavish devotion is like Muggles with their gods, caliphs and kings.
That, of course, may be the idea. Helga Haroldsdóttir is, after all, Mud-born. I respect her more for it, for tearing herself away from her Muggle prejudices, embracing witchcraft and surpassing in her quiet way the greatest of us. She can take my wand in a fair-fought duel – though we have never dueled in public. She is unwilling to fight for the head of the table, unlike I – but her advice is better heeded than not, and she can get her way without posturing, without antagonizing the others, without them even realizing that it is her will being done and not theirs. She has power over me as my translator, conveying my meaning to the other two, and their meaning to me. She can put words in my mouth, and I suspect she has on occasion. She is my ears as well
We use each other, mind- I am not solely a pawn of her wiles. She cannot interpose herself between me and my serpents, and all of Slytherin now knows enough Latin to understand me without need for clarification.
I have power over her as well, as I maintain her cover. Godric and Rowena suspect nothing of the more intricate threads of our relationship. They know nothing of the dynamics of power, content in mooning at each other when they think the students are not watching. They know nothing more of Helga than the sweet, innocent Mudblood. As always, I see further than them, always.
Helga leaves with her Muggle husband, a tolerant sort who runs his household independent of hers, only wishing to ally himself with her family. They have a daughter, a fair lass of fourteen now, and undeniably without any magic to speak of. Helga cherishes her still, but at that age it would be more prudent to marry her off to some muggle seeking a marriage- alliance and let her be. It is not good to be attached between the worlds, as it only leads in the end to destruction, and betrayal. I know this from bloodprice, from painful memory
Another duel- my son, Iulus the Sly, is being challenged by an alliance of several Danes. He fights them off, of course, and maintains his seat. I have taught him well.
Something in the air. I leave without bothering to excuse myself, heading down through the diggings of Hogwarts, the underground chambers molded with magic from the solid rock (mostly my magic, I dare say). My steps take me inexorably to the badger cete…and I smell blood.
It is not a pretty sight. I freeze upon seeing them crumpled piteously to the floor. They are long gone now. I gently turn them over, to have my worst fears confirmed.
Helga Haroldsdóttir is dead. Not a wizard's duel-bludgeoned to death from behind like a Muggle. Her wand is still in her hand, but it does her no good now. Her husband is likewise arrayed. Ambush in her own halls…
My mind races, trying to link the pieces together. The messenger at dinner…the King's orders… Bretons. Mudbloods. I whirl, wand out, as I sense movement in the corridor. One of the –enemy- stands behind me, hand over his mouth, unsuccessfully feigning surprise. I know he is guilty; it is a weakness of his Muggle blood. Seeing the look on my face, he sputters hurried denials in his own tongue. I do not catch more than a few garbled words. I am beyond caring. He dies, too quick by far, but his screams wake Godric and Rowena from their mutual stupor.
We face over wands, over the dead bodies of two mudbloods and a Muggle. Godric looks down, and then looks at me, eyes narrowing. I want to scream at him, tell him to beware…but I retreat, leaving them behind. They do not pursue, confused now, but they will.
I rouse Sæuðr Helgadóttir from her slumber; tell her plainly her parents are dead and that she should follow me. She obeys, probably frightened out of her wits. I take her down to my own sanctum, trying to think things through. Everything is happening too fast. At least Godric cannot reach me down here. I cannot stay here. I will not hold an unfriendly Hogwarts by myself, will not stay where her blood stains the stones. Instructing the serpent, my dear Ouroboros, to keep my faith and avenge Helga, I wait for the dawn.
My work will be continued, I know it; know it more when Iulus joins me, eyes dark with confusion. He is not a Parselmouth, cannot speak to the Serpent, cannot be my heir in truth- but he is in blood. We speak as if it is our last meeting, which it will be. I leave Slytherin in his hands, and Sæuðr as well. Muggle murderers will not extinguish Helga's blood so basely. In time, through generations upon generations, perhaps she will bear a witch worthy to succeed my Helga.
Godric thirsts for my own blood now, I am told. I cannot stay here any longer, this fortress no longer safe from the Muggles or even the less perceptive of my own kind. Nowhere is safe, in truth.
I will have to build safety for myself. And I know where I must go. After intercepting the fatal courier and informing him in broken language that Helga and her husband have been foully murdered by the barbarians, I leave in good conscience, setting out on the long road to Azkaban, sowing the seeds of war as I go.