Godric Gryffindor is nine and there's blood on his hands and his heart pounding in his ears. The man lies in front of him: dead. He should leave. He should leave before the guards come and catch him, before the streets are so swarmed with panicked people that he can't move.
Run, you idiot, he hears his uncle say, in his memories.
He runs.
Godric is eleven and he's facing his first battlefield— steel on steel; copper; a glare of sunlight; a scream a name an oath of vengeance— and he looks forward and he looks back and he thinks: I do not want this.
Some nights he dreams of dead eyes.
And he thinks: I am stronger than my fear.
And he steps forward.
Godric is twelve and there's a kid (not a kid; he could be just as old as you are) on the streets with grey eyes like a storm and nimble fingers and—
Almost. Godric grabs the kid's wrist with one hand and pins him to the nearest wall with the other.
"Drop it," Godric says. He might be twelve but he's taller than the kid—broader, too.
The kid hesitates, then meets his eyes. Godric doesn't have time to think before— he snaps his Occlumency shields up (stupid, stupid, he shouldn't have dropped them in the first place) and a thought: the kid's a wizard— a split second of distraction and the kid's slipped from his grasp.
Godric lets him go.
There's nothing important in his wallet any—
Wait. No. The map. Godric curses—mildly, because his uncle would wash his mouth out with soap if he ever heard—and chases after the kid.
The kid's name is Sal and he's an orphan on the streets. That's nothing unique. There are hundreds of orphans in London alone, not to speak of the towns and villages and cities across Britain.
"Why'd you want it?" he asks, in a rough accent.
"That's none of your business," Godric says. "Just hand it over."
"I don't have it," Sal says.
"Look," Godric says, impatience flaring, "what the hell do you want?"
"I want," Sal says, "first, to know how the hell you can do that—" and he waves his hand around in a mimicry of Godric's wand movement— "and I want you to teach me."
"I can't teach you!" Godric exclaims. "It's not as though I know anything beyond the basics."
"And I know absolutely nothing," Sal says. "So. Deal or no deal?"
Maybe, Godric thinks desolately, he can ditch him once he gets the map back.
"Fine," Godric says.
"Alright," Sal says. "You start."
"No," Godric says. "I'm not doing anything until I get the map back."
"What," Sal snorts, "so you can just take it and run away? What do you think I am, stupid?"
"Fine," Godric sighs.
He spends the next month with Sal, teaching him the basics of magic. Every time he tries to bring up the map, he gets redirected, distracted, or otherwise occupied. And the worst part is, he doesn't notice the fact that Sal has turned his attention away from the map until the next time he thinks about it.
He's had enough.
"The map," Godric says, at breakfast.
"Don't you think it's too early for that?" Sal asks. There's a small fire between them, stale bread toasting on a stick.
"No," he says. He's resolved, this time, to actually get the map back. He's delayed for long enough.
He doesn't expect Sal to actually give it back to him.
"There," Sal says. "You happy?"
The issue is. Of course he should be happy but. The map is written in code. And it's not of anywhere that he recognizes.
He flips it the other way.
"No," Sal says, exasperated, "it's the other way."
"It's in code," Godric says.
"I hadn't realized," Sal says, dryly sarcastic.
"I can't read it."
"And that's my problem how?"
"Well," Godric says, "I might've been able to spend the last month deciphering the code if you hadn't distracted me."
"It's your fault for being distracted."
Godric glances up, sharply, only to notice the glint in Sal's eyes.
"I hate you," he says instead.
"Good luck deciphering it," Sal says instead—that bastard. He knows full well that Godric can't decipher codes to save his life.
But Godric just grits his teeth and resolves not to ask for help.
His resolve lasts an impressive week.
"Alright, then," Godric says, "if you're such a genius, why don't you decipher it for me?"
"It's the London underground," Sal says simply, without even glancing at the map.
"The what?"
"The criminal world," Sal says. "The cipher's standard for a couple gangs here."
"Well, that's certainly useful," Godric huffs.
"You know, if you would tell me what you're doing with that map, maybe I'd be able to help you," Sal says, amused.
"What, out of the goodness of your heart?" Godric snorts. "What do you want?"
Sal turns to face the street, away from Godric.
A few seconds, then flatly, Sal tells him, "I want to get out of here."
"Of London?"
"No," Sal says. "Out of this life on the streets. Out of this life of—struggling to survive."
"Help me with this," Godric says, "and I will do my very best."
It's a reconnaissance mission that Godric's has sent him on. Why his uncle would do such a thing, well, Godric will never know, but he knows Sal suspects deliberate sabotage.
"You'd never succeed at this without me," Sal says.
Godric grudgingly admits that it's true. He has no skill at being subtle.
In the end, it's Sal who takes over the mission, talks them both into and out of trouble—Godric has to admit, that sarcasm will get Sal killed one day (and he ignores how badly he doesn't want that to happen) but it's hilarious (when it doesn't go over his head)—and ultimately, it is Sal who tells him: there is my end of the deal, done.
They've known each other for half a year now, but it feels like a lifetime.
Godric doesn't want to part ways.
"Come with me," he blurts.
"I can't," Sal says. "Our paths don't lead to the same place."
Godric fulfills his end of the deal, of course—he doesn't break his promises—but he does it slowly, as though maybe Sal will change his mind. He doesn't.
So Godric leaves with the fear that he will never see Sal again, but also the knowledge, deep in his heart, that Sal is wrong: their paths will converge again.
He doesn't see him for another four years.
Godric is fifteen and he's killed more than most adults have.
He looks at his family—all he's ever known, his uncle and his aunt and the ghosts of his dead parents lingering on in everything he does—and he sees the destruction they wreak, the fires and broken homes that they leave behind.
He can't keep living like this, dead eyes and blood is thicker than water. He can't leave this behind: the thrill of the fight, never in the same place for too long, a campfire.
His uncle sends him to a castle (his first solo mission, without backup in sight and he should be happy that they trust him like this but he's not) on the behest of some nobleman. It's an inheritance issue, as it usually is. The lord is dead, there's no heirs, but—oh. This time: a rivalry between a bastard son (newly found) and the widow.
Godric's been sent to kill the bastard. This, at least, should be easy.
It's not.
He knows the bastard.
It's Sal. And he knows for certain that Sal isn't the bastard son of any lord.
He's welcomed into the castle as an old friend—he saved my life, once, Sal says—and it's a week before he manages to catch Sal alone.
"Are you here to kill me?" Sal asks in an elegant drawl that sounds so out of place, coming out of his mouth. "Let me guess. The brother threw a fit."
Godric doesn't want to admit that.
"Thought so," Sal wrinkles his nose and Godric's brought back to the first time they met.
Sal's grown up, since: shot up like a beanpole—and he's just as skinny. He's filled out slightly, no longer so gaunt and well. He's no longer a kid. Godric's still taller than him, though, and he holds that as a victory.
"It's not your family," he says. "Not your problem."
A pause.
"I've made this my home," Sal says, "over the past four years. I've made this my problem."
"Maybe," Godric says, "but the brother wants you dead. And whether or not you convince me, you can't convince him."
"Well then," Sal says, spreading his arms wide, "kill me."
"No!" The denial bursts from Godric's lips before he can stop it.
For a second, Sal looks so, so lost. But it doesn't last. Indifference slams back over Sal's face like a goddamn gate. And Godric is shut outside.
"What will you do instead, then?" Salazar asks, that cool edge back in his voice. "Even a fool would know that you can't lie to save your life."
Salazar pins him down with a stare. Godric forces himself to meet Salazar's eyes though it's the last thing he wants to do. He prepares himself for a flurry of images to bombard him, for Salazar to root through his mind like a goddamn library but it never comes. Godric doesn't bother with Occlumency shields. He would never hide from Salazar, anyways.
"I don't know," Godric says.
"He'll ask for proof, you know," Salazar says, as though they're not speaking of his death. "My head, probably."
Godric's mouth goes dry.
"I'm not going to kill you," he manages. "I don't know what you're doing—this—but you're not going to encourage me to kill you."
"One day," Salazar says, turning away, "you'll want to kill me without being encouraged."
Godric doesn't know what to say to that.
"I won't kill you," he repeats instead.
A week passes. His uncle must be getting suspicious. Although, Godric muses, he could argue that the last time he was able to stealthily kill someone was when he was nine. He doesn't talk to Sal again—doesn't see him except for the occasional glance in the hallways.
An owl arrives for him, the seventh day. It's a deadline: three days.
The first, he spends in a haze. He won't—can't—kill Sal, not his first friend. And yet—he cannot betray his family, the people who raised him. The second day he talks to Sal—no, it's Salazar now. Godric finds Salazar prefers the longer form of his name.
"I need to talk to you," Godric says.
"So do a hundred other people," Salazar replies, dismissively.
"Now," Godric says—no, demands.
"Can't it wait?" Salazar asks, not even looking up from his report.
"Absolutely not."
A pause.
"In case you haven't realized," Salazar says, "we are talking."
"Privately."
Salazar looks up, narrows his eyes.
"About—" Godric gestures at nothing in particular with his hands but he knows that Salazar understands what he means.
Salazar nods, dismisses everyone else with a flick of his hand.
Godric tells Salazar everything.
"Then you'll have to kill me," Salazar says.
Godric leaves the conversation frustrated and no closer to solving his dilemma.
Day three. He's outside, running laps around the castle.
I wish, he thinks, I could just run away, far away where no one can ever find me, far enough that I can make a new name for myself—a new future.
It halts him in his tracks. What's stopping him?
He makes his decision.
"Sal," Godric says, slamming the doors open, "we're leaving."
"If it's some new plant or animal you want me to see," Salazar says, "I'm not—"
"No," Godric says. "We're leaving. For good."
A flash of something in Salazar's eyes.
"Pack up," Godric says. "We need to get out of here before the brother's men arrive."
He doesn't expect Salazar to do as he says.
They're out of the city walls by mid afternoon. It's not a good head start. Not at all. They don't stop that night. Or the next. They only stop when Godric notices Salazar stumbling.
"Go to sleep," Godric says. "I'll keep watch."
Salazar doesn't fall asleep, not immediately.
"I'll bring you nothing but problems," Salazar says.
"I know," Godric says. "But you're my problem now."
"They'll know you betrayed them," Salazar says.
"Yes."
"Do you regret it?"
"No."
"You don't regret leaving behind everything you've ever known?"
"No," Godric says, again, and in the depths of his mind, his uncle says run; remember who your family is. "Everyone leaves home eventually."
The bonds to his family that gave him stability for so long only hold him back now. He might've done what was expected of him. But he would never be able to live with himself if he did.
"But I'll miss them," Godric adds, "even if we weren't ever really—"
Somehow, Godric can't bring himself to finish that thought.
"You look like you're going to collapse any second," he says, instead.
Sal looks up at him, eyes hazy and half asleep but so so alive.
"I'd never thought you—anyone, really—would have chosen me," he admits, a rougher accent slipping into his vowels. "I would never be able to do something as brave as that."
Godric opens his mouth to respond but Salazar's already asleep.
Godric is seventeen when he meets Helga. He and Salazar have been travelling on their own for two years, now, and oh the trouble they get into. They've had more near brushes with death than Sal would like and just the right amount for Godric to feel alive. They're toppled mad kings (alright, that was Salazar but Godric was there too!), fought zombie hordes (Godric), and laughed in the face of death (both of them; they're both insane) but Salazar itches for somewhere stable to learn and well, whatever he wants, Godric can't deny him.
So they settle in a small village on the edge of nowhere and Sal pulls out all the books he's collected (stolen) and never had the chance to read. Godric farms, helps out with the townspeople, takes all sorts of odd jobs here and there. And everything's domestic bliss. Until it's not.
"How was town?" Sal asks, once Godric comes back to their house, like a concerned housewife.
Godric hesitates.
"Our neighbor's daughter got sick today," he admits. "And he passed away last night."
Sal's jaw tightens. He looks away.
"We have," he says, "all this magic and for what?"
Sal's right. They're a formidable fighting force, on the battlefields but what's the fucking point if all they can do is kill people?
"Do you know," Sal says, "what the cause of the illness is?"
Godric shakes his head. Sal curses; Godric understands: he could make any potion perfectly, that would cure it if he knew what it was.
"It's no use worrying," Godric says and he might be able to convince Sal but not himself. "Go to bed."
Salazar puts his book away, extinguishes the candle. They're sharing a bed—have been, for years now—but there's still that centimeter of space between them that Godric longs to bridge. That he knows he will never bridge.
Then. Then. The next day, a healer and his family comes into town. Godric and Sal are at the marketplace when they arrive. It's a small troupe: a man, a woman, and their daughter. It takes Sal approximately three seconds to figure out that they're wizards and maybe another thirty to figure out what they're here for: it's a magical plague that sweeps across half the land. It doesn't answer the question of why they're here, in the middle of nowhere. They're from Norway. The daughter's two years older than Godric.
They start healing people as soon as they arrive. The death rate drops, for a week. Then; it's as though all their work has been ineffective. The plague comes back, twice as strong.
Godric manages to find the daughter, the second week.
"Good morning," he says.
The woman—she's nineteen, not a girl; she's older than him, for fuck's sake—barely looks up from where she's boiling bandages.
"I want to thank you," he says, "and your family. For helping, I mean."
She freezes.
"You're welcome," she says.
A pause.
"I'm Helga," she says.
"Godric."
She smiles at him, brightly.
"You probably don't want to stay long," she says. "What with the plague and all."
"Right," Godric says sheepishly. "I'll be seeing you around."
ashes on his tongue and there's a village burning, next to him. there's a corpse at his feet but he doesn't look down; crows; a bitter wind
his uncle says: we are family and family is forever
his uncle says: you should not have left
and beneath him the corpse stirs
looks at him with sal's eyes
looks at him with dead eyes
you killed me he says.
Godric wakes and Salazar is still there, sleeping next to him. He has nightmares of his own; Godric does not disturb him. Instead, he goes for a walk.
He doesn't expect to run into Helga.
"Good morning," she says, sitting on top of a barrel.
"Good morning," Godric replies with a bow.
"Bad dreams?" she asks.
Godric nods.
"Come sit next to me," Helga says, so Godric does.
They don't say anything to each other until the sun rises but it's a comfortable silence.
Godric finds out, two hours later, that Sal's invited her to dinner. They make idle chatter for the first half of the meal.
"I know what you are," Sal says, and Godric nearly jumps. They hadn't discussed this!
"Of course you do," Helga says, laughing. "I'm a healer."
"No," Salazar says, watching her intently. "I mean: a witch."
She freezes.
"Sal!" Godric says. To Helga, he says, "he means no harm. We're also—"
Sal slams his hand over Godric's mouth but Godric doesn't let that stop him.
"We're wizards," he blurts.
Helga slumps down in her chair.
"I thought you were going to kill me," she says.
Godric glares at Sal.
"You can't go terrifying people like that," he says.
Sal shrugs.
"I had to be sure," Sal says, as though he wasn't already sure.
"I want to know about magical society," he says to Helga.
They're had plenty of contact with magical society, Godric thinks, puzzled. What more could Sal want?
"You don't—" Helga starts.
"No."
"I mean, most muggle families, they—"
"I never knew my parents."
"And—" Helga says, turning to Godric.
"We were, I mean, magical," he says, "but never really a part of magical society."
So Helga tells them. About Greece and Rome and centuries of lost knowledge. About old families going extinct and witch burnings. And Godric's never prized knowledge above all else, not like Sal has but even he feels the loss.
The plague kills a quarter of the town. And when it's over and everyone's hurting, their family buried in a cemetery that's so much larger than it has the right to be, the village turns on Helga's family. It's nothing they could've seen coming. A child, five, goes home with stories of how Helga's father had made sparkles and butterflies from nowhere. So they take out the pitchforks and torches, storm the house where Helga lives in the middle of the night.
They drag the family out and Godric would rush in, sword drawn, but there are children in that crowd, ten and eleven, kids who are innocent in a way that Godric will never be.
Helga looks onward, defiant, fire burning in her eyes.
"Witch," someone screams. Another throws a stone at Helga, but it misses. Godric won't just watch anymore.
"Wait," he says, wishing he could have Sal's silver tongue. "How can you be so sure she's a witch?"
That calms the crowd, just a bit. But Godric's mouth goes dry and he doesn't know what to say next.
"The words of a little girl?" Sal's voice sound behind him. "Sick with a plague, feverish: who knows what she might have dreamed?"
A pause.
"This family, they risk their lives to save yours," Sal continues. "And this is how you repay them?"
Murmuring, now, breaks out among the crowd. And Godric lets himself hope, for a moment. Until Helga's father chokes, a sword skewering him. Helga's mother screams.
Godric doesn't think before acting: he barrels through the crowd, uncaring of who he knocks into. He gets there in time to grab Helga, but not for Helga's mother. There's a dagger through her neck and blood down her shirt and Godric reaches for Helga, grabs her by the arm and pulls her towards the edge of town. He half expects her to stumble but she doesn't, matching his stride. Godric doesn't look back for Sal; he can take care of himself.
They run deep into the woods. Godric would keep going, would try to outrun the villagers, but Helga tugs him to one side. There's a tangle of exposed tree roots, and they tuck themselves in the shadows. Helga casts a quick disillusionment charm.
"We'll have to leave eventually, you know," Godric says.
"Yes," Helga says, but she's pale and shaking.
Shit, Godric thinks. She's just watched her parents die in front of her.
"Do you," he says, "want a hug?"
She nods, wordlessly, and he hugs her. They stay there, hidden in the tangle of tree roots until the sun rises, until the last sounds of the villagers heading back can be heard. But they don't come out until Godric hears Sal calling his name.
"Thank God," Sal says, once he sees the two of them emerge. "I thought you had run off somewhere."
"No," Godric says. "We hid."
"Sounds like one of you had a brain," Sal continues. To Helga, he says, "how are you feeling?"
"As well as I could be," Helga says, eyes still red from crying, but her voice doesn't shake.
"Do you have," Godric says, "other family that you could go to?"
Helga shakes her head.
"No," she says. "And besides, I have a duty."
What she means doesn't sink in.
"To what?"
"To the people," she says. "I'm a healer. I swore an oath to heal those that I can wherever I can."
"Come with us, then," Godric says. "We travel around. It'll be nice to have some company."
He doesn't say: you shouldn't be alone, not after.
She hesitates.
"Alright," she says.
Sal casts him a glance. Godric can almost hear his words: what the hell are you thinking, inviting a stranger along? But Godric doesn't care.
They travel.
It's not even a month later when they meet Rowena.
They're in a seedy bar, all dim lighting and dirty wood. Godric hates this—the walls, the suffocating smoke, the gazes of the people there like carrion birds waiting for a hint of weakness. Godric hates how this reminds him of his own family. Next to him, Salazar shifts in his seat, swirling the last bit of mead in his cup. He must be as uncomfortable as Godric himself.
But the alcohol flows freely and so do the tongues, so really, this is the best place to be if he wants information (outside of the county sheriff's office, that is).
"Did you hear?" says one of the men in the back. "The lord's daughter's getting married."
That's news to Godric—he didn't even know there was a lord in these areas.
"It's some big affair," the man continues. "The King of England's coming, himself."
"The King of England?" another man scoffs. "What, isn't he fourteen?"
The table erupts in laughter.
There are no noble families in this area, or, at the very least, no noble families so well favoured by the King. Godric knows this. So that means—
They must be magical.
Next to him, Salazar shifts slightly, sipping at his drink.
Godric tunes back to the group, but they've gone off topic, talking about marriage and children and their farms.
The afternoon yields no other news, and by the time they stumble back to the inn, Godric's feeling a warm buzz in his head and Salazar is stumbling. Godric has to half drag Salazar into their room.
It's funny, he thinks, how Salazar has a reputation for being able to hold his liquor, and yet, gets drunk so easily. Godric drags Salazar into bed, and the wood creaks underneath their weight. Salazar flops, bonelessly—gracelessly, and what a shock, to see Salazar like that—onto Godric.
"Sal get off," Godric says, not expecting an answer. He doesn't get one.
In the morning, Salazar's missing and really Godric shouldn't be surprised but he can't stop the hurt from welling up. He goes outside, finds Helga's made friends with the innkeeper, her wife, and the neighbors. Godric has nothing better to do, so he joins them as they talk.
Salazar comes back around noon, with lunch and news.
"The resident lord is organizing a tournament," he says to Godric and Helga, in the safety of their room. "Whoever wins gets his daughter's hand."
A pause.
"You'd want to compete," Salazar says to Godric. "A lordship, at least half a million Galleons, and two hundred hectares of land. You could be set up for life."
"What, you aren't going to mention the wife?" Godric says, but it's half hearted. He doesn't want to get married, not to someone he doesn't know, not to someone he'd win like a trophy.
And besides. He can't imagine leaving his life of adventure.
(he can't imagine leaving Salazar)
"We should stay for the tournament," Godric says, look at Salazar for backup.
"There'll be people from all over," Salazar says. "Maybe we'll get some news."
It's agreed upon, then.
The tournament dawns with all of the expected fanfare and more. Free food, drunk people yelling in the streets, the distant clang of swords, and it seems as though everyone has left their houses in their brightest clothes, chattering. The King doesn't show up, though Godric had been doubtful that he would.
Godric dresses up in his nice clothes, the ones that aren't torn and singed at the edges from his misadventures, and bows courteously—exaggeratedly—to Helga, who hasn't bothered to change.
"Shall we?" he asks, as Helga takes his hand.
Salazar stays in their room and reads, shaking his head at their antics.
Godric and Helga go and watch the opening joust, yelling and screaming and vaguely Godric thinks that maybe he should've dragged Salazar along, much as he'd hate it. The competition is quite fierce, Godric realizes, with nearly two dozen trained knights—armour and squires and all—and even more people without that.
"Who do you think will win?" Helga asks Godric, during a lull, when they're sitting on the steps outside a tavern, eating their lunch.
"What's his name—the Norman looks pretty well prepared," Godric says, "though from the looks of him I'd say he's here for the political alliance."
"He doesn't look committed," Helga says. "Probably just here because he needs to be."
Godric considers that for a moment.
"Good point," he says.
A pause.
"That one looks prepared," he says. It's one of the anonymous knights, masked, faceless. "The one with the brownish—bronze—kerchief. That one."
"Well if you're certain," Helga says, then slips off.
It takes a moment for the words to sink in.
"Wait, Helga!" he says, but she's already slipped off.
When she returns, it's with less money and a betting slip.
"Who's the popular bet?" Godric asks.
"The Norman."
The tournament continues with no sign of the daughter. The Norman is quickly eliminated—Helga was right. The next popular bet—a young lord, English—advances to the final and to the surprise of everyone—except Godric and Helga—the bronze knight also makes it.
The last day, Godric finally manages to drag Salazar outside.
The joust ends very quickly when the English lord's foot catches on his stirrup and he overbalances just before his opponent's lance hits his chest. Stunned silence, for a moment. Then, the herald announces the bronze knight's victory.
Helga cheers, loudly, before slipping off to collect her prize money.
"The knight used magic," Salazar says. "There's no way the stirrup could have wrapped like that without magic."
The lord—Ravenclaw—descends from his seat.
"Our winner!" he announces. "Now if you please, remove your helmet."
The knight does so, and Lord Ravenclaw goes pale.
"Hello, Father," the knight—the daughter?—says.
"Rowena," Lord Ravenclaw says, but she doesn't let him speak.
"I won the tournament," she says, "which according to your terms would give me, and I alone, the right to marry your daughter. As such, I no longer have any obligation to marry any suitor you choose for me."
"Rowena, be reasonable," he says.
"I am," she says, walking away. The crowd disperses soon after.
Festivities over and no wedding in sight, the people diffuse out of the town. The three move on too, wallets heavier and spirits just a little bit lighter.
Godric doesn't expect to see Rowena again. At least, not until the three are in the forest, just outside of the town. They're talking, loudly, not quite expecting anything so close to the town, and they don't notice the trees getting denser and taller.
It's not until they reach the sphinx that they realize something's wrong.
"Hi," Helga says.
The sphinx makes a noise deep in her throat.
"May we pass?" Helga asks.
"Not unless you solve my riddle," the sphinx says. "I'll make it easy—for such a polite group."
A pause.
"I belong to you, but others use me more than you do. What am I?"
Godric doesn't think before he speaks.
"My dick."
Salazar hits him, hard. Helga doubles over with laughter.
"No," the sphinx says, looking very much as though she's trying not to laugh too.
Salazar is about to speak when a voice comes from behind them.
"Your name."
Godric turns around.
It's the bronze knight—Rowena Ravenclaw.
The sphinx looks almost disappointed but lets them pass.
"Thanks," Godric says awkwardly, to Ravenclaw. She ignores him.
They walk together to the edge of the forest.
"Here I'll leave you," Ravenclaw says.
"Aw," Helga says. "Stay for the night."
Godric doesn't expect her to accept but she does.
"You were great during the tournament," Godric says, trying to make conversation.
"I've been trained for years," she says.
"Do you want to—" Godric starts, but never finishes.
"Fight you?" she asks. "Yes."
Godric is certain that Salazar is laughing at him.
Godric and Rowena are very evenly matched. What advantage she has in strategy, he makes up for with years of experience. What advantage he has from strength, she makes up for with some truly incredible footwork.
"Alright, I'd really like to sleep now," Helga says, cutting them off. "Please, all this clanging is driving me insane."
"It isn't over," Ravenclaw says to Godric.
He agrees.
In the morning, Ravenclaw prepares to leave.
"Travel with us," Helga offers.
"Why should I?"
"It'll be fun," Helga says. "Besides, having company is always nice."
Ravenclaw doesn't look convinced but she agrees to stay with them for another day.
Godric drags them along on some adventure—a Blast-ended Skrewt is on the loose and of course we have to deal with it what do you mean Sal?
And at the end of the day, Ravenclaw looks at Godric, from across the campfire and asks, "is this what you always do?"
"More or less," Godric says. "Why?"
"That's the question," she says. "Why do you do this?"
"Because it's fun. And because I have a duty to the people."
Because maybe if he saves enough people, he can make up for those that he's killed.
"A duty," Ravenclaw asks, "or a debt?"
Godric doesn't answer.
"You know," she says. "You go out and fight all these things but maybe what you don't realize is that sometimes your greatest enemy is yourself."
"Maybe," Godric says.
"I think I'll stay for another day," Rowena says.
That day quickly turns into a week turns into a month, then a year. And when Helga asks Rowena again: "will you stay with us?" the answer is "yes."
Godric is nineteen and he never stops hearing his uncle's voice saying run; remember who your family is, but when he looks at Salazar, he is reminded that his family is here.
Sometimes he still dreams of blood and death but when he wakes up, Helga is there.
And when he is not enough never enough—he longs to be someone else—Rowena is there to remind him that sometimes it takes the most courage to face yourself.
For the first time in his life, Godric is home.