March, 876

He was absolutely certain he was about to die.

He'd heard stories about prisons before. Or, perhaps more properly, stories that involved prisons in them at some time or another. He never expected he would personally visit the Earl's dungeons. It was a dark, dank, cold place, the bare stone against his skin rough, wet, and freezing, so far entrapped against the sun there was no difference from night to day. Iron shackles bound his wrists and ankles, hard and heavy, already setting his skin to scab and bleed. He sat against the wall, naked, silent and waiting.

He wasn't entirely sure how long he'd been in here. Days, he suspected, judging by how much his throat hurt, how viciously empty he felt. They hadn't exactly been providing for him very well. He'd had a few visitors. Some from the Magistrate, some from the Church. They would ask him questions, mostly ones so nonsensical he didn't know how to answer, perhaps beat on him a little for that inability — apparently, they thought he was holding out on them, for some reason. He had no idea what they wanted him to say.

He hadn't meant to. It had just happened. He didn't know how.

Yes, he was absolutely certain he was about to die, any day now. Honestly, it would be something of a relief.

Echoing around in the darkness, he suddenly heard the steady tromp of heavy boots. From his time in here, he'd long ago learned exactly what that sound meant — one of the Earl's soldiers, pacing through the dungeons. Opening his eyes, he saw the faint white glow of an approaching light. The colour was a bit out of place — usually it would be the red-orange of a lamp — but otherwise familiar. The number of approaching guards was a bit peculiar. After a moment of listening, he picked apart three sets of footsteps, and only one was the steady, hard pounding of a soldier. The other two were softer. When they got near enough, the white in the hall through the door of his cell growing almost blinding, he noticed the subtle swishing of cloth in time with the softer steps. Probably some wealthier visitors, or clergy — the cloaks and robes they often wore were too expensive for common people.

He was a bit surprised when, after a little bit of muttering, he heard the characteristic clanging of his cell being unlocked. A moment later, the heavy door swung open, the whiteness stabbing into his eyes, momentarily blinding him.

When his vision finally adjusted, he wasn't entirely sure what to think of what he found. There were three strangers in his cell — the soldier, a man, and a woman. The soldier wore the leathers he would usually expect, but the man and the woman were a bit peculiar. Even ignoring the fact that he wouldn't expect a woman to be down here at all, they were both dressed in the clothes of the exceptionally wealthy — the man in long, thick, shining robes of black and silver, the woman in a somewhat lighter dress of blue, multiple rings glimmering on the man's fingers, silver glinting at the woman's throat. Both were young, not much older than he, perhaps twenty years or so. Even as he watched, the soldier slumped to the ground, leaning against the wall of the cell across from him, at the feet of the woman, who was holding a—

A wand. A quick glance at the man revealed he, too, had a smooth, intricately-carved length of shining wood in his hand. Though he hardly knew anything of the topic himself, he knew what that meant.

These two were mages.

Of course, the orb of glowing white light floating just under the ceiling should have told him that much.

A moment later, and the man was crouching in front of him, staring with dark, steady eyes set in a face framed in black, sharpened by the magical light. His voice soft and smooth, he said, 'Godric, mavy-Leofwine?'

For a second, he was a little confused. After a little while blinking to himself like an idiot, he realised that middle word wasn't Ænglisć at all — he thought it might be the native language the mages still mostly spoke. Once he managed to shake off a little more of his daze, he figured out what the man obviously must have been saying: Godric, son of Leofwine? 'Yeah, that's me.'

'I have two questions for you.'

This was quite possibly the strangest of his interrogations thus far. 'All right, then.'

'Why did you do it?'

Amazingly enough, that wasn't a question he'd gotten yet. He was so surprised by actually being asked a reasonable and comprehensible question he was dazed for some seconds. It didn't help that he didn't really have an answer anyway. 'I didn't mean to.'

The slightest of smiles crossed the mage's face. 'I figured you didn't. So why did you?'

He blinked for a second. 'I don't know. I was just—' He broke off, frowning to himself. He hadn't known he could do what he had done, much less how it had really happened. 'I was confronting one of the men in the village.'

The mage's gaze intensified, only for a moment, even as Godric remembered the conversation — if it could even be called that. 'Ah, yes. My own opinion such rapacious thuggery probably isn't any better than yours.'

'I see.' He really didn't know what else to say.

'So, you did not intend to kill all those people. The inferno you summoned was accidental, fueled by fury.'

'That's a thing that happens often, does it?'

The mage lifted his shoulders in a slight, casual shrug. 'Not particularly. Most people learn how to control their magic a little better than that by your age, and even then it would require an exceptionally powerful individual to do so without rune, focus, or incantation.'

Godric had absolutely no idea what most of that meant — save for one thing the man had implied. 'You mean, that was magic, what I did.'

'Obviously.'

'But I'm not a mage. I have no magic family, so far as I know.'

The man just shrugged again. 'Occasionally, magic spontaneously appears in a non-magical bloodline for reasons no one quite understands. Hroðwyn—' He tilted his head at the name, indicating the woman behind him, who was still pointing her wand steadily at the silent soldier. '—is one. You are another.'

Godric was a mage? He had absolutely no idea what to think about that information. The thought that he could be had just never occurred to him. The thought made him confused, even dizzy — which was something of an accomplishment, considering he was sitting steadily on solid stone.

'Which brings me to my second question.'

Might as well just ask. Like he had anything else to say. 'Yeah?'

The man smiled at him, a glint of teeth an unnatural white visible past his lips. 'How would you like to get out of here?'

In a matter of moments, the stranger had shattered Godric's restraints with a few twitches of his wand, created from nothing a robe for him to wear with a simple wave. Weakened from his captivity, he couldn't stand on his own, so he limped out of his cell with an arm around the mage's shoulder, half of his weight supported. He had a thousand questions, too many to really organise in his swimming head. But he asked one, just one: 'What's your name?'

With a grin barely visible from this angle, the man said, 'Silvahárr.'

January, 1991

With only the slightest of popping sounds, Derek Russell snapped into existence. He glanced around the alley for only a moment, confirming he was exactly where he intended to be, before setting off into the street.

A perfectly ordinary looking-man — soft-faced, broad-shouldered, conservatively-dressed, topped with a shock of red-orange hair — he attracted hardly any notice at all from the sparse men and women on the street. He walked steadily, not as though in a rush, but with a sense of having a distinct destination in mind. After walking for a couple calm minutes, he ducked under a sign into a pub. He wasn't entirely sure what the sign said — he could speak the local language well enough, but he couldn't read the script at all.

He didn't expect to be able to recognise the man he was looking for by sight. To be completely honest, he wasn't entirely sure the person he was looking for was even a man. But it really wasn't at all hard to spot him. Even when not actively casting, the magical signature of a wizard eleven centuries old is immediately obvious. Especially when surrounded by muggles.

Derek made his way through the tables, mostly unoccupied, stopping at the one bearing a single occupant. He looked to be maybe thirty, an unremarkable man with a bland face, tanned and lined skin under shaggy black hair. Visually, didn't stand out among the other patrons much at all. But Derek was rather sure he had the man's identity correct. Just to be sure, he quoted, 'A house divided can never stand.'

The man glanced up at him. 'A people divided can never flourish.'

There. Probably him. Derek pulled out an uncomfortable-looking wooden chair, fell to setting across the table. 'What name are you going by at the moment?' As he spoke, he worked a subtle cushioning charm into the chair. Much better.

'Grigor Vartanian.'

Derek winced. 'I guess there are local names harder to pronounce.'

'You didn't think I wanted to meet you in Hayastan on a lark.'

And Derek winced again — Grigor was speaking in Hayeren. He could get by in the language alright, but he was hardly fluent. And he thought his accent was probably a bit archaic. But, oh well. Grigor would probably switch languages before too long. He switched to match his language use just to be courteous. 'Still not sure why you made me come all the way out here. What is there around here, anyway?'

'My wards are here.'

Ah, yes. Grigor and his wards. Certainly couldn't leave those, even just to talk to Derek about...whatever this was about. 'At least we're not quite in an active war zone.'

'Never knew you to flee from a battle.'

'It's a muggle war zone, Grigor. I could get the ICW on my arse just for defending myself.'

'That would be amusing. Those bureaucrats in the ICW trying to punish you for violating the Statute of Secrecy.'

Derek had to smirk a little at the thought. 'Think if I told them my birth name they'd just let me off?'

'I doubt it'd be that easy, but their reactions would certainly be entertaining at the least.' They were interrupted momentarily by the acquiring of drinks — Derek got a very peculiar look when he ordered, so he guessed he probably did have a rather bad accent — but eventually they were properly alone again. 'So, what did you call me all the way out to this middle-of-nowhere country for?'

'Middle of nowhere? We really aren't that far from Akkad and Inner Persia, you know. Both are home to cultures that have been around roughly three times as long as Britain.'

'Yes, yes, I know. Just answer the question already.'

For a long moment, Grigor said nothing, just stared at him with that disturbingly intense gaze the man seemed to have no matter who he looked like at the time. Derek took a sip of his beer to pass the time, and immediately wished he hadn't — it was warm and terribly bitter. When Grigor finally spoke, he'd switched to Ænglisć. 'Have you been paying attention to recent events in Britain?'

Derek shrugged, a little uneasily. 'Probably not as much as I should have. Feels like I looked away for just a moment and a century passed. Didn't they have Dark Lord problems a couple years ago?'

'Yes. That's actually what I wanted to talk to you about.' Somehow, Derek managed to suppress a flash of annoyance when Grigor slowly sipped from his glass of wine instead of continuing immediately. 'I'm rather sure this particular Dark Lord violated the terms of the Njarðøy Accords.'

Derek frowned, running the name through his head a couple times. 'You're going to have to remind me what those are.'

'Not surprised you don't know,' Grigor said with the slightest of shrugs. 'It's an agreement I brokered between a few Norse Dark Lords, back in the thirteenth century. Amounts to international law for users of the Black Arts.'

'Isn't the use of the Black Arts already against international law?'

At that, Grigor gave him a look. 'It's not quite so simple as that. Practitioners of the darker magics, for the most part, don't interfere with each other. But the essence of the Njarðøy Accords that is still relevant today was a declaration of certain specific magics to be off-limits — if anyone is found to have used one of them, the peace is broken. Any practitioner can do whatever they want to the individual in violation without fear of reprisals from the others. It's mostly why the Black Arts have managed to survive hidden to the modern day as they have — we police ourselves.'

Derek decided all of that was reasonable. Most of it he was even pleased to hear — excluding especially those inclusive pronouns at the end. He'd long, long ago stopped trying to sway his oldest friend away from the Dark. Grigor was hardly the most despicable user of the Black Arts anyway — it wasn't like he was going around killing innocent people or anything — so he'd mostly just learned to let it go. 'And what sort of illicit magic is it that this Dark Lord has been using?' Steeling himself, Derek lifted his glass to take another sip of his beverage of questionable potability.

'I have reason to believe the Dark Lord styling himself Voldemort has made multiple horcruxes.'

Worst. Timing. Ever. Derek was suddenly gagging, forcing himself to alternate coughing and sneezing to try to clear his lungs and nose from the beer he'd managed to get all over where it shouldn't be with a single shocked snort. Beer really did not belong in noses. It stung something horrible, and he would just force it out and numb the area with a couple quick charms, but he couldn't concentrate through the stinging and gagging to do it wandlessly, and he really didn't think it smart to pull his wand out in—

Following a soft sigh from across the table, his nose and throat were both suddenly cleared, the irritating liquid disappearing with the clear texture of vanishing magic, a numbing charm quickly spreading over the affected nerves. 'You're as composed as always, I see.'

After taking a moment to breathe again, 'You did that on purpose.'

Grigor didn't deny it. He didn't say or do anything, really — just kept staring at Derek with a heavy sort of bored dispassion, as though dreadfully unimpressed.

'So.' Derek pushed the glass of beer further away, far enough he wouldn't be tempted to do something stupid like actually try to drink it. 'We have an immortal Dark Lord walking around is what you're telling me.'

'A particularly vicious Dark Lord, in point of fact. There have been British Dark Lords with greater kill counts, of course — I believe Cromwell is still the most deadly individual to ever ravage the Gaelic Nations.'

'Cromwell?' repeated Derek, frowning to himself. 'Wasn't that the leader of some Parliamentary revolt against the Crown? just before the Statute?'

'No, no.' Grigor actually sounded slightly impatient — though hardly noticeable, even that much emotion on his voice was a little unusual. 'Same time period, just a couple decades before the imposition of the Statute of Secrecy, but not the same person. The Dark Lady Cromwell was a cousin of the Oliver Cromwell the muggles speak of. At least, I think they were cousins — I never exactly met her.

'But as I was saying, this Voldemort was not especially violent, but he was especially vicious. Most Dark Lords will use torture and murder as a means to an end, yes, but this Voldemort will sometimes practice cruelty for the sake of cruelty. He cannot be entirely blamed for the sad state Britain is in at the moment, but I'm sure he made things worse.'

His frown only growing deeper, Derek had to blink at that. 'Sad state? What's wrong with Britain?'

Grigor stared at him for a moment, looking even more unimpressed, supremely disappointed. 'Have you been paying attention at all? When's the last time you've even checked up on your old homeland?'

With an uncomfortable shrug, he said, 'I don't know, honestly. It's been a while. I don't think I've set foot in the place before the Statute, and I haven't made as much of an effort to keep up as I probably should have. Been mostly flitting around America the last couple centuries.'

'I see.' And now he actually sounded disappointed — Derek could count on one hand the number of times, over eleven centuries of knowing him, he'd ever disappointed Grigor severely enough for his voice to actually sound it. Not counting the times he'd just hexed him and walked away, of course, but it'd been a while since he'd done that anyway. 'Well. You know how, after the Statute of Secrecy was originally imposed, there was a period of stagnation in virtually every magical culture? that extended for some decades, in some cases centuries, before the Renewal?'

That was a stupid question. 'Of course I do, you—' Then he broke off, putting together the significance of Grigor even mentioning that. 'You mean… You're saying the Renewal never reached Britain?'

'Little fits and starts of reform here and there, over centuries. Almost always entirely undone soon afterward by a counter-reformation from dominant conservative voices. Albus Dumbledore — you've probably heard of him — is High Enchanter at the moment, and he has been managing some progress over the last decades, but hasn't gotten very far. The legal structure of the government is virtually the same as it was when we left a millennium ago, penetration of new magics and industry is sometimes centuries behind more advanced nations, they still have some of the most stringent blood laws in all the world. No matter how much the United Council of Gaelic Peoples may perceive of themselves as the greatest magical nation in all the world, it is a simple fact that the place is, as the muggles would say, a third world country. And I fear Hogwarts isn't any better.'

For a long moment, all Derek could do was sit and blink. That was… Well, all that was very bad news. He'd had no idea his old home was doing so badly. A thought which made him feel rather guilty, honestly. Here he'd been, wandering around the world, idly studying whatever caught his fancy, occasionally intervening places the light of justice couldn't yet reach. But there Britain had been, all this time, waiting in darkness. He couldn't brood over his failure at the moment, though. There were things he had to— Wait a second. 'Hogwarts?'

Grigor sighed, just a little. 'Yes, it's what they've been calling the Academy at the Open Valley ever since the twelfth century or so. I honestly don't know where they got the name.'

Derek winced — that was a stupid name. But no matter, that wasn't the point of the discussion. 'You think there must be problems at the Academy?'

'For things in Britain to be so bad, it's only logical — if the Academy were properly educating each successive generation, things shouldn't have deteriorated so far.' That was a logical point, he had to admit. 'And reading between the lines in newspapers, history texts, and conversations with a few people, the Academy is far from what it once was. I'm honestly afraid to think of just how bad it might be. We've obviously been absent far too long.'

'What do you mean?'

Grigor gave him a hard, level look, staring at him steadily, directly in the eyes. 'The Gaelic Nations have been allowed to wander too far. Like children, they have no awareness nor care for the ultimate consequences of their actions, cannot see how century after century of inadvisable shortsightedness and selfishness is slowly suffocating the British people. It is about time the parents came home to set things to rights.'

Despite how depressing he found the thought of Britain being brought so low, despite the potential gravity of exactly what it was Grigor was suggesting, Derek couldn't stop his lips from twitching in amusement. Grigor always had had an amusing way with words. At least, when he wasn't being coldly intimidating, anyway. That was less funny. 'And how do you suggest we set things to rights?'

With a long sigh, Grigor sat further back into his chair, draining the remains of his wine. 'That's the crux of the issue, isn't it? Were it so simple as killing one immortal Dark Lord — which I do plan to get to work on when I have a moment — or convincing a few people of the folly of their actions, it would be simple enough, I could do it myself. But this problem is so much bigger. We essentially must reach everyone. The entire culture is corrupt, to the point the only way to reform it sufficiently is as a rising tide of public sentiment. My talents are in the shadows, subtle manipulations of people and events unseen — this is not the sort of thing I know how to do.' That was certainly true. Back in the day, Grigor had been absolutely deadly against single opponents, individual enemies who could be either violently or politically neutralised without anyone even noticing his hand. The bigger stuff, the quieting of mobs and the crippling of reactionary sentiment in general, he had always left to Derek and Helga. 'And on top of that, we should probably keep an eye on the Potter boy.

'No, this sounds like just the situation for one of your reckless schemes.'

Yes, he supposed it did. Not that he had any ideas immediately. He'd likely travel to Britain, wander around a bit to get the lay of the land, before even trying to think of anything. But he had another question. 'Potter?'

The slightest grimace of annoyance touched Grigor's face. 'Voldemort's corporeal body was destroyed over nine years ago now — though his spirit is preserved by his horcruxes, of course. It was a young muggleborn witch by the name of Lily Potter who managed to temporarily kill him. The little I've been able to discover suggests to me she set up a sacrificial exchange. While her husband distracted Voldemort, she set up the runes she needed, then simply let Voldemort kill her. With the payment of her life, her runic magic imbued her son with protection enough to not only survive Voldemort's killing curse, but reflect the curse back on him, reducing him to the spectral state in which he yet remains. From what I've been told, Lily Potter was a singular duelist, so I can only assume this course was chosen to ensure the boy's survival — a fight between mages of that calibre is rarely healthy for the bystanders, after all.

'But, for some inexplicable reason, it has instead entered the public consciousness that it was the boy, Harry Potter, who somehow bested Voldemort. I cannot imagine what they think a one-year-old toddler could have possibly done to resist a Dark Lord such as he, but it has become accepted fact in Britain. The Boy-Who-Lived they call him.' Grigor followed that with an almost unnoticeably quiet derisive snort, the slightest roll of his eyes.

While Derek didn't hold quite the disdain for the misinformed masses as Grigor obviously did, he had to admit that was a singularly ridiculous thing to believe. 'Why exactly would we have to keep an eye on him?'

'I would assume, due to the mythos accumulating around him, the boy would become quite a target for exactly the sort of people who will be our enemies in this imminent venture of ours. Watching for who moves against the boy or otherwise maligns him could tell us who we need to account for before they even become a direct threat.'

And there was the sort of thing Grigor was good at. Glad he'd thought of it — Derek wasn't sure if it would ever occur to him to use a child as bait. 'And where exactly is he? With relatives, I would assume?'

Grigor shrugged a little. 'I never managed to find out, actually. Most of his close relatives are either dead or in prison, and those that are neither have no knowledge of his whereabouts. His mother may have muggle family, but her records at the Ministry have either been lost or intentionally destroyed. No one has any idea where he is. He will be starting at Hogwarts this fall, but that's all I know.'

And Derek frowned at himself, his thoughts suddenly nowhere near this little pub in backcountry Hayastan. He thought for a moment, ensuring for himself that this idea he was suddenly having wasn't completely crazy. It was definitely partially crazy, but hopefully not completely — he'd rather not mention a completely useless idea in front of Grigor of all people.

But Grigor had known him too long, was far too perceptive, not to notice something had occurred to him. 'Spit it out, Derek.'

He hesitated for only the shortest of seconds. 'I'm having the wildest idea right now. Let me walk through the whole thing before you start mocking me.'

March, 1991

'Lord Elpidis Smethwyck?'

Eli started, his heart jumping nearly into his throat. He whipped around, turning on his heel to spot the owner of the voice, somehow intruding all the way into this hall, deep in his home. When he found the intruder, his voice died in his throat. It wasn't just what he looked like, though that was impressive enough — a tall, broad-shouldered, well-muscled man with thick, wavy hair a deep red flowing from head and face nearly to his waist. He felt different. Magic emanated from him like heat from the sun, a constant, burning force so thick he could almost see it, so intense he felt the warmth of it on his skin. He abandoned his hand's half-started motion toward his wand — this was certainly not someone he wanted to fight. 'Who are you?'

The man shrugged, an easy smile stretching his lips. 'The name isn't entirely accurate, but you would know me as Godric Gryffindor.'

Eli had absolutely no coherent response to that. All he could do was stare, eyes wide almost to the point of bulging, nothing passing his lips save for a weak 'Eeehhhhhh…..'

With a slightly wider smile, the aura of comforting heat and frightening power lessened noticeably, and the ancient wizard tipped his head toward Eli's study. 'Come. I have something of a proposition for you.'

His legs moved automatically, obediently following the intruder through his own home. What was he going to do, refuse Godric Gryffindor?

One moment, everything was perfectly ordinary. Ciara was alone in her study, aimlessly writing a letter she didn't intend to ever actually send. The next, everything spontaneously stopped making sense.

Appearing with complete silence, without even the slightest pop of apparition, there was suddenly a woman sitting on her desk, just past the top of her parchment. She sat cross-legged, her arms settled on her knees, expensive-looking black and green robes settled in a shimmering pool around her. She wore jewelry — a few rings on her fingers, a silver necklace dipping under her robes — but instead of family crests or precious stones they were all inscribed with inscrutably dense runes. She was young, perhaps thirty, her sharp face home to eyes as dark as the long, midnight-black hair framing it.

Acting mostly from reflex, Ciara had already drawn her wand, was in the process of brandishing it properly when the woman calmly lifted a hand. So quickly and so gently Ciara almost didn't notice, her wand slipped from her hand, flicking over to the stranger's. 'None of that, now,' she said in a smooth, flat voice. Almost anticlimactic, really. 'You would be Lady Ciara Selwyn?'

Ciara had to frown at that. 'You break into my home and that is your first question? And how did you get in here anyway?' She mentally checked the wards quick. 'The anti-apparition ward is still up.'

In a calm, easy sort of tone, the woman said, 'That would be why I didn't apparate. And I was only confirming I had the right person. It would be such a hassle to have to memory charm someone for the dubious crime of being someone other than you.'

This was very, very peculiar. But by now, her surprise and annoyance had both wound down, and she was mostly just curious. Besides, if the woman had intended to assassinate her, she would have already. 'And who are you, exactly?'

'I have gone by many names. I've honestly lost track by now. But the one you would have heard was Silvahárr of House Syltheris.'

Ciara couldn't help snorting at that. The name as used had changed a bit over centuries of linguistic drift and shifting traditions, but the original name had been preserved to be found by those who cared enough to look. 'Ignoring for a moment that Salazar Slytherin died over a thousand years ago, he was a man.'

The woman cocked her head a little, her dark gaze narrowing slightly, focus intensifying to the point it was almost tangible. Her voice, though, was still perfectly level. 'Now, now. Do you honestly think someone as old and powerful as I—' In the space of a syllable, the air around them suddenly changed. Before, there had only been the fluttering of their own magic around them, the almost absent echoes of the enchantments all around. But something new exploded into existence — the penetrating bite of the coldest winter, the visceral relief of refreshing waters, the unbound power of spring lightning. Ciara drew in a shuddering breath at the feel of the magic now exuded by the stranger, even as she spoke on. '—can't be whatever I wish? Though, to be completely honest, being able to do this has nothing to do with being powerful or old. I was born a metamorphmagus, you see. But that is not what I am here to talk to you about.'

Ciara took a short moment, working her mouth in a vain attempt to remove the sudden dryness that had struck a moment ago. She eventually managed to say, 'And what is that?'

'I would like to make something of a trade.'

Ænglisć (IPA: [eŋ.glist͡ʃ]) — Old English in Old English

Yeah — the word Godric is saying here is gēa (IPA: [jæ:ɑ]), the more casual Old English word for "yes" (which would be too formal for someone in his state and level of education). That I actually took a moment to consider that proves how much of a nerd I am.

Hroðwyn — This name would eventually be modernised to Rowena. This name is of mixed etymology: hrod is Germanic and wyn is Brythonic. I know there is no support for Rowena being muggleborn in canon, but I'm playing with canon so much anyway, so fuck the police.

Silvahárr — This name would eventually be modernised to Salazar. This name is also of mixed etymology: silva is Romance and hárr is Nordic.

And yes, I know, I changed both Rowena's and Salazar's original names. I can't help it — they are just so completely inappropriate for their place and time. Godric and Helga, at least, keep their first name.

Hayastan/Hayeren — Armenia/Armenian

Njarðøy — Old Nordic place name, Nærøy in modern Norwegian

Academy at the Open Valley — "Open Valley" refers to the gap between mountains that contains Hogwarts, Hogsmeade, and their immediate surroundings. I created the term by guessing at possible etymology for Hogsmeade. Because, obviously "Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry" wasn't the original name of the place. Firstly, it would have had to have been in Old English or some other language (Scottish, Brīþwn, Latin…); but even then, they wouldn't have been able to use the Old English version of "school," since the word meant something entirely different at the time. Secondly, "Hogwarts" is a stupid name. I refuse to believe any of my headcanon Founders ever would have gone along with it for even two seconds.

Syltheris — Συλθηρις (far as I know, not a real word, I made it up)

Two new stories in one day? It's like Christmas up in here.

This will mostly be me playing around with the characters who have irrevocably become my headcanon Founders. In case it wasn't obvious, they're not quite the same as they're implied to be. Slytherin doesn't care about muggleborns much one way or the other, for one. Some chapters — maybe most or even all, we'll see — will start with flashbacks to the ninth and tenth centuries, which can be assumed to be canon history for my other stories. I mean, modifications to canon canon that hold for all my fanfics. Because I just have to make things complicated

The non-flashback parts, however, are essentially for-the-shiggles crack fic. I originally got the idea from Skype conversations with a friend of mine, where we were randomly making little silly Gryffindor–Slytherin conversations for the fun of it, until it grew to the point that a story appeared in my head, and I had to do it. My brain gives me little choice like that.

This fic will likely update very irregularly. I'll be posting whenever I happen to have a chapter done, however often that will be.

Until next time,

~Wings