A quick note for those who don't know anything about British history: in 1066, Duke William of Normandy (a region of France) invaded England, claiming that he and not the current king Harold Godwinson had been the heir of the late King Edward the Confessor. At the Battle of Hastings on October 14th, 1066, Harold was killed and his army defeated, and William was crowned king. This brought an end to Anglo-Saxon England as it was known at the time and infused British culture with that of the Norman Frenchmen, which, culturally at least, led to the England we know today. However, William's cruelty was legendary, and it also led to a series of mass murders, bloody repressions of rebellions and famines – events which decimated the Anglo-Saxon population and supported the traditional, brutal feudal system which was common throughout Europe.

Summary: England is changing, and the legend of the Hogwarts Founders is about to begin in the middle of bloodshed and terror. The year is 1066.

Disclaimer: The world of HP belongs to JKRowling, and I take no credit what-soever for her creation. Original characters (which will be obvious) are mine.

Mirabile Dictu

Chapter 1: Godric

"Foreigners grew wealthy with the spoils of England, while her native sons were either shamefully slain or driven as exiles to wander hopelessly through foreign kingdoms…"

– Orderic Vitalis, Norman monk, 12th century –

"Here at the world's end, on its last inch of liberty, we have lived unmolested to this day, defended by our remoteness and obscurity. But there are no other tribes to come – nothing but sea and cliffs and these more deadly [invaders whose arrogance you cannot escape by obedience and self-restraint! To plunder, butcher, steal – these things they misname Empire! They make a desolation, and they call it – peace!"

– Roman historian Tacitus, supposedly a speech by Scottish resistance fighter Calgacus, on the invasion of England by the Romans in the first century –

October 21st, 1066

It was a wholly unremarkable day in the village of Skara Brae, tucked away in a small valley in the Southeast region of what most people called Britannia. Smoke bustled merrily from cooking-fires inside houses, children ran and played in the muddy alleyways, old women wove as they sat gossiping outside their respective doorways, the men farmed in the fields on the little settlement's outskirts. And in the Forge, Godric of Skara Brae was putting the finishing touches on a magnificent axe.

The young man was tall and strapping, his muscles well-developed from working constantly with tough iron, his shirtless chest gleaming with sweat from the heat of the forge. Auburn hair – a most unusual color for a man in that part of England, and much envied throughout the little village – fell messily into his eyes as he pumped the bellows of the furnace, forcing heat onto the edge of an axe almost finished. Pulling it out of the flames, Godric lifted a hammer he pulled from his belt and struck – once, twice, three times onto the glowing metal, then, grabbing the axe-head with a pair of metal tongs, thrust it into a wooden tub filled with water. A loud hiss burst through the air, and a cloud of steam rose steadily, filling the small thatched hut.

"Is that my axe you're finishing?" a loud, booming voice called from the doorway. Godric looked up through his bangs as sunlight poured into the hut. He grinned at Math, the village leader, whose bald head and huge brown beard gave him the impression of a bear crossed with a very fat monk.

Godric grinned at the intruder. "Good morrow, Math! It certainly is," he said cheerfully, holding up the now cool and hardened axe head from the bucket of water. "I'll just fit it with a staff for you," he continued, crossing the hut and lifting a short stick of smooth wood, forcing one end of it into the opening in the axe head, where it fit snugly. Flushed with success at his handiwork, he handed the axe over to Math. "There," he said proudly. "That ought to serve you well."

"My thanks, Godric," Math said, smiling back delightedly. "Your father would have been proud of the work that you do here – we were all devastated when he passed on, but you have filled his shoes at the Forge admirably."

Godric grinned again. "Thanks, Math – "

"Godric!" he was interrupted by a thin, reedy voice calling from behind Math in the doorway. Looking over Math's shoulder, Godric made out the bent form of Hester, the village's healer and local wise woman, said to be versed in the ancient arts of the Druids – although everyone in the village was Christian and worshipped in the tiny church on the edge of the valley, old traditions ran strong, and no one would speak out against ancient British rites, rituals which were said to come from before the Romans. She smiled toothily at Godric.

"I just wanted to thank you for gathering those herbs I needed," Hester croaked. "My old legs don't work so well any more, so you getting them for me was a blessing. Oh, and Math," she added carelessly, disregarding Godric's smile of proud satisfaction at having helped her, "A horseman is coming down the forest path, I thought you should know. Perhaps it's young Gwyn," she said over her shoulder as she turned, shuffling out of the doorway and back into the bright sun.

Gwyn Cedricson, Godric's informal brother, was a soldier of King Harold – not one of the Huscarls, Harold's royal guard, nor the thegns, or half-professional fighters, but one of the fyrd – a man bound to serve two months of every year in the king's army. Godric had often said that there was no other profession which suit Gwyn so well as soldiering – tough, brawny, and calm in the face of danger, the twenty-six year old warrior was as close as anyone in the village had come to being a true fighter. His skills with an axe were the envy of several settlements, and only Godric ever came close to defeating him at wrestling, even when they had both been children.

Now Gwyn's two-month term of service was over – it had been over, in fact, for several weeks, but events throughout England had prevented him from returning. The whole village had heard of King Harold's desperate march to Stamford Bridge in the north, fighting a desperate battle against a force of Norsemen led by the fearsome Norwegian king Hardrade and King Harold's own brother-turned-traitor, Tostig. Harold had been victorious at the Bridge, but had rushed back again immediately to the South Coast, where, it was rumored, a great battle had been fought between the Anglo-Saxons and a huge invading force led by William the Bastard, the French-speaking Duke of Normandy. No one had heard any news of that battle or of Gwyn – but Godric, as callous as it might have seemed to others, was not worried for his friend. Gwyn, he had often joked, could withstand anything – even the foul healing potions of the batty old Hester.

"Bet you it is Gwyn that's coming," Godric said cheekily, grinning up at Math through his sooty hair.

"Bet you it isn't."

"Bet you a sword it is."

"You've got extra swords just hanging around, do you?" Math chuckled. "All right, done. Come on."

The two men ducked out of the Forge, Godric pulling on a worn leather tunic which he had hung near the doorway, fastening a supple leather belt over it. The village was peaceful, the quiet broken only by the happy shrieks of children as they played and wrestled with each other. The sound of pounding hoofbeats that Hester had noticed was closer now, thundering out of a small path which wound out of the village and lost itself in a tangle of woodland.

"If it is Gwyn, he may perhaps have word of the battle at Hastings," Math mused as he and Godric waited in the hot sun. "I have no doubt that King Harold was victorious over those damned Normans – he beat the Norsemen at Stamford Bridge just a few weeks ago. Still, it would be good to have news…"

"Want to retract your bet, old man?" Godric teased. "Not a chance."

The horseman burst out of the woods, and Godric let out a great shout of laughter. "Ha! I told you it was him. You owe me a sword!"

"All right, you young rascal," Math said kindly, nodding towards where the horseman was slowing and making his way into the outskirts of the village. "Go and greet him, then!"

Godric needed no further prompting. He ran forward jubilantly, making out as he came closer the familiar weather-beaten face of his friend, the familiar shaggy coat of Llamrei, the horse Gwyn had taken from the village when he left, and the great axe – with Godric had made for Gwyn as a parting gift – dangling from the saddle. "Gwyn!" he called out as he came nearer, a huge grin on his face. "Welcome back! What news?"

"Godric!"

Gwyn was gasping as he almost fell off his bedraggled horse, and Godric saw with an exclamation of shock that his friend was covered in blood – far too much blood for it to all be his own. "Gwyn!" Godric called as he hurried forward, pushing his way past a few morbidly curious village-people who had stopped to watch the suddenly disturbing scene. "Gwyn, what is it? What's happened?"

"Get the women and children away from here," Gwyn choked out. He was leaning heavily on his bloodstained axe as Godric rushed up and gaped down at him in horror. "Tell Math, he must hurry to get them all into the woods, there's not much time – "

"Gwyn, what is it?" Godric said again, taking Gwyn by the shoulders and shaking him roughly, not realizing in his impatience that he was probably causing his friend pain. "What of the battle, did King Harold – "

"Harold Godwinson is dead," Gwyn said raspily, and yet his voice seemed so loud that it carried over the watching, deathly silent crowd, which suddenly included most of the village. "The king is dead, and the Normans are coming."

The crowd was deadly silent for a moment.

Then the screams started to break out, the women reaching for their children, the men letting out exclamations of horror and dashing towards the nearest dwelling, where there would surely be an axe somewhere, there was always an axe close at hand – Godric stayed with Gwyn as the pandemonium broke out, every nerve in his body humming with fear-fueled adrenaline.

"I've been riding before them this past week," Gwyn muttered desperately. "I hoped they would not bother themselves over Skara Brae, but they're sending out raiding parties in all directions from the main column – Godric, please, you must get Math – "

But the hale old man was already there, his beard bristling and his bald pate shining in the rays of the afternoon sun. He was holding the axe Godric had given him at the Forge a few minutes before – had it really been only a few minutes, Godric wondered? – and Math's eyes glinted manically at the idea that his beloved village was being threatened.

"All men, to arms!" he screamed over the din, and Godric could see the villagers hurrying towards them, armed to the teeth. "Women, take your infants and go to the woodland copse!

"Here!" Godric heard Math say more quietly, and suddenly yet another axe was being forced into his numb fingers. "Take this, Godric, you're young, you've got more strength than the rest of us – we'll need you when they get here – "

"There they are!" a voice suddenly screamed. The group of men swiveled as one, and, sure enough, Godric could make out the shapes of at least three dozen horsemen on the hill swelling above one end of the village, their swords drawn. Godric's heart seized, and from the horrified expressions on the faces of the men around him, he knew they had realized the same thing he had – there was no possible way the women and children would have time enough to escape.

But then the horsemen started to charge, and there was no more time to think. The warhorses of the Normans moved more quickly than Godric could have imagined. A woman, a small girl in her arms, was slashed dead before any of the men could react, and then the woman's husband, enraged with grief, barreled forward and in his turn was trampled under raging hooves. Another Norman tossed a flaming torch with one mighty surge, and the hay lying around the square to feed the village's horses quickly took to light, the flames springing up into the air – people were screaming, the men around Godric vanished as they rushed towards the enemy, everything was so loud –

A hoarse voice suddenly rang out behind Godric. "UT!"

Godric turned to see Gwyn dashing forward, his mighty axe upraised, his bloodshot eyes seeming to burn with rage – as though he were once again on the battlefield of Hastings, surrounded by a mighty host. "Ut!" Gwyn shrieked again, giving the Normans a taste of his ferocious Saxon tongue. "Out, out! Ut! Defend against the invaders!"

A small boy, clutching an axe which had obviously fallen when its owner was slaughtered, screamed as he was cut down, blood seeming to spray through the air. Godric felt something wet against his face, and looked up to see a body flying through the air towards him, that of a woman, tossed like a doll from the impact of the Norman warhorse slamming into her, the soldier on the salivating beast's back lifting his javelin to throw towards the helpless body of a tiny baby lying on the ground at Godric's feet –

His eyes – were – red.

The baby let out a piteous wail. Godric did not look down, knowing somewhere in the back of his mind what had happened. But his head felt very strange, heavy and hot – so hot – and the axe in his hand seemed to be burning, and his vision was suddenly blurry as it picked out the figures of several Normans on horses, their swords drawn and hurtling towards him –

He – was – fire.

The swords were coming closer –

Fire.

Closer –

FIRE.

He was the eye of the storm, and the flames danced around him. Laughing, screaming in rage, murmuring and humming. He could hear the waves of fire speaking, could just make out what they were trying to say – they engulfed his body, whirled about his head, and very dimly he could sense the Normans halting, staring in terror, the horses rearing and bucking, shrieking in fear. Fire. Fire. They had killed the baby –

– and the flames shot outwards in all directions, a cyclone of heat and death –

Godric's head hurt.

His cheek was pressed into soft mud. His eyelids fluttered open very slowly. He could feel gusts of searing hot air gusting past his face. Lifting his head inch by inch, beating back the stabs of agony in his skull, Godric realized that he was lying on the ground, and that apart from the crackle of flames all around the village square, it was completely silent.

No, it was not silent. There were groans, there were raving mumbles, there was a noise that sounded horribly like a death rattle being drawn raspily out of someone's chest. Godric's vision cleared fractionally, and he saw the carnage – every house burned or still engulfed in flames, every cart and distant field smoldering and sending plumes of smoke drifting through the air.

Nor was he lying on the ground. His face had been pressed into the mud, but he suddenly felt how his stomach and pelvis were resting on top of something soft and pliable. A sharp and hard object was digging into his hip. Lifting himself shakily up on one hand, his arm almost giving out underneath him, Godric blinked and looked around stupidly to find out whose body it was he was lying on top of.

It was Gwyn.

The stout warrior's eyes were open, blank and sightless. His face and neck were covered in blood, his cheeks seared and blackened as though he had jumped straight into a raging fire. His leather tunic, tattered and ripped, seemed to still be smoldering. The hard object that had been digging into Godric's side was the hilt of the Norman sword which was buried snugly through the center of Gwyn's chest.

Godric's stomach seized, and he forced himself up off Gwyn's body, stumbling and rolling away into the mud caking the ground, his auburn hair falling into his eyes haphazardly. His legs refused to obey his brain's order to stand, and so he collapsed in a heap again, staring in horror around him. The square was littered with bodies, most still and silent, some twitching spasmodically, still bleeding, and still others – burning. Here and there Godric managed to make out the mangled features of those he knew; Math, one of his legs missing – Hester, the old woman still clutching her herbs, as though she would get up at any moment to concoct one of her strange potions.

But what struck Godric in that moment of terrified realization was not that he was the only one not hurt, that he was the only survivor, that the entire village had been wiped off the map – it was that dozens of Norman bodies were also lying amongst the wreckage, most of them looking as though they had burned to death. Their horses lay amongst them, the noble beasts reduced to smoking piles. And Godric suddenly remembered a swirl of flames, his fingers and arms erupting in bright tendrils of fire –

He had done this.

Godric stared at his own shaking hand, lifting it up in front of his eyes, palm facing skyward. He frowned, swallowing nervously past his stuffed throat, and whispered hoarsely, "Fire."

His skin itched and burned, and suddenly a flickering little fire was sitting in his sooty palm.

Godric stared at it a moment, his mouth hanging open dumbly.

Sorcery. Devil worship, dark arts –

Magic.

His eyes darted wildly around the square, taking in the demolished houses, the burning fields, the smoldering bodies – and then a tidal wave of horror and delayed shock swept through him. He jerked forward and vomited onto the ground, coughing as the stench of the bodies around him began to rise into the air, festering and putrid. He had done magic. He, Godric of Skara Brae, an insignificant blacksmith, had somehow killed using some strange power, a power which was persecuted by the Church with the sword and instruments of torture, which was punishable by death, which he had only heard about as a child in the darkest of fairy-tales.

He was in danger. He had to get away. It was all gone, everyone was dead – he had to leave –

His head was spinning – whether from sickness or the heat of the still-raging flames around the village he could not tell – as he stumbled through the wreckage and the bodies. He almost tripped over the charred corpse of a Norman footsoldier, barely recognizable. Godric paused a moment, trembling, then reached down and, as quickly as he could, pulled the sword out of the soldier's nerveless fingers and tugged off the tunic of chainmail, hauling it over his shoulder. This act of theft from the dead, even if it was from the Norman dead, pushed the shame forcefully back up Godric's throat, and before he could think about it he turned his head and vomited again. He remained huddled on the ground for several minutes before he felt able to move again.

His head jerked up as he suddenly heard a loud, haunting cry echoing through the darkening sky above him. He squinted through the flames, searching desperately for what had made the noise – it sounded like some sort of wild animal, a bird, perhaps – but his eyes were exhausted and blurring, the sky quickly too dark to pick out any shapes.

Pushing himself heavily to his feet, Godric managed to make it to the outskirts of the village, his swaying steps slowly steadying and strengthening. As he reached the last house, keeping his eyes away from the bodies he literally walked through, he undid the belt around his tunic with shaking hands, then pulled the Norman chainmail over his head, sticking the sword through his belt before retying it around his waist. Godric clenched his jaw fiercely to stop himself from screaming, telling himself that at least he was now armed and somewhat protected. He would need it on the journey – the journey to he had no idea where –

The haunting cry rang out through the sky again, and this time Godric looked up quickly enough to see the large shape of a long-necked bird as it flew across the full moon. He had never seen a bird that big before. Shivering, Godric swallowed once and opened out his hand, whispering fire. The alien flames sprung up once again in his palm, and he shook at the idea that he had done magic, magic – he shut down his mind before the thought could grow and settle. Lifting his hand up high, he could just make out the little track leading out of the village into the woods, the ruts on either side of the tiny road choked with yet more of the slain.

He began to walk.

Historical A/Ns: I know that the Founders were supposed to band together around 1000 A.D. according to the timeline supplied by the HP Lexicon and JKRowling, but I'm having too much fun with the Norman invasion stuff in 1066... so I suppose one could say this is slightly AU. Rowena Ravenclaw will probably be a surprise to some people, but that's another chapter. Now I'm going to get far too technical – 'ut' is Anglo-Saxon for 'out', and was one of the battle cries the Anglo-Saxons hurled at the Norman invaders at the Battle of Hastings. The Anglo-Saxon soldier ranks of 'Fyrds', 'Thegns', and 'Huscarls' are likewise all historically accurate. I stole the name 'Skara Brae' from a famous Neolithic Stone Age site on the Orkney Islands – just coz I liked the name. Although it might seem a bit much as HP and the Founders story are both completely fictional, I am going to try and keep the historical backdrop of this story as correct as possible. All hail Simon Schama's History of Britain! One change I did make was that the Lexicon proposed Godric, coming from 'wild moor', would be from the north of the southwest of England…but William the Conqueror's path after the Battle of Hastings headed east, winding around the countryside and then finally ending in London. So, er, Godric is now from the east-ish – maybe near present-day Dorchester? I will bring in the 'wild moor' stuff later if I can, though. Erm…anyways, yeah.

I really hope you guys liked it! Reviews make me write faster! Hint hint…