Of Witchcraft and Wizardry

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Part I: The Spring of Novel Thought

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The Serpent Citadel

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The night the founders of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry met, the wind was whistling low and discontent songs around the roofs of the town of Huntingdon. The time was dark, the country in the midst of strife. It was in such an atmosphere of general restlessness that two women came together into an inn near the town square and asked for a seat. They must have been an agitating sight to the innkeeper, a typical Muggle man, who bit on the coin they handed him and gave the two cloaked women the evil eye as he left them in the corner of the tavern.

"Do you think he really will come, Helga?" one hissed, pushing back her hood and pulling out a sleek plait of dark hair. "He may have better things to do, after coming back from defending the body and honor of King Edward…"

"Oh Rae," Helga replied in a similarly quiet voice, "you know Godric is a wizard first and foremost; Muggle events are significant and all, but if a witch of the standing of you or I requested his presence for one night, he will come. He did answer us in the affirmative, did he not?"

Rowena Ravenclaw looked her good friend in the eye, holding it for a long moment. The she relaxed and smiled. "Of course, I'm just being foolish. You'll have to excuse me, it's only—this is the Godric Gryffindor we're about to meet."

"You are about to meet him. I've already met him," Helga said, with a turn up of her nose, a snubby thing that Rowena remembered had been consistently smeared with oil and flour when they were in apprenticeship to Maeve of Sinna, some ten years past. "You may have met him too, if you weren't gallivanting around Gaul and those parts, looking for the tomb of Merlin. Which, may I add, was the greatest goose chase I've ever seen anyone attempt."

"Och, that's true enough. Not necessary to so pointedly bring it up, again."

Helga smiled, her pretty face shining. Whilst in the last few years Rowena had gained fame and prestige by studying with foreign sorcerers and magicians, Helga Hufflepuff—her best friend, sometimes her only friend—had made hers by establishing a prosperous consulting business for muggles and witches alike, decoding Latin texts for illiterate nobles and codifying magic theory with her coterie of young witches. It was through the latter task that she met Godric Gryffindor, the commander of seven legions of the former king's Army, the greatest dueler of all England, most famous wizard since Merlin himself, et-cetera.

"I've been away too long, sweet Helga," Rowena said, casting a glance over her shoulder at the rest of the room. Its occupants were mostly Muggles, but there was a man in the corner with long whiskers who, from the way he held his hand inside his cloak, might have been a wizard.

Seeing the man's silver cloak, she meant to take this quiet moment to tell Helga what—or rather who—had happened in Roman forum only two moons back, but Helga suddenly interrupted her with,

"Ah, but my heart rejoices you are back... Oh, there's Godric!"

The particular tone Helga applied to his name immediately informed her best friend of restless nights and palpitating hearts. Rowena started, surprised at this development, and was almost too late in turning to see the broad man coming to their table. A few Muggles gave him a look of half-recognition.

Her first impression would be to call him a "great beast of a man," a phrase she later on repeated to a few choice teachers at their notable school, inducing quite an irreverent chuckle. It was commonly opined at the back of bathhouses, between the lips of married ladies, and even somewhat among his own soldiers that Godric Gryffindor was the Apollo of his day. Grandly built in both height and shoulder width, with a neat, tawny beard and prominent, brawny forearms, Godric looked the young knight he was. That evening, he wore a thick scarlet cloak that swelled and billowed about him dramatically as he moved. He emitted power and good intentions, for, despite all of his brawn, the man had an absurdly wide smile across his face. Rowena wanted to hate him at first sight.

"Helga!" he said, catching Hufflepuff's hand at once. Oh, Rowena raised her eyebrows, they're on a first name basis. "I'm overjoyed to see you. It's been too long. And… you?" he inquired, looking to Rowena.

Rowena was not pretty like Helga—she called herself "distinctive" instead, and knew she paled in comparison to Helga in her blooming years. "I am Ravenclaw."

"Rowena Ravenclaw, my childhood bosom friend," Helga elaborated, her eyes shining even in the dim light of the tavern. She looked on Godric with especial care, and Rowena tried not to show her distaste. A knot of intuition nagged at her stomach; she had a suspicion that Helga had omitted relating some certain details about her acquaintance with Master Gryffindor of the Ruby Broadsword.

The aforementioned Gryffindor, for his part, seemed entirely unaware of Rowena's personage. He looked curiously at her, then back at Helga. "Why does the name ring so familiar?"

"Perhaps you read it on the author note of The Extent of the Holy Roman Threat, some three years back?" Rowena said peevishly, annoyed that he did not know her name. When he shook his head no, she scowled and continued, "Or in the Argon Cycle that the bards were singing some five years back, about the God's Hands of the Hierophant? Perhaps through stories about it carved into the mountain of Circe for breaking one of her last remaining spells?" He absently shook his head again, and kept thinking.

"Perhaps I have spoken of her to you?" Helga prompted.

"No, I don't believe you have," Godric said, still deep in thought.

Rowena's eyes widened. What? she mouthed to Helga, who only gave her an apologetic shrug. I did tell him, she mouthed.

"Oh yes… now I remember. Some matter about the Ravenclaw clan six years ago, a man hung himself, it's said, and wrote—oh, I'm sorry, what am I thinking, that can't be Ravenclaw," Godric said, suddenly changing his tune. It seemed that he had just come to understand where he was and whom he was dining with, for Rowena had just hidden behind a pale mask a look of utmost anguish and Helga was watching him with unfeigned confusion.

"Hanging? What?"

"Nothing," Godric told her, regretting he opened his mouth in the first place.

Her first impression of Gryffindor was the right impression to keep, Rowena decided. This dull-minded man was detestable—which may or may not have anything to do with the fact that he drew her best friend's attention from her, on the eve of her return from the legendary wilds of the Iberian peninsula.

Yet even Ravenclaw, the brilliant intellect and augur she was, could not know that night that once she had met Godric Gryffindor, her world would change.

The wizarding community and the rest of the world at large had lived in a tenuous stalemate for nearly a millennium. Once the wizards and the Muggles of England lived happily together in a sort of paradise, for magic suffused every breathing moment. Society was whole; though there were differences between the magical and nonmagical peoples, between the warlords, the invasions, and the agriculture, there was no time for petty social discord due to what was deemed a typical occurrence—that is, a typical child with magic, or a typical wisewoman who would sing up the earth and summon rain. But, upon the arrival of the (nonmagical) Romans, a severe schism wormed its way into England. By the time wands were widely used among the magic-wielders, the nonmagical folk had already started to look on them with fear and distrust. Religion played a good part in this schism, but as magic became less prevalent through the countryside and bled away from all but the legends told upon the hearthsides of the Muggles, it became almost inevitable that wizards and muggles were separated from each other.

Then came Merlin, Morgana, and Viviane—wizard, sorceress, and Lady of the Lake. Their famous (and famously contested) legend lived on not only through the wizarding community, which owed them several new spells and spellbooks, but also through the Muggle community, where Merlin became a stooped old man, Morgana a malicious plotter, and Viviane an immoral seductress. This, however, is not their story; this is the story of the founders of a rather famous school, so we will move to more contemporary events.

This particular night, Godric had come from the capital, where he had spent the last week marching around to protect the name of the Muggle king, Edward, who'd recently died under the machinations of his (magic-hating) stepmother Elfrida. The coronation for Ethelred, his half-brother, would occur in the next two days, and Godric had deemed it wise to leave the capital and travel to Yorkshire to see Helga Hufflepuff, who within the last few days had sent for him. Though he had many great, worthy friends among the Muggles, with the rise of power of Elfrida and her puppet son, it was becoming more and more obvious that, due to his former acquaintance with Edward and the rampant rumors of his magical second life, he could not remain within the Army, nor anywhere in the vicinity of the new queen-regent. No, it would be better to beat a retreat for now… and return with forces in the future to instate a truer, nobler king on the throne.

This was not, however, a desire he would broadcast just anywhere, as if he were a fool begging to be run through by those loyal to Elfrida. A tavern was especially not the place. Sweeping his eyes across Helga's face—a beautiful face it was, shaped like a jewel, with wide-set blue eyes and a beautifully turned chin—he stood up and gestured for his new companions to rise also.

"Come, Helga; the fare here is good, but I wish to taste your home cooking. Perhaps, in private, I can more carefully quiz you, Maid Ravenclaw, on the sights you must have seen abroad."

Helga took his hand and allowed herself to be gently guided out of the door, pretending her cheeks were not flushed. Wordlessly, the thin Ravenclaw followed, her step so soft even his trained ear almost could not pick up on it. Almost. He had made a serious blunder in speaking out-loud his inner thoughts; the stony quiet of her expression was this blunder's direct result. Gryffindor was sorry, but knew not how to apologize for this mishap.

Helga had rented a townhouse, constructed with a base of stone and built with great wooden beams, on the eastern slope of Huntingdon. Her coterie, a selection of three other witches hired to work with and for her, had already retired to their beds. One came to the door, cocooned in a large shawl, and lit the candles of the rooms with a wave of her wand; she installed a protection charm on the door once they had all entered.

"That's Joan of Northcumberland. She's a sweet thing," Helga told Rowena in a low voice. She seemed not to care when Godric Gryffindor sprawled himself in front of the kitchen fire with a satisfied hum.

Rowena hung back, glancing at the wall-tapestries and the tallow candles with an air of nonchalant appraisal. She was not about to join the hulking man in front of the fire. She didn't even like this man, although hating him might go a bit too far, she thought now, particularly if the only thing he's done to slight her is to hurt her pride. She was too proud, she realized, from all her accomplishments, from all the sights she's seen and places she's been.

Helga, levitating a heavily loaded tray in front of her, called to the two and set them down by a great stone slab she had in the corner. "It's cozier to speak in here," she said to Rowena by way of explanation. "I never use the dining table unless I entertain. Oh, I've got beds made up for Godric and you. Godric, you'll be staying here, won't you?"

"And break social taboo? Gladly, Helen, if it's for you."

A nickname, too. Rowena hid her scowl under a curtain of long, dark hair. "I'll have to get all my supplies from the inn," she told Helga, irritated. "I was not aware that I was to rest here tonight."

"Oh, don't worry. You always look murderous when you're worried. I'll call one of the girls to do it." Helga said. The fire nearby crackled. "One minute, I'll return with some wine, and rouse Joan again; Godric, do you have any baggage?"

"My trunks will come in a few days," he said, summoning the fruit bowl from the tray with a lazy flick of his wand. He took from it a small apple and bit in with relish. "Your home does a man good," he said, his voice rumbling from his barrel chest with natural pleasure. "Almost makes me wish for one of my own."

Helga laughed as she left the room. Rowena, still discomfited, came to the slab and lifted a bowl of cold porridge and bread drizzled with honey from it.

"Do you have a home like this, lady?" asked Godric, still chewing his apple.

A home? Rowena answered the question as simply as she could. "No, I've been traveling for nearing half a decade now, and a home I've not found outside of the shores of Britannia."

"You're right: a home outside of Briton is not a home at all. In all the places I've gone and lived in the name of the King's service, there was none that could match up to the simplicity of this place. Of course, I've good memories of here—and good memories are seldom created past the shores of Britannia when you're on the King's business."

"Why serve a Muggle king at all?" Rowena asked. She hadn't meant for him to hear her, but his ears, pricking upward, caught her quiet question.

He raised an eyebrow. "I didn't take you to be a Separatist," he said, tossing the core of his apple into the fire offhandedly.

Blushing, Rowena explained, "Many more witches and wizards are Separatists these days, especially overseas. But what I meant in that question was not to ask why serve a Muggle king, when witches and wizards should band together, but why serve a Muggle king who would not necessarily understand your concerns."

"My king," glared Gryffindor, "always kept an open ear for my concerns, and the concerns of the magic-wielders in general. "There should be no reason why non-magical folk and wizards should be living separate lives, especially not when a welcoming and fair-hearted king such as Edward had been sits on the throne."

A soft step into the room diverted both their attentions. Helga entered, discarding her cloak at a stool and gliding herself to a kneeling position next to Rowena. "Edward," she said, compassionately beholding Godric, "no longer sits on the throne. His brother is but ten and it is common knowledge that the regent-queen Elfrida loathes magic and magic-wielders. I respect your dream, Godric, but even you—brave warrior you are—have come away from the city. These are indeed dark times. If I hadn't known that my home were safe, I would not live so closely to the capital. But here I have patrons, and—"

A loud clamor on the second level halted conversation. Rowena and Helga shared a glance. "Did you set up the Intruder Charm when we came in?" the former asked.

Helga nodded. "I set it back up when Joan left fifteen minutes ago. It hasn't gone off, yet…" Helga pulled out her wand and chanted, "Homenum Revelio." A pulse, a ripple in the air, distant and almost indiscernible, alerted the three to the presence of the man who stepped in the room at that precise moment.

Gryffindor leapt to his feet and drew his sword, a shining thing Rowena had heard was tricked away from a Goblin a few years back. He swept toward the man, making to charge. But he paused before he had gotten very far, and instead rolled back on his heels. Rowena, rising to her feet, discovered the reason for Gryffindor's retreat. The intruder had in his possession a young witch, whom he held in front of him as an effective shield and upon whose thin neck rested on the point of his dagger. She couldn't make out his features for the dark cloak that enveloped him, and his voice, when he spoke, was nondescript.

"Cordelia!" Helga pleaded, naming another member of her coterie. The girl held by the intruder flinched. She struggled against her captor, her hands tied behind her back. The captor himself slowly walked toward Gryffindor, ordering him to put down his sword. The latter sheathed it with great reluctance, his hands slowly traveling to where his wand laid tucked at his belt.

"Don't think of it, Sir Gryffindor. Don't even touch it. As I speak, there are thirty hired wizards coming up behind this residence, with wands, swords, and fire at the ready. A misguided move could land you where you belong—that is, in a blazing inferno, honoring the new queen with a death by fire."

"It was her, then? I should have known Elfrida wouldn't have let me go so easily," Godric snarled.

Rowena pulled back gently from her crouch, thanking Merlin's ghost that her wand-arm was hidden by Godric's bulk, and the stranger in the dark cloak seemed more interested in putting the fear of the queen into Godric than in the two women behind him. Moving at all would attract his attention, but she knew she couldn't throw a hex at him without shoving Gryffindor out of the way or moving herself; but this fear was neatly allayed when another young woman entered from the kitchen entrance with a tallow candle and a quivering voice.

"Lady Helga, there seem to be men in the back court—ooh." Fear paled her expression as she noticed the man holding a fearful Cordelia under his blade. Helga, taking charge, commanded the young woman, Brigid, to leave quickly. This caught the cloaked man's attention and he turned his gaze on Brigid to throw a sharp command at her.

Taking the chance, Rowena—and Godric—suddenly lunged forward and jinxed the cloaked man. He dodged Rowena's jinx but fell under Godric's stun spell. Helga turned to Brigid to gave her strict orders to double lock the back doors and bring some necessary equipment, as Rowena pried the pale, but now composed Cordelia out of the frozen grasp of the cloaked man.

"Who is it?" she hissed urgently to Gryffindor, who'd lowered the man's hood and looked him deeply in the face. "A learnt muggle of some importance to that woman." He coated his words with disgust. "I don't recognize him."

Helga, who was by now embracing Cordelia and allowing the young woman to vent her pent-up terror into her shoulder, glared at the two who stood discussing the intruder. "If you don't recognize him, then come away from the body, and make haste. Thirty wizards are too much for even us to deal with under these circumstances; I can hear them just outside the window. We must go."

"Your ward, Joan—she will be coming back soon from the inn, correct?" Rowena inquired.

Helga gently swore under her breath. "Then we must leave by the front door, in order to catch her. Rae, can you cast a Disillusionment Charm on us all? Cordelia is too young for me to safely Apparate with her." Brigid, the other member of Helga's coterie, entered lugging a heavy sack, her lips quivering. Behind her, the stomping of dozens of feet could be heard, and a man's voice yelling, Alohamora!

Cordelia pulled back from Helga, having cried out her tension; she was quite young, not even at her majority, and Rowena realized that Helga was right: Apparation might hurt her severely. Summoning her cloak to her, Rowena came to a decision. She shook her head.

"It would take too long; I have a better idea. Gryffindor, Helga, and Brigid, you Apparate to the inn and forestall Joan; I'll meet with you at the front of the town square with Cordelia; it would be easier to move just the two of us—and, Master Gryffindor, don't argue; you're too large to slip unnoticed past a troop of wizards, and they are seeking you." Godric, who had looked like he was prepared to duel with her for the protection of the girl, settled back and reluctantly nodded.

"Then I'll see you at the town square," Helga said, mouthing good luck as she raised her wand; she took hold of Brigid and Gryffindor.

Quickly, Rowena cast the Disillusionment spell over Cordelia and herself, then moved into the entranceway of the front door. Cordelia was solemn next to her, and Rowena blessed the fact that she wasn't with Brigid, who'd left almost on the verge of hysteria. It would cause alarm in the sentry assailants outside the front if the front door opened on its own; yet there was no other choice. She gently unlatched the lock, whispering a Silencing Charm as she pulled the door open, and let it slowly roll forward on its hinges.

In the back of the house, she heard voices, now only separated by two walls; they had gained entry. The aggressive, threatening tone of these wizards quickened her heartbeat; taking Cordelia's hand, she slid out of the door as soon as the crevice was large enough for her to move past.

Three sentries stood near the door; they were all watching it expectantly. Quietly, she glided forward, but she had not accounted for the fact that Cordelia could not move about as silently as she.

"Hear that? Footsteps!" barked one clean-shaven wizard. Another cautiously peeped into the house and reported, "There's no one there."

The last one cursed, holding forth his wand and casting a light spell into the corners of the entrance pathway. "Eamonn, go in the house and check; be on your guard. They are, most probably, still inside."

Next to her, Cordelia tried to soften her footfalls, but she'd already caught the attention of the clean-shaven wizard. They stuck close to the shrubbery and out of the light, moving also onto the grass, which sprung up slowly after they walked and revealed the least sign of incursion. It was evening, when the last of the twilight bled away from the sky and night began to cast his slow, dark shroud over the eyes of men. Rowena knew they could hide in the encroaching darkness, but she'd promised to meet Helga and her paramour at the; it had been a fifteen minute walk, but she could cut that down to a seven-minute run.

The clean-shaven wizard, however, had sharp vision. "Look at the grass, it's deflating there!" he yelled, and the other two wizards quickly ran towards them in pursuit. Rowena, who'd hoped to sneak away quickly, now turned and struck them with Stunning spells; thinking quickly, she also aimed the Conjuctivitus Curse at them and blinded the three.

But their yells had attracted more attention, and now there were many curious eyes directed toward their approximate location. Cordelia said, her voice quiet, "I'm sorry I can't help, but my wand is back in the house."

Shocked for a moment at this revelation, Ravenclaw cursed her own shortsightedness in failing to inquire on Cordelia's power to defend herself, as well as Cordelia's forgetfulness. "Run," she muttered to Cordelia. "Run to the square."

As the young girl's footfalls began to be audible, the wizards came swooping down. All were dark-robed, Ravenclaw noted, nondescript men, except for the thick gold chain they wore around their necks. She went after her, shooting jinxes at those who got too close; yet still they did not target her from where her wand, flashing occasionally with the spells cast, shone. Instead, they shot at Cordelia—a leggy girl—who could be discerned as a mild shift in the air as she moved. They must have assumed, Ravenclaw thought, that the better-hidden one was more valuable. Not exactly faulty reasoning, she admitted to herself with a touch of frustration.

A dark-robed man with two chains around his neck advanced on Cordelia's shape; Rowena lunged forward and directed a Leg-Locker Curse on the pursuer. His chains must have indicated some higher ranking, she decided later, for he looked directly at her as he fell, mouthing "Finite Incantatem" as he fell.

She felt the Disillusionment Charm trickle away, and the handful of the pursuers left standing looking closely at her. Suddenly, four aimed their hexes toward her while the other chased after the spatial glimmer that was Cordelia, moving through the streets toward the square. Rowena, to save herself, threw up a Shield Charm and wished she knew the town well enough to Apparate.

With a Rictusempra Magna she collapsed one assailant into helpless laughter. Casting a Diro at another, she turned him to stone. But the hexes directed toward her did not taper off, and behind her she could hear a shriek of "Finite Incantatem" followed by a loud laugh; Cordelia, she knew, was no longer under the Disillusionment Charm.

Distantly there seemed to be the sound of hoofs beating. Tell me that's Helga and Gryffindor, she thought to herself, but she doubted it. Rowena needed desperately to get back to Cordelia's side. She had no time to cast another charm on herself, and instead tried to Stun the other two. They, however, had both formed neat Shields. Deciding to take her chances, her heart hammering in her throat, she tried a new spell, one she half-remembered from her travels.

"HUMUS SURGITUS!"

The cobblestone street began to rumble under the feet of the wizards facing her. Large columns of stone rolled upwards, pushing the screaming wizards up into the air. Great rocks shifted themselves up from the ground, shifting from side to side like swaying trees; the wizards fell, screaming, and though the ground caught them and rolled them back down, there was no mistaking them for unharmed. Rowena didn't stay around to watch the earth slowly lower itself back into its settled state. She ran after Cordelia, praying she wasn't too late.

She arrived at a large street just in time to see a man atop a gleaming black stallion hold up his wand-bearing hand and shoot down the last wizard with a flash of silver light. Cordelia, crumpled on the sidewalk, watched him, amazement emblazoned across her features.

Rowena quickly rushed over, holding her wand aloft just in case. "Cordelia? Are you well?"

The girl, shook, her dark curls bobbing, but she never took her eyes off of the man, who was beginning to dismount. Ravenclaw gave him a close scrutiny as well. He was wearing a black cape trimmed with silver, and looked singularly different from the wizards that had chased them. Long, glossy black hair tumbled out of his cape and melted in the evening into his clothing. He had fae eyes, she noted, green-gray in the dark, and his expression was impassive. Not an enemy, but not necessarily a friend.

"Your leg, little one," he said, and his voice was cold as steel. "It's hurt, I believe."

Rowena knelt by Cordelia, who was gazing the man still as if he were some apparition not to be believed. A long scrape, easily healed by a spell, bloodied her leg. "Episkey," Rowena murmured, holding her wand to the wound and watching it slowly knit over. "I am grateful to you, sir, for aiding this child from that attacking wizard. Many thanks to you, and the memories of Ravenclaw stretch long; you have earned a favor from our family and our beholden friends for you to execute at your discretion."

"Ravenclaw. I seek no favors… I have no need for aid."

"Perhaps not presently, but the debt stands and cannot be forgotten."

"Are you one of the Lords of Witchlight?" whispered Cordelia finally, overawed.

The man regarded her oddly. "No, I'm not. My name is Lord Salazar Slytherin, and I'm second son of the Slytherin wizarding family."

Rowena's head came up sharply, while Cordelia had no perceptible reactions.

"Lord Slytherin? Your name is not unfamiliar to me," the former said, slightly inclining her head. "I've heard tales of you spoken in many places, particularly when I visited the Latin state three years back—and always with admiration and respect. They call me Rowena Ravenclaw of the Eagle."

There was no interest in his eyes, but there was no rejection either. "Pleased, Mistress Ravenclaw. I've heard of your name as well. Now if you wouldn't mind, I'm looking for a rather dumb oaf with red hair and a big sword. Have you seen this man?" he answered in a tone so level she almost didn't believe he was asking her for Gryffindor.

Why would Slytherin want anything from Gryffindor? Rowena took a step back. "I'm afraid that though I've just recently seen this man, I am not aware of his current location." Is Salazar Slytherin in truth one of those wizards sent by the King? No, he speaks as if he knows Gryffindor personally—which that may be misdirection on his part. The probing green eyes didn't help her attempts to judge Slytherin; they both fascinated and repelled her at the same time. If it were Helga standing here, then she would know what to answer this man, for Helga was the most accurate quick-judge of character Rowena knew.

Before she could come to a decision, Cordelia forced her hand. The young woman raised her chin and, with an edge of daring, said, "We will soon see Master Gryffindor, whom you are searching for, at the town square just a few streets away."

"Ah." The corner of Slytherin's lip tugged upward, but he possessed no mirth. "Then allow me to accompany the two of you into the square. I've only a message to deliver to Godric."

Cordelia shook off Rowena's hand when she offered to help the girl to a standing position. The young girl, running a shy hand through her mass of hopelessly tumbled curls, led the way toward the square. Slytherin followed, leading his horse. On the excuse of watching for more wizards coming from behind, Rowena came last. Her instincts told her to trust Lord Slytherin, but her mind rebelled and she kept behind him, wielding caution with one hand and trust with another.

As the square came up in front of them, Rowena realized her fears had not all been for nothing. It was a large space, crossed with great slabs of stone and pieces of brick from the last road the Romans had built through the town. Near the edge of the square, Gryffindor stood unwitting with the three witches near a long trunk bearing Rowena's crest, turned to Helga. Rowena thought that the newcomer would be cheered to see Gryffindor; Slytherin's expression, however, grew dim like the underbelly of slow storm clouds.

"Godric!" Slytherin projected across the square. Gryffindor turned, and his tan face visibly paled. He took a step back, and even if he didn't move for any of his weapons, it was obvious he was squaring himself up for a confrontation of vast proportions.

"I won't apologize," said Gryffindor.

By this time, Slytherin had already swept up to the man, whose broad and mountainous shoulders seemed to shrink under the green glare of Cordelia's rescuer. They were of like height, though Gryffindor was a finger width taller, and Slytherin, tilting his head, managed to look down his long, straight nose at Gryffindor.

The three women watching this confrontation let out a simultaneous cry as the new arrival punched his gauntleted hand at Gryffindor's wide chest. The redhead had the breath knocked out of him and took an involuntary step backward. A second punch swiped Gryffindor in the face. By this time Helga had risen, her breath huffing. Vivid color sprung in her smooth cheeks as she yelled, "Stupefy!" But the Stun spell was deflected, and by none other than Gryffindor himself.

"It's a matter of honor, he said quietly, after Slytherin punched him once more across the other side of his face. After that, the dark-haired man stepped back and adjusted his gauntlets.

"That first punch was for my sister. That second for my mother's honor. The last was for Slytherin bloodline, which you so eagerly dishonored in Gaul a year ago."

Understanding began to creep upon Helga. She tossed her fair hair, her wide eyes traveling from the aggressor to his victim and back. "What? Your sister?"

"It wasn't a matter of dishonor for her; it was an act of freedom for the both of us. But if your honor has been compromised, and the honor of your house, it is my pleasure to be penalized by you, and I hope to still be able to call you 'friend' afterwards, Salazar." Godric held out his hand in greeting. After a moment, Slytherin took it, gave him a polite shake, which quickly dissolved into laughter on both sides, and Godric clapping his friend on the back with pride. "I still remember when you threw god-awful punches, Sal; Medea be damn, these ones actually hurt."

A quick change hardened Slytherin: "Yeah? There will be more where that's coming from if you ever touch my sister again."

"I'm sure I'm not the only one here who has been stupefied by what's just gone on—" Helga begin, her voice edging into shrillness.

Rowena laid a hand on Hufflepuff's arm and rapidly interrupted, "And you will have plenty of time to extract a slow and painful explication from the both of them, my sweet friend, once we are off. The trunks I can spirit away so they won't slow us down, but there are still some twenty or so wizards behind us, and they may catch up at any moment. It'd be best to leave now."

"We can take them, eh old friend?" Gryffindor beamed down at Slytherin. The latter nodded briskly.

"No, we won't 'take' them. Do you really want all of the Huntingdon muggles out here watching us face off? What will the Queen say about that? Gryffindor turned rogue sorcerer! And even if we were to fight them, yes, there are seven of us, but Cordelia has misplaced her wand," (Helga groaned) "I am exhausted from hexing the balls off of the ten or so we saw on the way here," (Slytherin made a gargled noise that was not in any way a laugh) "and Brigid, well, just see!"

They turned to the young woman in question, whose knuckles were closed on her wand so tightly they were white. Frightened severely by the greeting of the two wizards, she'd hidden behind the Ravenclaw trunk and now was convulsing nigh uncontrollably every few breaths. It was inconceivable for Brigid to help fend off twenty wizards bent on Godric's head. Helga, making a noise of sympathy, soothed the girl with low murmurs and a calming spell. But she'd chosen the wrong one—the charm being too strong by a little—and suddenly Brigid whimpered and slumped forward onto the trunk.

She'd fainted.

"Just dandy." Rowena rolled her eyes. "Now someone will have to carry the girl, or at least levitate her along."

"It won't be me."

"Nor I." Rowena followed Slytherin, automatically correcting his grammar.

Gryffindor moved to shift the unconscious young woman into his arms, but at the gleaming point of Helga's wand, thought better of it. "I don't think a certain Mademoiselle Slytherin would appreciate it if you held another woman." The bittersweet venom of envy had stolen into Helga.

"I don't think she'd care, because it didn't mean anything," said Godric, densely and profoundly confused.

Slytherin, catching the trend of sparks of lightning forming in Helga's hair and face, came to his own rather well-judged conclusions and deemed it wise to rap his friend sharply on the head to shut him up. Hufflepuff, drawing her blood-red (doesn't she hate red? Rowena mused) cloak about her, gently levitated Brigid's body in to the air. As she shifted, Brigid's nose twitched a little, but otherwise she seemed at peace. Thank Merlin, Rowena thought with a sour chuckle. At least someone here isn't tense, fearful, or blindingly angry.

"Where do we go from here? Where won't they look for Master Gryffindor?" asked Joan, who had been trading her attention from the bickering witches to the direction of Helga's old domicile. Joan, though apprehensive, seemed the most collected of all.

"To the Serpent Citadel of my family. It's far enough beyond the city that whoever is chasing you won't go there for routine check-up, and close enough that we can move all of you quickly." Slytherin turned and whistled; his horse came cantering to him. "Who here has not been inside or around the Citadel?"

Helga, Rowena, and Cordelia nodded.

Joan blushed. "I've been to the stables."

"Helga and I have studied the Lore of Icarus," Rowena volunteered. "Give us directions, and we can go."

"Icarians?" Truly impressed, Slytherin gave the both of them quick assessments. "Well the color of your robes are too light to truly fit in with such a lit night, if you fly close to the rooftops and alternately high in the sky, the Muggles won't be able to tell."

Though all children—if they tried, if they had the courage—could fly short distances, with the advent of wand usage, flying was deemed too dangerous and flying witches began to dwindle in number. However, the class of the Icarians, an archaic tradition from which the rare text the Lore of Icarus was derived from, maintained the habit of flight among some disciplined magic-wielders. It didn't come as easily to them now as it did to the ancients; after every session, both of the witches had been drained of their energy and tended to suffer fatigue, irritation, and an overwhelming desire to do it again (and this time soar into the sun).

As Slytherin and Gryffindor debated who would Apparate and who would take the horse (and Cordelia), Helga pulled Rowena aside. "It's been years since I last flew! I'm out of practice, Rae."

"Och, that's too bad." Ravenclaw flashed her a mischievous smile, recalling to Helga the years when they secretly snuck out of Queen Maeve's fortress and practiced flying over the jagged rocks of the Eire shore. "Come now, you can't forget how to fly—at least not entirely. Just, follow my lead."

In the end, Slytherin took Cordelia on the horse behind him—Helga saw the girl tremble as she mounted behind the lord, and the older witch sighed in apprehension—and Gryffindor was forced to Apparate to the citadel with Brigid and Joan took care of the trunk. "Don't splinch her," Helga warned Godric. He puffed, piqued: "I wouldn't." Slytherin hurriedly outlined the hidden location of the Serpent Citadel, and wished the witches the best of luck in finding it. Telling his new companion to hold tight, he shouted and whipped the horse into a furious dash out of the town. The noise attracted the attention of the wizards, whose menacing voices could be heard now, advancing towards their area. Joan raised her wand and, with a faint pop,was gone. Godric went a moment after her.

The calls of the wizards grew closer.

"Ready, Rowena?" Helga said, holding her head to the night sky. It was overcast tonight; even when full night fell over them, as it was about to, they could still be discerned in the sky.

"Ready, Hellie." They began to hover away from the ground, the wind tossing their robes and whipping their hair.

"I hope you know I really enjoy the fact that I am leaping off into the sky, about to charge into the great unknown, with a bunch of people I don't even think I can trust anymore." The bitterness in her tone surprised Ravenclaw, who had adored Helga in the past for her generosity of spirit and tendency toward forgiveness.

"Men are pigs," she said, as the wind whipped them ever upwards. Behind them, a wizard had run into the square, and screamed at the sight of them rising.

"Not just Godric. It's… I'll tell you in a moment. Shouldn't speak of it here." They read the signals of eagerness for flight in each other and knew it was time. Simultaneously, the two women chanted,

" Facultae Icariae

Accipimus et Accuramus!

Cupiditatem Eam Voler

Ascimus et Honoramus! "

Immediately, they tipped forward and began to fly. It was a strange sensation, like falling and levitating at the same time, like being sleeved and consumed by the air, and like freedom pulsing. The wind rushed through their hair as the moved, sending ripples through their robes. Helga laughed, a true and free sound of triumph.

"Ifeel sixteen again!" she yelled to Rowena.

"Before or after you kissed Tynan?" her best friend yelled back.

"Ugh! Before!"

Over the shingled roof of Huntingdon they were coursing, too quickly to notice if there were any gasps uttered as they moved past. "RISE!" Rowena commanded as they neared the bell tower of the small town; they pulled upward, soaring the length of the tower and continuing to soar as they left the town far behind.

Then they were hurtling through the murky bowl of night, watching the candles of townhouses twinkle out of existence, still holding tightly the other's hands. The wind streaked through their hair and brought tears to their eyes; knowing they couldn't keep the pace up for long, the two agreed to slow as soon as they were far enough away from the town as to be out of harm's way.

Rowena remembered when they had first flew together. They were both upon blossoming, unfurling age of fifteen, and hit had been one rather imperfect night, after Rowena had been blessed by Queen Maeve only that morning. She'd been appointed to the rank of Journeyman.

Helga had been left out of Maeve's blessing, for reasons that were never entirely clear to either witch. It hurt Helga more than the girl would say, but the pain was resultant not of Maeve's omission, but of Helga's separation from Rowena. Rowena, noting Helga's sullen silence, rushed into the blond girl's room that evening, Icarus' worn manuscript in hand, and made Helga repeat the incantation over and over again until Hufflepuff committed the exact intonations by memory. Then they snuck through the castle in the audacity and heedlessness of youth, coming finally out beyond the walls the sea-side cliffs.

"Do it now, lest we be missed by the nurses," Rowena had whispered. That night had been bitter cold, as autumn had already begun to sink her long, icy nails deep into the soil and to sigh her chilly sorrows in gales about the sea.

Loyal as a bitchhound, Maeve's son Tynan used to call Helga. And it was true. She would be faithful to Rowena for as long as she lived, if only for the memory of those sun-dappled years they had spent together at Maeve's stronghold, apprenticed to the greatest witch of that age. Helga had trusted Rowena with everything that night, had chanted the spell with the wind streaming against her, and had screamed in alarmed joy when they began to rise. Together they flew a good five minutes and landed again. The recklessness that had directed their clandestine escape dissipated with the actualization of their fantasy. Until that moment, they had not truly expected to fly.

The years had pushed the young women apart and brought them back together; now together they were to embark upon a journey whose monuments would last millennia.

It was only appropriate, therefore, that they were to take refuge in a centuries-old stronghold belonging to one of the first magical clans of Britannia. The Serpent Citadel had not been particularly difficult to find, at least not by air.

Hidden by a rather dense forest, they could spot it by the glow of torches held by moving sentries along the battlements. To its eastern side, a mid-sized creek penciled a thin border, and from its opposite bank, a large, insurmountable hill rose up and curved into a craggy summit. No discernable road from the Citadel to any nearing town could be seen from their height. Rowena signaled Helga to start the descent.

As they neared, the size of the citadel began to awe them. Obviously having housed generation upon generation of Slytherin blood, the main fort area split off into a round hemisphere against one side and the impregnable hill on the other. The pale stone of the fortress glimmered in the night, as the moon emerged from her shrouds briefly for a short flirtation with its walls and courtyards.

They landed in the major courtyard, where three men immediately greeted them. One of them, a light-haired wizard, had awe quite explicitly plastered across his features.

Salazar came forth with a bald, stooped man bearing a reasonable resemblance to him and a snake-headed scepter.

"I offer you welcome," he said formally, "on behalf of the house of Slytherin, my uncle Lord Secundus included. Uncle, meet Mistress Helga Hufflepuff of Huntingdon, and Mistress Rowena Ravenclaw of the Eagle." Helga looked stricken. OfHuntingdon? she mouthed to Rowena. "Both Icarians, as you can see."

"Yes, I can see," snapped Secundus. "And you'd do well to remember that, boy."

Salazar flinched.

"And here you are doing my job. Aren't I the Lord of Serpent Citadel? Circe be damned, but you have to take it upon yourself to welcome my guests. Usurping power already?"

Secundus was as thin as his nephew, but many times older; his sunken, simian face bore a pair of hooded fae eyes. He walked woodenly, and sometimes required the arm of another to lean on; must be approaching his first century, Rowena surmised, noting the shining orb of his fully-shaved head. As the moon peeped out behind him, she noted the striking similarity and resisted the urge to smile. He went on with his tirade as he peered into the faces of the new arrivals. "This child is the only living son to my sister—and since Slytherin line is matrilineal, he seems to be of the opinion that just because he'll inherit when I croak, he can tell me what I see and don't see."

"That was not my meaning in the least, Uncle," said Salazar in a suitably humble voice. The distant young man, on the other hand, appeared embarrassed and nonplussed at once. Rowena cracked an eyebrow.

"Ah, shut it. I don't want to hear groveling this late in the evening, when I'm supposed to be abed. But as you are conducting true gentlewomen across the threshold for the first time, I suppose I won't put the cane to you."

Helga quickly covered her laughter with coughing.

"Sick? Oh, fairy-forbid. Lady Hufflepuff, is it?"

Salazar frowned, the light distorting his features into an ugly dark mask. "Mistress—"

"What did I say about talking to me?" Secundus scowled. "I'm trying to have a nice conversation with a rather more talented magician than you, one who appears to have caught a cold. Lady Hufflepuff, will you do me the honor of joining me in the sitting room, where I assure you a roaring fire has been started, and we may better hear your tale? I'm a little creaky now, being quite satisfactorily tired; may I request your arm for a small degree of support?"

Helga, making an uncomfortable noise, nevertheless acquiesced, and helped the patriarch of Serpent Citadel inside.

The fair-haired wizard came forth and requested to lead Rowena Ravenclaw (who'd been left quite in the dust by the force of Lord Secundus' personality—and strangely had been quite ignored by him) to the sitting room as well. Ravenclaw, coming to her wits, sought the younger Lord Slytherin's eye and told the fair-haired wizard that she'd rather see if Helga's coterie and Godric Gryffindor were settled.

The fair-haired wizard tensed, as if unsure what to say.

"I'll take care of this, Pryce," Salazar said. He looked ashen; Rowena decided it would be wiser not to ask about how his uncle treated him. "Thank you for your service. If you would, check on Gilgamesh, and brush him down; he's had a long ride, and I had no time to care for him tonight." The wizard bowed at his waist to Salazar and left through a short set of stairs.

"Well, Master Slytherin, I have yet to express my thanks for your welcoming us into this house," Rowena said, trying to keep her words as light as possible. If she were Helga, this man would forget the slight from his uncle in a breath, and they would be visiting the girls and discussing the ambush with Gryffindor. But since she was not, Salazar only looked long and sour at the sky.

"Don't thank me. I oblige you to forget I ever did it," he said, somewhat resentfully. "A better magician, indeed. I reckon your friend has not traveled the length of the Adriatic sea and ventured into Asia Minor, nor spent time with ancient mystics of the…" Salazar smoothed out his nasty expression, apologized to Rowena, saying he meant no insult to the abilities of Mistress Hufflepuff, only that he had been across the known world and learned much magic, yet his uncle still regarded his love of magical study as some youthful folly.

"I understand your difficulty, sir. It is the study I love as well; the enigmas of magic will forever hold me in its thrall, as I am sure you quite comprehend," said Ravenclaw, the only way she knew to comfort him at all.

Slytherin only seemed distracted, and walked away from her quickly. He pulled out his wand and lit it, only stopping when he realized that Rowena was still in the courtyard, watching him curiously.

"Well, follow!" he said. "No time for niceties. I'll take you to the coterie and then search out Master Gryffindor."

They began down a long stone corridor, where Rowena lamented the lack of windows to view the courtyard. Someday, when I have in my possession a stronghold of my own (which may be never, but one can certainly hope), I will put in great beautiful new windows, curved on the top, pointing skyward.

As Salazar led the way by memory, he explained the situation they had found themselves in. Secundus, he said, was quite a mercenary man, but more than money Secundus demanded to secure the safety of Serpent Citadel and the house of Slytherin. Which is why, when Godric had spent a torrid week "ruining" Salazar's sister Sabina (who had been the woman next in line to birth an heir), Secundus declared him anathema. Salazar's "retribution" made it possible for Godric to seek shelter in the walls of the Serpent Citadel, but he was not to come within the attention of Secundus in any way.

"I found him a fine establishment right outside of the inner fortress, where the Slytherin family lives; the number of visitors and townspeople living between here and the outer walls of the Serpent Citadel are sufficient to hide him. I suspect you will not be here long, though I wish you had been spirited out of the inner fortress before they woke my uncle up and he met Hufflepuff. He fancies himself a womanizer, you see…. For propriety, you will have to stay with Mistress Hufflepuff here. However, it should be safe enough to wait out the search parties, for a week or so until the news of Captain Gryffindor, warrior, politician, sorcerer, savior of mice die down."

"Savior of mice?"

Salazar cracked a rare grin, and Rowena had to admit to herself that this young lord was quite attractive. "Long story."

They were past the inner fortress now, and going toward a huddle of stores, already closed for the evening. The night was cool, but not overly so, and though they walked in darkness but for Slytherin's light, and though they had just escaped from a rabble of murderous wizards, she felt relaxed.

"You know Master Gryffindor very well," she stated. "Had you known him long?"

"We were rivals in everything in adolescence. Magic, fighting, girls. It was a giant pissing contest, to be perfectly honest, and we kept trying to outdo the other."

"That's not appropriate for a young woman to hear, Salazar," said Godric, hulking against the side door to a closed clothier shop. "Where's Helga? Did you arrive safely?"

"Yes, Lord Chivalry," Salazar said, voice acidic. He ignored his questions. "Hadn't it ever occurred to you that young women—or women in general—have the capacity to be just as filthy as men? Protecting them from bad language is not aiding them."

"Helga was detained by the Lord of Serpent Citadel. Lord Slytherin, I'm surprised you think that way," Rowena said, unable to resist smiling. "How... vulgar." She didn't tell him she approved.

Yet he knew, somehow, and smirked at her. "And yet intriguing. That's the Slytherin charm."

They entered the shop, finding a set of rooms on the second floor that Salazar had paid for. Though a goodly sized space, it seemed rather small when three girls were fitted into the greater room, one prone along the couch and the others sitting fretfully by her side. Both rose when the three came in.

"Lord Slytherin," said Joan in a subdued voice, "we request permission to move Brigid over to the beds."

"Well move her!" Godric said, surprised. "It's quite all right!"

"But sir," answered Cordelia, "there are only two beds, and they will only fit two at most."

"I won't be resting here, and neither will Lady Ravenclaw. In fact, Mistress Hufflepuff and Mistress Ravenclaw will be staying in private rooms in the inner fortress. Two beds should be quite enough for you, and Lord Chivalry here will sleep on the couch."

Cordelia's expression flashed.

"He'll do you no harm. He's principled enough," Rowena said, trying to be as comforting and helpful as she could. She was an intellect, however, and not a caregiver.

"Principled, indeed, to have slept with Lady Slytherin," Joan replied disapprovingly.

"That is not a matter for your concern," Godric said, drawing himself up to his full height. His anger pulsed off of him, and a droning hum of magical righteousness, a bastard sound between the buzzing of bees and the roar of a waterfall, rose from the heat of his anger. Rowena had to take a step back, and Slytherin appeared chagrined.

"Still, they may have a point," Slytherin said. "It wouldn't be particularly proper, nor would Miss Hufflepuff would be particularly overjoyed."

Bewildered, Godric stopped "Helga? What does she have to do with this? Someone needs to protect them!"

Joan stood firm. "We can do fine for ourselves. This is a citadel, is it not?"

Rowena, casting a glance at the restful mien of frequently nervous Brigid, voiced her agreement with Joan.

"There's a tavern not far from here, and it will still be open. Just put it on my tab, Godric," said Salazar. "And sleep soundly, for tomorrow we've much to discuss."

"Aye, that we do." Having been overruled by a gaggle of witches and his best friend, Godric heaved a sigh and, bidding goodnight to all, left the premises.

"We will be going too," Rowena said, nodded good night to the girls. "Till tomorrow morn, adieu." As they left, Salazar paying the clothier a gold coin for his trouble, Rowena thought she heard Joan tell her younger friend not to stare so, especially not at such esteemed magicians. But she had bigger worries to dwell on.

"Lord Slytherin," she said, taking him aside as the door closed on their retreating backs, "has it not occurred to you that Helga may tell your good uncle about why we're here?"

"Oh, Circe's Balls! I'm Apparating to the courtyard!"

He grabbed her hand and raised his wand.

A long breath later and two short pops later, they Disapparated, Salazar barely standing and Rowena on her knees. "Milord," said the light-haired wizard Pryce, who seemed to have been waiting, "your uncle has gone to bed, and Lady Hufflepuff has been conducted to her chamber. Is Lady Ravenclaw to bed with her—or attend a more private setting with you?" He looked pointedly at Salazar's hand, still wrapped around Rowena's wrist.

Rowena, who had almost risen fully, felt her jaw drop and a high blush flood her face. Dropping her hand as if it were a—well, not a serpent, but perhaps a highly unpleasant toad of some sort—Salazar shook his head vehemently. Heat came off his embarrassed face as he hissed at Pryce to 'get hence, to bed!'

A moment later, after a heavily mortified silence between the two of them, Salazar yelled for Pryce to come back, because 'how the bloody hell am I to know where they put Mistress Hufflepuff?'

The distance to the room was short, as was Lord Slytherin's good-night. As midnight passed, Rowena crawled into a large featherbed with her best friend already nestled within. Her trunk was with the girls over in the clothier's shop, but there were plenty of nightgowns and even good dresses of rich material tucked in the wardrobe. "Where did you go?" asked Helga groggily. "Did you see Godric?"

"Yes," sighed Rowena, "I did. He's fine, mind you, and so is your coterie."

"Good," said Helga, turning over to go back to sleep.

Rowena pushed her awake. "Wait, did you tell Lord Secundus what happened to us?"

"I'm afraid not. He immediately began to ask me to sing for him and discussed being an Icarian, instead of asking about the reasons for our arrival. Why?" Helga lifted her head up an inch, struggling to stay awake.

"He hates Godric. Just don't tell him it was due to Gryffindor we're here today, and it should be fine."

Helga giggled. "And should I tell him it's because of Master Slytherin, whom you seem to know so well now?"

"He's a nice man. Reserved, but he's got a sense of humor, which is more than I can—Helga?"

But Helga heard her not, for she rested deeply and tiredly in the feather down bed. Blowing out her candle, Rowena curled herself into the bed as well and closed her eyes. Yet she could not sleep, and for a long time she lied there, her mind flickering across the events of that strange evening they'd passed—and the strange man whom she'd met. She finally rested as morning birds began to chirp, and dreamt of fae eyes.

---

Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter; all rights belong to JK Rowling.

A/N: I apologize beforehand for anachronisms, although I'm trying to keep it as authentic (or authentic-sounding) as I can to the time period. Thank you for reading.