Chapter Three: The Fall of Freedom
Summer, Harry mused the next day, was a terrible time to live through. The sun, which had been soft pink and orange just a few hours ago, had turned to a yellow inferno, a bright, blinding thing that robbed the world of its softness, rid it of its shadows, until all were condemned to be cooked under its sweltering gaze. Every flat surface reflected the glaring sunrays, painting their surroundings in vivid, unrelenting shades. The ground smouldered and sent up a disorienting haze. The vegetation stood still, trees and flowers and blades of grass, and birds had long since silenced. It was too hot to move, too hot to sing.
Harry could feel sunfire on his skin, heavy as it pounded down his neck. After spending months huddling for warmth in ice-glittering forests, frosting breaths over cold hand and snow sleet sticking to his hair, it was like stepping in a blazing oven, heat slamming into him like a brick wall. He swayed on the saddle of his horse, barely aware of the growing burn in his thighs from hours of riding, as sweat pooled on his back, plastering his sleeveless shirt to his chest.
"You should drink," Slytherin called beside him, the man's voice jostling him from doziness. "Before you fall off your horse."
"Hn." Harry fumbled with his water skin. It was empty. "Of course it is," he muttered, patting down his pocket to find his wand. "Aguamenti." He drank, water from the spell fresh and crystal-blue. Feeling marginally better, he dumped what was left on his hair. It helped clear his head.
"Aguamenti," Slytherin repeated. "'I grow water with my mind'. Rather straightforward, isn't it?"
Harry blinked at the other man. He was riding a few steps ahead, at ease as he swayed with the gait of his horse. Sila was draped over his shoulders, basking in the heat. "You speak Latin?" his student asked.
"You don't?"
An hour later, Harry could chant the first and second declensions in one breath, and had acquired a basic understanding of nouns structures and meanings.
"There is power in words," Slytherin told him when he grew weary of the rather dull exercise. "You can't hope to control magic if you don't understand the roots of the spells you use."
"It's worked so far," Harry protested. "What difference would it make from what I can do now?"
"It would makes all the difference between talent and mediocrity." There wasn't any rebuke in the Founder's tone, only the flat enunciation of blunt, clear facts. "Words are the bridge between your body and the outside world. To bind them to you is to strengthen that bridge. You can cast some non-verbal spells, can you not? Are you any good at it?"
Harry thought of Hermione, of the absent-minded way with which she used magic, all clean control and sheer brilliance. "Not really," he admitted.
"Of course not, if you don't hold the spells' meanings in mind. You're hurtling your powers into the void, praying they'll reach the other side intact. To you, verbal speech a crutch, one you've yet to learn to walk without." Slytherin smiled then, sharp and full of promise. "But when I'm done with you, you will fly Mr Potter. Again, from the top now."
Hours later, when the sun started to decline at the west in shades of red and amber, and an earth-warm wind swirled among blinking fireflies and floating dandelions, Harry flopped down on a blanket of long, dry grass, and asked, "Will you tell me about your world?" because Slytherin had made it clear that questions were welcomed and Harry was beyond curious.
The other man settled in front of him, long legs stretching. "What do you want to know?"
"I – Everything? I mean, this is – what I know about this time comes from History books. This is like a children's tale. I want to know how people live? What they do?"
Slytherin chuckled. "Well," he began, sitting more comfortably as he looked at the sky. "Those of us who have come in their powers live much differently from Muggles. We have access to lands and knowledge they can only glimpse in their dreams. I've travelled for many years before coming back here. To learn from other people's gods and traditions. But I'm assuming you'll want to hear about the Isles first?"
Harry nodded. "Please," he said, and the Founder smiled at the eagerness in his tone.
"The country is divided in about five separate kingdoms that Celts, Britons and Northerners fight to rule over."
"Five?" Harry repeated, stunned. "England is divided into five kingdoms?"
Slytherin nodded. "Ten, if you don't count those that belong to the same people. Each is led by a man who calls himself High King."
Harry let out a low whistle. "Which are they, these kingdoms?"
"Britons hold two," Slytherin replied easily. "One south that goes from Wessex to Mercia, and another far north, called Northumberland. The two are divided by the Kingdom of Guthrum, ruled by Danes. Celts have the other two, also separated. The Wales west, and Strathclyde beside Northumberland. North of that, you'll find Pictish clans, that no one really wants to disturb."
Harry ran a hand through his hair. "That sounds – Unstable," he said.
Slytherin snorted. "Oh, it is," he answered. "The only time when Danes and Britons don't squabble within their own ranks is when they're at each other's throats. I've stopped counting how many times war nearly broke their lands apart. "
Harry frowned. "Are they at war now?" he asked.
"They always are. The Northerners keep trying to invade what kingdoms they don't yet hold."
"Northerners. Do you mean Vikings?" The Founder nodded. "I never knew any of that," Harry confessed, shaking his head. Binns had been a dreadful teacher. "The Isles are unified in my time. The last war that affected the land directly happened about sixty years ago."
The other man cast him a curious glance. "I had thought your injuries came from a battle," he said mildly.
"Ah – That's different," Harry replied. "I was talking about wars that Muggles know about."
There was a beat of silence.
"Are Wizards fighting each others?" Slytherin's tone was blank.
Harry swallowed. "It's complicated." It was fear of his own people, friends torn apart over their parents' ideologies, pure-bloods hunting Muggle-borns, Slytherins against Gryffindors. It was a hoarse voice twisting destiny from spun crystal, and the weight of a nation's expectations on his shoulders. It was a madman raving for his head, and killing to survive. Someone else's blood on his hands, Death walking in his steps. Harry cleared his throat. "Wha – what kingdom are you from?" he asked, and there was nothing subtle in this change of subject, but he couldn't bring himself to care. He just wished his hands would stop trembling.
Slytherin's eyes on him were like a physical touch. "Wessex," said the Founder. The soft timber of his voice broke the tension that had been encasing the two of them, thick and suffocating.
Harry looked up. "What about the others?"
"You do know about them, then." Slytherin smiled, reaching from their food bag. "Godric is from Wessex as well, though he was born in Mercia. Helga comes from the Wales, and Rowena is a Scot."
"Hm." Harry let his eyes travel to the wild, endless plains surrounding them. Yellowish grass undulated under the summer's wind, giving the illusion that they were lost in the middle of a rolling sea. "And where are we now?" he asked.
"A few miles from Mercia, I should think," Slytherin replied.
A resigned sigh. "We're not arrived, are we?"
The Founder cast him a smile. "Not even close."
{. . .}
"Merlin, I hate this," Harry murmured.
A few days of travel, and he had become acquainted with muscles he had no idea existed. Hippogriffs and Thestrals notwithstanding, he had never ridden anything resembling to a horse before. The result, added to his not-quite-healed wounds, was a painful one, jarring up strained limbs with each motion.
His legs buckled the moment his feet touched the ground. Harry clutched his saddle to keep from landing face-first in the dirt, muttering all the while. Face pressed against the crisp-smelling leather, he breathed slowly, patting his mare's dark bay mane when she snorted in discomfort.
Unfortunately, Apparation had yet to be discovered, and the anti-Portkey wards surrounding Hogwarts would only be lifted for the arrival of the students. The only option left was to travel on horseback, which, Harry was certain, asked for more energy than he had needed to get his OWLs.
The monotony of the last days had been broken by the discussions he had been having with Slytherin. He was much better company than Harry had expected – but then again, blithely destroying expectations seemed to be something of a hobby to the Founder. On top of a few improvised lessons in Latin, the man had taken to put Harry's magical knowledge to the test, sneaking Transfiguration questions in the middle of random conversations, asking Harry to perform small tasks that he could very well have done himself – snuff out fires, fill water skins, and oh, would you mind lifting that tree trunk from the road, Mr Potter? On one memorable occasion, he had even chucked a freshly-sharpened dagger at Harry's chest while he'd had his wand in hand. The Protego had been instinctive, thank Merlin, and no one had been hurt, but the Founder had been anything but repentant about the fright he had given him.
"You'll be staying, m'lord?"
Startled out of his musings, Harry blinked at the lanky, acne-scared man standing in front of him. He hadn't heard him approach.
"Sorry?"
"You'll be staying or not?" the man repeated patiently. Understanding him was difficult.
"Ah, er – " Harry glanced over the other's shoulder. Slytherin was speaking to a bunch of children huddled around a game of knucklebones. As Harry watched, a boy whose face was half-covered in dirt gave the Founder a toothless smile, and gestured at something further down the street. "Yeah, I think we will," he answered.
Slytherin had said that they might need to spend the night in this small town – Baal? Badab? – to buy some more food. It was getting late, and there would be no point in heading off after dusk.
"May I take yer horses then?"
"Please do," said Slytherin before Harry could answer, and the stable boy jumped a feet in the air, startled. The Founder tossed him a coin. "Make sure they're saddled at dawn." The young man bowed low and hurried off with their horses. "Apparently, the Rising Sun is where we should spend the night," Slytherin announced as he disappeared into what had to be stables.
Harry glanced at him. "As long as they have decent beds," he said with a wry smile.
The tavern reminded Harry of the Hog's Head in Hogsmeade. Cool and dark despite the heat outside, it had few shady wooden tables, laid hazardously on the dirt floor, and an impressive collection of barrels behind a counter that seemed to have known quite a few animated nights. Harry stepped behind Slytherin as the man walked to the counter, seemingly unaware of the curious stares the two of them were garnering from patrons already nursing pints of ale.
A cheerful woman appeared as if summoned, and Harry listened with a distracted ear while Slytherin asked for a room. Her accent was so terrible that the younger man hardly understood a word she said, but it did not take much time for her to hand the Founder a key in exchange for some money.
They went up a flight of creaking stairs, reached their room, and Harry stifled a groan.
There was only one bed.
"I don't suppose we can Transfigure another one?" he asked Slytherin, gesturing at the piece of furniture.
"Not a risk worth taking," the man approved, setting down his bags. "It's already a chance that we won't have to share this room."
Harry nodded, then proceeded to search for his blankets.
"What are you doing?"
He glanced at the Founder. Wasn't it obvious? "Setting my bed?" he replied.
He thought he heard Slytherin chuckle.
"I'm sure this one is big enough for us both, Mr Potter." Harry inadvertently dropped his bag. "Unless you'd rather sleep on the floor of course," the Founder continued, "but considering the state of your back, I wouldn't advise it."
Slytherin's face betrayed nothing but his eyes were amused. Harry cast him a puzzled glance.
"But I thought it... I mean, isn't it... ?" Inappropriate? Indecent? Suspicious? Yet another boundary Harry would rather not cross with that strange man to whom he owed his life?
"As I said," Slytherin interrupted, gentle as he put him out of his misery. "We're lucky to have a room for ourselves. It isn't uncommon for strangers to share a bed in such establishments."
"Oh." At loss for words, Harry nodded. "Alright, then." He stuffed the blankets back into his bag, studiously ignoring the way his arms were tingling with something that wasn't quite apprehension.
The two men left shortly afterwards.
Back in the streets, Harry was overwhelmed. The roads were nothing more than irregular paths of dirt tucked between low stone houses with thatched roofs. The stench of leather being treated, of unwashed bodies and horse dung made his eyes water and his stomach churn. Chickens scuttled underfoot, cackling as they went. Stomping feet, ringing metal, laughing children. Men dragged a wooden carts filled with vegetables behind them. Farther away, potters shaped clay with an ease that came from practice. Women, hair hidden under rough cloth, walked by with jars of water. Old and young mingled, speaking a language Harry barely understood, and everything they did was unfamiliar, from the way they dressed to the way they moved.
He had known, objectively that he had been sent to a time that was very different from his own. But it was only now, for the first time since he had arrived, that he truly felt out of place. That he found himself thinking I don't belong here, and it – rattled him. Jarred like pieces of who he was had come loose and were jumbling in his sides.
Slytherin led them to the market place of the town. The man struck an odd portrait, with the foreign elegance of his clothes, the mindless confidence in his steps, among the dirty, ragged townspeople. He didn't seem to belong any more than Harry did, and the young man caught himself trailing in the Founder's shadow, cautious of the stares the two of them were attracting. He wished he could reach for his wand.
The market place was surprisingly crowded, a dense flow of people shouting and haggling, pressed together as they cleaved their way from stall to stall. There were piles upon piles of fruits and vegetables, apricots and lemon and strawberries, onions and lettuce and carrots, the sweet scent of beetroot and garlic mingling with that of roasting meat, pork and pheasant. It was a multicoloured mess of beans green and apple red and leather brown.
Fascinated and a bit dazzled, Harry followed behind Slytherin without paying much attention to the man's actions. He watched the people, the lines on their sun-weathered faces, the laughs in their tired eyes.
The Founder was buying slices of dried meat when the crowd parted, cleared like a receding wave, Harry saw them, at the end of the place. The hanged bodies of two middle-aged men. Necks twisted, mouths open, they hung limply, reminding Harry of broken dolls. For a moment, he didn't understand what he was seeing. The image of such grotesque deaths seemed at odds with the livings bustling all around. No one but him was sparing the corpses a second glance, as if such a display was commonplace, because, in fact, it was.
Disgust tinged with horror left an acrid taste in the back of his throat. He was familiar with death. Had lived with its presence draped over him like a cloak. He knew the losses of war, friends and family leaving and never coming back. He knew the rush of a Killing Curse hurtling at him, the stretched heartbeats of duels to the death. But he'd never seen – this. Light-hearted indifference in the face of lifeless bodies. It turned his stomach and –
A jolt along his back, the impact winding air from his lungs and reawakening the pain of his wound.
"Sorry," he mumbled with a wince, turning to face the man he had stumbled onto.
He was tall, with brooding features carved on rough skin. He glared, sneering and furious. "Watch where you're going, boy," he snarled. "You clumsy fu – "
"Piss off, mate," Harry snarled back. He was hurt and tired and he loathed it when people called him 'boy'. "Wasn't my fault. I don't have eyes behind my back to warn me off arseholes."
There was a moment of stunned silence, the towering man gaping at Harry as though floored by the cheek of him. Then, his eyes darkened, his face twisted, and he took a step toward Harry, a hand reaching for his throat.
"What do you think you're doing?" The voice was cold, snapped through the air like a whip, effectively freezing the man before he could grab Harry by the collar, and Harry before his hand could close around the handle of his wand.
He felt the quick pressure of two fingers on the back of that hand as Slytherin appeared beside him, all the weight of his dark eyes directed at the villager, cold and almost cruel. For a second, Harry felt sorry the other man.
"I – "
"No, wait," Slytherin cut before the other could speak. "I don't care. Unless you want me to take offence for you raising a hand on my ward, you will get out of my sight. Right. Now."
The man's face underwent an interesting change of colours, going from angry puce to sickly pale in a blink. His eyes darted to the sword on the Founder's waist, to his rich clothes, to his icy eyes, and without another word, he stepped back and disappeared into the crowd. Slytherin's stance relaxed immediately, the sense of danger surrounding him vanishing into nothingness. "I think it's time for us to head back," he declared lightly. One of his hands found the small of Harry's back and gave a soft push, prompting to young man to start moving.
Left somewhat dizzy by the abrupt change of attitudes, Harry let the Founder guide him back to the tavern, where they went to their room to deposit what Slytherin had bought, leaving the purchases under the guard of his familiar – hidden under a strong Notice-Me-Not – who gave a lazy flick of her tail before they went back out for an early dinner.
"Why was he so afraid of you?" Harry asked after the two of them had settled at one of the tables farthest from the counter.
Slytherin didn't ask who he was talking about. "Why do you think?" he retorted, leaning back against his chair.
Harry bit his lip. He replayed the scene in his mind. "I don't know," he said. "But he didn't seem like the kind of man who'd let it go just because you threatened him." And yet.
"And yet," said Slytherin with a faint smile. "Would you have ran?"
"I wouldn't have tried to strangle me in the first place," Harry replied, rolling his eyes. "But if I'd been him... No, I don't think I would have."
"Not even with your life in the balance?"
The young man frowned. "How would my life have been in the balance?" The frown cleared. "With the 'taking offence' thing? Does that mean you'd have... Duelled him?" The thought felt strange, spoken aloud, as well as a little ludicrous.
"Yes."
"Oh." Harry blinked. "But he could've won."
"No, he really couldn't have," Slytherin said, arching a brow at him.
"No?" The man had been all hard muscles and brutish strength. Slytherin – not so much.
"He was unarmed, untrained, and he wouldn't have survived winning, even if he'd had the skill to defeat me." A pause. "Which he doesn't."
"Even if he'd – I don't understand."
"The advantage of nobility, Mr Potter," Slytherin replied simply. Seeing that his puzzled look had not left Harry, he added, "For a commoner to hurt or challenge a lord is punishable by death."
"That's ridiculous," Harry blurted. He didn't even stop to note the fact that Slytherin was from nobility. It hardly surprised him – he had yet to see the man move with anything but innate elegance. Not everything could be explained away by practice. "If you challenge him and he accepts, he'll die regardless of the outcome." Harry shook his head, incredulous. "That's more than ridiculous. It's unfair."
"I never said it wasn't. That's how it has been for centuries." There was a calculative glint shinning in Slytherin's eyes. One Harry overlooked.
"Longevity doesn't make it right."
"It does not," Slytherin conceded.
"I – "
Harry was interrupted by the arrival of a serving girl. Slightly startled to remember there were people surrounding the two of them, his mouth snapped shut while she approached, a precariously-balanced tray in one hand and a pitcher in the other. The colour of her hair was indiscernible under the grease matting the curls, and her long dress had seen better days. She disposed bowls full of a kind of thick stew in front of the two wizards, along with a loaf of bread and two pints of something that looked like sweet ale, all the while keeping her head ducked.
"Thank you," Slytherin said, grey eyes fixed on Harry.
The girl jumped out of her skin. The wine in her pitcher sloshed dangerously close to the edge, and Harry's quick reflexes were the only things that kept her tray from toppling over. Eyes wide – and she had lovely eyes, Harry noted distractedly; a soft shade of baby blue – cheeks flaming red, she looked from Harry to Slytherin – the Founder, still observing his student, did not so much as glance at her – with something that could only be panic.
"It's alright," said Harry, hoping to placate her.
It didn't work. If anything, she blushed an even deeper shade of red. Then, she curtsied awkwardly – some wine did escape the pitcher this time – before hurrying away.
Harry had not understood half of what had just happened. "Alright," he said, turning toward Slytherin. "How does it work?"
And the Founder explained. Kings who shared the power with the clergy, Lords who ruled over lands in their name, helped by knights who owed them fealty, serfs whose only rights were to plough the earth and pay taxes. There was more freedom in big cities, scholars and independent women, but life was hard as it was short. Some of these things Harry knew, most he did not.
"How?" Was the only thing he could think to ask afterwards. "How can this work?"
Slytherin merely looked at him, waiting for him to finish his thought.
"I mean, this is little better from slavery," Harry said, running a hand through his hair. "Serfs are the first to die, aren't they? If there's a war, they won't be a priority to protect. If there's a famine, their food will be taken. They pay to live like this." He made a vague gesture with his hand, enclosing the entire tavern. "While a handful of others – no offence – laze around and just have to ask to get what they want... That's not – Just, how – ?"
Slytherin rested his forearms on the table, meal untouched. "How do you think?" he asked, and there was a rapt sort of enjoyment shining in his eyes, something sharp and intent that looked like a challenge.
"I don't know!" Harry growled. "Why would anyone accept to live like this? They're being exploited for the sake of people who don't give a shit. It doesn't make any sense. The nobles are a large minority, aren't they?" At Slytherin's nod, he continued, "Then why doesn't anyone rebel? If every serf was to turn against his master, the lords wouldn't be able to protect themselves, would they? They would all fall."
"There'd be blood on both sides, but they definitely would."
Somewhat startled by the easy admittance, Harry shook his head. "Then why – "
"If," Slytherin interrupted. "You had lived this way all your life. If you had been told that your place was knees in the dirt since birth. If stories whispered in your ear since before you were old enough to understand them told you to fear and obey your master. If corruption kept you from trusting your own family – Would you not bow as they do?"
"No," Harry replied with the absolute certainty that he was telling the truth. Because the Dursleys had tried to mould him since the day he had appeared on their doorstep. They had tried to tell him he was a freak, a worthless thing that costs good people their money and aren't you ashamed boy, to exist and stain our happiness? And it had hurt, had riddled him with scars the naked eye couldn't see. But Harry bent and never broke, never gave in. He clung to the tight spark inside his chest that told him this wasn't right, that he deserved better, and lived.
Slytherin was looking at him, that strange gleam in his eyes burning brighter. "And if," he said, voice soft over the hubbub of the bar, but the only sound Harry could hear nonetheless. "If you had children to feed. Friends to protect. If living on a leach achieved those ends. Would you not bow then?"
That froze Harry, pint hovering in front of his lips. What price would he be willing to pay to keep his friends safe? Would he give up freedom, his and theirs? Would it be such a bad thing, if they could live without it, if bowing to a powerful, unjust man allowed them the right to breathe? Would he, Harry, kneel and accept this?
"No." The word, barely above a whisper, rang with the same absolute certainty as before. Because twisting people's minds, taking their rights with fear and desperation and war, that was what Voldemort was trying to do. That was what Harry had been fighting to keep from happening for years. Something he would die rather than see come to pass. Yes, he had been forcefully thrown into this war against the Dark Lord, but nothing could have kept him at its very center if he had not wished it. "No," he repeated, looking up and letting his eyes find Slytherin's. "Because I wouldn't want my friends to live in such a world. I'd fight to change it, and so would they. I don't... I can't understand why these people," he jerked his head toward the villagers around them, "won't fight as well."
Slytherin leaned closer, the planes of his face thrown in sharp relief with the flickering flames of the candles. Harry could feel his heat against his skin.
"Neither can I," the Founder breathed in a soft voice, as if divulging his most precious secret.
Harry's breath stuttered.
"SAY THAT AGAIN AND I'LL KILL YOU!"
He jumped. The tavern reasserted itself in a rush, the sticky smell of spilled alcohol, the uncomfortable warmth of body heat, dirty floors and firelight. Patrons, most passably drunk, were yelling encouragements and growling in anger.
"I saw her!" a man snarled, getting on his feet with such speed that his chair went crashing behind him in a great clatter. "She healed that boy! He should've died, and she healed him! That snivelling bitch is a witch!" The last word was spat as if it were the foulest insult. Harry flinched at the venom in the man's voice.
A young man with straw-coloured hair screamed in rage and threw himself at the man, fists raised, punching everything he could reach. They tumbled to the floor, flesh and bones and blood, among the cheers of the others, and soon, the fight was hidden from view by a press of drunken bodies. No one seemed inclined to try and break the brawl. The air was buzzing with excitement and bloodlust. Harry's stomach rolled uncomfortably.
"Keep that in your pocket," Slytherin hissed in his ear, startling him. He had not noticed the man getting up to keep him from reaching for his wand. "Come," the Founder ordered, a hand brushing Harry's elbow as if to offer him his arm. "Before we overstay our welcome."
The two wizards made their way out of the room unnoticed by the jeering crowd.
"You would do well to keep from advertising your powers around Muggles, Mr Potter," Slytherin informed him the moment they reached their shared bedroom. "As you can see, our kind is far from appreciated."
"Yeah, I figured," Harry muttered, shaking his head. He had heard, of course, of the reasons why Sorcerers had gone underground before and after the time of Merlin. Being hunted and put down like dogs did not do well for sociability.
Bone-meltingly exhausted, Harry slumped on the bed, wishing nothing more than to sleep despite his growling stomach.
"You should rest," Slytherin said, echoing his thoughts. "Tomorrow will be a long day."
Harry could not agree more. He washed up quickly and changed into his sleeping clothes before slipping between the sheets. His mind was strangely alert despite his tiredness. Perhaps because of the fight that had just ceased downstairs, but more likely because he knew that the chances of his sleeping beside a man he didn't trust were rather slim. He feared he wouldn't get much rest tonight.
He was proven wrong when, a few minutes later, the other end of the bed dipped under Slytherin's weight and his own body unwound reflexively.
After a mumbled, "Good night," he slept.
{. . .}
That night, Harry dreamt.
He was running and jumping, never fast enough, never high enough, there were runes seeping through his skin, tying him down, just on the wrong edge of painful. . . Ron and Hermione were looking at him with accusatory eyes, from the pillory on which they hanged by the neck. . . He could not reach them, the runes had wrapped around his limbs, and he was falling, down, down, down into a pool of silvery water, sinking deeper and deeper. . . But he was not drowning. He felt startlingly alive, even, each of his nerve endings flaring and dancing with awareness. . . Words were being hissed against his skin. Burning after the touch of the water, they moved with him, on him, but he could not understand them, not even one. . . He could not, but he longed to, so much that finding his breath was difficult, and his chest was aching and. . .
He woke with a start. Remnants of a phantom ache disappeared along with slumber. For a moment, he could not remember where he was. Bedsheets were coarse on his skin, the mattress was hard against his back. People were shouting in the street, their voices filtering through an open window along with pale rays of sunlight. Slytherin was lying beside him, fully dressed on top of the covers, legs crossed at the ankles, a leather-bound book in hand. He was not paying the text any attention. He was looking at the window with narrowed eyes, and there was a small frown scrunching his forehead.
The soft light was making the silver of his eyes shimmer.
"Good, you're awake."
Harry blinked, startled to find that the Founder's focus had shifted to him.
"Get ready," Slytherin ordered as he closed his book. "I've the feeling that we should have left hours ago." He rose quickly and walked to the window to look down the street.
"Something wrong?" asked Harry. He got out of bed and began searching for his clothes.
"I'm not sure," Slytherin murmured, almost to himself.
Harry hurried to shrug on his shirt, trousers and boots. The hubbub from the street sounded more distant now. He put the oddity in a corner of his mind before he grabbed his bag and followed the Founder down the stairs.
The common room of the tavern was deserted. Slytherin did not seem surprised. Noting the tense set of his shoulders, Harry refrained from asking questions as the two of them strode across the silent room. There was no one in the street either. A faint scent of fire-smoke was lingering between the buildings.
"We have to leave," Slytherin declared, voice devoid of inflections, a tone Harry had yet to hear from the man.
They found their horses already saddled inside nearby stables. Their hooves were pawing the floor nervously, as impatient to leave as the Founder was.
The smell of smoke grew stronger as they approached the market place of the town.
"Sir, do you – " Harry's question got lost in his throat at the closed, expressionless mask set on Slytherin's face.
The first scream had all the surreality of a nightmare. Surely, it was impossible for a human being to express such agony through a simple sound? It went on for ages, shrilling, tearing through the air, freezing Harry into place until he realised that it was, in fact, real.
It faded away and Harry ran.
"No, don't!"
Slytherin's words were lost to the rush of blood in his ears as Harry retraced blindly the path he had taken yesterday, sprinting through the streets as quickly as he could, feet flying over the ground.
The market place was packed. It seemed that the entire city had gathered there, among the asphyxiating scent of smoke, to listen to those inhuman screams of pain. Yells and insults rang across the place, shockingly loud in their insignificance. Hundreds of feet pounded the ground like discordant drums. The crackled of fire was soft, barely audible over this cacophony.
Harry's eyes were drawn to the end of the place.
Where yesterday had been hanged corpses, now stood a bonfire.
Upon which were two writhing bodies.
"No."
Nobody heard the quiet, pleading whisper that left his lips.
Harry began to push his way through the mass of the crowd, barely aware of the annoyed growls he received in return. An uncooperative man was thrown away from him, far away, father than Harry's body was capable of throwing, but he ignored that, too. Everything was muted, drowned under all that smoke.
The woman strung up on the burning wood was not moving anymore. Neither was the child beside her.
The child.
The scent of ashes and burnt meat was choking now, filling Harry's throat, cloying his lungs and leaving an acrid taste on his tongue.
There was something growing inside him. Something that inflated in his chest, roared through his veins, pressed against his skin. . . The straw-haired man Harry had seen fighting in the tavern the night before was yelling, and several guards were struggling to keep him away from the fire. The people around him were yelling. That thing inside him was yelling, and perhaps Harry should let out that scream. Perhaps it would snuff out the fire, clear away the smoke. Perhaps he could start moving again. . .
A hand closed over his mouth, an arm snaked around his chest, pressing him tightly against another body, and both restrains shackled the wave of power threatening to spill out of his skin, if only just.
"It's too late."
Even through his daze, Harry recognized Slytherin's voice. He bit hard into the hand over his mouth until the pressure vanished. He tried to move, but the Founder's hold didn't waver.
"Let me go."
"No."
"LET ME GO!" he yelled, trying to hit Slytherin in any way he could, elbows and fists and feet, but none of his blows seemed to find their target.
"No," Slytherin repeated, into his ear this time, and there was a dangerous edge to his tone, an assured calm that drained Harry of all the hapless rage that had taken hold of him at the sight of such a waste of life. He was left panting, with nothing but the Founder's arms to keep him on his feet. "We have to leave."
Only then did Harry become aware of the stares trained on the two of them, none of which were friendly.
Slytherin's hold on him tightened. The Founder forced him to move, guiding his steps.
"What's wrong with him?"
"Out of my way."
Harry blinked at the man blocking their path. A nasty scar was running down the side his face. Slytherin took a step to get past him, but the man matched the move.
"Does he feel sorry for the witch? She only got what she deserved. Just like her brat."
Harry wanted to throw up.
"Out of my way."
He felt tendrils of magic escape Slytherin, and he realised that it was only pure strength of will that was keeping the Founder's powers from lashing out entirely. He could feel that the man was almost shaking under the strain, a hair's breadth away from just letting go.
The scarred man stepped away.
Somehow, the two wizards made it back to their horses. Despite the frank hostility in the eyes of those surrounding them, the crowd parted to let them through, preys cowering under the threat of violence.
Harry shrugged off the Founder's hold, got on his horse, and both men galloped out the the town without looking back.
They did not stop for a long while.
"I should have expected it," Harry said quietly, hours later, when they'd had to stop lest their horses collapsed from under them. "The witch-hunts. That's partly why Hogwarts was created, wasn't it? So that we could have a safe place."
Slytherin did not answer, but he gave a slow nod. He had not spoken since the two of them left the city, lost in thoughts of a darkness to match Harry's.
The young man observed him from the few feet separating them. The Founder returned his gaze evenly, waiting for him to gather his thoughts.
"What do you think of Muggles?"
The question burst from Harry's lips without his full consent. It had been lingering at the edges of his mind for days, but a small, irrational part of him had been reluctant to ask. Now, he just had to know.
He did not miss the darkening of Slytherin's eyes.
"Muggles," the Founder repeated softly, as if tasting the word on his tongue. "They fear power, perhaps as much as they fear the countless things that defy their understanding." A joyless smile twisted his lips. "We have a power that they don't understand." He closed his eyes for a brief moment. "For the most part," he said, letting his eyes find Harry's once again. "They are a bunch of idiots barely capable of ensuring their own survival. Few live peaceful, honest lives, and fewer have achieved greatness, but these I respect."
"And the others?" Harry asked just as softly.
Slytherin smiled. It wasn't kind. "The others I would kill without remorse."
Harry felt the words like a sharp blow in the stomach. His eyes closed, just like Slytherin's moments ago, under a pain, blooming in his chest, that he did not understand. He buried his head in his hands, hiding his face from the other man.
"Why?" he whispered.
"Because..." Slytherin's voice was soft, but Harry heard it with frightening clarity. "They have the blood of thousands of us on their hands. Because they threaten the people I love."
Suddenly, Harry understood, and the realisation was perhaps even more terrifying than anything he had lived today. That cold, ruthless resolve to keep his friends safe no matter the price, no matter what he had to give or tear away – That ferocious thing he could sometimes feel pulse through him to the rhythm of his heart – He'd always attributed it to one of the Gryffindor traits the Sorting Hat had seen in him, but – Hearing it echoed tenfold in Slytherin's silken tone begged him to reconsider.
"Is there anything you would not do for the people you love, Mr Potter?"
"Harry."
Silence. He looked up in time to catch surprise flickering through Slytherin's silver eyes. Their gazes met and held.
"You can call me Harry."
Slytherin smiled, a small secretive thing to share. "Only if you call me Salazar, then."
"I'll try," Harry promised.
{. . .}
The soft drizzle slid, liquid and languid, over the dull greenery of the Scottish mountainside, with all the warmth of a summer rainstorm. Droplets clattered with an audible rumble on blunt grey rock as sheets of water fell from the sky, bouncing off tree leaves, fracturing on the ground, multiplied a hundred fold to better catch cloud-dimmed sunlight.
Harry closed his eyes, tipped his head back until rainwater soaked his hair, glided down his throat and drenched his clothes. The air was fresh with the scent of wet earth and green things, dusty dirt turning warm brown under his feet, and grass donning a glossy sheen that stole his breath.
He loved Scotland.
They had ridden hard these last days, Salazar and him, under the sweltering August sun, towards the call of home, stopping only for a few hours at a time, when one threatened to faint from exhaustion. They were almost there. Harry recognized these mountains, rising proudly in the fading light, rock-jagged peaks swallowed by swirling clouds. He recognized the shape of the trees, tall pines creaking in the wind, and the rich scent of their sap. He knew Hogwarts was nearby, could feel the castle's pull in his bones, and it was taking all of his willpower to keep from running towards it.
He glanced at Salazar. Like him, the man was on foot, helping his horse trudge through the slope of the hill with some difficulty. All he could see of the Founder was his back, but he thought he could detect some of his own restlessness in the set of the man's shoulders and in the briskness of his long strides.
Learning to call him by his given name had been – easy. Easier than Harry thought it would be, like learning to fly for the first time, the hiss of the wind loud in his ears as he watched the ground move farther and farther away with an elated feeling in his chest. Something had shifted, after their stop at the small town, after a woman had burned at the stake and Slytherin had pulled Harry close to his chest to keep him from levelling the market place. It wasn't trust, exactly, what danced between them in silence, but – something akin to it, complicity from sharing the same burden, bearing the same secrets. Harry no longer stiffened when the Founder came close to him, and Salazar, thought still his usual, charmingly polite self, had stopped to observe and analyse his every move.
Had he had the time or will to stop and reflect on it, Harry was sure he would find beyond strange the fact that he was, somehow, getting along with the Lord of Slytherin.
Slippery ground gave way under his feet, nearly sent him rolling down the hill. Biting back a startled gasp as he regained balance, Harry shook his head, dislodging droplets from his hair. He had to focus or –
He glided to an abrupt halt, just in time to keep from colliding with Salazar's back.
He looked up. Stopped to breathe.
Hogwarts was perfectly visible at the mountain's foot, all high towers and graceful arches, glowing, haloed in the rain. It was beautiful. It was home.
They had made it.
Harry was the first surprised by the choked, delighted laughter that escaped him, but he couldn't help it, didn't care if he looked like a madman because –
Hogwarts was here. A thousand years away from his time, the castle still stood, ready to welcome him home, one unchanging point to his eventful life, and Harry felt something unknot inside him, a pressure he had not been aware existed ease and disappear.
"Shall we, then?"
He turned to Salazar at the words, to find the Founder already looking, a faint smile on his lips, something akin to understanding dancing in his eyes. His skin was slick with rainwater, his hair was falling around his face in drenched, messy locks. He looked –
Expectant.
"God, yes," said Harry.
Two hours later, two soaked wizards were crossing the castle's gates.
Hogwarts looked different. Its stones were not yet polished by time. Several towers seemed to be needing a few finishing touches. In Harry's era, its aura was tainted with the nobility that comes with age, but now, the castle was just brimming with joyful, untamed energy.
The two men led their horses to the stables – where, in Harry's time, Hagrid used to nurse back to health his harmlessly misunderstood friends. They flung their bags over their shoulders and were off to the Great Hall. It was around dinner time; Salazar expected the other inhabitants to be there.
The hallways were grand and silent and familiar. There weren't nearly as many painting on the wall, or suits of armours standing guard in small alcoves, but all of the castle's sweeping, ornate curves were there, hitting Harry with a pang of bittersweet homesickness. By the time he was in front of the heavy wooden doors of the Great Hall, his heart was hammering in his chest, painful but reassuring. Salazar, a hand flat against the doors, cast him an interrogative glance. Harry gave a tight nod, and the doors swung open.
The ceiling was not yet enchanted, Harry noted with some surprise, and the tables scattered around the vast room were round and lantern-lit, bright in the watery gloom. There were four of them, and only one was occupied. At the sound of wood scrapping stone, the people around it turned as one.
After a beat of astonished silence, a woman with honey-blond hair stood up, dark eyes dangerously narrowed, and she was making her way toward Harry and Salazar before anyone else thought to react.
"You," she growled, "where the hell have you been?!"
A.N: That chapter turned out to be a lot more important than I'd planned. I'm not going to complain, I love it when they write themselves.
About history: Witch-hunts actually started in the 15th century, not in the 10th, but I figured that in a universe where witchcraft actually exists, hatred for magic is bound to get an early start.
Also, Aguamenti. Not actually conjugated at the first person, but it sounded better that way. And in any case, Rowling never conjugates spells properly, so I extrapolated.
Let me know what you think, I love reviews!