Author: Aedalena
Summary: Harry Potter is no pushover. He's no hero, and he is definitely no one's pawn. What he is is a nullifier, thankyouverymuch, and he'd like to be left alone. Unfortunately, when he starts caring again, this bitter, messed up wizard will have to play the one role he never wanted to have, that of a champion. But whose champion will he be? No one betrays Harry Potter and gets away with it. Not even Albus Dumbledore. Now Dumbledore needs to convince the man whose trust he lost long ago to save the world…and his greatest ally in that endeavour may be Salazar Slytherin?
Disclaimer: Harry Potter belongs to J.K. Rowling. No profit is being made by the author of this fanfic.
This chapter: Harry wakes up and soon wishes he hadn't as he deals with two founders, a chatty mirror, and two more founders, and decides that Slytherin is Not Nice.

Nullifier
Chapter Three: The Founders

"Emotion is primarily about nothing and much of it remains about nothing to the end." –George Santayana


"Urg…" I groaned as I woke to a pounding headache.

I blinked my eyes open and immediately wished I hadn't. I squeezed them shut quickly, hoping to banish the burning white sunlight that could make a wizard long for a soothing Cruciatus. It lingered behind my eyelids, starry and flashing intermittent waves of pain. What had I done last night? I hadn't been so pissed since….

Oh. Right. It all came back to me in a jumbled blur of images and sounds. I was stuck in the past with an evil wizard, several hacked off Hogwarts founders, and absolutely no means of returning home. What had convinced me it was a good idea to snatch the Tempus Orb and jump blindly into an unknown situation?

"Good. You're awake."

The voice was another stab of pain, both behind my eyes and in the back of my head. Salazar Slytherin. Just the person I wanted to wake up to with a splitting headache. And I was willing to bet that he was the one who bludgeoned me over the head, the bastard.

"Drink." A goblet was placed at my lips, and I hesitated. "Now."

I cracked open one eye cautiously. I wasn't immediately blinded, which I took as a good sign, and examined the contents of the goblet. The liquid was clear—it could be anything from Veritaserum to water, but if it was water, why was there so little of it? Not even a mouthful. I slowly opened my other eye and noted that Slytherin did not look particularly patient right now. Not really in the mood to be whacked on the head yet again—the pain in my head spiked at the thought—I drained the cup and instantly regretted it. Veritaserum, what did I tell myself about first instincts…? Gah, the taste.

"Veritaserum," I whispered aloud, shuddering at the sliminess as I felt it coat my throat and trying to glare at Slytherin. Judging by Slytherin's amused smirk, I guessed I hadn't managed more than a bleary squint. "Potion makers. Bastards, all of them. Can't trust any of them. What an absolutely vile potion..."

He waited, for the potion to spread through my body I guess, and then began his questioning. "What are you doing here?"

I gave him another look—I was a nullifier, how was a little gulp of truth serum supposed to affect me? My every cell was a bleeding shield against magic. I held back a small sigh of disappointment. Slytherin didn't appear to know much for a supposedly accomplished nullifier. I should have guessed that Dumbledore would send me to a fellow half-arsed mentor. After all, he was the genius who put me with the Dursleys, and we know how that pleasant arrangement played out.

Still, since the founder seemed clueless, maybe I'd play with him a little. Make up for the unpleasant experience of imbibing Veritaserum, at the very least. "Answering your questions," I stated in the flat voice I'd heard several times listening in on ministry interrogations of captured Death Eaters.

His next question was curt, and I preened inwardly. It's not every day you manage to irritate a famous figure from the dusty pages of history book. "What is your name?"

"Harry Bigglestaff Evans," I said solemnly.

Slytherin raised an eyebrow, and it was all I could do not to let out a betraying gasp of laughter. Besides, it wouldn't have helped the pounding in my head. He murmured my last name as though trying to recall if he'd heard it before, and frowned. "What are your intentions for this school?"

"Redecoration."

"Redecoration?" Slytherin repeated incredulously.

"To redo the decoration of a building or room," I intoned.

He must have begun to cotton on, because his next question was sharp and to the point. "What is your relation to the wizard Morass?"

"He's my cousin's former brother-in-law's aunt's lover's business associate. No relation, but we take tea together twice weekly and exchange desert recipes for weekend baking fests."

I smiled up at him impudently as I waited for the inevitable explosion, cold fit of rage, acknowledgement that I was the most infuriating wizard since Grinning Gregham got the Kiss. Instead, Slytherin peered closer at me, searching for something that apparently wasn't there. Surprised, I stared at him. That was twice in two days I'd failed to irritate someone when it was my aim. Snape would be frothing at the mouth by this point. Not that it took much for him to set him off. A look held too long, a gaze dropped too quickly, breathing particularly heavily or slowly, speaking, not speaking...

"How can you resist the truth serum?" he asked.

The question came out cautious, like he was reluctant to reveal that he lacked this knowledge. Which made sense since I was still the suspicious stranger who had penetrated Hogwarts' vaunted security. "Well, I'm a nullifier. Comes with the package. I take it you can't?"

He frowned. "No."

"Hm," I said intelligently.

"Unacceptable," he pronounced with an accusatory glare that suggested everything was my fault. "I need to know what your intentions are. Block your nullifying powers."

"Come again?" It was my turn to look blank. Between us, we might have half an inkling, for all we knew about nullifying.

"Block your…don't play the fool, boy." I frowned at the epithet. "That is the most basic nullifying magic. You don't know how to…?"

I felt my cheeks heat inexplicably, and I ducked my head to hide my embarrassment. I didn't understand why I felt so abashed, I hadn't felt like this since...well, I wasn't sure. Maybe when I flew my broom home returning from the Weasleys' Christmas party one year, so drunk I nearly crashed into a disapproving Remus and a thoroughly enraged Sirius who had been watching for me for hours after receiving a frantic floo call from Molly. I still don't understand why the entire neighbourhood didn't make any move to help me, given the things Sirius screamed at me. Though his fury was the height of hypocrisy, given the wild stories about him I heard from Remus.

But this was nothing like that. Why should I be embarrassed about appearing stupid in front of Slytherin? I couldn't be expected to know every last ability a nullifier has, no matter how incredulous Slytherin seemed that I didn't. Sometimes I really, really wished that I was just an ordinary wizard who didn't have to worry about learning a whole new school of magic.

I shrugged at Slytherin, fixing my gaze on a distant wall rather than him while I recovered my composure.

I didn't recognise the room from my days at Hogwarts. The walls were a cool stone, weathered even on the inside somehow, like it had been exposed to elements normally reserved for the exteriors of buildings. The windows of the room were small and high up, giving the room the slightly claustrophobic feel of a holding cell. But despite the room's prisonlike qualities, I didn't feel uncomfortable. Sappy though it may sound, Hogwarts always feels like home, no matter the room. I could sleep in the Slytherin dorms with no qualms—after placing several protective charms and hexes around my bed, of course, because it's Slytherin.

The floor was stone, except for a circular rug in the centre that was almost completely black except for a thin winding spiral of silver thread. Cosmetic or did it mean something? With so much rock surrounding the room, it should have been cold as Snape at a wedding. There wasn't even one of the fireplaces customary to the rooms of my Hogwarts, only several dozen small candles that didn't seem to burn up. It wasn't, though. Cold. Not warm enough that I was ready to crawl out of the blankets piled atop me—there were so many I wondered if they were to prevent me from escaping the confines of my bed—but I wouldn't freeze if I did.

The candles kept drawing my gaze. They were placed seemingly randomly all throughout the room and floated gently, radiating a slightly green light from many different angles, so shadows were almost nonexistent. On one wall, lit rather eerily with that strangely coloured light, was a still painting of a pretty witch with long, curly brown hair and a secretive smile who bore more than a passing resemblance to Slytherin. The painting was hung above a small desk made of a dark wood I couldn't identify that had a ridiculous number of tiny drawers.

Closest to me was a bedside table that was really more a shelf placed near the bed for easy access than anything else. It was dressed in a white cloth embroidered with a crest of a snake entwined around a staff, very much like the Rod of Asclepius. The Slytherin family crest?

"Well?" Slytherin prompted, reminding me that he was still waiting for an answer.

"I don't know anything," I said tiredly, rubbing at my eyes and feeling that the statement hit closer to home than it should. "I don't know why I even came here. Stupid of me, really. I wasn't thinking. I just hoped…"

Slytherin remained silent, so I continued. At least it would be only a stranger listening to my blather; at least he wouldn't give me a reassuring pat on the back and tell me to "buck up, mate." At least he had absolutely no clue who famous Harry Potter is and probably wouldn't give a damn if he did.

"I hoped I could get away from...things, just for a bit. Where I live, everyone would prefer to wrap me up in protective padding, lock me up in some vault, and tuck the key away somewhere safe until they need me. And I guess I was also curious about this ti—here. And while here I've been hexed at, knocked down, chased after, cornered, cursed, and hit over the head," I shot a glance at Slytherin, whose face remained composed and blank, "none of which is exactly travel brochure material, at least no one expects anything from me."

"That's not true," Slytherin said. "I alternately expect you to bolt from the room and murder my students or start blubbering. I can't decide which I would prefer; they are equally distasteful."

"Well, I wouldn't want to do anything distasteful, now would I? Besides," I said, frowning indignantly, "I don't blubber. And what would you do if I did want to bash some of your brats?"

"Make sure you found your way into the Gryffindor common room."

"It's good to know who my true friends are," said a new voice from the doorway. Judging by the startled look on Slytherin's face, he hadn't been aware of the newcomer's approach, either.

Godric Gryffindor stepped into the green candlelight with a raised eyebrow. "Well, Salazar. You've had your turn with the…" he searched for a word with nicer connotations than 'prisoner,' "with our guest. Is our young friend a dastardly agent of evil?"

Slytherin hesitated for a moment before shaking his head. "I doubt it. Not competent enough."

I didn't know whether to be relieved or insulted, so I didn't say anything.

"Well then," Gryffindor said, turning to me, "welcome to Hogwarts; what do you think of her?"

Finally, a chance to find out where in Hogwarts I actually was without being too obvious about it. "Can't say much, since all I've seen so far have been the odd corridor and this room. Speaking of which, my compliments to the room's interior designer. A few chains hanging from the walls, some flecks of blood here and there, maybe a skull—a tibia if you've used all your skulls up on the more upscale rooms—and it'd be downright homey."

Gryffindor stifled a snicker, glancing at a suddenly impassive Slytherin. "That would be our very own Salazar. These are his chambers you're jai—recovering in."

Salazar Slytherin's room? Unfortunately, I had no idea where in Hogwarts that might be. I scrutinised it more carefully. Didn't look like the work of a twisted, evil mind to me. Bland, stark, little life and not much colour aside from the candlelight and my bed. A place I could live in happily enough. How disappointing. I'd expected black silk and silver daggers, maybe some grotesque dark relics and a snake or ten. Wait. Was that emerald thing in the corner...? It was.

"Well, at least you have a snake," I said, careful to look away from it as I spoke. It wouldn't do to start speaking Parseltongue.

"Yes. Come here, dear one." It took me a confused second to realise the last part was spoken in Parseltongue. The snake, long and green but a good deal smaller than most snakes I'd had the misfortune of encountering, slithered over to Slytherin.

"Not one for much conversation, is our Salazar, if you're not a snake," said Gryffindor helpfully, filling an awkward silence as he edged away from the moving snake. "Rowena likes to say that a troll would be a better companion if it's dialogue you're after, but I think she underestimates him."

"Rowena underestimates anyone who can't recite the seventeen categories of charms at a moment's notice," Slytherin pointed out.

"Can you?" I asked.

"Can I what?" he said curtly.

"Recite them?"

"Certainly I can. I teach Charms."

What, not Potions? Not Dark Arts? Torture as an art? If Voldemort ever truly met his inspiration, his hero, he'd die of cardiac arrest or a broken heart. The idea of Voldemort, a pining expression on his face, staring with tragic disappointment at a portrait of Slytherin nearly startled a laugh out of me. I shoved that mental image to the back of my mind, where it belonged.

"Wait. Then she's not underestimating you at all?"

"I did not say that."

"You implied it."

"Salazar is a special case," Gryffindor explained. "He and Rowena are locked in a never-ending battle of one-upmanship that will continue until one admits the other is smarter or they kill each other."

"Not to change this oh-so-fascinating subject, but am I a prisoner here?" I asked, uncertain. The mixed signals were confusing. Gryffindor was being friendly and chatty, Slytherin wasn't threatening me, which was his version of friendly and chatty, I supposed. On the other hand, neither had made any move to return my wand to me.

"No. I am trying to decide what to do with you."

I thought about my headache, and that, of course, amplified it by several factors. "Hm. Well, just so long as it's quick and relatively painless..."

"Don't worry," Gryffindor assured me. "We haven't used the dungeons yet for anything but Potions, for all the time we spent cleaning them up. Salazar wanted to keep them the way they were, of course, but Helga insisted. And she made him throw away all of the torture devices the Muggles who inhabited the castle before us left behind."

"On second thought, maybe this room isn't as bad as I thought."

"Enough. You," Slytherin said to me, "are irritating. You," he said, turning to Gryffindor, "are uninvited, though why I expect that to stop you from intruding, I cannot imagine. I don't particularly care what Rowena thinks about my conversational value, or how appealing my quarters are. Just take him and leave, Godric. I assume that is why you are here."

"Wonderful," Gryffindor said dryly, "sometimes I wonder how I can stand to take leave of your charming presence. I only 'intruded' to fetch the pris—former pris—oh, let's just call him our guest. Helga and Rowena would like to speak with him as well. We can't keep him confined indefinitely, so the sooner we decide what to do with him, the better."

"Quite right," I approved. "Best idea I've heard today."

Gryffindor smiled a bit reservedly and waved his hand at my bed. The covers flew off and folded into a neat stack of bedding, and I surveyed my person. Splendid, I was still wearing my robes from yesterday, which were now wrinkled and ripe with the numerous exertions of the past twenty-four hours.

"D'you think you could spare a bath for your exalted 'guest'?" I asked, frowning as Slytherin turned his nose away with an expression of distaste. "Well, if you'd got yourself walloped over the head and stuffed in bed for a day, you wouldn't smell like daisies, either."

"No, I would not. But I also wouldn't be foolish enough to put myself in such a situation."

"Yeah, well, maybe you're not—"

"We had better get you out of here," Gryffindor said, interrupting what might have escalated into a rapid exchange of insults. "You're making Salazar positively chatty."

"I like him better silent," I muttered, allowing Gryffindor to shepherd me through the door.

Git. Oh, of course he would have done everything differently and vastly better. Muttering under my breath, I cast aspersions on the legitimacy of the founder's birth and speculated on the species, social status, and moral standards of his parents the whole trip to the bathroom. The bathroom that, in fact, looked remarkably like the ones I was used to. Plumbing? Apparently, we wizards were more advanced than the ignorant Muggles of the time period, though that would change. And more civilised, I appended, my thoughts drifting back to the deceased Dursleys.

Deceased. Odd to think of them that way. Made them almost human, the fact that they were dead. I think perhaps Voldemort believed he was doing me a favour, ridding me of the relatives that had made my childhood rather miserable. Only Voldemort would think that killing a person's relatives might be regarded as anything but utterly reprehensible. Far from being grateful, I'd nearly spewed over the perfectly trimmed grass when I found them.

He'd gloated. Gloated about their deaths, musing in a very disturbing poetic free verse about the way their blood had spilt on the drab grey concrete of their walkway and the yellow tulips and grass of the front garden. Protected by their blood…. I'd never guessed how crudely accurate Dumbledore's explanation would prove to be. Voldemort would surely have grabbed me or offed me there and then, had I not been between the house and their spattered blood. He couldn't pass it, none of his Death Eaters could. The ones who tried got only what they deserved, I thought with furious satisfaction.

I remember screaming obscenities and curses from behind that grotesque shield until he disapparated in disgust and the Aurors finally reached the now-imperfect house of my only family. I was too exhausted then to do anything aside from explaining what had happened. I think half of them believed I killed them myself, anyway. The other half looked like they wanted to give me a medal for not fainting in terror at sight of terrifying You-Know-Who. I thought I deserved a medal for not hexing the lot in disgust.

After that, Dumbledore finally offered to let me stay at Hogwarts. I couldn't. In a lapse of sanity, some sudden assumption of guilt or responsibility, I felt the need to tend to the pathetic, empty house of my pathetic, empty relatives. The Aurors took the bodies away, and the grass grew out, but the blood wouldn't wash off the concrete. It stood as a permanent barrier against Voldemort and a permanent reminder of how much I stood to lose by taking a firm stand against him. Who's to say I didn't learn something every once in a while, I thought bitterly.

Someone was shaking my shoulder violently. I blinked, and reality reinstated itself. "Sorry, did I miss something?"

Gryffindor looked slightly concerned. "You seemed a bit lost there."

I blinked again and the memories receded to the edge of my thoughts. "Just thinking, remembering."

"It had to be a mad one," he said under his breath, ushering me over to the large bath in the centre of the room. "I will be waiting outside the door. If more than ten minutes pass, I'll retrieve you myself."

"How hospitable of you," I replied, turning a knob and stripping out of my robes.

Gryffindor shook his head resignedly and left the room quickly, as if glad to be rid of my presence. The water was stinging hot as I eased myself into the bath, but I welcomed the feeling. I found some strange substance in a glass phial that I assumed was some manner of hair product and smeared it in. When it felt like my skin would fall off, I turned a few knobs until cold, ice-laden water started flowing from the tap. Only wizarding baths... I was directly below the tap and the shock of the sudden numbing cold made me gasp, but I left the water running and the temperature dropped quickly. It helped wake me up, banish the last of my brooding thoughts.

I finally stepped out of the now frigid bath and reached for a towel. Next to it lay a fresh black robe that hadn't been there at the start of my bath. I slipped into it gratefully. I found a mirror and comb in one end of the room and worked on making myself human again. I peered at my chin, and decided that a shave would not go unappreciated, either. Wishing I had a wand so I could use a standard shaving spell, I resigned myself to the old-fashioned razor, which I found not far from the sink at which I was grooming. I fought the usual battle with my hair, which was usually marginally better behaved long. Not wanting to take any chances, I pulled it back in a braid.

Either the room was anticipating my every need and setting out all the tools I needed, or their house elves were disconcertingly inobtrusive.

"You do clean up nicely, dear."

I lashed out reflexively and bruised my knuckles on the magically reinforced mirror than had spoken to me. I pulled my fist back, rubbing it. "Sorry."

"It was nothing," murmured the mirror, blushing a pleased light pink. "I daresay, that hurt you a deal more than it did me. Here, now, you needn't keep a distance. Step closer so I can see you better."

"Oh, sorry. What do you think?" I asked, straightening in front of the mirror. "Presentable?"

"Absolutely," the mirror gushed. "You seem to have got that hair under control and you have such lovely eyes. Such an odd colour. The only green I've seen more vivid was Lady Manticale's."

"Thanks. Listen, I'm supposed to meet Lady Ravenclaw and Lady Hufflepuff soon. Any advice on how to handle them?"

The surface of the mirror rippled in unbridled glee. If there was one thing I knew, it was that mirrors loved to gossip, and I was perfectly willing to take advantage of that.

"Rowena enjoys intellectuals, with the exception of those who challenge her too much, so don't skimp on the wit, but don't be confrontational either. Helga, now. Helga loves a sincere compliment, but don't carry it too far. She loathes blatant flattery. And neither are very trusting of strangers, but you look like one of the family, so you should be fine. One of Salazar's nephews, are you? Say hello to Gregor for me next time you see him, the little dear."

"Sure," I lied. Then I widened my eyes beseechingly. "Anything else?"

"If you can keep up that look, you won't need to worry about a thing, young man. Just widen your eyes a little more...that's it, and lower your lashes just a bit—no, no…yes, there. Like that. Oh my, I say, I haven't felt this fluttery in years."

Any more of this and I'd start blushing. I cleared my throat. "Um, thanks for the help." Now, a little flattery wouldn't hurt. "You know, it's been a long time since I last spoke to such a knowledgeable mirror in years. Your surface is very clear, too. Why do they keep you in this corner of the castle?" I had paid only minimal attention to where Gryffindor was leading me before, but I thought I knew roughly where in Hogwarts I was. Enough to know that this room was far removed from the hub of castle activity. It would make sense for a reclusive wizard like Slytherin to want to live in a quiet part of the castle, though.

The door to the room blasted open with a loud bang! cutting short any reply the mirror might have had. I cocked my head quizzically at the alert, armed wizard who entered, rolling into a crouch, wand out. He froze upon spotting me standing in front of the mirror before hastily getting to his feet and brushing off a few stray dust motes.

I shook my head, exasperated. "Let's revisit the 'am I a prisoner or not' question. Which is it?"

"I say," snapped Gryffindor, ignoring my question, "first I wondered why Salazar was so eager to be rid of you, but it's quickly becoming clear."

"Godric Gryffindor," the mirror clucked disapprovingly, "I see that you haven't changed. Always barging in on people like you've never heard of privacy."

"Sorry to interrupt," I nevertheless interrupted, "but before this heartless man drags me away, could I ask your name?"

"Oh! It's Adelaide, but all the mirrors call me Ade." I had the distinct feeling that the mirror was beaming at me. I smiled back. Trust me to make friends with the inorganic objects rather than actual people.

"Thank you," I said, turning to face Gryffindor. "Ade and I were simply discussing the castle and its inhabitants."

"I…see," Gryffindor said, regaining his composure. "Well, this way please, if you're finished."

"I'll speak with you some other time, Ade," I said, and the mirror pulsed affirmatively before fading to the normal reflective silver.

I followed Gryffindor closely, both anticipating and dreading my pending meeting with the two female founders of Hogwarts. They would surely be more compassionate than the two I'd already met. Well, they'd looked more concerned for me after they had rescued me from Morass. If I could only convince them to let me stay on and learn all I could from Salazar…and find a way to get back home….

Gryffindor stopped in front of a tall, elegant wood door and knocked gently. The quiet sound of voices murmuring in conversation faded, and I felt my hair to make sure my braid was secure.

"Come in," called a voice. Rowena.

Gryffindor waved his wand and the doors parted easily, swinging open to reveal a room so lavish the Gryffindor common room was sparse in comparison. The walls were a pale cream, with delicate gold leaf patterns. Hanging from the high-arched ceiling were spiring chandeliers with white candles that spread pale fingers of soft yellow light down on the room's inhabitants. The whole place had an almost surreal quality, like I'd stepped into a fairytale. Which, in a way, I had.

Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff were sat on tall chairs with smoothly curved backs that looked very comfortable. I felt the weight of their intense scrutiny, returned it in full. Ravenclaw was short and thin, almost delicate. Her dark hair was pulled back elegantly, and she looked like she was in her early thirties. Which, given the longer lifespan of witches and wizards, placed her actual age at anywhere between thirty and sixty. There was nothing frail about her, despite her small stature. Her eyes were sharp and intelligent, and her gaze suspicious and assessing.

Hufflepuff was definitely stockier, but not 'dumpy,' as Morass had described her. Her skin was dusky, and her hair was a dark blonde, worn in a braid like mine, but longer. Her brown eyes were warm and open, and she radiated a certain friendliness that put me at ease. I estimated her to be roughly the same age as Ravenclaw.

"Take a seat, please," said Hufflepuff melodiously. "Make yourself comfortable. What kept you, Godric?"

"Salazar. And this young man," Gryffindor gave me a tiny, apologetic smile, "I never asked your name."

"Harry."

"Godric Gryffindor, as you already know."

"Helga," Hufflepuff said.

"Rowena Ravenclaw," Ravenclaw said, inclining her head fractionally. "And now that we have been introduced, perhaps you could explain to us who you are and why you have come here."


Revised: 2 December 2005