Chapter Rating: T-ish(?)

Warnings: Some bad language, more bickering, antics, period-typical sexism, flashbacks, plotting, etc.

Word Count: ~7500

Pairings: Salazar Slytherin/Godric Gryffindor, Rowena Ravenclaw/Helga Hufflepuff

Notes: Several people have commented on Merlin actually being taught at Hogwarts according to Pottermore. Ignore this, please; it makes the history student inside me cringe, seeing as the first mention of Merlin appears in the 500-600s (CE), and Hogwarts was founded around the year 1000. On that note, Helga's memory takes place around 927, when most of Wales ceded power to the English kings. I figured it was a good excuse to get them all in the same geographical region, and shamelessly appropriated it. The details are entirely fabricated.

(And yes, what appears at the end is indeed an American-style Viennese waltz, because regulation or not the showy steps are fun.)


And the brave man with a sword

Chapter IV

The pieces connect, and in a flash Rowena is on her feet, expression tight and eyes lit with a dangerous light. "No," she growls. "No, Godric, don't you dare even think of it!"

"Not as myself," Godric retorts, exasperated, because he can follow the line of her thinking well enough. "But all the rest of you have descendants, proven bloodlines. If it's one of you, someone will call us on it. But there's no established Gryffindor bloodline. If I turn up out of the blue, well, it's just a descendant finally surfacing, not some sordid tale of adultery or bastard children. And as long as people know Voldemort has returned, the circumstances won't matter. Just having people realize will discredit the Ministry, and they'll have to leave Hogwarts alone."

"No." Salazar rises to his full height, face pale with fury. "You cannot think to do this. You will be making yourself a target not just for this Dark Lord, but for every one of his followers, and he has many, Godric. This is the height of stupidity."

"Then give me a better plan," Godric challenges, facing him squarely and meeting those storm-cloud eyes. "Give me a way to draw his attention, to draw him out of hiding."

"A duel," Helga suggests, breaking the tension as she stands as well. Her face is set in determined lines, brown eyes firm and fierce. "Don't tell him it's you, but challenge him as Gryffindor's descendant to Slytherin's. You don't even have to do it in person, if he has as many follows as Salazar says. Just…give him a sign, a reason to believe you, and a place to meet, and make sure everyone else knows as well."

"Or just meet in the Ministry," Salazar drawls, but the tension is easing from his shoulders. He studies Godric for a moment, then says quietly, "You know you'll have to 'die' during the duel, don't you? Otherwise it's too much attention on us. We won't be able to keep on as we have been."

Godric shrugs, and it feels like something settling inside him, sharpening, focusing. He's been on edge since he heard of the threat to Hogwarts, and to actually have the beginnings of a plan of action, a target, is shifting him from impotent anxiety to battle-readiness. The latter he can handle. The former would have driven him mad inside a week. "I assumed as much," he says easily. "A little overdramatic, to be struck down by each other's final blows, but we can't let it get out that we're still alive."

Salazar's mouth pulls tight at that, but he simply inclines his head and says nothing. Godric looks at him for one more moment before he pulls his eyes away, facing the girls. "So. How do we get his attention, then? What sign do we use?"

Rowena breathes out, long and slow, and sinks back down to the sofa, lacing her fingers together as she thinks. "We're going to need resources," she says. "Some way to follow his movements, or know what he's doing. There's an organization—the Order of the Phoenix. If we can approach them and convince them to help us…"

"Dumbledore is their leader," Salazar adds, "which makes it all the more convenient." He pauses, meets Godric's eyes, and then says thoughtfully, "Godric. What happened to your sword?"

Rowena's head jerks up as though she's been stung, eyes wide with what is clearly the beginnings of panic. Helga makes a sound of distress and hurries to her side, wanting to know what's wrong, but Rowena only spares her a distracted wave. "Godric?" she demands.

Godric gives them both a bewildered look, automatically touching the empty space where it should hang. "It was summoned," he says, perplexed by their very different reactions. "Three years ago now. Someone at the school needed it, so the Sorting Hat provided it. I can feel it in the Headmaster's office, but I haven't bothered to call it back yet. There isn't much of a need for swords these days."

Rowena's breath escapes her in a relieved rush and she slumps back to the sofa, raking both hands distractedly though her hair. "Merlin's withered balls, Godric," she growls, her voice muffled. "You're going to give me a heart attack."

Helga shares a glance with Godric, clearly just as lost, but Salazar looks pleased. "We need to impress upon the Order that it's in their best interests to cooperate with us," he says. "Or rather, with the Heir of Gryffindor. And I can think of little that would show your blood more than calling that sword to your hand."

Rowena nods, still shaky but rapidly improving. "If we make it showy and impressive enough, they won't question it. So we need to overwhelm them." She eyes Godric critically. "Perhaps skip the aging potion, then. The sword, a show of power, maybe a request for them to help you kill Voldemort—phrase it in a way that makes it seem like you don't need their assistance, but you're kind enough to ask regardless."

Godric just shrugs, because as vital as battle plans are, as good at them as he is, when it comes to people he's far better at simply winging it. He has some charisma, some ability to get at the heart of a person after a short acquaintanceship, but for the most part he's still a brash, headstrong mercenary bratling used to getting answers through a sword's edge or a well-placed spell rather than diplomacy or maneuvering.

"Align ourselves," Helga offers thoughtfully. "We should show them where our loyalties lie before we even approach them. That will make it far harder for them to dismiss us, won't it?"

Rowena smiles at her, blue eyes warming—not like ice melting, because for all her coldness at times Rowena is not an icy person, but the first violets showing through the snow, hinting at the life beneath. Of the four of them, even counting Salazar, Rowena has always been the best at masks.

"A good idea," she affirms. "The Death Eaters have been staging raids on Muggle villages. If we can predict which, or get word in time, we can just…interrupt. A few instances like that and the Order will be the ones to approach us, I'm sure. You're a gem, Helga."

Helga blushes, ducking her head to hide a pleased, bashful smile behind her curls, and Godric chuckles. "Careful there, bright eyes," he teases gently. "If the wind changes your face will stick like that."

Helga harrumphs in indignation, giving him an annoyed glance, and Rowena sighs and chucks a cushion at his head. Godric just laughs and catches it, then throws it back to her.

"Ah, yes," Salazar says dryly to no one in particular. "Godric Gryffindor, professional ruiner of moments. How could I have forgotten?"

That's what you get for being gone for fifty years, Godric thinks, but it doesn't have nearly the bite it would have before dinner, before meeting his House again. Instead, he sweeps a gaudy, mocking bow in thanks, and when he looks up Salazar is hiding a grin behind one long, pale hand. Godric grins back, inordinately pleased with himself for getting that reaction, and the joy of it buries the last few twinges of resentment, if only for now.

And then, because Rowena is awful, that same cushion smacks him in the side of the head. Godric catches it as it falls, slanting her his best glare, but her only response is a merciless smile.

"Back on task," she reminds them all. "Godric, how long would it take you to set up a spell that watches villages for a sudden attack?"

Godric shifts to sit on the arm of the chair Helga vacated, considering it. He hasn't used such a spell in probably six hundred years, and he's fairly rusty. Hogwarts' library might be helpful, but then again, it also might not. There's not much call for such archaic monitoring spells any longer, and Godric would be surprised if anyone beyond a handful of medieval scholars even remembered they existed anymore. Still, spellwork has always been his greatest strength—especially offensive spellwork, and with the right tweaks, an observation spell like that could definitely become such a thing.

"Give me a week," he finally decides. "If I can't recall one by then, I'll need your assistance in the library, Rowena."

"You always need my help in the library," Rowena points out, the sharpness of her tone not quite able to hide the exasperated affection lurking underneath. "Eternally hopeless—that's a good description, don't you think, Salazar?"

"Oi," Godric protests, straightening up and glaring at his three friends. "Need I remind you just who here is the spellwork genius? You came to me when you needed to enchant that ridiculous riddle-opening to your common room, you harpy."

Salazar snorts softly, and cuts Rowena off before she can puff up too much and subsequently explode. Wisely, he also doesn't answer her question. "Given that Voldemort is a Parselmouth, I cannot be certain that he hasn't guaranteed their loyalty, but I will try to speak with the snakes near the castle regardless. At the very least, they will have some idea of the comings and goings nearby, and act as an early warning system. At best, perhaps they will have an idea as to where the other speaker has gone to ground."

Godric lets himself grin, and this time he knows there's nothing nice or amused about it, all teeth and dark intent. "Well, I must say I'm all for that idea. Nothing would discredit the Ministry quite like dropping a hogtied Dark Lord on their doorstep."

Helga laughs, leaning into Rowena's side a little—and, tellingly, the other woman doesn't shift away. "Careful there, fire-top," she mimics. "Your Animagus is showing. If the wind shifts you could get stuck that way."

Godric laughs too, because that's hardly an insult—or a threat—as far as he's concerned. "There are worse things I could imagine," he counters.

But Rowena is looking thoughtful again. "An option," she murmurs, mostly to herself, and then shakes her head and looks up again. "It's getting late," she points out, rising to her feet and brushing off her skirt. With a smile, she offers Helga a hand up, and the blonde takes with a pleased blush. "We'd best get to our common rooms before our absence is noted. Anything else that needs to be addressed before we do?"

Salazar stirs himself from his looming position, taking three steps to stand beside Godric. "Are we playing along with their little prejudices?" he asks, and though the question is directed at Rowena, Godric is the one his grey eyes linger on. "I cannot say I relish promoting their ridiculous levels of House rivalry."

Godric's breath catches, but he smiles through it, and gets the faintest hint of a smile in return. He's not quite settled enough to reach out and take Salazar's hand the way he once would have done without thought, but the idea is there, and that's a definite improvement from just twenty-four hours ago.

"Fuck that," he says succinctly, and it's just a little above a growl. Maybe Helga has a point about his Animagus form. "I say we turn them all on their ears and give them something to think about."

"Agreed," Rowena says instantly, and the smile she shares with Godric is dark and full of a mischief he'd almost forgotten she had in her. Then again, Rowena has always loved upending people's expectations and dancing a jig on the ensuing wreckage. "The matter seems to have gotten quite out of hand since the last time we looked in. I say a reality check is in order."

Helga giggles, and there's a matching light of good humor in her gaze. "By any means necessary?" she suggests, and Godric laughs, because he's well aware of what she means by that. It appears they're going to be pulling out all stops, then.

"Why ever would we do something halfway?" Salazar asks rhetorically, a slow, secretive smirk turning his expression into something Godric finds absolutely breathtaking. Then, with one last, graceful nod, he strides up to the tapestry-door, orders, "Let me see," and when the hanging turns transparent to show an empty corridor, strides through without pause.

Godric stays where he is for one more moment, trying to scrape a few brain cells back together, and then chuckles and stands, giving it up as a lost cause. "Have a good night, my ladies," he offers, sweeping Helga and Rowena another courtly bow just to hear them laugh, and follows Salazar out.


Surrounded by black and gold for the first time in centuries, comfortable and warm and with the tight knot of worry inside her finally beginning to ease, Helga sleeps well and deeply, and dreams of times long since passed.

She walks down a neat stone path, delicate shoes entirely unsuited, long skirts getting caught in the cracks and surrounding grasses. The sun is up, but she sneaks regardless, casting furtive glances around for anyone who might object to the middle daughter of one of the visiting lords creeping into the kitchen gardens. But there's no one, so Helga lets out a breath of relief, tells herself to stop being a ninny, and squares her shoulders. She has the right to go anywhere she likes, even if these are foreign lands, and the only thing stopping her is everyone else's opinion. There's absolutely no reason a lady should stay out of the kitchen gardens just because it's assumed the castle's rose garden should be more to her tastes.

Still, she thinks a little whimsically, it's rather exciting, slipping out of her lessons to go somewhere she knows her tutor—and her father—would disapprove of her being. They're stiff and stilted and entirely too focused on propriety, especially around the Muggles here, who've come to discuss Wales declaring fealty to the English King Alfred. Only a handful of them are magical, Helga's family among them, and the constraint—playing at being something she's not, hiding so very much of herself—itches at her. Unbearably at times, though she knows it's for the best. Christianity is spreading and the old ways are being pushed back, and with them the acceptance of magic as anything but one of the Devil's gifts.

It makes Helga sad, to see such prejudice taking hold, but there's little she can do beyond keeping her head down and avoiding the suspicion of the visiting noble families. Granted what she's doing now probably isn't overly discrete, but better to be thought a little odd than completely hide who she—

The loud thump of a heavy boot suddenly landing right in front of her all but makes her jump out of her skin. She flinches back, automatically reaching for the wand hidden up her sleeve, but thankfully before she can reach it a voice calls, "Sorry about that!"

Bewildered, Helga looks around, sees nothing, and then raises her head and looks up into the apple tree that hangs over the path.

A boy grins back at her, suspended upside-down among the branches as he hangs from his knees, his red hair practically the same shade as the deep crimson apple in his hand. He gives her a cheeky wave, then sets his apple in the fork of a branch, unhooks his legs, and drops. Helga doesn't even have time to yelp, though she wants to—he's falling, he's falling headfirst, he'll crack his damned fool skull open and she's the only one nearby—before he somehow twists around in the air and lands a few inches from his boot in an easy crouch.

With a shaky breath, Helga presses a hand over her heart, which kicked into triple-time the moment he let go of the branch, and tries to calm herself. Even so, her voice is sharper than she intends when she demands, "Are you mad? You could have been hurt!"

The boy—young, now that she's looking at him right-side-up, likely no more than thirteen years, all elbows and knees and a skinny body that speaks of too many growth spurts too close together—favors her with the most deeply unimpressed look she's ever seen outside of her harridan of a nursemaid, tugs his boot back on without lacing it, and rises to his feet. With a careless shrug, he brushes a few leaves off his plain black tunic and looks up. "If I hurt myself that easily, Cousin Alaric would say I deserve it," he counters, and then tips his head to study her carefully.

Green eyes, Helga realizes with faint surprise. Green like the leaves above them, to match the apple-red of his hair. He's not old enough to be handsome yet, still caught in the awkward grasp of youth, but he's a pretty child, certainly. And that accent is definitely English, though rougher than what she's accustomed to from those she's heard in court. His clothes are rather plain as well, so perhaps he's the child of a guardsman? Still, she can't imagine a mere guardsman would be allowed to bring his son on a political visit.

Before she can ask, however, the boy's next words distract her entirely. He looks her up and down, more assessment than appreciation, and says lazily, "You look mighty fancy, milady, to be heading where this path leads. Did you get lost?"

Such condescension from a boy a good five years younger makes her bristle, drawing herself up straight. "I did not," she denies sharply. "And who are you, to question me?" Granted, the words aren't nearly as haughty as her elder sister can make them, but she gives it her best attempt.

The boy just laughs, bright and warm and infectious. "I'm Godric," he offers cheerfully. "And you, milady?"

"Helga," she answers, slightly mollified, and then blinks in surprise when she sees the boy reach up and grab hold of a thick branch again. He pulls himself up, kicking off the trunk and vaulting over the bough, and then leans over it and stretches out his hands.

"Well?" he asks, and there's a challenge in his green eyes, one he's not even trying to hide. "Are you coming?"

It's a bad idea. It's a very bad idea; sneaking into the kitchen gardens she can get away with, because she's always loved herbs and plants. Climbing a tree, with a boy—her tutor is likely to faint at the mere thought.

But—

But it's really a lovely tree, isn't it? Perfect for climbing with its conveniently spaced branches and intriguing twists, with its apples so large and red and ready to be picked. It's been years since she last forgot herself enough to climb a tree, and she'd be lying if she said she hadn't missed it.

Helga grins, watching Godric's face light up in return, and kicks off her painful, mincing slippers, tucking them out of sight behind the tree. The grass is lush beneath her feet, sun-warmed tops and cool beneath, with just a hint of tickle. She curls her toes into it, then hitches up her overskirt and ties it around her waist. The thinner, shorter underskirt is enough for modesty, if only barely, and far easier to move in. Ignoring Godric's offered hands, she grabs the same limb he did, hooks her toes in a particularly knotted section of bark, and drags herself up onto the first branch.

When she looks up, Godric's brows are near his hairline, but the expression on his face is impossibly pleased. He laughs again, warm and inviting her to share it, and stands up on the bough to reach the next branch. The distance forces him to jump, and Helga's breath catches in her throat in momentary fear for him, but he manages it with ease and hauls himself up without care to retrieve his half-eaten apple.

Not to be outdone, Helga follows him, though she picks the slightly safer route of closely spaced branches that run in a spiral around the trunk. It's simple, even more so than she had remembered, and by the time she pulls even with the redheaded boy, she's fighting not to giggle. Godric grins back at her, enjoying the unspoken joke, and then sprawls out on his limb like a particularly smug Kneazle.

Not about to let that stand—it was her choice to climb the tree, even if he may have goaded her into it—Helga leans out dangerously far to snag a particularly lovely apple, and then informs him in her best haughty tone, "I bet people tell you all the time that you're absolutely insufferable."

His grin just widens, as though it isn't an insult at all. "Mostly Salazar," he agrees readily. "And my cousin. And the Company's weaponsmaster. And my other cousin, come to think of it."

Helga laughs before she can stop herself, because after months on end spent around her father and his advisors and few other people, such straightforwardness is utterly refreshing. Almost addictive, really. "You look like the Kneazle that caught the Diricawl," she says with amusement, taking a bite of her apple. The flesh is crisp and sweet-tart, its flavor bursting over her tongue. "Was getting me up here that important to you?"

"So you are a witch!" A look of delight spreads over the boy's features. "When I jumped down, you were reaching for your wand. I thought so! And of course it was important—you looked like you needed to lighten up a little."

Helga blinks in surprise, casting another look at her companion. It takes a moment, and a much closer look, but eventually she finds the subtle runes sewn into the hems of his tunic and carved into the leather bracers around his wrists, the faint line in his sleeve where his wand doubtless lies. It's a joy that she hadn't expected, meeting one of her own kind after hiding it so carefully for the past months, and she breathes a sigh of relief before she can stop herself.

"Then you're a wizard," she returns, smiling. "Oh, I'm so glad! I hadn't thought to meet many others here."

Godric's green eyes are merry as he shifts back, swinging his legs on either side of the branch and brushing a spray of leaves away from his ear. "My entire family is magical," he confirms. "Falcon Company. Or, well, I suppose we're Baroness Winnifred's Company now. Maybe her court? It's a bit confusing, since we're supposed to be all respectable and such."

With a start, Helga realizes what he's talking about. A band of mercenaries, led by a woman, who for unknown services to King Alfred were granted a barony near Cornwall. Her father has spoken of them more than once, always with a mixture of contempt, awe, and wariness. Sellswords, he calls them—spellswords, when he's feeling particularly whimsical. Magical mercenaries with only the barest ties to any ruling power, hiring themselves out to anyone with the gold to pay them, all of them fierce and deadly warriors willing to do anything for money.

She tries to connect the idea of such people to a cheerful boy with bright green eyes, goading people into climbing trees with him because they look like they need it. Tries to connect it with Godric's easy smile and lazy grace, and…well. She doesn't quite know what to believe, except that she's always given people the benefit of a doubt before she lets herself judge them, and she won't do any differently now. Not when Godric is watching her with the faintest edge of wariness in his cat-green eyes, the slightest bit of tension as he perches on the branch.

Fair, she reminds herself fiercely. No matter what, you have to be fair. Give everyone the same chance, because that's how you'd want to be treated. Don't you dare look down on him without knowing the full story! Don't you dare treat him differently, even if you're scared!

"I suppose that depends entirely on how you see yourselves," she says, carefully keeping her voice light. "Does Baroness Winifred want to be a baroness, or would she rather just be the leader of your company?"

It might be relief that dances through Godric's eyes, or it might be something else entirely. He laughs, though, so either way it's clearly nothing bad. "The leader of our company," he answers without hesitation. "Merlin, the first time Winnie went to court, they tried to make her wear a dress! I thought she was going to throw the king's seneschal through the window when he told her."

Helga remembers her one, brief glimpse of Baroness Winifred when her father introduced his daughters to the court: a tall woman as broad as a man, with sunshine-yellow hair caught up in a high crown of braids. She'd worn breeches like the rest of the lords, and carried her massive broadsword openly, as if daring anyone to look down on her. Helga had liked her on sight, and largely on principle; anyone who inspired equal parts fear and cultured dismay from her father was a hero in her books.

"Did she?" she asks curiously.

"What, throw him through the window? Or wear the dress?" Godric laughs and shakes his head. "Neither, actually. Winnie will be dead and buried before anyone gets her into a gown, but Alaric intervened before she could hurt someone. He's good at redirecting her temper. Usually onto me, but then he's a right bastard so it's to be expected."

Nevertheless, his tone is definitely fond, and Helga can't help smiling. It dies a quick death, however, at the rustle of skirts over stone and the delicate, mincing footsteps of her most overbearing maid. "Oh, bother," she huffs, quickly scrambling higher in the tree and ducking around to the far side of the trunk, as far out of sight as she can get without casting a Disillusionment Charm.

"Lady Helga!" the woman calls, firmly disapproving. "Lady Helga, it's time to return to your lessons! Oh, where could that silly, featherbrained girl have gotten to?"

Godric's brows are rising again, but this time his expression is even less impressed than the one he'd originally directed at her. He snorts softly, then chucks his apple core aside, drops back down to the lowest branch, hooks his knees over it, and lets himself drop to hang right next to the maid.

Helga is quite gratified to hear the woman scream, since she had managed not to. Perhaps it's a little mean-spirited of her, and she does feel slightly guilty for the thought, but she's been a perfectly biddable lady for months now, never taking even a moment to herself. She's earned this little break, and she's certainly not about to end it prematurely.

Also, Helga knows she's a great many things, but featherbrained is most certainly not one of them.

"Looking for someone?" Godric asks brightly, and there's mountains of mischief in his smile.

"You—you—" The maid gropes for an insult grave enough, then clearly gives up. "Have you seen a young lady go by? Short, with blonde hair, wearing a blue dress?"

"I saw her," Godric answers readily, and Helga only just manages not to swear and throw a curse at him on reflex. She'd thought they were friends, and how is that fair

"She was going that way," Godric adds blithely, pointing down the path. "Maybe check the rose gardens? They're to your right."

Technically everything he just said is the truth, just phrased in a way so as to be entirely misleading. Helga lets out a silent breath of relief as her maid hurries onward, turning right at the end of the courtyard and then disappearing from sight.

"You're trouble, aren't you?" she asks in amusement, sliding back around the trunk and reclaiming her apple. A sharp twig catches her wimple and drags it off, and blonde curls spill out of confinement to fall, cheerfully chaotic, around her face. "Oops."

Godric laughs, swinging himself back up in an impressive display of flexibility. "Winnie says that, too," he agrees merrily. "But I think if we stay here any longer, we'll be found out. Do you still want to see the kitchen? I can take you; the servants there like me. They're always letting me sneak food out."

"How did you know I was going there?" Helga asks curiously, tucking her wimple away to deal with later. She dislikes wearing it anyway, and the dappled sunlight is warm against her hair.

Godric shoots her an amused glance, tucks another apple into his pocket, and slides down like a cat, all barely-controlled descent and graceful landing. "Well, you definitely weren't going to the rose garden, not with the way you were sneaking around," he points out, grinning up at her. "The kitchens are the only other choice from here."

"I wanted to see their herb garden," Helga admits without shame; she's only known Godric for a handful of minutes, but she can already tell he won't judge her for being less than ladylike. "I heard they're cultivating several plants they brought back from across the sea, and I wanted to take a look at them." Her descent is quite a bit more careful than Godric's, but then, skirts are more of a nuisance to climb in than breeches.

She wonders a little absently if Lady Winnifred could help her find a pair of her own.

Godric straightens, brushes himself off, and then sweeps an arm out in a truly ostentatious bow. "Allow me to provide escort, milady?" he offers, almost but not quite managing to contain his cheeky grin.

Helga sticks her nose in the air, fighting down a giggle, and takes his arm the way her older sister does, all haughty distance and superiority. "I suppose I can accept, as my options seem sadly limited at the moment," she laments dramatically, making Godric laugh. He presses his hand over hers, friendly rather than flirting, and Helga smiles right back, letting him lead her away.

She's made her first friend in this distant, unknown place, among all the manipulating and backstabbing and power-mongering going on, and it feels unexpectedly right.


"I don't suppose you play Quidditch, Heidi?" Susan Bones, who occupies the bed directly to Helga's right, asks without much hope as they make their way into the Great Hall for breakfast. "Our team's rather poor right now."

Helga offers her new friend a faintly sheepish smile. "Well, a little. You like Quidditch?"

Susan smiles back, the first to approach Helga when she finally made it back to the dormitory last night. She's cheerful and friendly, and so very much a Hufflepuff that being around her feels like coming home, even without the constant comfort of Hogwarts itself to draw on. "Of course I do. The Hollyhead Harpies are my team, how about you?"

About to answer, Helga catches sight of a flash of red and glances over to see Godric just stumbling into the Hall, laughing. One of the redheaded twins he was sitting with last night has him in a headlock, and the other is boxing his ears, both of the older boys grinning. Their third friend, with the dreadlocks, is trailing along behind, shaking his head even though he's grinning, too. Helga smothers a giggle and lifts her hand in a friendly wave. The twin hanging on to Godric's ears returns it cheerfully, half a second before Godric wiggles out from between them, boots the one on the left in the arse, and leaps onto the back of the other with a whoop. He catches sight of Helga and beams at her, then dances nimbly away from the twins' attempt to grab him and slides neatly into his seat at the Gryffindor table, crowing his victory.

It's good to see him so happy, Helga thinks fondly, taking her own seat between Susan and Hannah. Godric never stops smiling, but…sometimes he means it less. Sometimes it's just as much a mask as Salazar's icily maintained distance.

With that in mind, she glances across the Hall to where green and silver are congregating. Salazar is seated squarely in the middle of the table, lounging like the lord he used to be, and everyone around him is casting him wary glances. Only one, a black boy with high cheekbones, seems to be speaking with him, and Salazar returns the comment with an expression of cool amusement. A blond whose slightly pointy face has flushed a blotchy red is clearly fuming, if the glances he's shooting Salazar—not nearly as surreptitious as Helga would have expected for a Slytherin—are anything to go by.

"Wonder what the new boy did to get Malfoy so worked up," Susan murmurs, following Helga's gaze. "And he's even gotten Zabini on his side. That's impressive."

Helga just shakes her head. "Solomon's always known just how to find divisions and use them," she answers. "I bet you a galleon he'll be running the whole House inside of a week."

"Easy money. Done," the redheaded girl counters. "Malfoy's family is one of the most powerful right now, so he's Slytherin's prince. There's no way he'll let someone take that from him."

Well, a fifteen-year-old boy who can't even hide that he's upset will hardly be able to match Salazar, who was born to a noble court and has spent the last millennium perfecting his natural cunning, Helga thinks wryly, but doesn't say anything in response. Susan will see for herself just what comes of trying to beat Salazar at a game he might as well have invented himself.

Rowena too is seizing power, Helga finds when she glances across the Hall. Resplendent in her House colors, she's seated close to the head of the table, holding a debate like she's holding court, and Helga has to wonder how many of those around her are halfway in love with her already. Rowena is beautiful in the way of a Highland storm—overwhelming, breathtaking, crashing over everything one knows and leaving a sweeping sense of change in its wake. Her bearing is regal, her hair a fall of dark silk down her back, and the wildfire intelligence in her blue eyes changes her already lovely face into something impossible.

Helga adores her desperately, unwaveringly, can't even vaguely recall a time when she didn't.

But looking at her right now twinges painfully, deep down inside, and she turns away before Rowena can catch her staring and read her thoughts on her face.

(The food should be good, should be amazing; Helga knows it, because she's the one who created the charms, who taught the house elves. But for all she tastes it might as well be dust and ashes in her mouth.)

A hand taps her shoulder, suddenly enough to make her start, and in the same moment music sweeps through the Great Hall as if carried on a breeze, cutting through the chatter of the students. After so long, Helga is more than able to recognize Godric's spellwork, even if she didn't recognize the strong, sword-callused fingers offered to her. In an instant all of the pain of Rowena's desertion is pushed aside, momentarily forgotten. She laughs, realizing what he wants, and scrambles to her feet as fast as humanly possible.

When she makes it over the bench, Godric is waiting, a grin on his face, crimson hair all but glowing under the grim grey of the rainy sky above. His eyes sparkle with challenge, and as ever Helga rises to meet it. She lifts her chin, takes a step forward, and dips into a perfect curtsey even as Godric meets her with a courtly bow. They slide together as the music builds, steps coming with the ease of many years' practice, and Helga laughs as Godric whirls her into a lively spin. A Viennese waltz is far easier in flats than the heels she's used to, and that makes it effortless to follow as Godric sweeps them down the aisle between the House tables.

"By any means?" Godric murmurs in her ear, then swings her out in a showy turn that has her robes whirling around her legs.

Helga can't contain her grin as her feet touch down again, natural turn to reverse turn to change steps and back again as they dance, and she can already tell they're headed for the Ravenclaw table. She should have known that Godric would come up with something like this when she spoke those words. He's never been the predictable type.

"I'll admit," she manages, already slightly breathless, "this isn't quite the means I had in mind."

"But fun?" he wants to know with a grin, and Helga laughs.

"Oh, fire-top," she says fondly, because he knows it is, and has just enough time to realize the music is fading before he dips her.

There's a long moment of breathless, bemused silence around them as they step apart, and then Godric turns, offering a hand to Rowena in clear invitation. Like a current changing, the music is picking up again, beginning on a downbeat, and Rowena, halfway to her feet, stops short and glares.

"You are not," she says witheringly, "making me dance a gavotte, Gideon."

"But Roberta—" Godric whines, though Helga can see the merry mischief in his gaze.

"No. Try again." Rowena crosses her arms over her chest and stares flatly at him. "Do better."

With a sigh, Godric reaches for his wand, flicks it in a complicated pattern like a conductor before an orchestra, and the music shifts into an English waltz. Rowena listens for another moment, then inclines her head, accepting it. She curtsies, Godric bows, and the stately rhythm sweeps them away as they spin between the tables. Helga watches them go, entirely amused by the sight, though she probably should have known Rowena wouldn't let Godric show her up. She never has, and it's gotten the two of them into unbelievable amounts of trouble over the years.

Most people nowadays seem to think that Hogwarts got its motto from something Godric and Salazar did. Helga wonders what they would say if they knew it was Godric and Rowena who gave rise to that particular bit of wisdom. Draco dormiens nunquam titillandus, indeed.

Then she realizes just where Godric is leading the pair of them and covers her face with a groan.

When she steels herself enough to peek between her fingers, though, no one's been dismembered yet. Rowena is stepping back, expression archly amused and ever so slightly wicked, and Salazar is just rising to his feet, meeting Godric's grin with a lifted brow. Several people are gaping, but both wizards ignore them.

In the silence, Helga can hear it quite clearly when Salazar says, "Don't think I'm about to let you lead, Gideon. I remember what happened last time."

Godric throws his hands up, expression dramatically long-suffering. "Everyone's a critic," he complains, but dips into a flawless curtsey nevertheless. Salazar smirks, bowing in return, and flicks his wand. The Vienne Waltz starts up again, and Godric's expression turns exasperated, but before he can protest Salazar steps forward and sweeps him into a fast turn, his footwork flawless. Not about to be outdone, Godric matches him step for step, even though Helga knows he isn't nearly as good at the Viennese waltz when he's following.

Still, Godric's "not nearly as good" is better than many people's "excellent", and she tips her head to watch them, a small smile on her face. They make a striking pair and nearly always have, Salazar with his long dark hair and stern features and Godric with his bright red locks and infectious smile. When Helga looks at them now, it could be any time in the past millennium that she's seeing, or maybe even all of them, merging into one.

They're timeless, the two of them, and Helga knows it's the same with herself and Rowena. For all the pain of the last fifty years, for all the loneliness of separation, she's never doubted that eventually the four of them will overcome even this. There simply isn't another option. There is nothing that will ever be able to break them apart permanently, because even though Helga has never subscribed to the idea of soulmates, there are just some people who were born to be together. Their quartet like that, and she believes it without even a shadow of a doubt.

"What lovely eye-candy they're giving us so early in the morning," Rowena murmurs, and Helga glances up to see the other woman join her, leaning against the bench and watching the two dancers with a fond tilt to blood-red lips.

"They're beautiful," Helga agrees, smiling at her, and Rowena smiles back. It makes something ease inside of Helga, and she wonders at the contradiction. So much as looking at Rowena hurts right now, but the only cure for it is Rowena herself. But then, Helga's never been overly logical, and it makes perfect sense to her.

The music fades away to nothing, and Helga tears her eyes away from Rowena to find Godric and Salazar standing in the middle of the space between the staff table and the House tables, staring at each other as though they're the only two people left in the world. She rolls her eyes a little, even as she smiles, because they've never been subtle about what's between them, even that one brief month where they tried to hide it. Rowena still mocks them both mercilessly for that.

The clapping takes her by surprise, and Rowena as well. They look at each other, then up towards the staff table, where it began. The Houses are clapping as well now, but the four Heads who started it are exchanging glances, carefully thoughtful, and the Headmaster is beaming.

"Marvelous," he calls, and Salazar and Godric twitch apart, as though suddenly reminded that they're not alone. "Simply marvelous. Five points to each House, for a wonderful show of cooperation and grace. Thank you."

Helga dips into a curtsey as Rowena does the same, and out of the corner of her eye she sees the two boys bow, manners all but automatic even for Godric by now.

"Well," Rowena says, archly pleased as she rises, studying the faces around them. "That should definitely give them something to think about."

Helga follows her gaze, flickering over the confused and the dumbstruck and the amused, and, laughing, has to agree.