Chapter Rating: T

Warnings: Specific people being bastards, plotting Slytherins, a bit of angst, a bit of fluff, a whole lot of hurt/comfort, a dragon in the hills, etc.

Word Count: ~7500

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

Notes: I'll admit that Umbridge is possibly one of my most-hated fictional characters, and I loathe what she does to the students because it's completely despicable. A lot of villains I can understand their justifications, but to me Umbridge will always be an evil little toad. So, uh, fair warning.


And the brave man with a sword

Chapter VIII

It takes Salazar several frustratingly long minutes to untangle himself from the intricate twists of spellwork holding him captive. Really, he should have expected it; the tether on Godric's temper has always been far closer to a quick-burning fuse, and Salazar had been dropping lit matches on it just being in the other man's presence, let alone insulting him as he just did. However, it's been entire centuries since even a fair portion of Godric's wrath was turned on him, and Salazar has grown complacent, unwary. How long has it been, after all, since Godric used his strength for anything but the protection of their little quartet?

Not, Salazar reminds himself with a grimace, carefully unweaving a particularly tricky knot of curses, that this was anything even close to Godric's full strength. He could have done far worse, and Salazar should count himself lucky to have gotten away with nothing more than a barrage of mostly-harmless spells.

With a soft shimmer of silvery light, the color-changing curse that would have left him with zebra-striped hair dissolves, and Salazar casts a wary sensing spell around himself. It flares green everywhere except for around his feet, and he breathes a silent sigh of relief. Only one left, then. However, that one…

Godric really is a bastard sometimes.

Salazar gauges the distance to the floor, grimaces, and then resigns himself. Well. At least a thousand years of failing to say no when Godric dragged him into sparring has taught him how to fall well.

A flick of his wand and the last spell unravels. There's a gut-churning wrench as gravity reasserts itself, but Salazar twists, trying not to tense his muscles, and rolls with the impact. It hurts, bruises likely flaring up all along his side, but once Salazar has finished cursing Godric to the deepest pits and insulting every one of his ancestors, he reluctantly concludes that he should be grateful the Gryffindor didn't string him up any higher than a few feet above the ground, even if it was upside-down. He's still a bastard, though.

Thankfully, this section of the library is entirely deserted, so there's no one to witness the complete shattering of Salazar's dignity—Godric has that much mercy, at least, though it's actually far more likely that he didn't even take it into consideration. After all, Godric himself has never worried about such things, and has a tendency to laugh whenever Salazar does.

Deciding that the remainder of his homework can wait for this evening, as he certainly has no social engagements, Salazar quickly repacks his bag and heads for the grounds. The trek across the lawn to Care of Magical Creatures won't take the remainder of the lunch hour, but better to get a head start, especially given how treacherous the footing with be from all the rain.

Especially given that in a handful of minutes, he will have to face Godric again, without the luxury of losing his own chilly temper the way he just did.

Mouth tightening, Salazar shoves away all thought of the bruise-bright hurt that rose in Godric's eyes at his words, just as sharp as it was fifty years ago. He doesn't have the luxury to think of such things, not if he wishes to get anything done. Not if he wishes to succeed, and he must, because there's simply no other option. Salazar refuses to let all of this be for nothing, and he's willing to do practically anything to triumph. Not for himself alone—that would inspire a bare fraction of this horrible, seething desperation.

But for Godric?

Oh, but there is absolutely nothing he would not do for Godric.

He would destroy him, even, as long as there was some hope that Godric would be able to rebuild himself on the other side.

Salazar doesn't try to lie to himself with pretty words, or convince himself that if Godric did eventually leave half a century ago it meant he wanted to. He knows better. Knows the breadth and depth and fury of Godric's love, the way Godric has always looked at him, and him alone. Godric flirts like he breathes, but his eyes—those have never strayed far from Salazar, and in that at least nothing has changed. And it means everything, even when Salazar tells himself it should mean nothing.

He can't afford to waver or turn back, can't let his feet falter on this path. All of his attention must be turned to this matter, and he can't spare any for reining in Godric's more reckless tendencies.

Therefore, to save Godric's life, to save Helga who is almost as rash, they had to be removed from the picture. Nothing less than a complete divorce, a breaking of their friendships and their relationships. And he'd done it. He'd distanced himself, stepped away, stepped back, and when he'd finally spoken the words, Godric had not even had a chance to dig in his heels. It had already been done and over with.

Without a doubt it was the emptiest victory Salazar has ever achieved.

Halfway down the stairs to the ground floor, a curious sound reaches him, and Salazar pauses, frowning as he tries to make sense of it. Thunk, then thunk again, followed by a rapid thunkthunkthunkwhack, and a sharp snarl that sounds…

Almost like one of Rowena's screams of rage, now that he thinks of it.

Oh, they wouldn't.

Picking up his pace, Salazar takes the steps two at a time, then pushes through the crowd of students at the foot of it. After the first hard shove they scramble out of his way of their own accord, and he strides towards the front, unable to believe either would been this foolish. A dance during breakfast, crossing House lines, is one thing; to make a spectacle of themselves, like this, putting skills they most definitely shouldn't have on clear display—

Of course they would, he thinks in resignation, rubbing at the headache forming between his eyes. Rowena is logical, but she also thinks quickly enough that she's able to work out ramifications and consequences in an instant, and plan her way out of mischief before she even gets into it. And Godric…

Well. Godric distracting himself with something physical is hardly new, and Salazar likely should have expected that, too.

Beyond that, Rowena has always been oddly indulgent of their youngest, even when they're acting as if they're at each other's throats. From an outside view, they seem to dance on the knife's edge of being best friends and mortal enemies, but in truth Rowena adores Godric and he worships her right back. So this entire production is likely their way of comforting each other, and reaffirming their friendship.

Salazar would be spared so much grief if they could just give each other hugs like normal people.

"Solomon," Helga says brightly, ducking around a knot of Gryffindors to smile at him. "You're looking well."

Translation: how surprising to see you un-cursed after setting Godric off like that, Salazar thinks, perhaps a little uncharitably, but simply inclines his head. "I do remember how to disarm a handful of spells. All at once, even," he points out dryly, and it's true. Among the four of them, Rowena has a formidable breadth of knowledge regarding practically anything, and Helga has an impossibly deft hand with charms and their creation. At the same time, Godric has absolute mastery of whatever he cares to learn and the ability to combine and alter spells on the fly, and Salazar has the depth of understanding behind both magic and potions and can unravel any spell he comes across.

Well, any but one, and that's the one at the root of this whole miserable affair.

Helga gives him a shrewd glance, though her smile never wavers. "He only used a handful? That's a relief. We wouldn't want to cause any more of a stir."

Pointedly, Salazar raises a cool brow at the pair of idiots dueling up and down the hallway. Helga giggles and glances over as well, just in time to see Godric sweep in under Rowena's guard and, in a move that's ninety percent showy exaggeration—sure to drive Rowena straight to blind fury—whirl around and tap the hilt of his wooden sword against her sternum.

"Ten out of eleven?" the Gryffindor offers facetiously, fluttering his lashes obnoxiously at her even as he takes a few prudent steps back.

Rowena gives another strangled snarl and swings like she's trying to behead him. With a bright laugh, Godric parries, then skips out of the way of a thrust that nearly skewers him, blocks the next slash, and drives her back with three determined strikes.

"How is this better than cursing each other in the library?" Salazar demands of the laughing Hufflepuff, who just waves him off, trying to smother her giggles with one hand. Salazar rolls his eyes at her, which only makes things worse. Sighing, he turns his attention back to the match, and frowns a little. Godric is, as ever, an impressive swordsman, and for all that it isn't Rowena's main discipline—she always preferred her wand for protection, or a bow if she had to pass as a Muggle—she's well able to keep up with him. It helps that they've been sparring for a thousand years, since Salazar loathes most physical exertion with a vengeance and Helga doesn't care for swordplay. Practically as soon as Rowena and Godric became friends, though, he was teaching her everything he could about it, and Rowena drank it in eagerly, much to her family's horror.

Then again, that could have had more to do with her suddenly spending all her time in the company of a madcap mercenary boy—and the havoc they raised together—than it did a girl learning to fence.

("You fight like my cousin Marian!" Godric had called, bright and mocking but also full of laughter, as Salazar glared up at him from his undignified sprawl on the ground. Nineteen, taller and more imposing than most, able to lay curses and brew potions that no one in the entirety of Britain could counter, and Salazar hadn't been used to being second best in anything, let alone feeling…inept. Inept and clumsy and unskilled in front of a boy of barely thirteen, who hardly came up to his chest.

He hadn't deigned to answer that particular taunt, more occupied cataloguing the beautiful new array of bruises Godric had just given him as he pulled himself back to his feet. But he hadn't had to: from his right, there came a sharp noise that was all fury and offense, and a young woman in a midnight blue dress had swept out in front of him, bristling with indignation.

"You!" she had hissed, while Salazar just blinked at her back, caught off guard by the sudden interruption. "You little bastard, spouting that complete tripe like you've any right to it! I bet if you ever faced a woman in battle, they'd knock you right on your sorry arse!"

Against Salazar's expectations, Godric hadn't simply laughed it off. Instead, he'd tipped his head and considered the woman, grass-green eyes thoughtful. Then, after a long moment, he'd asked, "Can you fight?"

The woman hadn't faltered, though she had tensed, as though bracing herself for mockery. "No, but—"

"Would you like to learn?"

She'd stopped, stepped back, and Salazar had caught his first glimpse of her face. Raven hair caught up in a complex knot instead of covered by a wimple, dark blue eyes in an aristocratic, impossibly lovely face, Scottish burr to her words—the only daughter of the Ravenclaw family, already rumored to be the cleverest by far in a house known for their intelligence. He'd opened his mouth to diffuse the situation, direct Godric's attention elsewhere, and—

"Yes," Rowena Ravenclaw had answered, slightly wary but still eager, and her eyes had narrowed. "Your cousin Marian…?"

Godric had beamed then, wide and angelic with an ocean's worth of mischief beneath. "Mari? Oh, she's six. Winnie just taught her how to hold a sword. I thought Salazar might benefit from the comparison."

Rowena had laughed, and Godric had grinned—the first time they ever took amusement from Salazar's misfortune, but hardly the last.

It depends on the day, how much he regrets being the cause of them meeting. Generally speaking, though, it's always rather a lot.)

With a war-cry to shame an Amazon, Rowena throws herself forward, dropping her sword with a clatter in favor of tackling Godric bodily to the stone, and Salazar can't restrain a wince as they go down with a crash. When they land, though, they're both laughing, which is probably a good sign.

Really, Salazar is surrounded by lunatics.

The bell rings as Godric climbs to his feet, offering Rowena a hand. She grabs his wrist, locking them together, and lets him pull her up without complaint.

"Well done, milady," Godric offers with a grin. "Your shirt's still untucked, though."

With a sharp huff, Rowena slaps him in the side of the head, very deliberately does nothing to neaten her appearance, and instead sweeps over to return the two swords—transfigured back into knitting needles—to Helga. The two girls share a smile, and Rowena doesn't spare Salazar so much as a glace as they walk away arm in arm.

Salazar resists the urge to wince. That was a slight, clear and deliberate, and he can't tell whether it was for their argument yesterday or his earlier one with Godric—odds are good it's both, honestly, and this likely won't be the last time Rowena expresses her displeasure.

Godric isn't looking at him, either, though Salazar knows without a doubt that the Gryffindor is aware of his presence. Instead, he hurries a few paces to catch up with the trio of students from the train. The two boys look wide-eyed, and the girl is too, even if she's hiding it better. There are several enthusiastic questions that set Godric to laughing, and he ignores Salazar completely as he leads them out the main doors.

It shouldn't hurt. It shouldn't make Salazar want to cast a curse after him, or grab him by the shoulder and force him to look, see green eyes that put new grass to shame—

It shouldn't, but it does.

"Silvius," an even voice says, and Salazar glances over to see Blaise approaching, the elder Greengrass girl behind him. Surprisingly, Draco Malfoy is following only a few paces after her, looking for all the world like he'd rather be absolutely anywhere else. Salazar arches a brow at Blaise, who just smiles slyly, though Salazar isn't worried about this particular Slytherin making a play for the top. He has an exceedingly good grasp of where the power lies in any given situation, especially for being only fifteen, and would much rather be the power behind the throne than the actual king.

"Zabini," he returns politely, then inclines his head to Daphne and casts a sharp look at Malfoy, who scowls faintly but nods regardless.

Ah, Salazar thinks as he hides a smirk, not needing any more clues to understand the situation. The boy is trying to gather information on him, likely at his father's request. Doubtless he's found out that the other Slytherins can tell which direction the balance of power is tipping, and therefore won't say anything that could be construed as taking sides to either Salazar or Malfoy until the matter is resolved.

Slytherins are good at being neutral when it benefits them.

Feeling entirely amused, though he'll never show it, Salazar inclines his head to Malfoy as well, and when the blond falls into step with him doesn't bother shifting away.

"You seem to be settling in well," Malfoy offers, if grudgingly, as they start the trek down towards the treeline. Ahead of them, Godric and his three new friends are tromping along happily, all grinning at something, and the Weasley boy is gesturing expansively. Godric tips his head back and laughs, red hair glowing even in the dim, dreary day, mobile face alight. He's beautiful, and Salazar aches at the mere sight of him. But…

Not enough to change his mind. Not enough to undermine his determination. Not enough to make the choice that will put Godric in danger.

"—used to live?" Malfoy is asking in an imperious tone when Salazar finally manages to look away. The blond boy's expression is pinched, as though even asking is painful, and Salazar is amused all over again at his terrible acting skills. Subterfuge seems to be a lost art with most Slytherins now, and it's a true shame. If Salazar can teach them anything before he leaves, it will be that.

Or, alternately, how to think for themselves, because that too seems to be severely lacking. A Slytherin should never be anyone's mindless lackey.

Settling himself back into the conversation, he answers blandly, "Everywhere, more or less. Our parents were attempting to understand the origins of Hogwarts's Founders, and we went where they did. Our last stop before they sent us here was the south of Wales."

"And you're a—"

"Pureblood," Salazar confirms, already bored with this particular line of questioning. Malfoy has potential, any Slytherin can see that—it's why they defer to him in the first place. But he's unpolished, so used to wielding his family's power that he's never tried to use his own, never tried to be more than what he's been taught, and it's rather disappointing. "The Silvius family can trace their lineage back to the founding of Rome. I'll thank you not to question my bloodline."

A flicker of triumph, like Malfoy has won the answer rather than had it given to him, and Salazar shakes his head a little, even as Blaise gives a soft laugh. Malfoy bristles a little, eyes narrowing, and opens his mouth. Before he can say anything, Salazar, on a whim, offers, "Tell me, if you were going to insult Potter—" because one can hardly enter the school without hearing of their infamous rivalry "—how would you do it?"

The boy looks absolutely bewildered. "What?"

"Potter," Salazar repeats, not quite patiently. "If you were insulting him, what would you say? I've been playing this game far longer than you have, and I'm certain, no matter your answer, I will have a better way."

It's a far more flagrant challenge than Salazar would normally resort to, but subtlety just whistles as it flies over Malfoy's head without impacting, so blatant seems to be the only way to go. Judging by Daphne's smirk and Blaise's raised brows, they see the reason behind it, and it amuses them just as much as it does Salazar.

(Godric would accuse him of picking favorites. It's absolutely true.)

Malfoy's expression is wary, but he answers, if with a faint sneer, "I'd insult the oaf—Hagrid, who usually teaches this class. Tell Scar-Head that he's probably gotten himself hurt gallivanting off somewhere. I think they're friends."

Well, at least he's decent at picking out weak spots, Salazar thinks with some despair. "And I suppose you'd call him Scar-Head, too," he mutters, and shakes his head. "Think it over for the rest of the day. Aim for subtlety. Should you come up with something better, there is always tomorrow to use it. I think you could play this game as well as anyone, given practice, but for now, what I said on the train stands. I won't have another Slytherin shaming our House, so you must better yourself."

Praise, handed out freely, is uncommon for him—all but unheard of—but Malfoy needs the incentive to cooperate. As it is, he fixes Salazar with a blistering glare and opens his mouth, likely to deliver a scathing rant as to his bloodline and father's influence. Impatient, Salazar raises a hand to cut him off.

"A true barb, when delivered, leaves the recipient wondering if it was a barb at all. That's a Slytherin's greatest weapon—leave you power a mystery, and no one will ever know how to counter you until it's too late. Won't you learn it? Or does your father's sway protect you from needing that as well?"

Dishearteningly blatant, again, but at least it makes Malfoy snap his mouth shut as the professor waves them around the long trestle table. As Salazar moves to take a spot, Blaise drifts up on his right, expression absently amused.

"Sharing tips already?" he asks, too low for Professor Grubby-Plank to hear as she starts questioning them on the bowtruckles scattered over the table. "Careful, you might find yourself unseated before long."

Salazar snorts quietly. "Not for a while yet, I think," he answers dryly. Catching Malfoy rolling his eyes theatrically at Granger's eagerly-given answers, he gives Blaise a pointed look, and earns a huff of soft laughter.

Well. Maybe there's hope for some of the Slytherins, at least.


Harry leaves his first night of Umbridge's detention with the back of his hand stinging, his heart thudding in his chest, and an empty sort of ringing in his ears. It's surely past midnight, and by all rights Harry should go straight back to Gryffindor Tower and slip right into bed, since tomorrow is likely to be just as nastily exhausting as today. But—

But his feet take him to the Astronomy Tower instead.

He doesn't have his Invisibility Cloak, doesn't have the Marauder's Map with him, can't even tell if Professor Sinistra is teaching tonight, but he doesn't care. His mind is stuck on the memory of last night's brief spot of peace, and he can't resist the draw of the stairs leading up. He takes them quickly, trying to ignore the rawness in his hand, and slips on soundless feet past the classroom and towards the top. The sconces are lit again, though Harry can't tell whether that's a good sign or not—Godric didn't seem like a ghost, but does he need light? He'd certainly disappeared quickly enough after their conversation to make it seem as though he'd vanished into thin air.

But the door at the top is ajar, and when Harry pushes it open there's a figure seated on the crenellations again, silver sword at his side. He looks up as Harry stumbles through, and even though it's too dark to see his face, Harry takes comfort from the warmth of his voice as he says, "Harry, good evening. Still no stars, but at least tonight is—." He stops, and half a second later he's on his feet, striding across the tower. Harry tenses automatically at his approach, but Godric only takes his left wrist, lifting it to study his hand.

This close, the details of his face are clearer, if still mostly shadowed—a strong nose, slightly crooked, sharp cheekbones, short hair. He's not overwhelmingly tall, but still a good bit taller than Harry, with broad shoulders, and his grip is callused.

"I guess you're not a ghost, then," Harry says before he can think better of it, because the hand on his skin is warm and undeniably real.

There's a startled pause as Godric lifts his head, clearly taken aback, and then he laughs. "No," he agrees. "As you said last night, ghosts can't do magic. But I can, and if you want, I can heal this."

He remembers Umbridge's words, her sly I don't seem to have made much of an impression yet. Well, we'll just have to try again tomorrow evening, won't we? He shudders, muscles tensing as he half pulls away, and Godric lets him go without hesitation.

"I—Umbridge said we'd try again tomorrow," he says, a little helpless, because for all that's happened here Hogwarts is supposed to be safe. Second year felt like this, like a violation of everything he knows to be true, and he can't stand that that evil little toad is making him feel this way again.

A slow breath from the man in front of him, and then Godric offers gently, "If you want, I can leave the mark and just take the pain away. Blood Quills are an old magic, and I'm quite familiar with them." A sharp shake of his head, and he looks back down the stairs, torchlight catching on ruby-red hair and making it shimmer softly. "What I don't understand is what gives any teacher the right to use it on children."

That is…a relief, to know that it's Umbridge's own little torture implement and not something in every professor's arsenal. Then the full meaning behind that sentence sinks in, and he looks up sharply. "You know about Umbridge?"

Godric snorts softly, putting a hand on his shoulder to guide him over to the wall. A flick of his fingers and pillows burst into being like some mad sort of flower, blossoming thickly over the stone. The wizard sits down without hesitation, and after a moment Harry joins him, then offers his hand again.

"If you can just…leave the mark," he says awkwardly. "I—thanks."

"It's not a problem, Harry," Godric says warmly, touching the back of his hand lightly. A wash of coolness spreads from his fingers, leaving tingling relief in its wake, and Harry finally relaxes, feeling his muscles ease. Godric pats his arm soothingly, then adds, "Of course I know about Umbridge. Did you know that the Ministry has several contracts with Hogwarts, limiting their power over the school? They managed to find enough loopholes to place Umbridge here, but magical contracts are a bit trickier than Muggle ones. Breaking even the spirit of them was enough to tell us what had happened, so we came back to see if there was anything we could do."

That's quite a lot to wrap his head around, honestly, but just the idea of it is enough to light a glow of vicious satisfaction in Harry's gut. He smiles, entirely content at the idea of Umbridge facing down Godric Gryffindor himself, and then says with complete sincerity, "Thanks. She's awful."

Godric chuckles, leaning back against the wall, and tilts his head back to look up at the overcast sky. "Well," he murmurs philosophically, "there goes any hope of stargazing. Instead…tell me something about yourself, Harry."

"I'd rather hear about you," Harry protest. "I'm not interesting, but you're—you're Godric Gryffindor."

That earns him another laugh, this one slightly wry, and then Godric suggests, "A trade, then. Ask me something, and then I'll ask you. That way we're both satisfied."

It sounds fair enough, though Harry is still rather dubious about anything he can come up with equaling the stories of one of the Founders. He nods, and tries to think of a question. It's not hard, because he's been thinking about their last encounter all day—especially given the lack of malice from Malfoy this afternoon.

"Your family," he settles on. "You said—you said you were an orphan." Too, he almost adds, but that feels uncomfortably like asking for sympathy, or drawing parallels between them, and he doesn't want to offend.

"Indeed I was," Godric answers readily. "My parents were both part of Flacon Company as well. I only ever heard stories about my father—he died several months before I was born—but I know that he was a pureblood, and that he was good with a sword. My mother was a half-blood, and the adopted sister of Winnifred, our commander." Faint light touches on his warm grin. "I don't remember her, either, but Winnie always said she'd never met anyone better at planning an ambush or ferreting at out secrets. After she died—some sort of sickness, they were never sure exactly what—I was sort of…raised communally. Winnie and her brother Alaric taught me everything, and even if they couldn't be there as often as I'd have liked, I still loved them."

Harry thinks of Sirius, because that's how he feels for the man, despite knowing him for not even two years yet. Maybe that's what makes him offer, "I've got my godfather. He's—they think he murdered people, but he didn't, he was framed." And it feels good to finally be able to say that aloud, to defend Sirius even if he doesn't truly need it. "Voldemort—" and that's another relief that Harry hadn't ever considered before, that Godric doesn't even tense at the sound of that name "—had a spy, the first time. One of my parents' friends. He betrayed them, and when Sirius went after him he framed Sirius. I keep hoping they'll catch Pettigrew, even though I know they won't, because Sirius offered to let me live with him, and I want that more than anything."

Thankfully, Godric doesn't ask about the Dursleys, doesn't question Harry's current living arrangements. He simply tilts his head a little, and Harry can practically feel the considering eyes on him. "The entirety of the Ministry is completely incompetent," is what he finally says, and it startles a laugh out of Harry before he even realizes it.

"Yeah," he agrees, grinning. "That's the general opinion, I think, 'specially when it comes to Dark Lords."

With a sharp snort, Godric shakes his head. "So I'm coming to understand," he sighs. Then, more thoughtfully, "So, my question then. Favorite subject here?"

"Er…" Normally, he'd answer Defense in a heartbeat, even given the rash of bad teachers they've had, but not after Umbridge. He can't. "Care of Magical Creatures?" At the very least, it probably will be when Hagrid comes back.

There's a flicker of teeth in the low light, and Godric rises to his feet in a single, smooth motion. "That was always mine, too," he agrees cheerfully. "And if you're interested… Can I show you something? It's not far from the castle, still inside the wards, but I've been meaning to go and I think you'd enjoy it."

It would probably be smarter to hesitate. After all, he only has the Map's word that this is actually Godric Gryffindor, and a few hours of peaceful interaction don't mean he's not hiding something sinister. The best course of action would be to stand up, head to Dumbledore's office, and report all of this. It's definitely not to follow a stranger out of the castle in the middle of the night, to an unknown location, to see something that's a complete mystery.

But then Harry's never claimed to be particularly smart, has he?

Besides, Godric's had plenty of chances to do something to him already. He's got a sword, and he's apparently very good at wandless magic. In comparison, Harry is fifteen, short, skinny, and a student scraping by with passing grades.

"All right," he says, before his inner Hermione voice can start screaming loudly enough to change his mind. He clambers to his feet, ready to follow the older wizard down the stairs, but instead Godric leans out over the edge of the tower and gives a low, quavering whistle that carries uncannily over the darkened grounds. Several moments of silence stretch out into a minute, until Harry is wondering if anything was supposed to happen, and then—

Wingbeats. A patch of sky that looks even darker than its surroundings breaking off, and—

As light as a shadow, one of the eerie winged horses that was pulling the carriages settles on the stones, bat wings sweeping out and holding there.

"Oh, my beauty," Godric croons, taking a step forward to stroke the bony neck and twist his fingers in the long mane. Then he turns, eagerly beckoning Harry closer. "Well?" he asks proudly. "Have you ever seen a lovelier thestral? She's the alpha mare of the herd in the Forest—well, lead mare, I suppose, thestrals aren't wolves, but she's one of the largest and strongest I've ever seen. Fastest, as well, and—"

"You can see them, too?" Harry interrupts, not quite able to believe it.

"Yes?" Godric sounds bemused, and then— "Ah, I'd forgotten. Yes, thestrals are invisible to anyone who hasn't seen and understood death. A lot of people call them ill omens because if that, but they're just winged horses." The thestral nudges him sharply with its reptilian head, and he laughs, stroking its side. "Very clever winged horses, sorry, my dear. Anywhere you want to go, just tell them and they can find it, and they'll get you there far faster than a broom."

That's just as much a relief as the spell that eased the pain in his hand; Harry hadn't quite thought he was going crazy, but the idea was there. Luna hadn't exactly helped, even though she'd tried in her own way. But now Godric is vaulting onto the thestral's back, clearly at ease with it, and offering Harry a grin.

"Well?" he asks, and it's physically impossible for Harry not to rise to the challenge in his tone. He takes the hand Godric offers, letting the other wizard pull Harry up in front of him, and winds the silk-soft mane around his hands. Godric wraps an arm around his waist, grips the mane with his other hand, and orders, "The other side of the lake, just into the hills where the white rocks are, please."

The thestral tosses its head, as if disappointed in the shortness of the distance, but takes two jolting steps and then launches itself into the air. Massive wings snap open, then down, and even though the creature seems to be putting out barely any effort the water of the Black Lake is already blurring underneath them, the far shore rapidly approaching. Harry laughs before he can help it, startled by the speed and the ease of it, the unexpected plunge, and he hears an answering chuckle over the sound of the wind as Godric leans forward, pointing into the hills ahead of them.

"There," he calls over the rush of air, and when Harry squints he can just barely make out a tiny spot of pale luminescence. Even as he watches, it grows larger, until he can pick out a stand of squared-off stones grouped around a larger, rounded one with a hole in the center. They're glowing, just faintly, and the light glitters on the wet grass like scattered stars.

With barely a jolt, the thestral alights, and Godric hops off her back, taking a step to the side so Harry can do the same. "You'll wait?" he asks, and for a moment Harry can't figure out which of them he's speaking to, until the mare snorts and steps away, but doesn't leave.

"Very clever," Godric says again, the smile clear in his voice, then turns away. Harry curiously follows him out of the light, up a narrow path worn into the side of the grassy hill. There's a jut of wide, flat stones ahead, the curve of the hillside hiding it from every angle but line of sight from the path, and on it, a strange, lumpy shape is arranged.

A murmured word brings a ball of light flaring to life above Godric's head, and casts long rays over the stone. Then he raises his voice and calls, "Gwenhwyfar!"

A sudden surge of brilliance, as if the light is striking a mound of iridescent pearls. A shift, and the shape on the rock moves, uncoiling like a vast serpent, but Harry can already tell it's not a snake. There, a tail, and there a flash of leathery wings, and there again the arch of a sinuous neck as the elegant head lifts. One eye opens, reflecting light like faceted crystal, and turns to study them.

Dragon, Harry realizes with a breathless burst of terror, and wrenches back. Only Godric's quick grab at his elbow keeps him from tumbling head over heels back down the path.

"Gwenhwyfar," repeats the madman who founded Harry's House, tone nothing more than cheerful as two tonnes of dragon turns its attention on them. "Gwen, girl, you're still here! I thought you might have left!"

The dragon— Gwenhwyfar?—doesn't move beyond dipping its—her?—head, neck long enough that her snout ends up right in front of Godric. He reaches out, not even hesitating, to rubs a hand over the knobby scales above her eye, and she leans into it like a very big cat, multicolored eyes falling shut. It's almost surprising that she doesn't start purring.

The idea of it incredibly tempting, even after Harry's experience in the First Task. Cautiously, Harry reaches out, heart still pounding in his chest, and glances at Godric. He gets an encouraging nod in return, and that gives him enough courage to ghost a hand over Gwenhwyfar's snout. After a moment, when he's still in possession of all appendages, he lets himself be bolder, following the path of Godric's fingers to scratch over her eye socket. The feel of this massive creature, iridescent in the light of Godric's spell and breathtaking from both her beauty and the terror she inspires, actually pressing into his fingers is…heady.

"I didn't know there were dragons in Scotland," he manages after a moment, keeping his voice low even though Gwenhwyfar doesn't seem disturbed by it.

Godric laughs, proving that she doesn't care about noises. "Generally there aren't," he confirms. "Well, the Common Welsh Green will sometimes wander this far north, though it's rare, and sometimes Hebridean Blacks come looking for territory, but the wards keep them out. Gwenhwyfar's an Antipodean Opaleye. They're native to New Zealand, but I found Gwen on the coast when she was newly hatched, all but dead. Opaleyes are gentle, for the most part, and don't hunt humans, and since I'd raised her it was safe to keep her nearby. She chases out anything that might be harmful that the wards miss, and keeps the sheep population in check."

Harry just shakes his head, still not quite able to believe it. "A dragon?" he repeats, and it makes Godric laugh again.

"Hogwarts isn't just a haven for students," the Founder says, climbing the last few meters onto the ledge and settling on a rock at Gwenhwyfar's side. She twists her head around to follow him, and it's massive, nearly four times the size of Godric's torso, but she tries to lay it in his lap regardless, and makes a low, crooning noise that all but vibrates with frustration when she can't. With a fond huff, Godric shoves her gently away—as if she's a dog, and not a creature who could swallow him whole and then go looking for seconds—and compromises by rubbing at the curve of her neck, just below the long, thin spines. "The Forbidden Forest was another one of our projects: a place where magical creatures of all kinds could make a home. There's everything from griffins to snidgets to centaurs living there, Harry, and they're all at peace. Gwenhwyfar's no different. Makes me wish the human portion of the wizarding world could be half as clever."

The words are wry but the tone is wistful, and Harry nod as he steps forward to stroke the shimmering scales again in silent awe. They're smooth beneath his fingers, not rough the way he half-expected from how the Hungarian Horntail looked, and warm-hot in contrast to the night's coolness. "She's beautiful," he says quietly, and light catches on the curve of Godric's smile.

"That she is," he agrees. He turns his head, and even though it's out of sight beyond the hills Harry knows without a doubt that he's looking back towards Hogwarts.

One last stroke of Gwenhwyfar's neck, a murmured, "I'll bring you some mutton later, beautiful," and Godric rises to his feet, tipping his head towards another narrow trail that climbs steeply. "Follow me?"

It's a question, but Harry nods without hesitation, giving the Opaleye a last pat of his own before he shadows the Founder up the hillside, carefully minding his feet in the shifting shadows from the little orb of light. The path is overgrown, clearly rarely used, but not treacherous, and Harry makes it to the top easily enough. Godric is standing on the crest of the hill, dark cloak billowing slightly in the wind, with a hand on the hilt of his sword. He looks like some fantastical image out of a history book, some sort of brave knight or dashing hero, and though by all logic Harry should feel insignificant in his presence he instead feels…better. Taller, maybe, or able to stand up straighter. Not quite unburdened by all the worries he left back at the castle, but…perhaps able to bear them more easily now.

"There," Godric says quietly, pointing back across the lake. There's a break in the heavy clouds just large enough to see the moon, and its light falls like a path of silver brilliance across the dark waters of the lake. Above the glimmering surface, Hogwarts stands tall and proud, towers rising to piece the clouds. There are a handful of windows lit, the faintest edge of a glow to the castle, and this is beautiful too. In a different way than Gwenhwyfar, because that's a natural, predatory beauty, as dangerous as it is lovely, while Hogwarts is just…home.

There's a hand on his shoulder, warm and grounding. Godric leans into him like an old friend, and Harry doesn't need to see his face to know he's smiling when he says, "You understand. I thought you might, Harry."

Harry swallows, tries to speak. Realizes he doesn't have a single word to do this justice, and settles for nodding, instead.

Godric sighs softly, contentment more than anything, and then says quietly, "We built Hogwarts to stand long after everything else is gone. So have faith, Harry. She'll always be here. No matter what happens, no matter what you do or who you become, there's always a haven to be found. All you have to do is come back, and she'll be waiting for you."

It's more of a comfort than anything Harry can remember. More than knowing he wasn't just a freak, more than Sirius offering him a home—because for all he loves Sirius, for all that he would give everything for the man, they've met a bare handful of times. But Harry knows Hogwarts better than most, her secrets and her dangers and her hidden wonders, and he's spent the last five years of his life here. Not all good, but…certainly very far from all bad.

"Thank you," he whispers, hoarse and rough, and someday he'll find something more meaningful to say, something to actually express just what he feels, but—for now, this is all he can manage, and from the comforting press of Godric's hand he knows the man understands what he means.

"Always, Harry," Godric tells him, firm and unwavering. "You're an amazing young man, and I'm so proud to have you in my House. Keep your chin up. There's a light on the horizon, I promise. It will get better."

And for the first time in a very long while, Harry finds he can actually believe it.