Chapter Nine: With a Whisper
The library was covered in maps. They were everywhere. Over the bookshelves, hanging from the ceiling; green, blue and brown splattered across the room with the whisper of fluttering parchment.
Cadmus' fingers brushed the dry, wrinkled paper as he walked between the familiar aisles. Crushed charcoal and pigments clung to his skin. Even his hands looked like maps now, smeared with forest-green and smudged with river-blue.
Sunlight was streaming from windows hidden behind the rows of books, piercing through the dusty confines of the library in a colourful prism. People were laughing outside, the chime of their voice rebounding against the wooden panels around him.
"Look," they said, so loud they might as well have been standing beside Cadmus. "The Peverell boy's locked up with his maps again. Such a weird family. The mother won't let him train with the others, I hear."
It was a little weird, Cadmus mused, pressing his fingers against harsh peaks representing mountaintops. Everyone kept telling him it was weird, anyway. That it wasn't normal for a boy his age to spend his days inside, with mouldy old books for sole company.
But, well. His mum insisted. And in any case, Cadmus didn't actually want to train with the other boys. They always made fun of him because he couldn't run as fast as them, because he got sick easy. They said he was weak. He wasn't, his mum said. The children were just young and a bit stupid, because all they knew was how to whack people round the head with pointy swords.
But then, they always made fun of his mum, too. Strange woman, forcing him to study maps like that, and don't think they never saw her disappear into the forest whenever she had the chance. Why did she come back with all these roots and stones and flowers, anyway? Why did his father let her?
Cadmus never knew what to answer. His mum had always been like that, humming nonsensical songs under her breath, dancing on the spot to the rhythm of silent melodies. His father never managed to make her stop, no matter how hard he tried.
Cadmus didn't mind, though. She smelled of grass and flowers when she hugged him to her chest, the hum of her voice lulled him to sleep, and that was enough.
Still, the maps were a bit annoying. They were a dull and hurt his eyes and Cadmus didn't understand why he was the only one studying them. Antioch didn't have to. He was training to be a knight instead. And Ignotus, who was just starting to read, was too young anyway. Cadmus was bored and alone with his old tutor all day, a man whose skin was so wrinkled Cadmus could hardly see his face. His mum smiled when he begged to study anything else. Something soft and sad that made his chest ache a little. She always refused. Told him he couldn't. Not yet.
Shaking his head, Cadmus pushed aside a map blocking his access to the door and stepped into the corridor. Parchment fluttered behind him.
He had always hated their home. It was a cold, drafty stack of grey stones that was always icy to the touch, held together by wood joists that squeaked at night. It was grim and dreary, specially since no one was there today, and –
Wait. Why was no one there? The house was never empty. There were always people bustling around. Working and talking and knocking into the black-haired boy lost among them. Where were they? Why had they left Cadmus alone to choke under the weight of their absence? Everything was very silent. The flutter of parchment had stopped. The voices outside had quieted. All that was left was thick, oppressive nothingness.
Why was no one – Oh. That's right. No one was there because his mum was gone, wasn't she?
Head spinning a little, Cadmus blinked down to his colour-stained hands. Blinked again, and blue-green morphed to red and. . .
A hand from the shadows lingering at his feet, grabbing his ankle, pulling him down before he could react. Cadmus hit the ground hard, heart thudding in his chest, a scream caught somewhere in his throat, torn from his lungs with the shock of the impact.
He came face to face with his mother. Her eyes were huge, her lips were blue, her skin was very, very white.
"North," she whispered. Her voice wasn't soft any more. It was croaky and scratchy and she winced in pain while speaking. "Go North, Cadmus." White and purple. There were purple-black bruises around her neck. "P-promise, Cadmus. Promise me."
He was gasping and trembling and his hands were red and dripping blood.
"Go with your brothers. Say you'll g-go. Say it!"
"I'll go, promise mum, I promise – "
He could go North. He knew the way.
Everything was spinning. His hands were wet, sticky with shocking, vivid red.
It was spinning and his father was here, looking mad, wild-eyed and snarling. "Witch!" Cadmus heard him yell over the ringing in his ears. "You filthy witch, what have you done to my sons?!" He advanced toward them, hands closed into fists and Cadmus whimpered, looked at his mum so that she'd make him stop, but she was not moving any more, and her eyes were huge and empty and. . .
A sharp, stinging pain on his cheek. Cadmus gasped awake to the sound of his brother's voice.
"Wake up, you bloody idiot!"
Breath short, he struggled to sit up. Felt his balance tip to the right. He could not move. His whole body felt slow and heavy. Antioch caught him around the waist before he could fall off the horse, pushed him back to the center of the saddle.
"Good grief," his older brother muttered. "You're impossible. Told you not sleep up here. You could crack your head falling down."
"S-sorry." Cadmus rubbed sleep from his eyes. Useless. The nightmare was seared behind his eyelids. There was little he could do to make it go away. He cleared his parched throat. "D'you have water?"
Still grumbling, Antioch handed him a gourd. Careful not to disturb Ignotus, who seemed barely aware of his surroundings from his place in front of the horse, Cadmus unscrewed the cap and drank deeply. The water tasted like stale leather after several days spent macerating in his brother' gourd. Grinding his teeth to keep from throwing it up, he looked around for a distraction. The landscape had not changed much since before he dozed off. Endless fields stretched ahead of them, with the faint shimmer of a river in the distance.
"We're in Pictland now," Cadmus said to no one in particular. He pointed at the river. "That's Moray Firth."
Antioch snorted. "If you say so. I don't care, so long as we're as far from home as possible."
A few hours later, the thin rope of blue water had grown into a river, larger than Cadmus had ever seen. Its muddy banks were covered in reeds, sprouting from between the stones of the riverbed, which had been rendered smooth and sloppy by the ceaseless caress of the current.
They left their horse behind before crossing. Antioch went first, a rope tied around his waist, wadding into the murky water with a log of driftwood to keep himself afloat. On the other side, he wrapped the rope around a tree, and Cadmus and Ignotus followed together, clinging on the piece of braided cord for dear life.
They walked.
Cadmus felt that he had been trudging through a swamp every since they had fled their home, each step dragging him further down into stagnant, mud-like water. He felt that he had been drowning, lungs filling until he was choking and unable to breathe, for days and days. And he was too tired to care all that much. Let the swamp take him, never to be seen again. Perhaps it would sooth the way he hurt. Cradle his body, blunt the shards of glass moving around his heart. The world had come crashing down around him anyway. He had done nothing to keep it from falling apart, red and empty-eyed at his feet.
Something tugged on his wrist, and he startled, heart fluttering like a frantic bird in his chest.
"I'm t-tired, brother," Ignotus whispered. He looked about to fall over. He was waxy-pale, except for the skin beneath his eyes, which was purplish and seemed to eat up his face. A sheen of sweat plastered his hair on his forehead in messy lumps.
Cadmus was tired, too. His stomach was twisting and aching with hunger, a clawing pain that was tearing through his flesh. His legs were stiff and sore, like the day after he ran away from Alan Gerrold, who'd wanted to ram an arrow-head into his ribs. He wished the three of them could stop and rest for a bit. Curl up between the roots of a tree, lay down on a bed of red and gold leaves. Sleep. He wished and longed and craved, but –
"P-promise me. Promise me."
"We got to keep walking," he said, voice a raspy whisper that grated his throat like sandpaper. "Mum said to go North, remember?"
"I remember," Ignotus murmured. His lips trembled, and it felt like a blow across the face.
Ignotus did remember. He had been there with Cadmus. Beaming and happy, butterflies swooping around the two of them, dangling in their hair, dry, powdery wings soft against their cheeks. All sorts of creatures always flocked around Ignotus, gravitating towards him as though dazzled by his sun-like smile. Their father had not known that. Maybe because he had not seen Ignotus smile very often. He had hit Ignotus again and again, until the butterflies laid dead at his feet and the boy was crying and sorry for calling them in the first place. Then their mum had appeared and –
Cadmus bit the inside of his cheeks. He did not want to think about what had happened after that.
"We got to keep walking," he repeated. "We'll be fine, you'll see."
"Right," said Antioch. The older boy was walking a few feet away, sword and bags thrown over his shoulders. "Go North, and all will be fine, of course. Mother couldn't be precise in her instructions, could she?"
Cadmus scowled up at him. "She – " She couldn't speak 'cause Father closed his hands around her throat and squeezed. She couldn't speak because there was blood in her mouth. On my hands. She couldn't speak and she's gone now, so she can never, ever tell us and –
And Cadmus could feel his skin and bones fracture into a thousand pieces, cracking along the seams, and a pit was opening in his stomach, because she was gone, gone and never coming back, and he couldn't bear to take another step. He couldn't and he was crying, whole body shaking from the strength of it.
Then, there were arms sliding around his shoulders, and Antioch – stubborn and fierce and whose hands had been as red as Cadmus' after he'd driven a sword through their father's back – was pulling him against his chest, to the smell of crisp leaves and wood smoke, and perhaps if he held on tightly enough, Cadmus would not bleed out where he stood. Two more arms closed around his waist, smaller but just as strong, and Ignotus was crying with him, face buried against his side. Perhaps he would not crumble down like a cracked statue, so long as his brothers were here. It was only the three of them now. They were all he had left.
"Come on," Antioch murmured once tears had dried on their faces, salt pulling at their skin in a comforting ache.
They ate bread and apples, stolen from the kitchens before they ran away, and walked on, Antioch close enough to touch, Ignotus clinging to his hand, a little more steady.
"Say, Antioch," Cadmus called after a while, because silence was stretching between them and he longed to hear familiar voices. "D'you reckon they're still after us?"
The other boy shrugged, jet-black hair falling into his face. "Dunno," he said. "Probably. They always give chase to people like us, don't they?"
People like them.
Cadmus swallowed hard. There were words stuck on his tongue. Words that had been festering in his mind for days, gnawing at him like an infected wound. "Did you know?" he found the courage to ask. "About mum?"
" – No one knew about mum."
Cadmus felt his breath hitch. Her throat had looked ugly, matted with blood and bruises. She had been broken and purple, red all over his hands.
He wanted to be sick.
"We're witches too, aren't we?"
Antioch did not answer. He did not have to. Cadmus knew. He had always known, in a way. Weird things happened around him and his brothers all the time. Broken toys repaired at their touch, candlelight burnt up on its own. Alan and Gerrold tripped and fell for no reason. Still. Cadmus had never thought these things made monsters out of them.
Fear felt heavy and acrid in his chest. He wished they could walk faster.
Hours went by. Grassy flatlands glittering with morning dew turned into rolling hills with rock-jagged sides. Mountains, half-hidden behind low, threatening clouds appeared on the horizon, their slopes bare save for some burnt vegetation that seemed on fire with the moving light of the sun.
When they reached the forest, the sky was being painted in shades of scarlet and amber. Threads of light were playing with the rolling clouds, grey tinged with rich periwinkle. Gnarled, twisted trunks loomed ahead, their distant canopy forming a thick foliage where the sun fractured and slanted, cascading down on the root-laced ground in small, perfect circles.
The three brothers stepped within the woods without breaking their strides.
The scent of decomposing leaves assaulted Cadmus' nose. It hung low in the cooling air, along with the heady fragrance of crushed pine needles. Wind tickled his skin, damp, biting. Branches swished in its lazy embrace, adding to the rustle of live around him. Scattering paws, flapping wings, creaking twigs. It was like stepping into another world, where sounds were muffled yet heightened, sights shadowed yet vibrant. Spongy patches of green moss stood out vividly in this rust-coloured realm where everything, from weathered bark to wrinkled leaves, could be declined in degrees of brown, red and yellow. Walking North was easy.
They trekked deeper and deeper even as darkness descended and birds quieted, stopping only a long while later, at the edges of a small glade still illuminated by the last rays of the setting sun.
"We'll sleep here," Antioch declared as he advanced into the open space. "Can't keep moving in the dark, anyway." He dropped their bags and weapons to the ground. "Get us some firewood, Cad. We're gonna be cold tonight."
Cadmus nodded. "You stay here," he murmured when Ignotus made to follow him. "Get some rest, okay?"
For a moment, he thought Ignotus had not heard him. His brother looked at him with fever-clouded eyes, swaying where he stood. Cadmus was about to repeat himself when the other boy gave a small nod. He went to collapse against the smooth bark of a dead tree, half-unconscious before he even landed. Cadmus pushed down a twinge of worry and went to his task, making sure to stay within sight of the glade as he filled his arms with fallen branches. He came back to find Antioch laying out their provisions, a frown on his face.
"Something wrong?" he asked, stumbling back into the clearing. The frown disappeared.
"Put the wood here," Antioch replied, ignoring the question. "Let's see if we can light it up." They made a quick job of building a campfire, but the damp wood was reluctant to welcome the sparks Antioch struck out of his sharp-edged flint. "Come on!" he growled after several minutes.
And the wood brunt up. Flames crackled merrily, a white-orange burst of startling heat that cast dancing shadows across the dark trunk of the trees. Neither boys moved, momentarily taken aback by the sudden explosion of moving colours.
Antioch was looking at the flames with something like horrified comprehension. Cadmus glanced at the fire, then back at his brother. Words of reassurance formed in his mind, but refused to fit on his tongue. It's all right, he wanted to say. We'll be monsters together, brother, and no one will hurt us ever again. "I'm hungry," was what made it past his mouth, and Antioch turned toward him, eyes unseeing for a moment.
"Here," he muttered after a while, handing him bread and dry meat.
Cadmus wolfed down the food. Antioch stared at the flames, lips pursed, body tense, ready to spring up. "D'you think we should wake him?" Cadmus asked between two bites, partly to distract Antioch, partly because Ignotus was dead to the world and had yet to eat.
Antioch glanced at their slumbering brother. He shook his head. "Let him sleep. He'll eat later."
Cadmus hummed. "I don't think he's well," he said, lowering as his voice to make sure Ignotus would not hear them. "I think he's sick."
"I checked his injuries," Antioch replied with a small shrug. "It's nothing serious. I think he's just tired."
Cadmus thought back on his brother's glazed eyes, stretched skin, clammy hands. Tiredness did not do that to people. But Ignotus was warm and alive, and for now, that was all that mattered. "We should sleep too," he said, thinking of the days ahead.
Antioch made a noise of distracted acknowledgement. The boys made sure the fire was well-fed before tucking their travelling cloaks around their frames. Cadmus curled up on the leaf-covered ground, cold and uneven, but strangely comfortable after another day spent walking.
He did not remember falling asleep. He only knew that woke for no apparent reason, sinking back into consciousness with a strange sense of detached clarity in his mind, and a sliver of uncomfortable awareness down his spine.
The campfire had burned itself down. Only a faint red glow came from the blackened charcoal. Puffs of ashes rose in the wind, forming whimsical arabesques that glimmered with soft silver in the light of the winking stars.
Cadmus shrugged off his cloak to sit up, holding back a shiver. He was cold.
There were no sounds around him. Nothing hooted in the black curtain of the sky, or scattered across the forest ground. Only the quiet rustle of dry leaves could be heard. The night was still and silent.
Too still. Too silent.
Cadmus breathed slowly. Shadows seemed darker and thicker all of a sudden. He wanted to pull his cloak over his head to hide from their depths.
"Brother?" he called quietly, voice barely above a whisper. He did not wish to shatter that silence.
No one answered him.
"Bro – "
A hand covered his mouth, muffling the scream of alarm that sought to escape him.
"Shh," Antioch hissed into his ear. Cadmus froze, breath short, heart pounding too quickly in his chest. "Something's here."
He knew. There was a terseness, a prickling on his skin. His eyes roamed their small campsite, looking for anything out of place, a sign of what had disturbed his slumber. Their bags on the ground. Antioch's empty scabbard. The dead tree against which Ignotus slept –
Alarm washed over him, ice-cold in the pit of his stomach.
"Ignotus' not here," he breathed.
A twig snapped, and events dissolved into a dream-like haze.
Two eyes gleamed in the shadows clinging to the surrounding trees, glaring like polished steel in the sun. The ground groaned under the weight of invisible hooves. Then, a form, tall, monstrous, taken right out of Cadmus' worst nightmares, burst from between the trunks, bare muscles tense under the weak light of the moon, teeth and claws and. . .
There was a sharp tug on the collar of his shirt, and Cadmus was flying backwards, away, weightless in a way that defied all logic. Pain flared all over his back when he crashed against the hard ground, several feet away from Antioch who had pushed him. Movements turned frantic with fear, he looked up. . . Wished to scream. Wished to run and hide to the other end of the world, because, dear God, what was that thing. . .
Antioch dived under its inhumanly long arm, sword a flash of silver behind him. "GO, BROTHER!" he yelled, the echo of his voice like thunder to Cadmus' ears. "GO!"
Paralysis left Cadmus' limbs in a rush; ugly, gaping horror turned into mindless, primal urge to escape, and. . .
He ran.
{. . .}
It felt like a dance.
A strange, ridiculous dance to the sound of clashing steel and broken breaths. Two bodies moving together, synchronized, flowing motions that could almost pass off as graceful, and quick, agile steps ruled by the melodious hiss of swinging metal.
Harry ducked under the sword aiming for his throat, cutting edge grazing tender skin. He moved. Tried to move. His feet missed the stump of wood and he went down, breath short, body shaking with the pounding of his heart. A hand miraculously landing on a pole, the other white-knuckled around his blade, he pushed himself up, away from the sword looking to sink into his flesh. One step, two, not quick enough and he had to parry the next blow, arm taking the hit with a painful spasm. Staying up was a struggle, his balance constantly shifting for lack of space to center itself.
"Attack, Potter! You can't win a fight with defence alone!"
Harry jumped back, narrowly avoiding a slash to his legs.
"If I – " he panted. "If I attack, you'll have me down in a heartbeat."
Godric smiled, sharp and wicked. "I'll have you down even faster if you don't."
Groaning, Harry dodged the next strike. Gryffindor followed effortlessly, moving on the wood bollards as though walking on solid ground.
"Don't lose focus, Mr Potter. Mind your surrounding without taking your eyes off me. Hit where I'm vulnerable."
Gathering himself, Harry took a second to study Gryffindor's posture, rectified his guard, attacked –
A dozen moves later, there was a hand on the back of his neck, calloused fingers rough against his skin, and a sword shy of piercing his stomach.
"Dead," Godric announced cheerfully.
Harry's breath was short. He could feel sweat cooling on his brow. "Wouldn't be the first time," he said. "You're – Stars, you're good."
"Flatterer." The Founder stepped back, a hand gripping Harry's arm to keep him steady. "I've been doing this longer than you, that's all." He gave the young man a small smile brimming with pride. "Keep working hard. You'll get there."
"I'll – " Gryffindor sheathed his sword, a shock of blood-red gems and silver-cold steel. Harry gritted his teeth, forcing his eyes away from a blade he had longed to find. "I'll certainly try."
"Good. You – " Godric's gaze drifted over Harry's shoulder. "Ha – You're done for today. I'm going to need your sword."
Puzzled and a little wary, Harry handed him the blade. Gryffindor took it, gave an experimental swing, and threw it at his head. Somewhat used to surprise attacks by now, the young man sidestepped instinctively, and the weapon flew past him in a perfect curve. There was no metallic clatter to punctuate its fall.
"Wha – "
"Good morning, Salazar," Godric chirped. "Delightful to see you lurking outside so early in the day."
A startled gasp got stuck in Harry's throat. A careful breath, another, just enough for his mind to settle, and he turned around, pivoting on a single leg to face his head of House.
Salazar was leaning on the sword Godric had thrown at him as though it were a walking stick, a few feet away from the training ring. His hair was held up in a careless bun.
"I'm not fighting you, Godric," he said in greeting, levelling the other Founder with an unimpressed stare.
Gryffindor jumped down from the wood stumps, deft and assured.
"You will die at the hands of a drunkard with a blunt knife, and I won't be the one to blame for it."
"Still not sparing," Salazar said, archly amused. "Good morning, Harry."
The young man followed Gryffindor to the ground. "Good morning, Sal – sir." He caught himself short of uttering the Founder's name, earning a sharp glance, storm-grey light and mocking.
Harry looked away. He and Salazar danced over the fine line between student and teacher and. . . Something else. He had taken to addressing Salazar as formally as he could, outside of the dungeons, for reasons he could not grasp himself. Not quite embarrassment, although there were nervous giggles and raised eyebrows every time he slipped. Not for the sake of fairness either – the Founders treated each of their students differently, and had singled him out from the start anyway. But he found calling Salazar by anything but his first name difficult, and it – worried him. Just a faint nagging at the back of his head, an alarm that was easy – too easy, perhaps – to ignore. Maybe denying intimacy with a man who had held his life in his hands and found it worth saving was supposed to be hard. He did not know. Either way, Harry was desperately trying to keep some sort of distance between the two of them in public, a reassuring barrier that bled through to their private life, but one he clung onto like a lost child, and Salazar – let him. And each time he followed Harry's lead, calling him 'Mr Potter' in class, the words, glaringly mocking to Harry's ears, never failed to make the young man wince. It was a strange standstill that lingered between them, unspoken and unacknowledged whenever it was just the two of them and they were back to 'Harry' and 'Salazar', but still very much here.
" – pity," Godric was saying. Harry focused on the conversation. "The indignity. The great Salazar Slytherin, beaten to the ground because of sheer laziness."
"I hardly need weapons to fight," Salazar replied with calm confidence. "Being out of practice certainly won't keep me from surviving Muggles."
"Maybe not. But it won't keep me from mopping the floor with you, either."
Neither men moved, Godric with a playful smile on his lips, Salazar with an air of quiet aggravation in his eyes. Then –
"Becoming a bit of a braggart, aren't we?" said Salazar, and Harry knew him enough to recognize the cool, precise detachment of his voice, tinged with an inaudible hint of disdain, as the tone he used to rile Gryffindor up, words getting to him like well-aimed arrows through his flesh. It was blatant, lacked the usual subtle bite that left people wondering whether they had been insulted when he spoke, but –
Godric attacked. A burst of unrestrained energy, speed and strength, nothing like the careful moderation he showed with his students. Half a step back, and Salazar met him with the screech of grinding metal, deafening in a courtyard that had become silent. For a breathless moment, Harry thought Salazar a match for Godric – and dammit, how had he missed the way that man moved before, that economy of movement that came from years of training? – right before Gryffindor struck and Salazar fell, eyes half-lidded in pain –
Harry's wand was in his hand, raised at Godric's back before he made the conscious decision to move, a spell on his lips, he did not care which, so long as it kept the other man away, far away from Salazar who he would not see hurt. . . But then, a muffled curse and Gryffindor was dropping his sword to the ground, the razor-sharp focus on his face giving way to horrified concern.
"Salazar!"
He bent down, a hand brushing the other man's shoulder. Hoovering close, but not quite touching. Salazar did not let him. In a blur of motion, the man moved, quick as a snake, a foot sweeping Godric's legs under him, a hand bringing him down, bodies twisting until Gryffindor was on the ground, wide-eyed and breathless, Salazar on top of him, laughing, holding a knife to his throat.
Harry's heart was racing.
"I can't," said Salazar, "believe you fell for that trick again."
A few students cheered.
"Way to go, sir!" Glenn yelled, startling Harry with his proximity. He had not seen the white-haired boy approach, closely followed by the rest of their House.
"I think you can lower your wand, mate," Alfric whispered beside him.
"Wha – oh." Harry lowered his wand. "Thanks."
The boy patted his shoulder. "Don't worry. Gytha looked ready to rip open Gryffindor's throat with her nails, too."
"I did not – " Harry muttered.
The look his friend sent him was one of profound scepticism. And because he was a complacent bastard at times, Alfric gave a non-committal 'hmm' that somehow conveyed the right amount of disbelief to masquerade as a polite sound.
"Shut up," Harry told him.
A quiet laugh, a wink, and the boy walked away.
Salazar was still straddling Godric.
" – know? And since when do you carry weapons around?"
Salazar twirled the dagger in his hands, taking it away from Godric's throat. "This is yours, I believe. I wasn't certain that you still carried it inside your boots."
"I never go without it," Godric retorted. "It's a gift from a deceptive jerk of a friend. Complete bastard, but he's got his moments."
"I'm not above kicking a defenceless man, Godric." Salazar rose in one fluid motion, letting the knife fall onto Gryffindor's chest. "Up, Gryffindor. There are matters that require our attention."
Godric jumped on his feet. "Is something wrong?"
There was a pause in activity, students abandoning all pretence of discretion to eavesdrop openly.
"Rowena is sick," said Salazar, voice dropping.
About to put his knife back into his boot, Godric froze. "The flu again?"
"We think so, yes. Helga is looking after her."
Some tension left Gryffindor's shoulders. "She'll be all right, then," he said. "That woman would never let an illness get the best of her." He straightened. "DISMISSED!" he yelled to his class. "Go have a shower, and meet in the Great Hall in an hour!"
His students left reluctantly, muttering among themselves as they headed for the dungeons, where all the bathrooms resided – as Harry had learned, the Founders had yet to figure out how to get water any higher than the surface of the lake, meaning that the Slytherin common room was the only one equipped with plumbing. Other accommodations had been made to the other Houses.
About to join his Housemates to follow suit, Harry caught Salazar's gaze. The man motioned for him to stay with a minute shake of the head.
"Someone's up for tutoring duty again," Gytha singsonged, walking past him, a hint of laughing dark eyes and teasing grin.
Harry rolled his eyes at her, lingering behind as the students disappeared into the cool shadows of the castle, one after another. Godric and Salazar had their heads bent together. Harry went gather his bag, letting them talk.
It was a beautiful morning, sunny and radiant, a rarity at this time of the year, where days were a monotonous succession of low, grey skies and suffocating mist. Dawn was breaking over the mountains, glimmering on abandoned swords, blinding reflections that caught the eyes. Pale gold clouds drifted away, morphing to the will of a gentle wind that carried the first biting notes of winter.
It was breathtaking.
Harry wished he could enjoy it. Wished he could join in on his Housemates' conversations, quiet whispers they kept between them, smirks and silent mirth. Wished to bask in the wordless complicity they had found in the course of the past weeks. Wished to close his eyes and take, take it all, the beauty, the companionship, with the same delighted carelessness, but –
The world was whispering. The wind, the trees, the earth. Words like electricity across his skin, dancing and alive, enough to set him on edge. It was a sensation that had a taste of familiarity, of something he had known for a long time but was only just nudging his awareness. He had had similar intuitions before – run after this girl, strike now, not that path, wrong place, run run run – but never had it jarred his nerves without immediate danger around. Never had it been quite so potent, taking his focus and turning it into a distracted search for threats. It felt like vague –
Annoyance.
Godric had an arm over Salazar's shoulders.
Sour and constricting, something that had his lips thin and scowl without his consent.
Frowning at himself – or at the Founders' backs, he could not quite tell – Harry approached the older men, or was about to, when something moved at the corner of his eyes, indistinct, near the treeline, some feet away from the training field.
Whispers across his skin. He froze. Another motion, more distinct, and he turned slowly, facing the Forest with narrowed eyes, right hand seeking his wand from his pockets.
A silhouette, small, frail, came stumbling from the trees.
Harry knew many of the creatures that inhabited the Forbidden Forest – either for having studied them in class, or faced them during his visits. Some were dangerous, others were friendly, but none stood on two trembling legs to make their way towards Hogwarts with a velocity that defied their apparent exhaustion.
Harry was walking – run run run – running to them without much of a thought, following the impulse murmured in his ears, eating up the distance because it felt important, crucial even, and he could not let them crumble down all alone.
They met half-way. The silhouette was a child. A boy, with dark hair, greasy and knotted, dark eyes, fearful and desperate. He stood, heaving and shaking, mouth opening silently, words failing him as his body was.
"Help," he rasped after an eternity.
Harry caught him when he fell. He could feel the boy's heart hammer against the palm of his hand, pulsing up his arm in an frenzied tango.
"Help," the child said again. The look in his eyes was stubborn and relentless, sheer will fighting bone-deep exhaustion.
"Hey, it's all right," said Harry, reigning in his mounting alarm. He did not know what to do. Where had the boy come from? What had happened to him? How could Harry help him ? "I've got you," he heard himself whisper. "You're safe now. You're safe, I promise."
"Promise," the boy muttered. "I promised – my brothers – "
"Wha – I don't – where – "
"Harry." A long-fingered hand brushed his shoulder, gentle reminder that the world was not narrowed to the small body in his arms. Salazar's voice was very soft, a tone Harry had heard him employ only twice. To sooth Ashton, the youngest Slytherin, after a nightmare that had waken the entire House. To sooth Harry in the depths of his fevered hallucinations, months ago. "Harry," the Founder repeated, "let him go." The brush of fingers turned into a firm grip on his shoulder, warm and grounding. "Lower that shield. We have to take him to the Hospital Wing."
Salazar reached over, going through the shield he had conjured on a whim as though it were made of smoke, leaning onto him in something that felt like an embrace, hard chest pressed against Harry's side. He took the child from the young man's arms, who let go with no small amount of relief.
"Come on, Mr Potter," Godric told him, a hand on his shoulder to pull him on his feet. The Founder was scrutinizing the obscurity creeping from the Forest, sword in hand. "Better not stay here."
"My brothers," the child kept whispering, "please."
The trek to the Hospital Wing was interminable. Salazar was walking ahead, steps light and silent, whispering to the boy who clung weakly to his clothes. Harry followed, eyes fixed on the pair, nerves and thoughts jumping under his skin. Godric brought up the rear. None of them talked.
"Helga!"
"No no no, my brothers, please – "
"HELGA!"
The heavy doors of the Hospital Wing burst open. Helga ran up to them, golden hair tumbling across her face. She looked anxious and tired, but her arm was steady when she raised her wand, casting spells before reaching them, seeming to understand the situation without having to ask. Harry thought of his Housemates, of the twin scars near Ashton's eyes, of Audra's refusal to talk her first weeks here, of the way Bradley sometimes flinched away from touch, and wondered how often Salazar had brought broken children for her to heal.
"Where?" Helga asked.
"The Forest," Salazar replied. "Just now. Looks like he's been on the run for a few days."
Harry took in the familiar sight of the Hospital Wing as they rushed inside, its white, polished stones, its smell of clean linens and pungent soap. Salazar lowered the boy onto the first available bed while Helga vanished his rag of a shirt. Harry bit his tongue and tasted blood. Small cuts littered the child's throat and arms. He was unhealthily thin, each of his ribs standing out under paper-thin skin.
"On the run?" Harry repeated. He felt light-headed.
"From Muggles." The shadow of a snarl curled Salazar's lips, quickly smoothed away. "That boy is one of us. He wouldn't have gotten past the wards otherwise. And these injuries – "
"Salazar." Helga put a hand under the man's chin, calm and unflinching, forcing him to meet her eyes. "I need you to get out," she said, so quietly Harry barely caught the words.
A muscle ticked at the corner of Salazar's jaw. The rest of him did not betray any of the tension Harry could feel coiled around him, a dangerous beast hissing quietly, barely kept in leach. Helga's hand moved to the back of the man's neck, ink-black eyes pleading, and though nothing changed in the way Salazar held himself, there was a shift in the air, voluntary and controlled, a pressure easing. The Parselmouth nodded.
"Of course."
"No, can't, please, I promised – "
The child was still whimpering. Salazar tensed again.
"What's wrong, sweetheart?" Helga whispered, pressing a hand on the boy's forehead.
He calmed at her touch. "My brothers, they're with the m-monster. I've to find them. Promised. I p-promised."
He was crying.
"He's telling the truth," Salazar said. He had taken a step back, but his eyes were riveted on the child, intent and focused. "He has two brothers. A creature attacked them in the forest."
"Are they alive?" Godric asked.
"Godric," Helga snapped when the boy whimpered again. "Not here. Get out, all of you. Find the others if you can. Let me care for this one."
They were unceremoniously shoved out of the Infirmary. The doors banged shut behind them.
"Are you certain about the brothers?" Gryffindor asked, turned to Salazar before they stopped in the middle of the corridor.
"Yes." Salazar's eyes wandered in the distance, gazing unseeingly at the wall over Godric's head. "The child couldn't see what attacked them. I cannot tell whether they survived." His voice was void of emotions. A faint ache pulsed through Harry's chest.
Godric crossed his arms. His eyes were hard, lost in the general direction of the Forest.
"I'm not sure that's a good idea, Godric," Salazar whispered.
The other man looked back at him. "We have to try. If only just to find the beast who did this. And make sure it won't threaten any of our students. We should've gone into that forest months ago, Salazar."
Salazar sighed, never breaking eye contact. "What do you propose?"
"I go in, follow the boy's track, find the creature, possibly his brothers, then go back. Simple, easy to follow."
"Our plans never hold up to confrontation, Godric."
"I'm aware." A wry smile twisted the red-head's lips. "Why do you think I rarely bother following them?"
Salazar moved a step closer to the other man. "You can't go alone."
"We can't go together. Rowena can't get out of bed, Helga is looking after her patients. She can't protect the castle as well. Someone needs to stay, and we both know I'm a better hunter than you."
"I – "
"I could go," said Harry. Could go. Needed to go, rather, intent whispers that breathed warnings on his skin, but he wasn't about to tell them that. The two men turned to him, surprise flashing over their features. "I could go with you. I've been in that kind of forest before."
Salazar's expression was inscrutable. Grey eyes gauging quietly, with no indication as to whether he had heard Harry's plea. And it was not a punch to Harry's guts so much as a step back, another one, and he wished he knew why he felt like the two of them were suddenly spiralling away from each other, whisked off by invisible hands that pushed and pulled at once. Jaw clenching, the young man looked at Gryffindor, who was observing them silently, shades of worry in hazel eyes.
Godric touched Salazar's shoulder. "He's one of yours," he said, stepping away, as if to let the other man choose.
"He is," Salazar said.
Again, Harry tried to catch nuances in his voice, anything to know the Founder's thoughts. Not to avail. He had become somewhat proficient at reading the play of emotion in Salazar's eyes, when they were alone and Salazar let him, but Harry could never fully understand him, especially not if he put effort into concealing his thoughts. And it hurt, jarring like glass shards in his side. It hurt in a way Harry knew it should not.
A sigh, silver eyes fluttering close. "If there's so much as a scratch on him – "
"You'll string me up by the ears and hang me on a Whomping Willow." Godric waved the threat away. "I know. Harry, you have a quarter of hour to get ready. Meet me at the entrance as soon as you can." The Founder left Harry and Salazar with a curt nod, disappearing behind a tapestry that led to the Gryffindor common room.
"I'd better hurry," Harry murmured, preparing to follow his example.
Salazar grabbed his arm before he could move, stepping close. Closer than he had been for days.
"Wait."
Harry had not forgotten what it was like to have Salazar's undivided attention. The way everything narrowed down to the single-minded intensity of his eyes. Not quite melting away, just becoming – less important. Secondary, and entirely irrelevant. He had not forgotten. He could not. He simply did not remember that the strength of it could be so staggering.
"I have to – "
"I know. I just have a question, before you go."
So have I, Harry thought savagely, all other concerns momentarily fading to the background. Why, Salazar? Why have you been avoiding me? Why have I been avoiding you? Does it amuses you, to keep me off-balance? To speak everything but your mind, leaving me to guess what you mean, what you don't? We talk, you and I. For hours on end. You learn things about me. I don't learn things about you. I'm trying though, do you know that? Why do I care to try, Salazar? Why does it matters so much? Sometimes, I think us friends. But that's not what we are, is it? You're friends with Godric. I know friendship. I don't know what this is. Do you? What I am to you, Salazar?
"Are you all right?" Was that worry in the other man's voice? "You seem distracted."
"I, uh – " Was he all right? There was a sense of unease grating on his nerves, a soft, perpetual hum across his skin, like magic waking in his veins to whisper warnings to his consciousness.
"I see," Salazar muttered.
"Stop reading my mind," Harry snapped. His thoughts had escaped him again, spilling out of his head like water from an overflowing glass. The daily Occlumency exercises Salazar had him perform kept the Founder from inadvertently glancing into his mind, but maintaining the required focus took effort, and Harry slipped regularly.
"Stop leaving it unprotected," Salazar retorted evenly. He started walking toward the dungeons. "Do you always feel the approach of Samhain so acutely?"
Harry fell into steps beside him. He frowned. "The approach of what?"
"Samhain." Seeing the expression on his face, Salazar elaborated, "The day that marks the beginning of winter for Muggles. The moment when the veil to the otherworld is at its thinnest for us."
A spark of memory, years old and faded with time, sprung to Harry's mind. The bluish glow of black candles, death-cold air and translucent ghosts dancing.
"Do you mean Hallowe'en?" he asked. "That's tomorrow, isn't it?"
Salazar cast him a sideways glance. "The name may have changed with time," he said. "But the dates seem to match. Does it always affect you so?"
"I – no," Harry admitted. "Hallowe'en has never been a pleasant day for me, but I never felt this. Is – is it normal?"
"Define 'normal'." Harry rolled his eyes. Salazar smiled with his. "Do you know what this day stands for?"
The young man shook his head. Somehow, he doubted the Founder meant a night of trick-or-treating for children, and there stopped Harry's knowledge of the traditions of Hallowe'en. Giant pumpkins, live bats, jiggling skeletons, and the occasion for a memorable feast.
"Samhain symbolises a time between death and rebirth. The descent of darkness that precedes daylight. It's a period of change, suspended in time, where we may glimpse at beings who do not belong to this world." Salazar looked at him, green and silver locking for a heartbeat. "You're not exactly from this world, are you?" he said. His voice echoed quietly in the silent corridor.
"You think – "
"I don't know, Harry. This is a mere conjecture." Salazar pressed a hand to the small of his student's back. Harry began walking again. He had not realised they had stopped. "How is Samhain an unpleasant day for you?"
The wool of Harry's shirt felt rough against his skin. Salazar's hand stayed on his back, accompanying rather than leading, a flare of heat in the chilled dungeons.
"Bad memories," the young man heard himself answer, words tumbling out on their own accord. "My parents were killed on Samhain night."
They did not speak for the rest of the way to the common room. The silence was only troubled by the sound of their footfalls on the stone-ground.
"I share your grief." Salazar's voice stopped him before the wall glided away, soft. Heavy as lead. "Be careful."
When Harry turned back, the Founder was gone.
A breath, cold air rushing into his lungs, loud and desperate as a drowning man's. Another, more controlled, deliberate. Harry opened his eyes. He couldn't. Couldn't let his thoughts stray, not now.
The Forest awaited.
A.N: Sorry for the delay! Real life happened, and a lot came down at once. Finding time to write was next to impossible these last few months. But I'm back with twenty pages worth of notes and ideas, and, I hope, more time on my hands to write them down.
This chapter is shorter than usual, partly because it was supposed to go with the next one, and would've ended up some forty pages long if I hadn't cut it. I'm going to try and keep these monsters from going over 11K. I've the feeling that's not going to work, but I'm allowed hope.
Question! Do you think I should put warnings at the beginning of each chapter? I feel like it can be a bit of a spoiler, but perhaps you'd like to be warned when fighting/angst/slash is about to go down. (Not before a while for the latter. Slow-burn and unrepentant about it.)
Also, I might go back to the older chapters to improve a sentence or two. Nothing that'll change the plot, but I'm trying very hard not to bash my head against walls when I think about some stuff I've written. Always happens after a while. As you may (or, hopefully, may not) have guessed, I'm figuring out both English and writing as I go along. I feel like I'm learning a lot, but the side-effects involve hair-pulling and cursing my younger self. The point being, don't be surprised if you re-read a chapter and find some modifications.
Finally, no promises, but the next chapter should come along quicker than this one. I still have much to do, but the worst is behind me.
Until then, lads!