Chapter Rating: T
Warnings: More realizations, vague angst, more brooding, hints of plot, etc.
Word Count: ~6500
Pairings: Salazar Slytherin/Godric Gryffindor, Rowena Ravenclaw/Helga Hufflepuff
Notes: Several people have wanted to know if there's going to be an evil-and-manipulative!Dumbledore angle to this story. There's really, really not. I hate character bashing in general, and Dumbledore bashing in particular—it's why I'm not more active in the HP fandom. I find it all ridiculous and petty and grossly out of character, and of course everyone is welcome to disagree, but given that this story is kind of my baby I'm going to stick to my guns. Dumbledore is one of my favorite characters, and will be portrayed as IC as I can get him.
And the brave man with a sword
Chapter XI
Sirius had never thought that he could hate Grimmauld Place more than he did as a child, but lately he's come to the unpleasant realization that his hatred from then is nothing compared to what he feels now. The walls are closing in, the ceiling is weighing down, and Sirius feels as though he's about to be buried under fury and frustration and hopelessness.
There's no chance to clear his name, not unless they kill Voldemort or catch Peter. No way for his imprisonment here to end. There's nothing he can do beyond staying out of sight, no help he can provide, no way to be of use. He's a prisoner here just as surely as he was in Azkaban, and it itches like madness under his skin.
He thinks of Harry, thinks of wary green eyes in James's face, and curls his hands around the back of his neck, leaning forward to brace his elbows on the table. Sirius knows better than any just how deep the Black family's madness runs—he's seen so many cases of it, from Regulus's desperately perfectionist tendencies and self-directed rages when he failed to Bellatrix's all-out psychosis—and he's not arrogant enough to think that he's escaped it. Not anymore. Even if he had a chance once, Azkaban tore him apart, and there are only so many times Sirius can piece himself back together.
"More tea, Sirius?" Molly asks gently, picking up the empty pot as she passes behind him.
There's a part of Sirius that wants to snap and snarl and storm out of the room in a rage because she's interrupted his brooding, because she's trying to mother him and he's not a child, not mentally impaired, is a grown man who escaped the most impenetrable prison imaginable, but—
But he thinks of madness, thinks of family, and lets his breath out in a long sigh.
"Yes, thank you, Molly," he says, and offers her a faint, crooked smile.
She smiles back, then turns away, flicking her wand. The kettle lifts off the stove, joining all the other cooking paraphernalia in the air as it fills itself at the sink, then sails back to the burner. Sirius watches for a moment, distracted by the unfamiliar display. His mother certainly never used such charms, and Kreacher kept them out of the kitchen. Well, Regulus was allowed in, but Kreacher never denied Regulus anything.
In the distance, the front door opens, and Sirius straightens, looking up with a faint frown. He hadn't thought that there was anyone else coming back apart from Arthur, who usually uses the Floo. Everyone he can think of is out on missions or simply waiting for something to happen, and they generally have at least a little warning if someone is going to drop by.
"Molly? Sirius?" a deep, familiar voice calls, softly enough not to wake Walburga's portrait.
"In here, Kingsley," Molly calls back. "I was just about to make some tea. Would you like some?"
A moment later, Kingsley steps through the door, looking tired. "Maybe something a bit stronger," he says wryly. "Albus called an emergency Order meeting. Everyone should be arriving shortly."
"An emergency meeting?" Sirius half-rises from his chair, feeling a flicker of panic ignite in his chest. "Is it Harry? Has something happened?"
Kingsley takes a seat across from him, slumping into the chair in a way that speaks of long days and too much stress. "Harry is fine, as far as I'm aware," he answers. "This concerns you, actually, Sirius."
Sirius blinks, caught entirely off guard. "What?" he asks dumbly. "But—I've been here the whole time, I haven't left! Is the Ministry adding more charges? I hadn't thought the list could get any longer, but maybe if they got creative…"
The Auror isn't laughing. He rubs a hand over his face, waving Sirius back to his seat, and says, "I suppose you should hear it now, rather than in front of the whole Order. Sirius, someone turned in Pettigrew this afternoon. The Ministry has temporarily suspended all charges pending investigation, and they've halted the hunt for you. There's a request that you come in to give another statement, but nothing more."
Sirius sits down hard, his knees all but buckling. "What?"
"Ah, I see the news has already been broken." Dumbledore pauses at the edge of the kitchen, watching Sirius over the tops of his half-moon glasses. His expression is gently concerned, but he's smiling a little. "My congratulations, Sirius."
"Thanks," Sirius answers dazedly. He can't even begin to wrap his head around the idea. "Wormtail? Someone brought in Wormtail? How the hell did that happen?"
With a low laugh, Kingsley drags a hand over his shaved skull and shakes his head. "We don't know," he says, almost wondering. "It was a man in a cloak, and he never took off his hood. But he Apparated directly into the Atrium and made a show out of it. Dropped Pettigrew right at our feet, wrapped up like a Christmas gift."
"Oh my." Molly braces herself on the edge of the table, smoothing her hair back from her face with a shaky hand. "And—that's it? They know Sirius is innocent now?"
Innocent. The word echoes strangely in Sirius's ears, as if heard from a great distance. It's—impossible. Improbable. He's always known that he was innocent, that Peter was the traitor, but…other people knowing, believing it? Outside of Harry and the Order, he's never even contemplated it. Never thought about the end of the war or what might happen. And this—this is—
"It is not quite so simple," Albus says gently, briefly resting a hand on Sirius's shoulder as he passes behind him. It's a comforting touch, grounding, and Sirius drags a hand through his tangled hair before looking up. The Headmaster is still watching him, still smiling, and there's a spark of something very like hope, like the belief that things actually will get better, in his pale eyes. "But it is also not much more complicated, either. As they have Pettigrew in custody, you clearly cannot be blamed for his murder, and the man who apprehended him made it very clear where Pettigrew's loyalties lie."
"Who was it?" Molly flicks her wand distractedly as she takes a seat, and the teapot sails across the kitchen to hover over the table, followed by a round of cups. "Not an Order member, then?"
Dumbledore accepts his cup with a cheerful smile. "No, no, but I believe he was a friend regardless. By Kingsley's account, he was certainly not a Death Eater. Thank you, Molly."
Sirius breathes, trying to settle his heartbeat. "Just a passing hero, then?" he snorts. "Doing his good deed for the day?"
"Not quite." Kingsley's expression is wry. "He claimed to be Godric Gryffindor's descendant."
Sirius's brain stalls out, and he blinks at the Auror disbelievingly. "What? But—finding a descendant of Gryffindor is like finding Merlin's wand. There's no way. It's impossible."
"Ah," Dumbledore says serenely. "But impossible things that have already happened are not impossible, merely improbable."
"Albus, you believe this?" Molly asks, and for once Sirius is in full agreement with her. "He could be anyone!"
Dumbledore's smile turns faintly wistful. "Indeed he could," he allows. "However, a little over a week ago, the Sword of Gryffindor vanished from its case in my office. I had thought it simply returned to wherever Hogwarts keeps her treasures when they are not needed, but this man wore it easily. Even if he is not who he claims to be, the Sword is proof that he has noble intentions."
That, at least, is fairly hard to argue with. Magical relics imbued with their creator's power and intent aren't easily fooled, and Sirius has read about Gryffindor's blade. If turning in Pettigrew wasn't enough to prove that this man doesn't intend to harm anyone, the Sword is a decent testament to that fact.
Sirius takes a breath, another, a third. If it shakes a little on the exhale, he thinks that can be excused. This is—he can't even imagine how much things will change, if this all turns out to be true. "Will they throw me back into Azkaban the moment I set foot in the Ministry to make my case?" he asks, interrupting Albus and Kingsley's quiet debate over the stranger's origins.
"They can't," Kingsley reminds him. "You were arrested for the murder of Pettigrew and twelve Muggles. Pettigrew being alive casts doubt on everything, and the fact that this isn't wartime is in our favor. They'll have to give you a trial, at the very least."
There's still a chance that this could all go to hell. A large chance, even, but it's still Sirius's best ticket to freedom. He squares his shoulders, raises his head, and looks at Albus. "Would you be willing to take me there?" he asks. "I'll talk to them, but I want a way out if something goes wrong."
Molly protests, but Sirius doesn't even bother to listen. He holds the Headmaster's steady gaze, and is relieved to see a twinkle of mischief spark in blue eyes. "Of course, my boy," Dumbledore says merrily, and Sirius is abruptly reminded of his expression when the Marauders charmed all of Professor McGonagall's clothes to smell like catnip. Albus had reprimanded them, but Sirius is a hundred percent sure he got a good laugh out of it, too. Playing a trick on the Ministry is probably right up the man's alley.
Sirius grins back, gripping the edge of the table, and thinks of freedom. Thinks of escape, and happiness, and for the very first time, he allows himself to think of the future.
Harry takes one step into the Great Hall and is nearly deafened by the whispers. He stiffens, the high of talking with Cho in the Owlery abruptly vanishing as he feels practically every eye suddenly trained on him, and has to resist the urge to spin on his heel and walk right back out. It's only the sight of Ron and Hermione, heads bent together at the Gryffindor table, that keeps him from doing so.
Steeling himself, Harry strides across the Hall as quickly as he can without looking like he's running. The stares are awful, but they don't feel hostile, or accusatory, like they have before. This is interest, sharp and intent, and simply unnerving.
"What's going on?" he asks lowly, sliding into his seat next to Ron and Hermione.
His friends trade glances, and then Ron says, "We're waiting for the Prophet. Something happened at the Ministry yesterday, but I dunno how many of the rumors are true."
"Rumors?" Harry demands. "Is this about Voldemort?" He ignores the flinch they both give at the name, entirely fed up with it by now, and forges on. "Did he attack the Ministry? Did—"
Before he can get even another word out, the post arrives, and a huge screech owl lands next to the sugar bowl with Hermione's copy of the Prophet clutched in its beak. Hastily, Hermione fishes a Knut out of her pocket and pays the bird, then grabs the paper and shakes it out.
Harry takes one look at the headline and finds he can't even breathe.
SIRIUS BLACK FRAMED screams the headline, and then right beneath it, in just slightly smaller letters, THE MAN WHO REALLY BETRAYED THE POTTERS FINALLY FOUND
"Blimey," Ron says faintly. "They caught Wormtail?"
"Someone did," Hermione confirms. "Look at this! Stranger in a dark cloak…powerful wizard…gross misconduct revealed in the handling of Black's case…Pettigrew brought to justice by the Heir of Gryffindor himself. This is—this is incredible!"
There's only one person that it could possibly be.
"Sorry," Harry blurts, scrambling to his feet. "I've—I have to—I'll see you later, yeah?" Ignoring Hermione's protests and Ron's yelp, he casts a quick look down the Gryffindor table, seeking red hair, only spots Fred and George, and then spins around and bolts back towards the dorm. Godric had still been asleep when he left to mail a letter to Sirius, and since he's not at breakfast, the next best bet is that he hasn't made it down yet.
As he expected, when he stumbles around the corner a few halls from the Fat Lady's portrait, Godric is just heading towards the Great Hall, hair messy and clothes rumpled. Harry barely remembers to make sure the hall is clear before he throws himself at the man.
"Godric!" he hisses, not sure if what's bubbling up in his chest is joy or something else. "Godric, you—"
Godric blinks at him for a long moment, brain clearly still firing up, and then he smiles warmly. "Prophet's here already, then?" he asks, reaching out to drop a hand on Harry's shoulder and squeezing gently.
"You…" Harry has to stop again, too many words crowding on his tongue and feeling distinctly overwhelmed. He chokes on what he's trying to say, still dizzy with disbelief, and finally manages, "You did that for me?"
Godric chuckles, tugging him to the side and into an open room. "Not entirely," he says judiciously. "It was to get Voldemort's attention, really, but there was a happy side effect that I thought you might appreciate. Think of it as a little bit of the debt we owe you paid off."
That smile is equal parts wicked and warm, and his green eyes are steady. Harry's heart is in his throat, his chest hurts, and all he can think is that Sirius is going to be free. His parents' real betrayer will finally get what he deserves, Voldemort will lose one of his closest Death Eaters, and Harry can legally have family now. No more summers with the Dursleys. No more having to go back there.
Godric gave him his godfather back, and nothing Harry can say will ever do that justice.
He gives in to the impulse, stepping forward and throwing his arms around Godric in a short, fierce hug. The redhead stiffens for a brief moment, but then he chuckles softly and strong arms come up to hug Harry back.
"Thank you, Godric," Harry whispers desperately.
"You're welcome, Harry," Godric says, his voice gentle. "You're a strong wizard, a brave young man. Really, this is the least I can do."
It's so far from true that Harry wants to laugh, but he can't. He thinks of all the nights on the rooftop, of Godric taking away the pain in his hand, of the way Godric understands even when no one else can, and he can't say anything at all that will do that justice.
"I get to live with Sirius," he says, wondering, and it really hits him then. He pulls back, grinning, feeling joy burning like a bonfire in his chest, and thinks that at that moment he could conjure his best Patronus ever. "I don't have to go back to the Dursleys. You cleared Sirius's name!"
Godric laughs outright at that, smoothing a hand over Harry's hair in a way that feels breathtakingly fatherly, despite the fact that he only looks fifteen. "Well, I had a bit of help," he demurs, but he's grinning brilliantly. "Besides, pissing off Dark Lords has always been a bit of a hobby of mine."
The mere thought of Voldemort's face when he hears the news makes Harry grin, too. "It's brilliant," he enthuses. "I—thank you. Thank you, Godric."
Godric just smiles at him. "Anytime, Harry," he promises, and then glances over towards the door, wryness shading his features. "But I think you've got some explaining to do right now."
Startled, Harry spins, eyes widening at the sight of a sheepish Ron and a bewildered Hermione standing in the doorway. They've clearly overheard, and Harry winces guiltily. Barely a week keeping Godric's presence a secret and he's already failed. "Er…"
"I could have sworn your name was Gideon," Hermione says pointedly, stepping into the room and dragging Ron with her. "Harry, what's going on?"
Helplessly Harry casts a look at Godric, then back at his friends. "I—you can't tell anyone, Hermione. Please."
"They won't," Godric says with a confidence Harry definitely doesn't feel, all too aware of Hermione's tendency to over-obsess and then report things to the teachers. He's forgiven her for the incident with the Firebolt in third year, but he still remembers it.
Even so, the Founder takes a step around Harry, gesturing with one hand. The door swings closed with a soft click, even as three overstuffed couches burst into being on the floor. "Maybe I should introduce myself again. I'm Godric Gryffindor, and it is truly a pleasure to meet such inspiring members of my House."
Harry can't remember the last time he saw Hermione look faint, or the last time she was this speechless. "Oh," she says weakly, worried gaze sliding to Harry.
Reading the question in her gaze, Harry nods. "I saw him on the Map, and went to find him," he explains. "It's true, Hermione, I swear! He's the one that found Wormtail."
"Gryffindor," Ron repeats, sinking down on one of the couches. "With—with the Sword, and the Hat, and being one of the Founders?"
"Yes to all of it," Godric laughs, throwing himself down on the cushions of the second sofa. He looks as smug as a cat, and Harry can't fight a smile of his own, settling on the other end. He grabs Hermione's arm and gently directs her towards the free couch, a little concerned by the paleness of her face.
"You okay?" he asks quietly.
Hermione shakes herself. "You—and the others," she says, realization sweeping across her face. "They're Ravenclaw, Hufflepuff, and…" She trails off, eyes going even wider.
Ron, following her train of thought, looks faintly sick.
"Slytherin," Godric finishes for her, and his smile is crooked. "Yes, Solomon is Salazar. But the stories are wrong, Hermione. He's not evil. He's not even a bad person. He's my best friend, and after a thousand years surely that means something."
Ron looks deeply skeptical, while Hermione bites her lip worriedly. "But," she says carefully, "if You-Know-Who is really Slytherin's descendant…"
"He's not," Godric reassures her, the amusement clear in his voice. "Believe me, I would know."
For reasons Harry is entirely ignorant of, Hermione flushes a faint pink and makes a sound like she's just been bitten by something. Godric casts her a swift smile, then says, "You needn't worry. The four of us came back to ensure this school continued, and to remove the Ministry's influence, so you can be sure we've no darker motive. I would swear it on anything you wanted me to."
"He got Wormtail," Harry repeats, because he feels this can't be overstated. "He cleared Sirius's name."
"A judge and jury will clear Sirius Black's name," Godric corrects gently. "I simply jumpstarted the process." He hesitates for a moment, then rises to his feet. "If you'll excuse me, I think I need to find Helga." Once more he touches Harry's shoulder, then nods to Ron and Hermione and strides out of the room.
Silence lingers in his wake, and Harry watches his friends a little warily. He's never liked keeping secrets from them, even when talking to them is hard, and this is a damned big secret. He'll understand if they're angry, even though he really doesn't want them to be.
"Sorry," he says a little helplessly. "I—I've known since the first day back. He's been helping me deal with Umbridge's detentions, and showing me things. I wanted to tell you, but…I didn't know how."
"Inspiring," Ron repeats, sounding dazed. "Godric Gryffindor thinks we're inspiring members of his House." He shakes his head, slumping back into the cushions, and laughs breathlessly. "I don't blame you, mate. That's a bloody big secret."
Hermione glances between them, looking worried. "You're—you're sure he's who he says he is?" she asks tentatively, and then, catching the flicker of annoyance on Harry's face, raises her hands. "Harry, I know, but don't you think it's just a little suspicious?"
"Less suspicious than Umbridge," Harry points out. "They're here to get rid of her. Besides, Godric's had plenty of opportunities to hurt me and he hasn't. He's been doing the opposite. I just—I think this is real."
To his surprise, Hermione hesitates for a long moment, and then smiles, just a little. "Godric Gryffindor," she says, and there's wonder in her voice. "Harry, you've been talking to Godric Gryffindor. What has he said? What is he like?"
Harry grins, relief making his head spin. They're not angry. Even Hermione says she believes him, no matter what reservations she might be hiding. That's good enough for now. They'll see what Godric is like soon enough. "He's—he was a mercenary. Part of something called Falcon Company, and that's how he met Salazar. His family was hired to guard him, and—"
It's not a story about Godric that anyone would find in a book, but Harry particularly liked it. The thought of Godric as a young boy, already clever and bold and brave, making friends with a cold, calculating boy six years older but far less experienced, is a good one. He'd never spared much thought to the dynamics of the Founders before meeting Godric, but he likely wouldn't have pegged Godric as the youngest. It's fitting, though, and for all that Godric says his past is the darkest of the four, Harry finds it most admirable. He made something different of his life, stepped off the path others had set for him, that he had set for himself, and forged a new one.
After meeting him, Harry now feels rather like he can do the same.
Needing to find Helga was a bit of a white lie, Godric will admit. It's more or less true—he does need to talk to one of the others about everything, and she's least likely to strangle him for giving away their secret barely a week into term—but…he can't right now. Given that it's the weekend, and he has no classes to attend, it's the best time to deal with his suspicions regarding the Founders' items.
He'd like to tell Helga. He really would. Godric's used to relying on people, to having partners, which was one of the reasons their separation was so jarring. Ever since he could first hold a sword, he's had someone to watch his back. Not all the time, not every time, but enough that it's a habit now.
This isn't something he can share, though, not right now. Helga, being who she is, will want to confront Salazar and Rowena, will want to talk to them and understand their sides of the story and work everything out. Godric doesn't have time for that. Besides, he'd rather figure out what's going on by himself. After all, Salazar and Rowena have already lied once about all of this, and Godric isn't about to give them a chance to do it again.
There's too much at stake here to show his hand early. Godric knows exactly how ruthless and cunning the other two are, knows what they would sacrifice if they thought it would keep Helga and Godric safe, and maybe he should be touched by their selflessness, but in reality Godric is just angry. If this is anything remotely like he suspects it is—
Well. Then he'll have good reason to be angry, Godric thinks grimly, checking that the hallway is clear and then pulling the knife from his boot. The wall in front of him is blank except for a faint dusting of silver sparks trapped in the stone, almost glowing in the dim torchlight. The dungeons are always rather dark, but here, far from any occupied rooms and at the opposite end of the castle from the Slytherin common room, the gloom feels like it hasn't truly been broken in years.
A prick of the blade brings blood beading to the surface of his skin. It trickles down his finger, black in the low light, and Godric reaches out and gently traces a rune for opening on the tenth brick from the floor. "I am Gryffindor, bravest of the Hogwarts Four," he says softly. "Make way for me."
There's a long moment of hushed stillness. Then, softly, slowly, the silver sparks slide across the stone, brightening as they go. They coalesce beneath the bloody rune, swirling as if they're caught in the grip of a whirlpool, and in their glow the corridor is lit with silver light. Godric takes a breath, touches a hand to the hilt of the sword belted at his side, and then steps forward.
Silver and stone part before him like a thin sheet of water, leaving a faint tingle in their wake, and Godric emerges from the hidden doorway on a landing. There's nothing on either side of him, just a small platform of grey stone without railings, darkness falling away into utter nothingness. The space is breathlessly silent, aged and eerie, and Godric raises his face to the blackness above. More sparks slide across it, then tumble down like falling stars, leaving light behind them. In their wake Godric can finally see the stairs he needs, one set on each side of the landing. He picks the one directly in front of him, leading down, and starts down the steps without hurrying.
A seed of anger is burning in his chest. It's not fury, nothing so explosive. Rage, Godric thinks a little wryly. He's never had what one would call an even temper to begin with, but it tends to burn itself out quickly, leaving reason behind. This—this is something different, something deeper. This rage is for the knowledge that Salazar's locket is missing, and likely has been for fifty years. This is for fifty years of loneliness while Rowena and Salazar plotted and planned and left Godric and Helga in the dark. This is for the certainty inside him that there's more to this than just the four of them, more than a simple separation no matter how painful that alone would have been.
This is something bigger than the Founders, and Godric only needs to look to Salazar's lost locket, to the fact that he's said nothing about it, to know that. In any other situation, such a loss would unite them. They would track it down, get it back, and not worry about anything else. The very fact that Salazar has said nothing, that Rowena has said nothing, means there's far more at stake.
Maybe Salazar and Rowena have their reasons for keeping Helga and him out of the loop. Maybe there's a good reason they can't and won't mention what's happened, regardless of the danger to them that it presents. Godric doesn't care. He's not about to let such things rest, no matter how reckless he has to be to find the answers to this riddle.
The picture he has is already starting to come clear. The Founders' items are threatened, at risk. Of the locket, cup, diadem, and sword, Godric can only be certain that his own is still safe. Salazar's locket is definitely gone, and that leaves the fate of the diadem and cup unknown. Possibly Helga's goblet is safe, but…Godric's gut tells him it isn't. That there's a reason Salazar and Rowena separated all of them. Looking back on it now, knowing even what little he's reasoned out, Godric can see that the decision almost smacks of panic, and not one he would associate with the Ravenclaw and Slytherin.
Only one thing he's ever seen can make Salazar panic, and that's a dire threat to the four of them. To Godric in particular. And this—this has to be the same.
Godric's boot hits echoing stone, and he looks up.
There's a bridge beneath him, starting from the foot of the stairs and arching over a wide canal. The stone is golden-brown, bright in the light that feels like sun but isn't, and the water is so clear that Godric can see right down to the runes that march down the very center of the waterway. They glow faintly, a subtle sense of power tickling Godric's senses, and despite the circumstances he can't fight a faint smile as he strides across the bridge. On the other side is a narrow strip of stone, then another curving canal, and a second bridge. Seven bridges, seven canals in concentric circles, and in the center is a small island of green grass with a pool of silver water at its heart.
Seven is a powerful number. Like this, amplified and reflected and carefully enhanced, seven becomes Hogwarts's support, its anchor. The castle could rebuild itself from nothing but rubble as long as this, its heart, stays intact.
It's more than just the castle's heart, though. Godric steps carefully onto the grass, taking a deep breath as he does. The very air hums with power here, with age and mystery and a sense of awareness. Murmuring a greeting out of long-standing habit, Godric slides to his knees at the edge of the pool, then leans forward.
"Give me a glimpse, lovely," he murmurs. "The threads—can you still see them?"
Something flickers, like a spark leaping from a bonfire. Red in his peripheral vision, then green, then gold, then blue. The sparks twine together for a brief heartbeat before they separate, whirling out and away. Only one stays, the dart of crimson light tumbling down to limn Godric's sword. He touches it lightly, tracing his fingers along the thin thread of magic that binds it to Hogwarts and himself in equal measure, and it sings beneath his fingertips, sweet and clear.
But the melody of it is alone. Where there should be a quartet, four distinct tones twined into a harmony, Godric's thread is the only one that sings.
He raises his head, dread making his stomach tighten into knots, and automatically reaches out for the green thread. But his fingers stop an inch away from it, frozen with horror, because what was once a strong, bright current of magic is dark and diminished. Like some creeping blight, grey-black rot covers the green, eating away at it as acid would.
The thread that represents Salazar's souls is dying, and Godric has never in his long life been more afraid.
Blindly, desperately, he stretches out his hands, touching gold and blue as they shimmer into being. The grey-black rot covers them as well, thick and clinging, and it smears on Godric's fingers as he jerks back and away. Frantically, he wipes his hands on his robes, sickened by the taint of it, and then staggers to his feet. The red string flares, a pulse of magic answering his distress, but Godric dismisses the four threads with a wave and sits down hard on the foot of the bridge.
"Hell," he whispers, digging his fingers into his hair. "Fucking hell."
The eerie, aged peace of his surroundings weighs on him, a mockery of what it should be after what he just saw. Nausea turns his stomach, even as his heart aches in his chest like a raw brand.
The others are dying. Maybe not quickly, maybe not immediately, but that corruption isn't going to go away. Someone has their items, their relics, the conduits through which they bound themselves to Hogwarts, and that person has twisted them, tainted them. Only Godric is safe, and he has little doubt that it's because his sword has been in Hogwarts's care for the last forty years. After all, even Salazar's locket wasn't safe—was in fact, judging by the amount of degradation Godric saw, the very first to be corrupted. But how? Salazar isn't a trusting man, or a vulnerable one. To be taken off guard enough that someone managed to steal that item in particular—Godric would expect Salazar to voluntarily surrender his wand to an enemy and bare his throat before he would expect the man to allow anyone but the other Founders close enough to even see his locket.
Voldemort, Godric thinks, going still as the thoughts connect. Fifty years ago, Voldemort began his rise to power, and the Founders separated. Fifteen years ago, the Dark Lord should have been killed when his curse rebounded, but he didn't die. Or…he didn't die permanently. He came back to life, as though he had never fully ceased existing. As though a piece of himself was still alive. And… that's familiar, isn't it?
Godric knows dark rituals, knows his curses. He's existed longer than a lot of dark magic has, and saw much of it come into existence. And the very darkest of all, close cousin to the ritual that the Founders themselves used, is the magic that can split a soul and break it into pieces—that would do it, wouldn't it?
Horcruxes, then. Three at least, and likely more. Definitely more, because if Voldemort made three then he wouldn't have stopped there. Maybe he was interrupted by his death at Harry's hands, but Godric is never that lucky. There will be several others in addition to the Founders' relics.
Raking his fingers through his hair, Godric leans forward, bracing his elbows on his knees and taking a careful breath. He needs to think, no matter how his head is spinning. This—this is dire, and has already been going on for far too long. With every moment the corruption spreads, Salazar, Helga, and Rowena will get weaker. They're strong, so their souls will hold out for longer than most would, but they can't last forever. Not against dark magic like this. Eventually it will take them over, and that's not a death Godric would wish on his worst enemy, let alone the three people he loves more than life itself.
But…is there anything he can do? If Voldemort made the locket, cup, and diadem into Horcruxes, is there a way to remove the shards of his soul while leaving the Founders' connection to Hogwarts intact? Without that, they'll die just as surely as from the dark magic, and Godric can't think of a way around it. They'll start to age the moment the connection is cut, and at the very most Godric would have an hour to renew the ritual that keeps them all alive. It's not possible—the first time, it took all of them a full month to complete. There's no way to recreate it in any less time than that, not even with a thousand years' experience.
So there has to be some other solution, something else Godric can do. He refuses to believe that the situation is hopeless, that there's nothing to be done. There are always options, always other paths to take, even if they aren't immediately apparent. Salazar was the one who taught him that, and it's a lesson Godric has never allowed himself to forget.
He'll find a way. No matter what, no matter how long it takes, Godric won't give up. He'll save them, regardless of what he has to do to accomplish it.
He thinks of Rowena dying, of Helga fading, of Salazar with his fire gone and cold earth covering him. Thinks of existing alone, without anyone beside him, of watching generations pass like a cold, weathered sentinel, and hates the very thought of it so deeply that it shakes him. Fifty years already he's missed Salazar, missed Rowena and Helga. Fifty years he's let them decide his path even when they weren't present. But not this time.
Godric is a fighter, a soldier, a survivor. And even if he has to die in the process, he'll save those he loves.
Hopefully it won't come to that. With any luck, Godric will find another way. But laying down his life for those dearest to him isn't something he could ever regret.
He takes a breath and stands up, fingers curling automatically around the hilt of his sword. The coolness of the metal is grounding, a reminder of all the previous times he's fought and won. This will be no different.
Decision made, mind set, Godric turns away from the stillness of the silver pool, the threads that are once again hidden from sight. He steps forward, across the bridge, and keeps his eyes trained ahead. There's no time to falter, no room for doubt. Godric has work to do and friends to save, and no man, Dark Lord or otherwise, is going to stop him.
