Chapter Rating: T

Warnings: Recklessness, vague fluff, showboating, vague angst, mockery, etc.

Word Count: ~6500

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

Notes: I totally did not mean to let two months go by without an update, whoops, but I am queen of getting distracted. Sorry.

(Several people have asked about whether I'm pairing Harry with anyone here—there's a bit of an answer in the last section, if you squint a bit. Also implications of WolfStar, because that's canon, right?)

And the brave man with a sword

Chapter XIII

"Well, that's not pretentious at all," Godric drawls, casting an assessing glance over Malfoy Manor as it spreads out beneath them.

Helga stifles a laugh behind one hand. "Be nice, Godric. Not everyone can have Salazar's taste, you know."

"Or taste, full-stop." He squints at a pale speck moving along the top of the tall hedge that edges the drive. "Is that a—it is. White peacocks. Of course. What else would be pretentious enough? And on that note, Salazar? Taste? Are you forgetting that this is the man who ever-so-causally put a giant rendering of his face in the middle of his secret chamber?"

That at least earns him a roll of Helga's eyes. "Oh, hush, Godric, you like his face well enough." She leans around him a little, trying not to overbalance as she moves against the beat of the thestral's wings, and murmurs a quiet word. Sliver light flickers over her eyes like a veil, then burns away, and she says, "Heavy warding as far as I can see, and sensing and animation charms on the gate, but they look like they're inscribed on a Silent Guardian ward from the mid-1600s."

"Someone's a traditionalist. Which we likely should have expected, given Malfoy Senior's current occupation." Godric frowns, trying to recall the specifics. "Silent Guardian…isn't that the one—?"

"With the face in the wall? Or the gate, in this case," Helga finishes for him. "Yes, unless they've made changes I can't see."

Godric makes a distracted noise of acknowledgement, though most of his attention is on the memory of that particular warding layout. "I think—yes. That one was scrapped by professional ward-builders as soon as something better came along, because of a frequent instability in the…east-west nexus? No, the north-south, because it uses runes that have a lunar influence, and they tend to wane with the moon."

"Easy enough to conjure the right moonlight," Helga confirms, looping an arm around his waist as he urges the thestral in the right direction. "Do we want to shatter the ward while we're inside, or leave it up?"

Shattering it would be a pretty statement indeed, Godric thinks. Power and brash antagonism, coupled with blatant challenge. Leaving it be—that's a statement, too, though a subtler one. It means no one is safe, that no wards can keep them out. Then again, Godric's already used that one Apparating directly into the Ministry Atrium. It's a good idea to change things up a little.

"Break it," he decides. "Can you manage it? I'll distract them for you."

"I could do it even if you didn't." Helga sounds slightly miffed, and she pinches the inside of his forearm through his tunic. Godric yelps, though he manages to keep it quiet, and doesn't argue the point. He knows very well how strong Helga can be.

"Right then," he says cheerfully, as the mare lands hard and trots a few steps, then stops. "I'll find the nexus, you start up your charm. Then we slip in, I make a show of it, and you start breaking things subtly. I like this plan."

"Oh, fire-top," Helga says, shaking her head. She slides off, landing lightly, and draws her wand. A brief murmur, a complicated flourish, and the light around them changes slowly, bleeding away.

The change brings with it a faint shimmer in the air above the grass, right along the edge of the wall. Godric leaves the thestral to her own devices and traces it back, watching as the warding on the stone begins to shift and take on a pale glow. Too many moon-based runes in one anchoring point, and Winifred would have had the head anyone stupid enough to do that under her watch, but apparently these ward-builders didn't have such a thorough teacher.

The nexus rests right in the center of the wall that runs from north to south, another bit of sloppiness that has Godric rolling his eyes, but it's still easy enough to freeze it where it is, leaving the entire wall vulnerable and unprotected. Quickly, Godric motions Helga over, then laces his fingers together. Helga puts her foot in the cup of his hands and jumps, and Godric adds his strength to the motion. She catches the top of the wall, slides over, and drops down. Godric hears the thump of her landing but nothing else, and leaps up, digging his fingers into a crack in the stone. One hard kick of his boot against the bricks and he has enough momentum to grab the top, roll across, and drop neatly to the grass on the other side.

"I always have so much fun when we're together, Godric," Helga murmurs when he rises, and she's grinning in the darkness of her hood, eyes bright with mischief.

"Always a pleasure to be of service," Godric tells her, grinning right back. He studies the path to the manor, judging their possible approaches. They're on the far side of the hedges that line the drive, well away from whatever booby traps paranoid Malfoy forefathers may have placed, and that means there's far less danger of being spotted right now.

Then again, being spotted is rather the point, isn't it?

"With the north-south nexus frozen, the east-west one will be unstable, won't it?" Helga asks, her eyes making the same scan, though her attention is on the far wall. "Wards like this are self-sustaining, but rely on balance, if I remember correctly."

"Right," Godric confirms. "If you hit the other one hard enough, it will start a cascade effect that will take down all the rest of the defenses, even the ones only incidentally tied to the Silent Guardian base. Give me seven minutes to wake the household, and then you can start."

"That's about how long it will take me to get over there if I'm being sneaky, so it's perfect timing." Helga taps herself on the head with her wand and fades from sight. It's only long practice that lets Godric spot the faint shimmer in the air that marks her presence, and he watches until she's halfway to the edge of the manor. Then he reaches into the pocket of his coat and pulls out the handful of origami animals he had folded on their trip. Lions, all of them, and as perfect as he can get them.

Dueling is one of Godric's great loves, and it's largely about strength, but it's also about misdirection. Anyone can fight, but to fight well there always has to be some manner of surprising your opponent, taking them unaware, and for all that cunning is Salazar's department, Godric can be very good at it when he needs to. He's showy and bold and knows it, and he's more than capable to using his strengths while still coming in from behind them with something that few expect of him. This will be similar, because Malfoy is a Slytherin and expects him to be a Gryffindor, without any of the subtleties that the term should imply.

As the tiny paper lions fall, Godric murmurs a charm, and they shift and change and grow. An entire pride of lions and lionesses settles on the grass around him, sleek, deep gold bodies accented with dark red fur, their golden eyes hungry and voices low but fierce. A touch of Godric's will sends them loping up towards the manor, lean wraiths in the darkness and pale moonlight, and somewhere in the midst of the hedges the peacocks start screaming.

Godric follows after them, left hand on the hilt of his sword, wand in his right. No matter how many times Rowena yells at him for using his non-dominant hand for his wand, it's the habit of a thousand years and not one Godric is about to break. A sword requires more finesse than a wand, after all, no matter how Rowena and Salazar would like to claim otherwise. His strides are long, eating up the ground, and as the main door flies open he draws his blade with a flourish.

The lions roar, leaping for the two men who appear in the doorway, one more familiar than the other. Godric grins wickedly at the sight of Severus Snape standing shoulder-to-shoulder with Lucius Malfoy, casting curses at the pride as it seethes around the steps like a red-gold tide.

"Well, well," he says, and two pairs of eyes snap up to him, going wide. "Severus Snape. I hadn't thought to get so lucky as to find you here. All I wanted was Malfoy."

Malfoy goes white with what Godric thinks is more fury than fear, and casts a vicious curse at the closest lioness. She leaps lightly aside, then snarls a dangerous warning, but the lord ignores her. "You're the man calling himself the Heir of Gryffindor," he sneers. "What business have you here?"

"Just delivering a message," Godric says lightly. "That mark on your arm—may I see it? I've business with your master."

"I have no master," Lucius retorts. "You'll find nothing here to interest you, so leave before I call the Aurors."

Godric whirls his wand around his fingertips, casually careless. "Hm, I think not. You see, Lord Malfoy, I know exactly what happened in that graveyard a year ago. Avery, Nott, Crabbe, Goyle, yourself, and Macnair—and that's just who I'll start with. All of Voldemort's Death Eaters will fall, I assure you. One after the other, just like dominoes. And then—then I will find your Dark Lord, and I'll cut off his head for all of those he's killed, for all the pain he's caused."

"A noble sentiment," Snape says silkily, laying a restraining hand on Lucius's arm, though his eyes never leave Godric. "But you will find no Death Eaters here, I promise you."

"None?" Godric repeats, faintly mocking. "On the contrary, I've already found two. Three, if we count your lovely wife, Lord Malfoy, hiding in the shadows of the door." He pauses, letting that linger a moment, and then adds, "It's such a shame your son isn't in residence. Then we could raise the number to four."

This time, the fury on Lucius's face is written out in bold and clear to see. "My son is innocent! He's done nothing!"

"Not yet," Godric judges, eyes on Lady Malfoy's face as she lingers in the darkness beyond the threshold. Her eyes are wide, scared, and she's watching him as if he's the monster from her nightmares come to life. It's a good thing Godric became used to that expression long ago. "But you want glory, the power and praise of your master. Will you give him your son to get it? Voldemort has already fallen once, Malfoy. I would not be so foolish as to trust that he will not fall again. Dark Lords always do."

"What exactly is it that you want?" Snape asks coldly, eyes narrowing. "I warn you now, however you captured Pettigrew, it will not be sufficient to take us."

Godric laughs, waving a hand, and the lions split, loping away into the darkness. Somewhere, a peacock screams again, and the largest male turns immediately, following the sound. Really, Godric hopes the Malfoys don't mind losing a few birds. Better than losing their gardeners, at least. "Want?" he echoes, and takes a step forward, sweeping his sword up. Both men tense, but he ignores the implied threat in their raised wands and keeps moving. "Nothing more or less than a fractured, scattered soul, Professor Snape. I've found the pieces, but your master is a small, loud dog biting at heels, so terribly ineffectual. I take away his hands and he can't even protect himself. Isn't it a tragedy?"

He calculates how much time he's spent, deciding he has a few more seconds to taunt them, and allows himself a grin. "Tell me, friends, has Voldemort let you in on his greatest secret? Has he showed you the locket, the cup? Or are you blindly in awe of his power, kept in the dark like good little pawns? Because I've seen them, and they're beautiful. Well worth a look, should he ever trust you. Not that I believe he will."

A shiver down his spine, a current of familiar magic, and Godric blesses Helga for her sensibility. He lunges, too fast for either of the men before him, and whirls right between them. His sword skims cloth as it comes up, deflecting the curse Narcissa hurls at him, and he ducks behind Lucius and locks an arm around his throat, wand-tip resting lightly against his temple.

Malfoy's left hand jerks up, attempting to grab his arm, but Godric shifts his grip enough to catch his wrist in the same hand. "Easy, easy," he says, half a warning and half a taunt, and flicks his sword in a smooth, casual gesture. A streak of crimson light flies away, and it's nothing but a bit of witchfire given motion and speed, but the instant it strikes the warded air over the wall, there's a deep, resounding crack. Light spreads out, warm and golden and hungry, eating up every last ounce of protection around the manor, and the disappearance is actually tangible. It leaves the air lighter, echoingly empty and cold, and Godric chuckles at the look on Lucius's face.

"I'm stronger and wiser than your lord can know," he murmurs to the stiff and silent man, though he expects Snape can hear him as well. "I have his secrets, and they will be his downfall. Tell him he's lucky I would rather take out the foot soldiers first, smoke him out like a rat from a burning building, or his head would be mine already. That I swear on my blood and name. Tell me, Malfoy, where you will stand in this war. I'll be back to get your answer."

A step back, a twist, a crack, and he appears right next to Helga where she's seated on the lawn, a juvenile lioness resting her head in Helga's lap. "Very intimidating," she says with a smile, looking up at him, and her eyes are warm. "I particularly liked the yappy little dog comparison."

"Thank you, I felt that was quite inspired," Godric agrees, sheathing his sword and shooing the lioness away, then offering Helga his hand. "Given that Voldemort has spent the last four years getting stymied by a preteen boy, I thought his ego could use a little help."

Helga laughs, letting him pull her to her feet. "And that was quite a lot of help indeed. You managed to touch the mark?"

Godric grimaces, remembering the dark, thick feel of that magic under his fingertips when he grabbed Malfoy's wrist. "Unfortunately. It's blood magic tied to the base of a modified Protean Charm, like we thought, and easy enough to modify. Next time the Mark activates, I'll be able to link Voldemort's magic to the sensing ward."

"Clever," Helga approves, brushing off her leggings and then turning to the wall. A wave of her hand makes the stone melt away like water in the sun, revealing the thestral waiting patiently on the other side. "Do you think it will be tonight?"

"Most definitely." Godric glances at the sky, estimating the hour. It can't be much past midnight, and that leaves plenty of time for Lucius to contact Voldemort and relay their message. Which is all well and good, but there's another message Godric wants to send, too. Before he steps through the gap, he turns, flicks his wand out, and sends a burst of deep grey magic sweeping over the wall of the manor. It sinks into the stone, sliding around towards the front, and Godric smiles, entirely pleased with himself.

"Coming, Godric? Or do I have to leave you here?" Helga asks impishly, and Godric turns to find she's already climbed onto the thestral's back, settling in behind the mare's wings.

"Patience is a virtue, bright eyes," he reminds her cheekily, and laughs when she swats at him. Getting a hand in the mare's silky mane, he pulls himself on behind her, then grips with his knees as the thestral takes three steps of a trot and launches herself into the air.

"Like you know anything at all about patience," Helga calls back over the sound of the wind.

"I could," Godric defends. "I just don't care to. Patience is boring."

"Much better to be attacked by Rowena forthwith than draw out the anticipation?"

"It's like you're reading my mind, Helga. Let's hurry back before she notices, though—my patience should last until the morning, if I push it."

Helga laughs at him, but Godric notices that she doesn't protest, either.

The fact that this is the second Order meeting called in as many days keeps Sirius from protesting the early hour, even though three in the morning isn't anywhere close to a humane hour unless you're partying and haven't gone to bed yet. For a man on the wrong side of thirty-five, with all too many sleepless nights from nightmares behind him, it's cruel and unusual punishment to have to see Snape's smug face right now.

Not, Sirius will admit, that he looks anywhere near to smug at the moment. If anything he's closer to pale, and he keeps fingering the long slash in the side of his robes as they wait for the last few stragglers to arrive. A few seats to his right, Dumbledore looks serious even in his candy-pink and lavender robes, with fluffy slippers on the wrong feet and his hair and beard askew. Sirius glances down the table, picking out sleepy but familiar faces, and some that look all too alert—namely the Aurors, which can't be a good sign. Tonks in particular looks like she's had far too much coffee in the past day, all but vibrating in her chair, and Kingsley is sporting the exhausted slump of a man who hasn't sat down in far too long.

"Well?" he demands as Hestia Jones, the last to arrive, finally settles in her seat. "What's this all about, Snape?"

Snape sneers at him unpleasantly, folding his arms over his chest, but doesn't try to pick a fight with every eye on him. "Lucius Malfoy was attacked a few hours ago," he says grimly. "I was present on business, and met the man who claims to be the Heir of Gryffindor."

There's a flurry of muted murmurs, somewhere between excited and suspicious, and Sirius can see the interest spark in Dumbledore's eyes. "You're certain it was him, Severus?"

With a sharp snort, Snape leans back in his chair. "Such blatant idiocy could only belong to a Gryffindor," he says dismissively. "If he's not who he claims to be, I will be astonished. But he had a message to leave with Lucius, and when we reported it, it made the Dark Lord…unhappy."

Put him in a towering rage, Sirius translates, and frowns. Because surely it wasn't a threat to Malfoy that would manage that—the message must have been for Voldemort directly.

"What did he say?" Kingsley asked, dragging a notebook and quill out of his pockets. "A threat?"

"Obliquely," Snape confirms, looking even further from pleased than usual. "He claimed to know Voldemort's greatest secret, and referred to it several times, though he never said what it was. And he threatened to reveal all of the Death Eaters and cut off Voldemort's head when they meet face to face."

"Inspiring," Sirius mutters, and hears Remus's soft snort. "What do you say we sit back and let him?"

It earns him a loud scoff from Snape, and a biting, "I wouldn't expect an idiot mutt to understand, Black, but the Dark Lord's rage will wash over everything he touches. If you think—"

"I believe," Dumbledore says quietly, cutting them off as he steeples his hands before him, "that we should attempt to speak with this man and discover what he knows. If he has found Voldemort's weakness, his assistance will be invaluable."

"You'll have to find him before the Ministry does," Tonks points out, tugging on a spiky lock of pink hair. "We've been scouring every inch of the country looking for him."

"Though nothing has turned up yet," Kingsley points out, pocketing his quill again and rising to his feet. "If you'll excuse me, Albus, I need to send a squad to Malfoy Manor." Apparently seeing Snape's objection before he can voice it, the wizard holds up a hand. "From an anonymous source's tip, of course. I take it there's enough visible damage to give us cause?"

Snape huffs, but almost looks amused. Sirius is truly shocked. "A pride of red and gold lions running around on the grounds, terrorizing the fauna," he says. "As well as a complete absence of any and all wards on the house or property and a fresh engraving on the façade that reads 'Justice will come for all Death Eaters'."

At that, Tonks scrambles to her feet, looking gleeful. "Kingsley, think we can swing a search of the house while we're there?" she asks, hardly noticing when she knocks over her chair and Remus has to catch it before it can hit the ground. "I bet you two Galleons we find enough Dark objects to at least bring the bastard in on possession charges."

Kingsley grins, white against his dark skin. "There's always the chance the attacker left some kind of clue within the manor. Let's see what we can do," he agrees, and heads for the Floo with his partner close behind.

Dumbledore watches them go over his glasses, expression gently amused, and then turns back to Snape. "There was no clearer mention of this secret?" he asks.

"Talk of souls," Snape says, clearly dismissive. "He explicitly mentioned a locket and cup, and asked if the Dark Lord had shown them to us, but I've never heard of anything similar."

Solemn thoughtfulness comes over Dumbledore's features, and he looks down to study his hands. "Curious," he murmurs, then looks up, scanning faces around the table. "Please alert me if you hear anything regarding this man, even simple rumors. I would prefer this be one mystery we not let linger. If we are both working against Voldemort and his followers, it would be in all our best interests to join forces and face him together."

Since the man may as well have cleared Sirius's name, Sirius is certainly inclined to give him the benefit of the doubt. To shatter Malfoy Manor's wards so completely, to face down two wizards and a witch—and Sirius knows from experience just how quick Narcissa is with a curse—Gryffindor's Heir has to be powerful. It's the second time he's done something that should be impossible, and that's a pretty good track record.

"Has anyone told Harry?" he asks suddenly, and the eyes of all those remaining fall on him. "If this wizard is out to kill Voldemort, he might try to talk to Harry, since he's the one who managed it before."

"And we are to expect a reckless, glory-seeking boy with delusions of grandeur and an ego that matches his father's to tell us, should this happen?" Snape sneers. "I would sooner expect Black to show sense."

Sirius snarls, rising from his seat, but before he can move Remus catches his arm. "Easy," the other man says softly, pulling him back down. He shifts his gaze to Snape, who's watching them narrowly, and manages a smile even if it looks strained. "Severus, Harry's a smart boy, and he's had enough experience with mysterious strangers to know it rarely ends well, keeping things to himself. Just—keep an eye on him. He might react better if he knows why the man is approaching him in the first place."

Snape looks far from convinced, or even approving, but he looks away rather than prolonging the argument.

"A good suggestion, Sirius," Dumbledore approves with a smile. "Seeing as you are currently under investigation but not a criminal, I believe it would be a splendid time to introduce Harry to his godfather, as well."

Hope flickers bright and hot inside Sirius's chest, and he looks up with his breath caught in his throat. Dumbledore's expression is understanding and warm and a little mischievous as he adds, "You're no longer a wanted criminal, my boy, and unless they prove you guilty, you are innocent. I see no reason why you can't meet a family member under supervision."

Meeting Harry as something other than a fugitive on the run, getting to know him as more than just a reflection of James with hints of Lily, living with him and acting as his guardian the way Sirius should have been doing since Lily and James's death—it's what Sirius has been hoping for since he escaped Azkaban, and what he never believed would happen.

"Thank you," he manages, instead of the myriad things that would likely be more appropriate. Remus squeezes his knee gently, and Sirius casts him a grateful smile. "Will you come?" he asks quietly.

"Of course," Remus answers, as thought it were never a question at all. "Harry will be so pleased."

Sirius remembers Harry on the night Pettigrew escaped them, the joy at the thought of not having to return to Lily's nasty sister, at having a godfather. He feels it now, at the thought of his only remaining family of choice, and can't help a grin. "Thanks, Moony. You're the best."

"And you'd best remember it, Padfoot." Remus smiles back, fingers glancing over the back of his hand, and then turns away to talk to Molly.

Sirius watches him go, and wonders when the itch of madness under his skin turned from unbearable to manageable.

Salazar is reading in his canopy bed, waiting for Crabbe and Goyle to clear the bathroom, when Draco Malfoy sweeps in, face pale but not with the fury that's so frequently present. For a long moment, Salazar watches him stand at the foot of his bed, staring blankly at the green hangings with his fists clenched at his side. Then, slowly, he places his marker back in the book and sits up, watching the boy warily.

"Is everything all right?" he asks carefully, trying to judge if he's about to set the blond off.

Malfoy flinches, then half-turns to level a murderous glare at him. "My parents," he spits, sharp with clear fury, "were attacked last night. By the Heir of Gryffindor!"

Salazar goes very, very still, and thinks, Damn you to the deepest pits of hell, Godric Gryffindor. I'm going to murder you.

"Are they hurt?" he asks levelly, once he's sure he won't lose his temper just by opening his mouth.

Draco scoffs, spinning on his heel and pacing restlessly in the space between the beds. "No. My mother almost managed to curse him, but he destroyed the wards and got away. But Aurors showed up after him, and now my father is at the Ministry trying not to let them discredit the whole family!"

Unlikely to have been accomplished by Godric alone—he's skilled, but wards are complex, especially when they've been in place as long as the ones on the Manor must have. So. Either Rowena or Helga assisted him, and Salazar's money is on Helga. Rowena, at least, would have thought things through and told him. And the aftermath—that speaks of luck more than anything planned. Definitely Helga, then.

"My condolences," Salazar offers, and mostly means it. The loss of a parent, even only temporarily, is hard to endure.

"Potter will probably be celebrating," Draco says moodily, throwing himself down on his bed, and it takes effort for Salazar not to roll his eyes. Merlin save him from the melodrama of teenagers.

Even so, it strikes the spark of an idea, and Salazar narrows his eyes, looking over the boy for a moment. "Is Potter always your first thought, Malfoy?" he asks, and can't help but be faintly amused.

That gets Malfoy bolting upright, cheeks flushing with what has a decent chance of being fury. There are other options, though, and Salazar finds those more interesting than anger. "No!" Draco snaps. "But he's a smug, arrogant bastard and always rubbing things in and getting away with everything he does!"

"Of course," Salazar demurs, and this time he doesn't bother hiding his amusement as he picks up his book again. He's only just opened it, however, when a shadow falls on the page. Without looking up, he asks blandly, "Is there something you require from me, Malfoy?"

The tip of Malfoy's wand pushes his book down until he can see the boy's glare, raised to almost impressively blistering levels. "I think you were implying something, Silvius," Malfoy snarls. "Well? Can't say it to my face?"

"He was only saying what we've all been thinking since first year," Blaise says dryly, and even Theodore Nott nods in agreement, though he usually keeps well out of such arguments.

Draco rounds on them as well, but before he can speak, Salazar decides to redirect his attention. Collateral damage can be so messy, and if Draco wants to start throwing curses, Salazar would rather it was at someone capable of blocking them. "Given that we're barely over a week into the school year and I've already noticed, you might want to reconsider your answer. There must be more satisfying ways to shut Potter up than hexing him."

Seeing the bathroom door open in a billow of steam, Salazar sets his book aside, primly sidesteps a gaping, red, and entirely speechless Draco, and picks up his uniform. He showers as quickly as possible, glad for the lack of interruption, and slips out of the dorm and heads for the Great Hall with only one thought in mind. If Godric really did what Salazar suspects, they're going to have it out, and even if Salazar has to spend the next three months plotting his retribution from the shadows, he's going to make Godric regret his recklessness. Rowena can deal with Helga; he has a pigheaded Gryffindor to rein in.

Of course, when he steps through the doorway, Helga and Godric are nowhere to be seen, and conspicuous in their absence. Salazar frowns at the redheaded twins with their heads bent together, since they're Godric's frequent companions, and then at the strawberry-blonde girl who's usually with Helga. They're alone, though, and before Salazar can take so much as a step towards the Gryffindor table to interrogate the Weasleys, a familiar hand snaps closed around his elbow and drags him right back out of the Hall.

"Roberta?" Salazar demands with no little annoyance. "Must you manhandle me?" He yanks out of her grip and turns, ready to complain, and pulls himself up short at the expression of incandescent fury on her face. With the self-preservation instincts cultivated through a long acquaintance with three very dangerous people, Salazar takes four neat steps back, pauses, and then adds a fifth just for good measure.

"Yes?" he asks warily, deciding that now is truly not the time to so much as indirectly risk provoking her.

Rowena's nostrils flare as she lets out a furious breath, mouth pinched with the force of her anger. She turns on her heel, stalks through the door pretending to be a tapestry, and vanishes.

Salazar follows, because when she's in a mood like this he'd honestly rather keep her where he can see her.

The moment he's through the concealed doorway and in the room they used the night of the Sorting, a newspaper is immediately shoved into his face. "Have you seen this?" Rowena hisses like a poisonous snake. She waves the paper like she's throttling it, and Salazar isn't anywhere close to brave enough to snatch it from her hand. He settles for squinting at the headline, and—

MINISTRY SEEKS EDUCATIONAL REFORM: DELORES UMBRIDGE APPOINTED FIRST-EVER "HIGH INQUISITOR"

"What?"

Abruptly, Salazar is all too familiar with what exactly it is Rowena's feeling. He chances losing his fingers, too angry to think of the risks clearly, and grabs the paper. The entire article is complete hogwash, and he just gets more furious with every word. A Ministry employee inspecting Hogwarts teachers, reigning over them with uncontestable authority? Fudge is an absolute idiot if he thinks this is going to stand.

"Where's Godric?" Rowena asks briskly. "I know we haven't been making Umbridge the priority, but if she doesn't suffer a debilitating accident in the next week, I'm going to arrange one for her."

Salazar freezes, gaze fixed halfway down the page. And…that's a very good reminder of just why he was looking for the Gryffindor in the first place. "I think," he says carefully, "that we may have a bigger problem than just Umbridge."

Blue eyes narrow sharply, and Rowena crosses her arms over her chest. "Oh?" she answers, faintly wary. "I'm listening."

"Malfoy Manor was attacked last night," he offers succinctly. "By the Heir of Gryffindor."

Rowena closes her eyes, breathes in, lets it out, and then turns sharply on her heel. "I'll kill him," she says mildly, almost cheerfully. "He is dead, dead, dead. Come along, Salazar, you can help me dispose of the body."

Salazar rolls his eyes, but obediently falls into step as her shoes click menacingly down the hall—not close, but close enough that Rowena can hear it when he says in an undertone, "I have reason to believe that Helga was involved as well."

Rowena falters, just a little. Then she squares her shoulders and keeps walking. "Bodies, forgive me. If they're going to be stupid, it's their own damn fault."

"We don't know why," Salazar points out, though he's not about to stop her. Not when she's doing exactly as he intended to a moment ago.

"Yes we do," she counters crisply. "They felt we were moving too slowly, so they took matters into their own hands and left a warning for one of Voldemort's inner circle, to inspire fear in all the rest and make them sloppy. And they didn't tell us."

"My," Salazar says, desert-dry. "It's almost as if they don't trust us."

That brings Rowena to a complete stop, frozen in her tracks. Salazar stops as well, turning to arch a brow at her, and tries not to feel a faint pang of sympathy at the expression on her face. "Did you truly expect anything different?" he asks, and if it's not quite gentle, it's not as biting as it could be. "After—"

"Yes, thank you, Salazar, I remember what happened," Rowena snaps, then presses a hand over her face, regathering her composure. When she lets it fall, her expression is set again. "Fine. So there was a reason. That doesn't excuse the fact that they went haring off on their own into a situation that could have broken our cover completely. It was a foolish risk."

"And I'm about to take an even more foolish one," Godric says from behind, and grins winningly when they both turn to glare at him. At his elbow, Helga offers a cheerful and entirely unrepentant wave. Before Rowena or Salazar can even get their mouths open, Godric forges on with, "There's no curse in the DADA classroom, so it has to be somewhere else the professor teaching would frequent. Our best bet is—"

"Umbridge's rooms," Rowena finishes, though her scathing look makes it clear the previous subject will not be forgotten. She frowns a little, then smiles in a way that sends warning shivers down Salazar's spine. "Splendid. I'll come with you."

Godric nods like he'd been expecting that—he likely was, since he and Rowena often have a touch too many traits in common for Salazar's peace of mind—and Helga slips around to Salazar's side. "Help me keep watch on the hall?" she asks winsomely, though there's a steely light in her brown eyes that dares Salazar to say anything about their little jaunt last night.

"I assume I have no choice?" he asks, longsuffering, and certainly doesn't soften at the sight of Helga's bright grin. "Very well. Seeing as the High Inquisitor is currently eating breakfast, I take it we're going now?"

"I thought it best," Godric confirms, offering Rowena his arm. She pointedly doesn't take it, lifting her chin and side-eyeing him like a cat might a particularly fat, dumb mouse. Being the mature adult he is, Godric rolls his eyes and sticks his tongue out at her, snatching it back into his mouth a split second before she grabs it between her thumb and finger.

"Do that again and I hex it to the roof of your mouth," she warns, raising a threatening finger.

"Try it and I give you an extra nose," Godric retorts.

"Children," Salazar scolds in exasperation, and they both turn as one and make a face at him. A very similar face. Salazar is still astonished by the fact that they're not blood siblings.

Helga stifles a laugh behind one hand, and Salazar sighs.

Well. At least one of them is having fun.