"And I'll walk away stronger..."
–Martina McBride, From the Ashes
It was almost three o'clock. Precisely four minutes until the hour, if anyone cared to be exact. The time of night when all sane reality had launched itself into proper rest and peace finally existed despite the occasional illicit affair being carried on in a barn or a staircase or even a spare yet adorned room, for the more adventurous service. Not that a romp down by the creek was frowned upon either, if a couple felt spectacularly wild and a raft might be found.
That's when the smell came up, the smell of water at night. Night Water. Sharp and strong to the same effect as strong wine. Mist rose up from the water and slid through the veins like life-giving poison with a bouquet of mud and decay and moss and things growing. The night animals were around, perking at the scent before carrying out their own plans, usually hunting, perhaps something else.
The smell always woke Rowena up at this time, four minutes to the hour of three. The mist came through her window and gently into her nostrils and stirred her. Never roughly, always kindly, shaking away the binds of sleep before her heart started pounding. It hadn't been going on very long, only for several months.
She opened her eyes, catching the cracks in the stone ceiling. A waxy stub of candle was still burning, a mere candle ignored by magic that had still managed its own survival. Impressive. There had been several more several hours ago, but they apparently had died out. She yawned once and stretched out of Godric's embrace. She smiled and pushed his arm away. He muttered something in his sleep and rolled the other way. He was awfully cute that way. She pressed her lips over his for a moment, then climbed from the bed.
It was cool. Not quite cold, but summer was nearing its end and some nights were prone to a chilling breeze from the creek. The mist brought it. She pulled a blanket from the bed, one not hogged by Godric, and pulled it around her shivering and naked body. Then she made her way to the window.
The creek had vanished under a veritable cloud, sickeningly beautiful. It hurt Rowena to look at it. In the daylight, the creek that ran over the Gryffindor land was nothing more than that creek. Pretty, and the younger children liked to play there. Apparently the Hogwarts lake wasn't good enough for Carnation or Albesar. But Ricky liked it, and so did she, and when they had a child he or she would probably also like the creek and attempt to drown in it, as children were prone to attempt. But now, in the night, it was something else altogether. Rowena couldn't quite put her finger on what it exactly was. It just... was.
She leaned over the sill, listening and breathing in that mist. It tasted wet on her tongue. Wonderfully wet.
And it told her to get down there. Now this was something rare. This only happened once a week or so. No time to get dressed, just carry the blanket with her and pray that no one in the castle caught her as she fled down. Apparating just didn't seem right with this.
Glancing once more at her sleeping husband, she fled from the room.
The outdoors were even colder, and temperatures dropping as she approached the creek. Her feet were bare, and bits of grass and dirt stuck to the dew and then to her feet. The blanket would be filthy in the morning. Of course, she could always tell Ricky they had more fun than he had thought. The ground squished more and more as she approached the creek. Everything was so wet.
It was like walking through a cloud. She stopped, feet almost in the water and sinking into the mud, and listened. An owl somewhere. A bullfrog. Something leaped into the water, probably the frog. A fox passed through the trees, eyes alive. A badger, a squirrel.
And something else.
She closed her eyes in an effort to give more to her ears, then reopened them in case whatever she was searching for had to be seen. But she couldn't see anything through the cloud.
Her heart pounded to deafening.
"Salazar?" she whispered.
Something moved in the trees. Not the fox.
"Salazar!" she shouted. "Salazar!"
But it was no use. He hadn't been seen in over a year, not since the wedding.
But he was here. She knew it. She could feel it. Salazar had been here.
Or maybe she was crazy. She took a deep breath and let it fight the nausea she felt. The vomit would stay down. She couldn't get sick over this, not now. She was being ridiculous. She was married. She had a husband she loved. She had Helga. She had the students.
Rowena turned to go, but something slithered over her feet.
A snake. A tiny snake. She picked it up. It stared at her, red eyes blinking. It was dizzying.
"Hello," she said in near baby-talk. "What are you? Who are you?"
It tilted its head quizzically. It seemed... disappointed.
She frowned. "You belong to Salazar, don't you?"
This thing didn't like her. Didn't hate her, but didn't like her. It wasn't trying to...
She hated the thing. Perhaps it should die. This little thing should come to her instead of Salazar. This is dreadful little piece of scum. She clenched her hands, almost squeezing the thing. But it was too big for that.
Well, she knew just where to put it.
She headed back to the castle.
Carnation splashed her bare foot again into the river, laughing as the icy water splashed all around her as a tidal wave. "Love it! Aunty Marigold, see?"
"Lots of water, Carnation," Marigold said dryly. "I see, I see." She remained on the bank, holding the book and writing down notes of whatever Helga dictated or whatever occurred to her.
"It's great water," Carnation insisted. "Magic water. Magic and mist and water everywhere!" Carnation gave the laugh only children could give.
"If only she were capable of learning something," Marigold muttered as Helga made her way back on shore and shook away the badger form.
"Of course she'll learn," Helga said, brushing the obligatory water from her hair. "Carnation is a very talented young witch, aren't you dear?"
Carnation was in the process of making up her own song about a wizard and a hypogriff and a word that she obviously had heard from one of the men. It was night, and Helga was in too good a mood for any chastising. The night was thick and she could feel it. She wanted to run straight into all of it and gather it up for a lesson tomorrow. Since Carnation clearly had no intention of paying any mind. And after so long of demanding to be taken out on a night lesson with Latiya.
Latiya, speaking of whom, was concentrated on gathering herbs. Herbs for Hogwarts, with a purposeful mispronunciation of herbs for the sake of alliteration. That was Latiya's thing as of late. When she was being cute. Which was most of the time.
Not like three weeks ago.
It wasn't something Helga liked to think about. It had been in her class. Learning, learning, a few misfired spells but nothing too serious. And then, out of the blue, Latiya's question if it would be all right to "beat up" those who didn't want the school to stand.
No, Helga didn't like to think about it at all. It should have been innocent, but it wasn't. It wasn't innocent in the least.
Or maybe she was just going crazy. She pulled out a flask and dipped it into the water. She held it up to the moonlight, then dumped it out.
She had seen Rowena five minutes ago. And Rowena had clearly been with someone.
And who else but her husband?
Helga sniffed the tears back. "Latiya, Carnation, freeze the fog."
Latiya lifted her wand, and the fog began to fall in pieces to shatter on the water. Pound after pound of glassy mist or misty glass– did it matter anymore? It was raining mirrors that cut into everything and somehow Helga loved every moment of it.
This was how they found her father six months ago.
Sometimes Helga scared Marigold. The past year since Godric's wedding... it had been so normal. Except for Salazar's disappearance. But even that had slid into unspoken legend. Never to be discussed, only to be accepted, only to remain in the hearts of everyone in hopes he would come back. Rowena had gone and married Godric, they and Helga ran their school, and that was that.
But something had happened to Helga. Nothing drastic. No severity had found its way into her even after her father's death six months ago.
It was something in her eyes. Marigold had always prided herself on looking at the eyes. It was now she knew if her husband was keeping a secret. It's how she knew if her children were lying.
Jonas had once called it her gift.
The strength and the iron had entered Helga's eyes. A little something extra, something fierce, the kind of natural ferocity that existed so perfectly with the angel Helga was. Marigold rarely had time to ponder it, though. It just... was. The way she stood, the way she moved, the way she spoke. The briefest, barest nuance, the lilt of something else. Strength.
Marigold put down her quill and stared into the darkness, half-listening to her daughter practice her spells. Yet she could barely think as the figure approached.
"Marigold?" It was a man, small, harmless-looking. No one she recognized. "Marigold Weasley?"
She glanced at Helga. "Yes." Who the hell was out at this time of night?
"I have a message for you." He fumbled in his robes, found a bit of parchment, and pressed it into the bewildered Marigold's hand.
And then he gave a scream and fell to the floor. Bleeding.
Marigold screamed herself and leaped to her feet.
Behind her were Helga and the girls, all staring. Latiya was softly crying.
"Mama," she murmured, running into Marigold's arms.