The tea was a welcome comfort to Rowena. The warmth of the china cup seeped in through her hands, almost helping them to stop shaking. She leant back in the armchair, the scratchy tartan one that was oh-so-familiar to her, brewing a memory deep within her of her own home. Granted it had been a tad larger than Minerva's, and the tartan was handmade, not factory made, but those were minor details.
"I am so sorry," Rowena said, her voice coming abruptly and surprisingly into the quiet room. Minerva looked up, startled, and looked across the room at Rowena. Although the woman had not appeared to have aged a day, the light of the fire seemed to cast age-weary lines upon her forehead. For the first time since learning who her friend truly was, Minerva could almost believe Rowena was her age.
"Don't be ridiculous," Minerva responded curtly, pushing a small plate across to the opposite end of the coffee table. "And eat a biscuit."
Rowena did not take a biscuit, but simply crossed her legs and drew her arms up closer to her chest. Transforming from an elderly woman, a woman who had seen too much, to nothing more than a lost little girl in an instant, Rowena was a sight to be pitied. When she spoke, it was as if she was speaking to herself, as though the words themselves did not matter, but they simply kept spilling from her and there was nothing she could do to hold them back.
"I could have stopped him," She murmured to the biscuits, "I should have. I knew Sal would do something petty, and violent, and ridiculous but I never imagined - I never thought him capable of sending so many children to their deaths. I should have known, stupid naive woman." Her head snapped up and she looked Minerva in the eye. "I do not know how, or why, but I do know that Sal is somehow at fault. God, you should have seen him on that bridge. So arrogant, so calm, acting like nothing had happened. Like it was, what's the phrase, 'no biggie'." Rowena scoffed. Though she spoke without restraint, there was next to no anger in them, only a dejected horror. She spoke with an unnerving calm that came from seeing the horrors of centuries, and yet it was this one battle which caused her the most trouble. This one action, one simple decision had frozen her in an uncomprehending state of shock.
"How can you be sure?" Minerva dared to ask. "You say he wasn't involved last time He," Minerva caught herself, swallowed hard and set her resolve, "Voldemort was at large. What makes you certain this time?"
Rowena watched the fire burn for a moment, a log toppling sideways as the one beneath crumbled into nothing more than ash, giving way under the weight of the much larger, unburnt, higher log.
"Who else would choose the school as a final stand?"
Rowena sat on Minerva's couch longer than she meant to. She only meant to come in for a little bit and then move on, find her own home and stay there. But Sal always knew how to throw her off, he always set her on edge, even after all these years.
She pulled the tartan blanket around her shoulders and groaned slightly. Seeing Sal there, unapologetic and unashamed rose all the feelings of guilt she'd accumulated over the years to the surface where they threatened to topple her. Hiding in the background was only useful so far as protecting herself was concerned.
So many people had died. Even more than the last time - and so many more them were children this time, stupid reckless children who didn't think that they could die.
God, she missed Helga. She always knew how to comfort anyone, no matter the problem. And Godric would almost certainly have… well, it was Godric so he probably would have just punched Sal in the face instead of holding back the fear that Rowena had clung on to when Sal appeared.
She stared into the fire, and let the crackling flames swamp her mind, carrying her away from the hundreds of questions that flooded through her.
Salazar Slytherin walked through his castle, surveying the damage. He looked on the scene with a cold, detached eye, no emotions betrayed as he spied a handful of rough stone Rowena had missed. With a wave of his hand the stone shuffled back together, knitting into one coherent block once more. The grating of stone upon stone drowned out the gentle swish of his robes upon the castle floor, sounding loud in the deserted building.
His own foot steps were silent, quieter than the ghosts that avoided him as he stalked through his corridors, his stairwells. He barely even breathed as he passed classroom upon classroom.
The library was in pristine condition. Of course it was. There wasn't so much as a book out of place, although, Salazar noticed with the smallest hints of a smile, the chains that had previously held back the restricted section appeared to have fallen away.
Row never did like the notion of guarding knowledge.
A small draft tugged him towards the back corner of the library, the wind gently brushing his robes towards the smallest bookcase in the whole castle. Sal followed the breeze and picked up one of the leather bound tomes from the shelf, frowning at it.
"Lumos," he muttered. It was unnecessary, but so much easier to use the spells than to generate the magic from within himself. A candle burst into life next to him, and then the next, then the next. Soon the whole library was glowing with the soft orange glow of flames. The leaves of the book fluttered open to a point about a third of the way into it, and Sal peered at the spidery writing on the page. Handwritten words glowered at him, the fading ink blending with the yellowing parchment in such a way that he had to lift the book closer to the light to see the words.
With a start, he realised he knew that handwriting. He peered closer and then shut the book with a snap which sent dust motes flying through the air.
Row had documented her life, her thousand year old life, in immense detail and hidden it here. For the second time, Rowena Ravenclaw had poured her heart and soul into the castle. This time, hiding it in the one place she thought Sal would never look - the section of the library that held the portrait of his father.