Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter.
AN: As you may have found out from one of my other active stories I am currently trying to make sure that there is always something fairly new to read. I am doing this by attempting to update each at least every other night, however, by doing so many of my chapters will be quite short so I apologise if they are not as lengthy as you would have preferred. I appreciate any reviews telling me what I am doing well on and what could be better as I am always looking for ways to improve my writing and storylines.
As they all ascended the spiral staircase, their familiars obediently following them, Dumbledore suddenly paused. His eyes took on a dazed look as if he were lost in thought, before he silently nodded to himself and carried on walking and pushed open the grand doors with the Phoenix knocker on them.
There were only two chairs free opposite the fluffy purple armchair in which Albus Dumbledore had immediately seated himself in; Helga instantly took the one on the right while Rowena claimed the one on the left. The two remaining simply - as if it were common to have such an expertise in conjuring charms - waved their wands and caused two chairs, identical to the weary headmaster's in all but colour, to appear on either side of the two other chairs.
All four founders seemed somewhat bemused as their eyes scoured the shelves fixed to the walls and the cabinet that sat beside the bird stand on which a bright red and yellow bird, identifiable as a Phoenix upon closer inspection, perched.
Dumbledore, seeing clearly that they weren't intent on making the first verbal contact, spoke: "You claim to be the four founders of Hogwarts - the school whose founders died many years ago. You stick to this claim?"
The twinkle in Dumbledore's eyes seemed to only increase as Salazar opened his mouth. "We stick to the truth, headmaster - and since, at this moment, that is the truth in the matter we are discussing we do stick to it, yes," all of this was stated with the upmost calm as he imitated Dumbledore's twinkle in his own.
"Can you attest to this fact?" Matching Salazar's tone he spoke calmly.
As if this were some trigger word Godric withdrew his hand from Rowena's and brought it up into the air where, to the shock of one Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore, a sword appeared. Such a sword was not one to be found at a marketplace or in a normal blacksmith, no, it had a perfectly sculpted blade that came to an absolute point around forty-five centimetres from the handle. The base of the handle was encrusted with a circular ruby that dazzled as the light reflected off of it - it was obvious to anyone that this was goblin made. No one else could have crafted such I triage detail into the handle, no one else could have perfectly chipped away at the ruby until it was just the correct size for the hole, no one else could have carved the words into the blade with such perfection; the words 'Godric Gryffindor'.
Dumbledore gasped as he stared into his reflection on the blade. "The sword of Godric Gryffindor!" He exclaimed excitedly (AN: No Harry will not be pulling the sword from the hat at any point. I have decided to remedy that fact so instead of 'true Gryffindor' meaning someone from Gryffindor house, it refers to Godric Gryffindor and him alone.) "But it has been lost for years!"
Rowena smirked at the headmaster's face with contempt. "The Sorting Hat held onto the weapons until there came a time when we would return and claim them once again," she explained slowly, as if explaining to a very stubborn child that one plus one made two, "We found them under our seats on the train, clever hat," she chuckled slightly to herself as she said this.
"I suppose there is nothing I can say that could possibly convince myself that you truly are not the founders now that I have come face to face with inexplicable proof," as if to emphasise this he gently pressed his hand to his face.
"Yes, he is a bit mad - isn't he?" Salazar hissed in the direction of his shoulder, on which lay his dark green, silver eyed basilisk familiar. (AN: "This is now parseltongue, without the bold,") This basilisk, unlike the one Salazar had raised when he was younger - and now lay miles beneath the school, had firm instructions to keep the membrane that prevented harm to those who saw it's eyes lowered, an had been charmed to never grow longer than a metre and a half - much to the protest of the snake itself.