A/N: Glastonbury Festival weekend! It's crazy here in Somerset, because suddenly a city the size of Northampton (or Tallahassee, to use an American point of reference) descends on a handful of fields, and they all seem to arrive at once. Hilarious chaos. Happy weekend, everyone, and thanks as usual to those of you that reviewed.

~oOo~

A long time went by as she stared at the card, desperate to disbelieve even despite the fact that she had suspected the answer some minutes previously.

It changed nothing, and yet, everything.

He had been right – she did understand why he had wished to forget it. She almost wished to forget it herself, though she should probably be more appreciative of his final honesty, at least. Yes. That would be a good place to start. He was watching her face in anxious sadness.

"Thank you… for telling me."

The tension in the air between them combined with the heat of the day was making her feel suffocated and sick, her mind grinding along too slowly to work out what more to say. The image of Zorion – whom she had liked and trusted enough to do all the things they had done last night – was not reconciling with the man on the card; with people like Crabbe and Goyle, and a fifty-foot basilisk, and manor houses and dress robes all green and silver and MUDBLOOD carved into flesh.

"I- I think I just need a minute," she said, and dashed out of the garden.

It was impossible to get away enough to clear her head – it was his house, his garden – and everywhere she turned there were memories. It was, in fact, the first time she really noticed just how many new memories she had made. That in itself was painful as it reminded her of how far distant the old life had become.

She ended up in the thestrals' clearing almost by accident, wandering absently as far from the house as possible. Polaris was stood as if on guard over mother and baby, and greeted her with a lowering of the head which she returned. The rest of the herd must have been off somewhere else now that the drama of the morning had passed.

It should have felt like she was intruding on some sort of private moment, but it didn't – in fact Polaris wandered away as if he had been waiting for her to relieve him of the watch. She sat herself on the ground at the edge of the shelter, and the mother stirred enough to acknowledge her but was evidently not worried by her presence. The minutes passed, and the peace helped to stem the barrage of emotion flooding through her brain.

"I'm so confused," she said, eventually, as if there were someone to talk to. The baby opened its eyes curiously before promptly going back to sleep. She continued on as if it were listening, and would have wise advice to offer.

"How can it be him? He would wish to kill me for what I am… his snake did nearly kill me. Does he realise? Does he think that those things are too far in the past to matter? I ought to hate him, like he predicted, for what he has done and for the fact that I'm here at all… for what we did together. For the way he waited until after we did it to tell me the truth… But I can't seem to. Perhaps it will come, once it sinks in.

"How much regret does someone have to have, before they should be forgiven? How much time has to go by? I suppose a thousand years is enough, if he has changed, and yet he left that monster in the school, even after it killed Myrtle. It killed her, and who knows if there were others in the distant past? And he is directly a murderer too… Perhaps I have killed, by my actions, but I never meant to…

"But he is kind to elves, and to you, too, I think, even though I can't understand what you talked about. And he has been kind to me – the necklace, and the garden, and in talking and writing to me and teaching me magic. Surely there is no bad motive for those things. He has changed even in the last year, I'm sure of it. The confidence was almost arrogance, at first, but not now. I can only think that he really does care about me, though I don't really understand why… I suppose he has been lonely, and that's all it is.

"I was deliberately blind. That's almost the worst part of it. He gave me enough warnings that he was hiding something! Perhaps he would always have told me if I'd asked. I chose to give myself to him, despite those things, because I wanted it… and I always knew that he doesn't really look that way. You all know the way he really looks, of course, don't you? I suppose I'm nervous of it now. It's not that I could only be with someone handsome, of course, but it's going to be a shock, isn't it? How old is he? I mean… I know that, actually, but how old does he look? Does it matter? I don't know… But I know I can't be with him again, the way he is now. It's all such a mess. A lie. And I don't know what to say to him. I can't face him.

"Will he send me away? I don't think so, and I suppose I can always find him if I'm willing to die, but nonetheless I'm… I'm scared. I'm scared to go on alone, without the only one who knows the secret. But one day I'll have to, because after all that's been the whole point of this madness… though he hasn't so much as mentioned that all year… oh… I'm so confused… I'm so confused."

She lapsed into silence, and after several more minutes Polaris returned through the trees. Instead of standing guard he opted to lower himself down next to her. It was a friendly gesture, and when she reached out to pat his beak he leaned into her subtly.

"Thank you," she said – and she didn't know really what for. But as they sat there, and the stillness enveloped them companionably, there was a sense of belonging that she had not felt for almost two years.

~oOo~

Once Albus had reassured Mrs Cole that Tom was unlikely to run away again, he returned swiftly to the apparition spot and then to bottom of the Tor. His lungs protested the steep climb even more vehemently this time, but no matter. Armageddon itself would not dissuade him from returning to the tomb of Morgana. The greatest mystery in the British Isles, and it had been right on his doorstep all along! How on earth had the boy stumbled on what he had never managed to notice?

So much about the chamber was strange. Someone had been to great lengths in order to keep it concealed, but the grave itself was plain; unmarked, even. It would seem to indicate that it had been hidden for some reason other than respect. How old was it? Who had buried her? How had she died? Was that cup the Holy Grail – and if so, why was its keeper lying dead, and why had her burier not kept it for themselves? These were merely the questions he had formulated from one cursory visit, and he was sure there would be others in due course.

Perhaps the greatest question at the present time was whether he should tell anyone about the discovery, or keep it to himself. He imagined the knowledge to be safe with Tom, who was a secretive sort of child, and at any rate had nobody to speak to.

Something a bit like guilt went through him; he was all too familiar with it, though not in relation to Tom Riddle. For the first time, he wondered if leaving the boy in that lonely place was a mistake. Shouldn't he have been encouraging his friendship with the muggle girl? Would it have hurt to see if he could stay on the farm with her? The thoughts petered out as he rounded the brow of the hill.

The trapdoor was not there. The hard earth floor, peppered sparsely with weeds, was exactly as it had previously been. His brow furrowed: what had the boy done to make it appear? He had just been standing about – pacing slightly, perhaps, but definitely not speaking or doing magic.

A figure stepped out of the shadows, black robed and hooded, and his already-elevated pulse began to hammer in fear… or excitement.

"Good morning," said Death, casually.

~oOo~

Dear Hermione,

You have been avoiding me, and I know that I deserve it. For all my many faults, both past and present, I hope that you can believe me when I say that it was never my particular intention to deceive you. In the beginning, I suppose I did not plan to tell you; I did not know you, after all, and I find it a rather painful subject as you have perhaps noticed. But as we grew closer I knew I must, and I should have had the courage to do it much sooner. Something you will almost certainly deride as a trait of my unfortunate House. It's true that Godric was always braver than I – though often, maybe, reckless. I digress.

Before I became Death, and for some time afterwards, I was arrogant and self-serving; distrusting of others and disinterested in their problems; I was dismissive toward anyone I thought beneath me, which was almost everyone – I abused the good nature of my friends, and cared only for knowledge and, so, power. These are faults which I have tried hard to address. But as you will inevitably think me an enemy of muggles and muggle-borns, I feel the need to defend myself at least somewhat.

I wish to tell you a story in the desperate hope that one day you may come to forgive some of my previous faults. It concerns the founding of Hogwarts, which has not been well remembered by modern historians.

Before Hogwarts, there was no school of magic in Britain or Ireland, though they have existed in Europe and Asia for some thousands of years. Wizards and witches here were largely self-taught – most did not use wands, or spells, but simply leant naturally to channel the magical currents. Some were healers, and stayed welcome in their own villages – some were travelling illusionists, making a living from entertainment – some were almost hermits. But the world was changing. The Christian church began to turn muggles against our kind, calling us Pagans and Devil-worshippers. Many communities turned on their healers, and no longer wished to watch magic tricks. Increasingly, we were becoming outcasts. Today's society was born because those with magic began to seek each other out in a way that had never needed to happen before.

I met Godric whilst riding on Exmoor in 962, and we became friends instantly. I had never met another wizard outside of my own family. We shared a desire to learn more about the nature of magic and the possible extent of our power; our natural affinities were so different that we learnt extensively from each other. And when after several months I expressed a desire to continue my travels, of course he would not hear of being left behind.

It was Godric who befriended Helga first –though in his case, the term "befriended" was something of a euphemism – in a village somewhere in Pembrokeshire. He always was popular with women, though this time actually it was him who was more smitten than her. In those early days, I suppose I resented her a little, because of course it had been more fun travelling just the two of us alone. But I soon came to recognise her many strengths, though they were again so different to my own.

At that time, Britain was divided by language as well as by culture and religion. The three of us were united by English, which was at that time still in its relative infancy. As you know, I also spoke Norse, while Godric knew the Gaelic of the western counties and Helga's mother tongue was Welsh. Suddenly, we had an idea – we could form a school, in which each of us would instruct students who spoke Norse, or, Gaelic, or Welsh – but also teach them English. The idea grew and grew until we concluded that we would require someone who could speak Scots Gaelic and Irish Gaelic, and so our travels continued. We crossed to Ireland first.

Cliodna was a witch of extraordinary natural talent, with a particular affinity for wind and water. While my strength lay mostly in the mind, and Godric's on the battlefield, she was a master shapeshifter. An art I never could manage, try as I might.

Unlike us, Cliodna did not wish to leave her home – largely because she was in love with a muggle man there. We delayed for months, trying to persuade her to travel to Scotland, until one night we were awoken by terrible screaming.

Cliodna was murdered by her lover's brother. He had seen her transform, and thought her an evil spirit. I swore that day that I would do anything in my power to protect other witches and wizards from the senseless violence that was being inflicted on us by those who did not understand our abilities. That was the first day that I thought our worlds would be better off separated.

We gave Cliodna a sea burial, and could not stand the thought of replacing her with another. So we left Ireland later that same day.

Once we had found Rowena, it felt natural to stay in Scotland, and the sparseness of the Highland population made it an obvious location for our school. It took the best part of a year to lay the enchantments, and another two to raise the first floor of the castle, and during this period each of us took time away to recruit our first students.

The school today bears no resemblance to that time, of course. In our first year there were just nine pupils – the youngest, Merlin, was perhaps eleven, but the oldest might have been twenty. We taught in our own languages, and all together in English as we had planned. There was no concept of House, merely our own students – handpicked for no reason other than geography. I actually had two English speakers – one the son of my own brother – but also a Norse speaker from what is now Cambridge. None displayed much cunning or ambition, that I recall, though all became competent wizards.

The years passed, and our vision was realised, but for the ever-widening influence of the Church and the increasing hostility of muggles. I became more and more nervous of selecting students from muggle families after a string of bad experiences. Perhaps I was unlucky, or perhaps my personality was less conducive to public relations, because I can admit now that the other three seemed to have less trouble.

There were several contributing factors to my eventual departure, but only the most minor of them was my concern about the muggle-borns. Even then, it was the possible anger of their families that unsettled me, not any question of strength of power or purity of blood. That is a relatively modern political construct. It is not remembered now, perhaps conveniently, that the very first wizard was born to a muggle.

If, after reading my explanation, you still think me an enemy of muggle-borns, then I am truly sorry. I can have nothing further to add regarding my actions of a millennium ago. Possibly it would help if I pointed out that I would not have sent you back to this time if I thought you intrinsically inferior to someone of magical heritage.

As regards more personal matters, I meant every word I ever said to you. If you doubt anything else, please do not doubt that.

I feel as if there is much more to say, but I am tired, and this letter is long, and perhaps you will begrudge me the time taken to read it. If you should ever desire to speak with me, I am here always.

With a renewal of my most heartfelt regrets and apologies,

S.

Salazar put down his quill and flexed his cramping wrist. He had not thought so much about those events in centuries, and it all seemed terribly distant now. It was difficult to recall his own motivations, and painful to have it all dragged up again. He resisted the urge to go downstairs and find the firewhiskey and instead sealed up the envelope, deciding against including the frog card this time. She was almost certainly not in the mood for an attempt at light-heartedness.

Cliodna (c. 10th century) was an Irish witch principally remembered for discovering the properties of moondew. She was also an Animagus who could change into a seabird.

Of all the things he remembered about Cliodna, the properties of moondew wouldn't have made the top hundred. History was a cruel mistress indeed: lowering such a great witch to one afternoon's accidental innovation. Raising him up into a figurehead for all prejudice.

~oOo~